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 !k? 
 
 A BROKEN BLOSSOM 
 
 Jl fiobzl 
 
 FLORENCE MARRYAT, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "love's CONFLICT," ETC., ETC., ETC. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 SAMUEL TINSLEY & CO., 
 
 10, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND. 
 
 1879. 
 
 [A II R igh ts R e served, ]
 
 
 ^zhuntth to 
 
 MY DEAREST CHILDREN AND MOST FAITHFUL FRIENDS, 
 
 EVA FLORENCE 
 
 AND 
 
 ERANCIS FREDERICK MARRYAT, 
 
 WITH THEIR mother's PROUD AND GRATEFUL LOVE. 
 LONDON, 
 
 ? Aprz'l, 1879. 
 
 4 
 
 
 •1^
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. I. 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I. ALONE 
 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 I 
 
 II. REFUSED . 
 
 
 
 
 24 
 
 III. LAUNCHED . 
 
 
 
 
 47 
 
 IV. ST. PUCELLE 
 
 
 
 
 69 
 
 V. ANGE 
 
 
 
 
 92 
 
 VI. TURKEY AND TRUFFLES 
 
 
 
 
 III 
 
 VII. THE FAIR SOPHIA . 
 
 
 
 
 • 137 
 
 VIII. MADAME FROMARD 
 
 
 
 
 • 155 
 
 IX. SUNDAY 
 
 
 
 
 . 187 
 
 X. CHATEAU DES ROSES 
 
 
 
 
 . 213
 
 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ALONE. 
 
 I WAS alone — I felt it for the first time in my 
 life — horribly and fearfully alone. Everything 
 around me was unchanged, and yet nothing 
 looked the same. The August sun streamed 
 in mercilessly through the white window 
 blind, lighting up every nook and corner of 
 the commonly-furnished room. I had known 
 those ornaments upon the chimney-piece for 
 years past — that Parian figure of Innocence, 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 2 A BROKEN BLOSSOM, 
 
 pretending to be modest behind a rag of 
 drapery about the size of a housemaid's 
 duster — and that fine Court gentleman in 
 imitation Dresden, who never left off beckon- 
 ing to the lady who stood opposite to him, 
 hiding her face coquettishly behind a fan. I 
 had heard the tick of the carriage clock, which 
 was one of the very few remnants left of our 
 former luxury, ever since I could remember 
 anything, without having noticed that it was 
 particularly loud ; and I had trodden and re 
 trodden the green and red Brussels carpet 
 beneath my feet without having observed 
 that it was woven in the colours of a macaw. 
 But now, as I sat in the armchair, with my 
 hands folded listlessly upon my lap and my 
 blistered eyes staring vacuously at all around 
 me, the rag with which Innocence defended 
 her modesty appeared so ludicrously small, 
 and the smirk of the lady and gentleman 
 courtiers such a veritable leer, that I burst
 
 ALONE. 3 
 
 into a nervous hysterical giggle as I caught 
 sight of them. The tick of the clock upon 
 the mantelpiece, too, seemed to strike like a 
 hammer on my empty, bewildered brain ; and 
 I perceived, to my horror, that a blue and 
 yellow worsted, that made me shudder each 
 time I looked at it, was twisted amongst the 
 red and green pattern of the carpet. It 
 appeared strange to me that I should never 
 have observed that glaring blue and yellow 
 line before, when it seemed to stand out now 
 from the rest of the design as if the carpet 
 were all yellow and blue, and nothing else. 
 What a fool I must have been all these years 
 to imagine it was red and green ! The idea 
 of my folly was so ludicrous that I began to 
 giggle again, and ended in a burst of tears 
 that left me no better than before. I had 
 shed so many tears during the last week, they 
 seemed to have lost their effect upon me. 
 They only inflamed my eyes anew, and 
 
 I — 2
 
 4 A BROKEN BLOSSOM, 
 
 caused their lids to smart more. I felt cold, 
 too, although the day was unusually warm, 
 and my head was like a ball of fire. After a 
 while I rose, and, leaning my elbows on the 
 mantelpiece, stared at myself In the glass. 
 People had called me pretty sometimes, and 
 I believed that they spoke the truth, but few 
 would have said so now. 
 
 My eyes were dull and fishy ; my com- 
 plexion sodden ; my hair rough and In. 
 disorder. I looked to myself like an old 
 woman ; older than she had done when I had 
 seen her last with her own living face upon 
 her. 
 
 It was a week now since she had left me — 
 eight whole days ; and I was still alive. It 
 seemed marvellous to me ! 
 
 I was not a young girl — I had completed 
 my twenty-fourth year ; and I knew, of course, 
 that the majority of daughters were called 
 upon to see their mothers leave this world
 
 ALONE, 5 
 
 before them. But then my mother had not 
 been like other women's mothers. She was 
 my friend and companion — my second self — 
 the only confidante I had ever made. We 
 had almost grown up together, for there were 
 but eighteen years between us, and I felt 
 utterly stunned and lost to think that she 
 could go and leave me behind her — alone. 
 How often we had talked together of leaving 
 the rooms we had occupied so long at 
 Norwood, and travelling, in the modest style 
 our limited means would admit of, through 
 Switzerland and Germany and France 1 
 Unless I married, meanwhile, she said with 
 a smile (knowing well there was not a man 
 on earth who had the power to separate me 
 from her), we really must think of breaking 
 up our English establishment this autumn,, 
 and making a move southward — that is, if 
 Mr. Lovett approved of the plan. 
 
 Mr. Lovett was a personage of whom I
 
 6 A BROKEN BLOSSOM, 
 
 had often heard, but never seen. He was a 
 clergyman, and had been an intimate friend 
 and schoolfellow of my late father, and my 
 mother held his name in infinite respect. He 
 was the trustee also. of our small capital, and 
 the quarterly interest of it always came to us 
 through his hands. He lived abroad, which 
 was the reason I had never met him, but his 
 name was as familiar to me as a household 
 word. If Mr. Lovett approved, then, my 
 dear mother had said, we should travel 
 together that autumn, and I had been look- 
 ing forward to the novel pleasure with un- 
 mixed delight. And now, the autumn had 
 not yet come, and she was — where? As 
 these thoughts recurred to me, I pressed 
 both my hands to my head to prevent my 
 screaming aloud. It was too horrible — too 
 dreadful — I could not realise it! 
 
 She had been so well, and we had been so 
 happy, until two short weeks before. She
 
 ALONE. 7 
 
 was only forty-two years of age, and very 
 youthful-looking ; our friends had often said, 
 in jest, that I was the older and the graver of 
 the two. She was a tall woman, with an 
 unusually fine figure, and a bright speaking 
 face that would have looked young to the 
 last ; a soft, fair complexion, sunny blue 
 eyes, and a mouth that was always ready 
 for a kiss. She had a happy temperament, 
 too, that ever looked on the brighter side, 
 and was capable of taking the keenest enjoy- 
 ment and interest in everything that was 
 beautiful in Art or Nature. 
 
 If I had ever thought of death coming 
 between us two, it was of dying myself, with 
 my head on that dear bosom, arid those kind 
 eyes fixed on me to the last. But if s/ie 
 would have suffered in that instance as / 
 had suffered during the past fortnight, I 
 thanked God for singling me out as His 
 victim.
 
 8 A BROKEN BLOSSOM, 
 
 At that phase of my existence I felt there 
 was nothing else to thank Him for. 
 
 Eight days^ before, she had been with me, 
 struggling, it is true, in the last throes of the 
 fearful malady that separated us, but still 
 there, with her dear blue eyes, grown meek 
 with suffering, turned lovingly to me, and her 
 hot, fevered hand able to acknowledge the 
 clasp of mine. And then arrived that awful 
 moment when the light faded and the grasp 
 relaxed, and they half pulled, half pushed me 
 out of the room ; and something seemed to 
 burst in my head, and make a thousand 
 wheels, like the burring of machinery, go 
 round and round in my brain, until they 
 expended themselves like fireworks, and went 
 out one after another, and my spirit escaped 
 somewhere Into a land of darkness and for- 
 getfulness. As soon as I came to myself 
 again, and they would let me leave my room, 
 I rushed to her.
 
 ALONE, ^ 
 
 I could not believe but that she was still 
 living : that she yet could open her eyes and 
 look at me, or clasp my hand. I rushed into 
 the room and ran straight up to the bed ; but 
 I had been absent for an hour, and the 
 officious attendants had already what they 
 termed ' laid her out.' I pulled off the 
 sheet impetuously, intending to cast myself 
 upon her breast, but drew back in horror. 
 
 That straightened flattened figure, like a 
 bad model made in discoloured wax — those 
 dark, closed, sunken eyes — that pinched and 
 drawn-down nose — those livid, half-parted 
 lips — they never belonged to the mother who 
 bore me. As well assure me that the house 
 I see fallen to decay, with clouded panes and 
 shuttered windows and stained walls, is the 
 same that I have passed when the sunlight 
 played on every square of glass, and dainty 
 lace curtains shaded, and many-coloured 
 blossoms ornamented every sill. It was the
 
 iO A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 casket that had once enshrined her soul, I 
 knew ; but that it was my mother, I never 
 realised. It was my first view of the com- 
 mon change — so common and yet always so 
 strangely new — and it was my first and last 
 view of the shape that had held what was so 
 dear to me. I clasped both my hands before 
 my eyes, and fled from it in loathing. They 
 called me unnatural and hard, and beeeed of 
 me to look at it again ; but no persuasions 
 could induce me to re-enter the chamber. 
 On the contrary, I sat in my own room, trying 
 hard to forget I had ever seen it. I wanted 
 to remember my mother at her best and 
 brightest. I wanted to think of her as she 
 had appeared to me as a little child — when I 
 had thought her the cleverest and most beau- 
 tiful and most wonderful of created beings — 
 who knew everything and could do every- 
 thing, and read my mind before I had ex- 
 pressed it. And I wanted to think of her as
 
 ALONE, 11 
 
 she had been to the last — my friend and com- 
 panion, who sympathised in all my troubles 
 and took pleasure in all my joy. And I felt 
 as if the happier remembrance could never 
 come back to me while that remained in the 
 room that had been hers, lying stark and stiff 
 upon the bed, or cased within its narrow 
 coffin, with a sheet drawn over it to keep off 
 the flies, and a few July roses lying prone 
 upon its sunken surface. Ah ! how I suffered 
 during those days of waiting, heaven and my 
 own heart only knew. I longed for two 
 things only : that the dreaded funeral might 
 be over and done with, and I might be able 
 to go away somewhere — no matter v/here, so 
 long as the place was very distant- from that 
 in which I had been so miserable — and that I 
 might never see any of the things again by 
 which I was then surrounded. 
 
 And now one of my wishes had been 
 realised, and I had followed the dark coffin to
 
 12 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 Norwood Cemetery, and seen it lowered Into 
 a grave dug in the grass. And I had come 
 back to the house again, to find it still more 
 empty than before. 
 
 That was yesterday. The people of the 
 house had drawn up the blinds again, and the 
 chamber in which she had died was having 
 ' a regular turn out.' I could hear the maid- 
 servants from where I sat, throwing the case- 
 ments wide, and laughing with one another as 
 they shook the bed and pillows, and smartly 
 swept the carpet which had been innocent of 
 broom so long. I heard them rattling the 
 glass and china, and moving the furniture 
 about the room, and my heart sickened afresh 
 at the unusual sound of bustle. Pshaw ! 
 what did It matter, after all } They could not 
 disturb her, lying six feet under ground In 
 Norwood Cemetery ; and as for me, I must 
 get used to such things. Yet, for all that, my 
 lip was quivering terribly as a knock at the
 
 ALONE, 13 
 
 door caused me to turn from the looking-glass 
 to confront my landlady, Mrs. Medllcott. 
 
 * Mr. Warrington wishes to speak to you, 
 if you please, miss.' 
 
 Mrs. Medlicott's voice was unusually low 
 and subdued. You would have thought, to 
 hear her, that butter would not melt in her 
 mouth ; and to me, who knew how spiteful 
 and shrill her tones could be on occasions, the 
 change was irritating. What had happened 
 to me more than to others, that a common 
 lodging-house keeper should presume to show 
 me compassion ! 
 
 * Show him in/ I answered, almost 
 sharply. 
 
 Mr. Warrington was my mother's solicitor. 
 I had seen him at the funeral yesterday, as I 
 had seen the rest of the mourners, through a 
 sort of misty haze, but we had not spoken to 
 each other. I knew he came to talk to me 
 now about money, and my future mode of
 
 14 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 living, and my soul sickened at the mere idea ; 
 but nothing could make me worse than I was, 
 so I said : ' Show him in.' 
 
 Mr. Warrington was not at all like the con- 
 ventional family lawyer. He was a fashion- 
 able man in appearance, not more than forty, 
 and always looked distinguished, in well-cut 
 clothes, trimly-arranged hair, and a fresh 
 bouquet in his button-hole. To-day it was 
 composed of lilies of the valley and gardenias ; 
 and the faint smell of the latter blossom re- 
 called to my mind, I could not tell why, the 
 painful scene of yesterday, with so much 
 acuteness, that I felt as though I must tear it 
 from his breast and trample It under foot. 
 But I schooled myself to raise my heavy 
 eyes in his direction, and greet him with com- 
 posure. Then we shook hands in complete 
 silence. 
 
 ' I trust I have not called upon you too 
 early, Miss Marsh,' commenced Mr. Warring-
 
 ALONE. 15 
 
 ton ; * but I was anxious to see if I could be 
 of any use, and also to have a little conversa- 
 tion with you about your money-matters.' 
 
 ' Yes ?' I said, interrogatively. 
 
 ' I received a letter this morning, also, from 
 your trustee, Mr. Lovett, the contents of 
 which he is desirous I should communicate to 
 you. You have no personal knowledge of 
 Mr. Lovett, I believe. Miss Marsh .^' 
 
 ' None whatever !' 
 
 ' But you are aware, I suppose, that your 
 — your late mother's income was derivable 
 from a pension granted her on your father's 
 death, in recognition of his scientific dis- 
 coveries, and a sum of money vested in East 
 India property which realised about one 
 hundred and fifty pounds a year ?' 
 
 ' Yes ; I have heard so.' 
 
 ' The Rev. Horace Lovett, who was 
 your father's most intimate friend, was left 
 trustee for this small property during your
 
 16 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 mother's lifetime. At her death it was to 
 revert, unconditionally, to you ; but Mr. 
 Lovett is still willing to continue his trust, if 
 you wish it, and will re-appoint him to the 
 charge.' 
 
 * I have no choice in the matter. You had 
 better arrange it all, Mr. Warrington.' 
 
 * But shall I seem impertinent if I ask you 
 what you intend to do ?' 
 
 * I have no intentions of any sort.' 
 
 * You will not continue to live here ?* 
 
 ' Oh no ! I suppose things will settle them- 
 selves in due time, and I shall drift on 
 somewhere. It will be all '' drifting" hence- 
 forward. I cannot look forward to '* living'* 
 
 agam. 
 
 ' No, no ; of course not — not for the pre- 
 sent ; no one could expect it,' replied Mr. 
 Warrington, soothingly. ' But you are too 
 young to live alone. Miss Hilda.' 
 
 ' Am I ? Numbers live alone who are as
 
 ALONE, 17 
 
 young as I am. And I see no alterna- 
 tive.' 
 
 ' There are several ! Young ladles situ- 
 ated as you are, generally try to board with 
 some pleasant family ; or they have an older 
 lady to live with them, and chaperon them 
 into the world.' 
 
 ' I shall want no chaperonage,' I said sadly, 
 recallinof the arm on which I had leant for so 
 many years ; ' neither shall I go out into the 
 world. I am only sure of one thing, that I 
 must leave this place ; but whether to go into 
 a convent or on the stage is perfectly indif- 
 ferent to me. I have no present, Mr. War- 
 rington, and no future ! All I desire to do is 
 to forget.' 
 
 ' Come, come ! you mustn't talk to me 
 in that strain,' he answered. ' I know it 
 is quite natural, but it is not like the sen- 
 sible, philosophical reasoning I have heard 
 you exercise on the behalf of others. You 
 
 VOL. I. 2
 
 18 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 have doubtless experienced a very heavy- 
 loss ' 
 
 ' Mr. Warrington, will you be good enough 
 not to speak to me about It ? You may say 
 what you like about myself, but nothIng» 
 please, -that refers to the past.' 
 
 I dreaded breaking down before this hard, 
 cynical man of the world, who looked upon 
 death as the end of all things, and had 
 frequently challenged me to prove to him, 
 by even the feeblest argument, that the 
 soul lived again after It had quitted the 
 body. 
 
 * Very well, Miss Hilda,' he replied, non- 
 chalantly ; ' your wishes shall be respected In 
 all things. But since you have formed no 
 plans for yourself, may I be permitted to 
 suggest one for you ? Mr. Lovett writes me 
 most feelingly on the subject this morning, 
 and proposes that you should go, as soon as 
 ever you please, to St. Pucelle, and form one
 
 ALONE. 19 
 
 of his family circle, as long as It suits your 
 convenience to do so.' 
 
 * I go to St. Pucelle !' I exclaimed. 
 
 ' Why not ? It Is a charming old-fashioned 
 town, on the very frontiers of the Belgian 
 territory, and Mr. Lovett's family consists of 
 two motherless daughters, who would form 
 pleasant companions for you. Mr. Lovett Is 
 not rich, as you may suppose. The salary of 
 a Protestant clergyman abroad Is barely suffi- 
 cient to enable him to live In decent gentility ; 
 but he offers, should you go there, to hand 
 you over fifty pounds annually for your own 
 expenses, and I do not think that you will 
 easily find a pleasanter or cheaper home in 
 which to establish yourself. And so eminently 
 respectable, too ; living in a clergyman's 
 family, and under the guardianship of your 
 trustee. I hope you will think of the proposal 
 favourably.' 
 
 ' To go to St. Pucelle !' I repeated vaguely*
 
 20 A BROKEN BLOSSOM, 
 
 Thoughts of the foreign trip that we had 
 • planned together rushed rebelliously into my 
 mind, and for a few minutes I could not trust 
 myself to speak. But as the mental mist 
 cleared off, I found the plan that Mr. War- 
 rington had proposed a very feasible one. 
 
 * You cannot live alone,' continued the soli- 
 citor, earnestly. 'It is of no use discussing 
 the question. You are too young, and, if you 
 will forgive me for saying so. Miss Hilda, 
 you are much too handsome, to set up house- 
 keeping on your own account. You have 
 your name, and the name of those who are 
 gone, to consider, and I am sure you will 
 never dream of doing anything that would 
 have displeased them.' 
 
 No, no,' I answered, hastily ; * but I must 
 have time to think about it.' 
 
 I had no friends to consult upon the subject. 
 I suppose there never was a girl who found 
 herself more completely thrown upon the
 
 ALONE, 21 
 
 world than I did. My father had been an 
 only child, and my mother had come from 
 Australia. Brothers and sisters, uncles, aunts^ 
 and cousins, were names unknown to me, 
 except as they related to other people. I was 
 literally my own mistress, and I felt terribly 
 alone in remembering it — I, who had never 
 felt alone in my life before. For the last few 
 years I had believed myself to be so much of 
 a woman, for my experience in some things 
 had been greater than that of other girls, and 
 she had made me her intimate companion, and 
 unfolded all her mind to me as I had done 
 mine to her. Now I felt like a little child 
 that wanted advice and guidance, and had 
 no one to depend on but herself But Mr. 
 Lovett's offer had opened new ideas to 
 me, and I felt it was not to be rejected 
 hastily. 
 
 ' I suppose, if I go to St. Pucelle,' I con- 
 tinued, after a pause, * that my stay there will
 
 22 A BROKEN BLOSSOM, 
 
 be perfectly optional, and I shall be able to 
 leave it whenever I choose ?' 
 
 ' Certainly. I can have no Idea that Mr. 
 Lovett wishes to keep you a prisoner there. 
 The proposal Is evidently made only with a 
 view to your benefit, and I will make It a 
 proviso In my answer that your actions are to 
 be perfectly uncontrolled. But, at the same 
 time, let me ask what you could possibly do, 
 at your age, in the world by yourself?' 
 
 ' Oh, don't worry me !' I said. Impatiently ; 
 ' there are a thousand things I could do If I 
 chose, and I will never stay In any family 
 whose habits are uncongenial to me. I have 
 been used to have my own way too much for 
 that !' 
 
 Mr. Warrington rose, and commenced 
 smoothing down the nap of his hat, which 
 the crape band of yesterday still encircled. 
 
 ' Very good. Miss Marsh ! Then I will 
 leave you to consider the matter at your
 
 ALONE. 23 
 
 leisure, and I hope you will give me the first 
 intimation of your decision. I presume you 
 have sufficient money in hand for current ex- 
 penses ?' 
 
 ' Yes, yes ; I have everything I want, I 
 answered. I was longing for him to be gone, 
 and leave me to myself Every moment he 
 stayed recalled the past so vividly to me. 
 After a few more words of courtesy, he bowed 
 himself deferentially out of the room, and I 
 was once more alone.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 REFUSED. 
 
 As soon as he had disappeared, I sat down in 
 my chair and began to think. I might just 
 as well do it then as at any other time. 
 There was nothing for me to do. All my 
 occupation seemed gone for ever. It would 
 have been better if I had been one of the 
 housemaids who were beating up the bed on 
 which she died, with so much cheerful energy ; 
 or if I had had a little brother or sister, any 
 one dependent on me, for whom I should 
 have been obliged to order meals and bestir
 
 REFUSED. 25 
 
 myself to amuse or to attend to. But my 
 time was too much my own. Mrs. Medlicotty 
 in deference to my loss, sent up my dinner 
 even without the least reference to me. I 
 had not the poor distraction of annoyance or 
 trouble to divert my thoughts from the great 
 void that had been suddenly made in my life. 
 So I sat with my head buried in my hands, 
 and pondered upon St. Pucelle. The idea of 
 going there, although not positively agree- 
 able, attracted me more than any that had 
 passed through my brain yet. Naturally, I 
 had thought a little of my future. In the 
 pauses when grief had spent itself, and I had 
 wept till I was in a state of insensibility to 
 everything, I had more than once wondered, 
 in a dull sort of way, what was to become of 
 me ; but, as I had told Mr. Warrington, 
 whether I went into a convent or on the 
 stage was a matter of perfect indifference 
 All I wanted was to change my outward sur-
 
 ■26 A BROKEN BLOSSOM, 
 
 roundings : not to be obliged every morning 
 to pass the closed bedroom door which I had 
 been accustomed to enter with an affectionate 
 greeting ; not to have to sit down at the same 
 table where a chair had always been placed 
 -opposite to mine, and eat my meals In soli- 
 tude ; not, In fact, to have my heart torn 
 ■every minute by those seeming ' nothings 
 which make up the happiness or the misery 
 of every human life. 
 
 St. Pucelle could have no power to remind 
 me of all this, although I knew that In my 
 inmost heart I should never forget It. But 
 there I should be In a totally new country 
 ■ — amongst a set of strangers — far from every- 
 thing connected with the bitter suffering I 
 was undergoing now. 
 
 The thought, Instead of intimidating me, 
 gave me courage. I seemed to breathe freer 
 when I had decided to accept Mr. Lovett's 
 offer of a home at all events, for the next
 
 REFUSED. 27 
 
 few months ; and I rose, with the first sem- 
 blance of interest I had experienced in any- 
 thing since she left me, to find an old atlas 
 which was stowed away amongst our small 
 collection of books, and see if St. Pucelle 
 was of sufficient importance to be marked 
 •anywhere upon the frontiers of Belgium. I 
 found it, very much screwed up in a corner, 
 it is true, but still distinct enough to be read, 
 close to the Valley of Artois, and on the 
 borders of the celebrated Forest of Piron. 
 The afternoon was merging, by this time, 
 into the dusk of evening, and I was just 
 about to ring the bell and desire the servant 
 to light the lamp, when my attention was 
 attracted by an altercation going on in the 
 hall. Mrs. Medlicott was apparently, if one 
 might judge by sounds, fighting with some 
 one who wished to effect an entrance to her 
 domains. 
 
 * You can't come in, sir,' I heard her say,
 
 28 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 after a long consultation. ' I couldn t think 
 of allowing it. She ain't fit to see no one — 
 and won't be for days — that's my opinion \ 
 and if she was, I'm quite sure as she would 
 never dream of admitting a gentleman at 
 this hour. Why, it's as near dark as can 
 be — and Miss Marsh quite alone, as she is 
 too.' 
 
 ' Only for a minute !' pleaded a young 
 fresh voice. 
 
 Why! it was Charlie — dear old Charlie 
 Sandilands, and she was actually sending 
 him away ! Something rushed up to my 
 throat and my eyes, and I felt as if I must 
 see him ; as if it would do me all the good 
 in the world to look in his honest eyes and 
 feel the warm grasp of his hand. What Mrs. 
 Medlicott thought of my propriety I do not 
 know, but I flew to the drawing-room door, 
 and opening it just wide enough to allow of 
 my voice being heard, exclaimed :
 
 REFUSED. 29 
 
 ' Yes, Charlie, come in ; I should like to 
 see you ;' which caused him quickly to pass 
 the irate landlady on the doormat, and enter 
 my apartment. 
 
 I had met Mr. Warrington with dry eyes 
 and a composed voice, and I had intended to 
 do the same by Charlie Sandilands. But we 
 had had so many happy evenings together, 
 when she had been present, to laugh at the 
 absurd devotion which this foolish young 
 man persisted in paying me, that the contrast 
 between them and the position in which 1 
 now stood struck me too forcibly, and in- 
 stead of taking the hand he extended to me, 
 I retreated to my armchair again, and burst 
 into a storm of tears. 
 
 I had not set eyes on Charlie since she 
 had been attacked with her fatal illness, 
 although his dear good mother had come to 
 me as soon as she had heard of my trouble, 
 and remained with me to the end. All that
 
 30 A BROKEN BLOSSOM, 
 
 had happened since we met last, and all the 
 sad details of which we must speak together,, 
 overwhelmed me, and for a few minutes I 
 could do nothing but cry. But then I held 
 out my hand to him, without raising my 
 head, and said : 
 
 ' Oh, Charlie ! you must not think I am 
 not glad to see you ; but you know how 
 much I loved her, and how very miserable I 
 must be.' 
 
 ' Yes, of course, I know all about it,' he 
 answered, in an awkward manner (men do 
 feel so strangely awkward In the presence of 
 a weeping woman whom they have no right 
 to console) ; ' but please don't mind me, 
 Hilda. I will go away at once, if you wish 
 it ; but I thought I would like to see you, if 
 I could, and tell you how sorry we all are 
 about it.' 
 
 * Don't go away just yet,' I murmured. * I 
 shall be all right presently. We will have a
 
 REFUSED. 31 
 
 cup of tea together, and that will do me 
 good. I am not often so silly as this, 
 Charlie ; for, after all, what is the good of 
 crying ? It cannot bring her back again.' 
 
 The poor boy looked very uncomfortable 
 at my sad words, of which there was no re- 
 futation, and tried to cover their effect by 
 ringing the bell for me. I call him a boy, 
 because we had always looked upon and 
 spoken of him as such, but in reality he was 
 only two years younger than myself He 
 was the eldest of a large family of children 
 belonging to a widowed friend, and we had 
 been such near neighbours for several years, 
 that we were very intimate. Scarcely a day 
 had passed without our seeing or hearing 
 something of the Sandilands ; and Charlie, 
 who was a clerk in Somerset House, and 
 spent all his days in London, had been used 
 to walk in and out of our little room in the 
 evenings like a tame cat. We made nobody
 
 32 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 of Charlie Sandilands ; and though his mother 
 and mine had had many a laugh over his 
 flirtation with me, I looked upon him quite 
 in the light of a brother or a cousin, and took 
 what liberties with him I chose. 
 
 When the tea made its appearance, we 
 drank it so silently, that I observed at last 
 that I thought we were holding a Quakers 
 meeting. 
 
 '■ I saw you and your brothers in the ceme- 
 tery yesterday, Charlie,' I continued, with an 
 effort, believing that if I did not break the ice 
 I should never be able to speak to him at all ; 
 ' and I thought it so kind of you to come.' 
 
 'There was no kindness in it, Hilda. I 
 would not have been absent for worlds.' 
 
 * Well, I thought it kind. I suppose one 
 feels small attentions at such times more than 
 at others. And she was very fond of you, 
 Charlie. She used to call you " the blue- 
 eyed baby." '
 
 REFUSED. 33 
 
 * She was always too good to me, I know 
 that. Though I am not much of a baby, 
 Hilda. I shall be twenty-three next birth- 
 day.' 
 
 *What of that? It is experience, not 
 years, that makes our age. You will always 
 be a baby, I think. Your mother has spoiled 
 you so.' 
 
 ' Oh, come, that's not fair ! She spoils 
 Willy and Herbert twice as much as she 
 does me ! Not that I'm jealous of it, for I 
 hate being coddled.' 
 
 ' Ah, don't hate it, dear. You may live to 
 miss it, as I am doing now.' 
 
 * Mother sent her best love,' Charlie went 
 on rapidly, feeling he had made a blunder ; 
 * and said, if it would be any comfort to you, 
 she would be so glad if you would come to 
 us for a few days — or for as long as you 
 like.' 
 
 * I couldn't, Charlie^ thank you. It is very 
 VOL. I. 3
 
 34 A BROKEN BLOSSOM, 
 
 kind of your mother, and you must tell her 
 so ; but I would rather be alone. Besides, I 
 have work to do at home.' 
 
 ' You could be as much alone as you liked 
 with us. I'd be sorry for the one who would 
 dare to disturb you. And until your affairs 
 are settled, and all that sort of thing, wouldn't 
 it be better for you, Hilda, to stay with 
 friends, than in these lodgings by your- 
 self?' 
 
 * My affairs are already settled, Charlie. 
 1 am going to live with my father's old friend, 
 Mr. Lovett, at St. Pucelle.' 
 
 ^Whatf cried poor Charlie, thunderstruck 
 at my announcement. 
 
 * 1 am going abroad,' I said, with the 
 selfish indifference that a great trouble gives 
 us to other people's pain. * I could not stay 
 in Norwood, you know. I should go mad 
 l)efore a month was over my head ; and my 
 greatest desire now is to lose sight of it at
 
 REFUSED. 35 
 
 once and for ever. It's very name is hateful 
 to me.' 
 
 * Oh, Hilda ! Is It possible you are going to 
 leave us ?' he said, In a voice of despair. 
 
 *Why, you could never have Imagined I 
 should remain here. I have suffered too 
 much for that. I have no home now, and 
 no friends ; and I must try and begin a new 
 existence for myself. If that Is possible, where 
 I can wipe out the memory of the past as 
 soon as may be.' 
 
 ' What will Norwood be without you ?' he 
 exclaimed. 
 
 ' Oh, Charlie, don't be so ungrateful, when 
 your good mother will still be here, and all 
 your brothers and sisters ! Do you think if 
 I had a mother and a home circle left to me, 
 as you have, that I should give more than an 
 ordinary regret to the departure or arrival of 
 mere friends, however pleasant their company 
 might be !' 
 
 3—2
 
 36 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 * It Is quite different, Hilda. You are not 
 a mere friend to me, and you have known It 
 for a long time past.' 
 
 This was one of the speeches which a 
 month ago I should have laughed at merrily, 
 and called him a saucy boy for making. But 
 there was a mournful earnestness In his voice 
 to-day, that, added to the solemnity of my 
 own feelings, forbid my even smiling at him. 
 
 * Please don't talk like that,' I said quietly ; 
 ' the time Is past with us for jesting.' 
 
 * But It Is no jest, Hilda ; It Is truth — 
 reality ! I have loved you for years. Oh, 
 don't leave Norwood! Stay with us, and let 
 my mother be your mother, and make me 
 happy. I should be so very, very happy If 
 you were my wife.' 
 
 * Your wife P 
 
 The Idea seemed sacrilege to me. But 
 the poor boy took my vehement surprise for 
 anger.
 
 REFUSED, 37 
 
 ' Oh, I ought not ,to have said anything 
 about it now. It is unseemly, indecent I 
 have given you pain. But do forgive me, 
 Hilda. I had not the least intention of 
 offending you. It slipped out of my 
 mouth before I was aware of it. The 
 news of your departure was such a dreadful 
 blow !' 
 
 ' I am not angry,' I replied. ' I do not see 
 why the presence of a great grief should 
 make it indecent to speak of love. It is at 
 such times we want love most. But it can 
 never be spoken of between you and me, 
 Charlie — not seriously ; and so I am very 
 sorry you ever spoke of it at all.' 
 
 ' Is it impossible, then, that you could ever 
 marry me, Hilda .^ I have two hundred a 
 year already from Somerset House, and the 
 salary increases annually. I know it is very 
 little, but I could contrive to keep you in 
 the same style in which you have been living,
 
 38 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 and my mother would take you to her heart 
 as another daughter/ 
 
 I was so troubled for the poor young 
 fellow. I looked up into his blue eyes, and 
 they were actually swimming in tears. I felt 
 I had been a heartless brute to let him go on 
 loving me all this time, and think that it was 
 play. But I could no more have got up a 
 semblance of passion for him, than I could 
 for the table which divided us. 
 
 * Charlie !' I said, ' if you had two thousand 
 a year it would make no difference to me. 
 I shall never marry any one. My heart was 
 all hers, and it will lie in her grave till we 
 meet again.' 
 
 ' You think so now, but you will alter 
 your mind by-and-by, perhaps.' 
 
 ' Nothing can alter it. And I feel very 
 angry with myself to think that I should 
 have let you grow fond of me, and never 
 found out you were in earnest.'
 
 REFUSED. 3^ 
 
 ^ In earnest! It Is the hope of my Hfe. 
 And I will never give it up until one of us 
 is dead and buried.' 
 
 * What am I to do to convince you it will 
 be of no use ?' I said despondingly. * If you 
 will give me your solemn promise of secrecy, 
 Charlie, I will tell you something that I have 
 never told to a single soul, except to her ; 
 and that I would cut my tongue out sooner 
 than tell you, unless it were to try and repair 
 the wrong which, it seems, I have done you/ 
 
 ' You have never done me any wrong,' 
 replied the poor boy, with the generosity of a 
 true affection. 'You didn't mean it, Hilda. 
 It is all my own fault.' 
 
 * But I won't allow that, Charlie. I have 
 not laid myself out to attract you, it is true ; 
 but I am older than you are, and I should 
 have remembered what our intimacy might 
 lead to.' 
 
 * You seem to harp a great deal on the
 
 40 A BROKEN BLOSSOM, 
 
 fact of there being a couple of years' dif- 
 ference in our ages ; but if a man is not 
 a man at two-and-twenty, he never will 
 be.' 
 
 ' Well, I am going to show you now that I 
 consider you to be a man, and to treat you 
 as such. I have told you that there is a 
 reason why I shall never marry you nor 
 any one ; and that reason is, because — 
 because ' 
 
 It was much harder to tell than I had 
 imagined it would be. I felt so much for 
 poor Charlie's disappointment, that I thought 
 I could make any sacrifice in order to salve 
 his wounded feelings ; but nothing is so 
 mortifying to a woman as to have to confess 
 that she has loved in vain. 
 
 * Don't go on if you don't wish to,' said 
 Charlie, with ungrammatical consideration, 
 as I paused to gain a little courage. 
 
 ' Oh yes ; I mean to tell you, that you may
 
 REFUSED, 41 
 
 be sure that my refusal has nothing to do 
 with yourself.' 
 
 * You care for somebody else ! ' he exclaimed 
 intuitively. 
 
 ' No, I don't,' I said, reddening up under 
 the consciousness of telling a He ; ' but I did 
 — that is, I used to — I mean that years and 
 years ago I met some one in whom I was 
 very much interested, as you are in me, and I 
 thought things would have been all right 
 between us ; but they never were, and so I 
 shall be Hilda Marsh to the end of my days.' 
 
 * Is that allf said Charlie, evidently disap- 
 pointed at so tame a love-story. ' I shouldn't 
 lose heart over that, Hilda; you'll meet the 
 fellow again some day, and come to an under- 
 standing with him ; or perhaps you'll forget 
 him, and learn to think of me Instead.' 
 
 ' How utterly I must have failed to make 
 you comprehend my meaning,' I replied. 
 * Do be convinced, once and for ever, Charlie,
 
 42 A BROKEN BLOSSOM, 
 
 there can be no question of love for me, m 
 this world, again.' 
 
 * Is he dead, then ?' 
 
 ' Yes, he is dead — at least to me.' 
 
 My face burned as I uttered the words. 
 
 Charlie received them with a look of blank 
 
 dismay. Then he said : 
 
 * All this has made me feel very miserable, 
 Hilda. I think, perhaps, that I had better 
 go home.' 
 
 'Yes, Charlie, I wish you would. It can 
 do you no good to stay here, and the sight of 
 your home may make you feel there are other 
 people less lucky than you are.' 
 
 We shook hands in silence, and he crept 
 quietly out of the house. I was very sorry 
 for him, for I knew I possessed influence over 
 him, and I was afraid that he might find some 
 difficulty in shaking it off again. It was as 
 well for him as for myself that I had deter- 
 mined to leave Norwood. The conversation 
 
 #
 
 REFUSED. 4a 
 
 I had just held had recalled Cave Charteris 
 powerfully to my mind ; and for some time 
 after Charlie had left me, I sat pondering 
 over that epoch in my life, which was so 
 entirely closed and done with, but which yet 
 had left such ineffaceable marks behind it. 
 
 It had happened five years before ; but the 
 remembrance was as fresh as yesterday. I 
 had always believed myself most to blame in 
 the matter, whilst my dear mother had un- 
 hesitatingly attributed all the wrong to him. 
 But then I had loved the man, and she had 
 only viewed him through the misery he had 
 caused me. I had told Charlie Sandilands 
 but half the story ; it would have blistered 
 my lips to let him know the whole truth. 
 
 But from my heart I could have no secrets. 
 As I sat by myself that evening, I recalled 
 every expression of Cave's handsome fea- 
 tures, every tone of his thrilling voice, as he 
 lingered, day after day, in our little drawing-
 
 44 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 room, or accompanied us in our walks, or on 
 our journeys to town. 
 
 I had believed so fully then, and so had 
 shcy that the most momentous period of my 
 existence had arrived, and that all those walks 
 and talks could end but in one way — the 
 •declaration of Cave Charteris's love for me. 
 
 For why else had he, over a period of 
 months, attached himself to our side as though 
 he had a right to accompany us everywhere ? 
 I had no doubt on the subject, and permitted 
 myself to love him without limit ; and my 
 mother looked upon him as her future son, 
 and hailed every good trait in his character as 
 a fresh guarantee for my happiness. And so 
 we had gone on, in our blind belief, until one 
 day, after he had been absent for about a 
 week, I received an affectionate letter from 
 him, claiming my congratulations on the score 
 of his father having, at last, withdrawn his 
 refusal to consent to his travelling on the
 
 REFUSED. 45 
 
 Continent for a couple of years, preparatory 
 to his entering the profession of the law. And 
 from that hour I had never heard from him 
 again. His philandering after me proved 
 only to have been the expression of an impa- 
 tient spirit waiting restlessly to hear its doom^ 
 and anxious, meanwhile, to make the weary 
 hours pass away by any means that came 
 easiest to hand. 
 
 I know that heaps of women must have 
 deceived themselves after this fashion, and 
 felt it as keenly, perhaps, as I did ; but it 
 seemed to me. In my inexperience of pain, as 
 if nobody had ever suffered so much in this 
 world before. 
 
 My dear mother might rave against the 
 dishonour of Mr. Charteris's behaviour to me, 
 as freely as she chose, but we two poor un- 
 protected women had no remedy against it. 
 We could only fly into each other's arms, and 
 weep over it until we could weep no more. I
 
 46 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 poured out all my soul to my one true friend 
 and companion, and then we made a compact 
 never to speak of his name to one another 
 aeain, unless the burden should become too 
 heavy to bear alone. 
 
 It was out of this grief that the complete 
 love and reverence I maintained for my lost 
 parent had been finally cemented. Her ten- 
 derness and sympathy for me in the great 
 trial of health and spirits that followed, had 
 made her appear more like an angel than a 
 woman in my eyes ; and at the time of her 
 death, it is true that I would not have ex- 
 changed her love for that of any man. She 
 had been my one great good in this world, 
 and the Creator of the universe had seen fit 
 to take it away. What wonder was it that 
 both my heart and my soul were in a state of 
 rebellion against Him ?
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 LAUNCHED. 
 
 Before I went to bed that night I wrote to 
 Mr. Warrington, telling him I had decided 
 to accept Mr. Lovett's offer ; and before 
 another fortnight was over my head, I was 
 on my way to St. Pucelle. There was no 
 reason for delay, and the few things I had to 
 do, I hurried over as quickly as possible. 
 We had always lived in furnished rooms; one 
 week's notice was sufficient to set me free 
 from them. The books and articles that had 
 belonged especially to my mother found
 
 48 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 house-room with my kind friend Mrs. Sandl- 
 lands. The only possessions I carried away 
 with me were her Bible and her portrait and 
 my own limited wardrobe. I wanted to begin 
 life anew, cumbered with as few reminders of 
 the past as possible. 
 
 I did not think, though, that I should find 
 parting with the grave In Norwood Cemetery 
 so hard. I had believed myself to be too 
 philosophical to care about leaving that, any 
 more than the old books that Mrs. Sandllands 
 had taken charge of But when the time 
 came to say good-bye to it, and that which 
 lay in it, I found I was as stupid, common- 
 place and non -reasoning an animal as ever 
 wept above an inanimate object that could 
 neither see, hear, nor respond. 
 
 Mr. Warrington's cruel arguments came 
 back to my mind, and I found myself 
 wondering if the end of it all had really come, 
 and I was tearing myself away from the only
 
 LA UNCHED. 49 
 
 link that could ever bind me to her again. 
 It was late in the evening, at the close of the 
 last day I was to spend in Norwood, that 
 I stole into the cemetery and found my 
 way, less by sight than by instinct, to the 
 heap of earth, as yet unsoftened by any 
 grass, that covered her. It must be allowed 
 to sink — so the sexton had informed me — 
 before it could be decorated like the other 
 graves. 
 
 To sink right down upon her — pressing, 
 pressing, with its awful unyielding weight, 
 upon the lid of the coffin which covered that 
 dear dead face — dear, even in spite of Its 
 ghastly want of resemblance to that which 
 she had borne in life. I had said good-bye 
 to the Sandilands and all my friends in Nor- 
 wood ; this was to be the last farewell my 
 lips should utter there. 
 
 I sank down upon the mound of clay, and 
 wrestled with my agony alone. Where was 
 
 VOL. I. 4
 
 50 A BROKEN BLOSSOM, 
 
 she, this beloved mother of mine ? Who 
 could tell me, withottt any doubt, of her habi- 
 tation, her occupation, or her final destiny ? 
 Was she really gone for ever, as Mr. War- 
 rington would have assured me, resolved, 
 body and spirit, into the dust out of which 
 she had been made, and as effectually lost as 
 the burnt-out candle, the particles of which 
 have mingled with the air ? Was there no 
 place of meeting beyond this world where I 
 should see and clasp her again ? The parson 
 would, of course, have answered ' yes ;' but 
 the attainment of his conventional paradise 
 was saddled with so many conditions that I 
 was hopeless of ever reaching it. She might 
 have got there, with her angelic love and 
 tenderness for all things, whether in heaven 
 or on earth, but I knew myself to be unequal 
 to following her footsteps. I sat on her 
 grave stunned and hopeless. We had often 
 talked of a future world together, and it had
 
 LAUNCHED. 51 
 
 seemed easy to believe anything when her 
 lips uttered it ; but now that she had left me, 
 I wanted proof, certain and unanswerable 
 proof, of the truth of what I had been taught ; 
 and the foundation on which I had built my 
 apparent trust had all crumbled under my 
 touchstone like sand. I felt there was no 
 proof, no certainty, only a vague hope for 
 ourselves, which became a broken reed when 
 we tried to find comfort in it under the loss 
 of those we had loved. Every one had con- 
 jured me to look forward to meeting her 
 again. No one had given me one convincing 
 argument that I should do so. I was sur- 
 rounded by the dark, impenetrable mystery 
 of death, and I got up from the grave and 
 walked back to my lodgings in a condition of 
 dull, sodden despair. 
 
 I was to meet Mr. Warrington the next 
 morning, at twelve o'clock, at one of the large 
 London wharves. He had been very 
 
 4—2 
 
 UNIVERSITY QF 
 ILLINOIS LIBRARY
 
 52 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 anxious to accompany me to St. Pucelle, and 
 deliver me safely into Mr. Lovett's charge, 
 but I had refused his kind offices. In the 
 first place, I was quite able to travel alone ; 
 in the second, I longed to find myself so. 
 I had merely to cross to Antwerp, and take 
 the train on from there to St. Pucelle — or 
 rather to Artois, which was the nearest railway- 
 station to it. I was sufficiently acquainted 
 with the French language not to have the 
 slightest doubt of being able to make my 
 wants understood, and something struck 
 me as very ludicrous in the idea of a 
 little dandy like Mr. Warrington conducting 
 a great, tall woman like myself across the 
 water, and delivering me over to Mr. Lovett's 
 care, as if I had been a child. So, after he 
 had met me at the wharf, looking as fresh 
 and trim, with an exquisite button-hole of 
 white rosebuds and forget-me-nots, as if he 
 were just about to take a stroll in the Park,
 
 LAUNCHED, 53 
 
 and secured a berth for me, and paid my fare, 
 and seen that my luggage was safely on 
 board, I dismissed him with ungrateful 
 alacrity, and felt a sensation of relief as the 
 steamboat quietly glided down the river, and 
 I saw him take off his hat to me for at least 
 the sixth time, before he quitted the landing- 
 stage. 
 
 'At last,' I said to myself, with a long- 
 drawn sigh, ' I am free to forget. Everything 
 about me — even to the dress I wear — is a 
 novelty. I have positively nothing, ex- 
 cept a piece of pasteboard and a book, 
 that belongs to the past. Thank God 
 for it !' 
 
 I forgot the heart I carried in my bosom. 
 For a while I diverted myself by watching 
 my fellow-passengers and trying to guess 
 their histories. There were only about a 
 dozen of them, and they were all collected 
 upon deck. There was the conventional
 
 54 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 newly-married couple ; I found them out at 
 once, principally because everything the bride 
 had on was new, even to the soles of her 
 boots, which were almost as fresh as when 
 they had left the workman's hands, and had 
 evidently never trod the vulgar earth before 
 that morning. 
 
 There were a mother and father with a 
 couple of odious children, whom they per- 
 mitted to run against the other passengers 
 just as they chose, smearing their dresses 
 with their sticky fingers and staring rudely in 
 their faces for five minutes together. They 
 kept leaping up on the seats also, and leaning 
 over the sides of the vessel, till I began to 
 hope that one or both might disappear for 
 ever under the water. No such good luck, 
 however, was in store for us. To the end 
 of the voyage the children were ubiquitous. 
 They scrambled for food at the dinner-table, 
 and long after they had been put to bed,
 
 LAUNCHED, 55- 
 
 reappeared In their night-dresses to demand 
 more fruit and biscuits. 
 
 If parents only would realise what an 
 abominable nuisance their offspring are to 
 everybody but themselves, they would not,, 
 perhaps, entail so many unnecessary invec- 
 tives on their heads as they do. If there is 
 one character in history with whom I have 
 more sympathy than another, it certainly is 
 Herod. My attention was diverted for a 
 time from these horrid imps by a young girl 
 dressed, as I was, in deep mourning, who sat 
 by herself in a very subdued attitude at one 
 end of the vessel. I found she was going, 
 for the first time, to a foreign school at Ghent. 
 She had lost her father, and was anxious to 
 perfect herself in French and German, before 
 attempting to earn her own livelihood as a 
 governess. It was a melancholy prospect, I 
 thought. I imagined myself the governess 
 of two such children as were annoying the
 
 56 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 company now, whilst their mother compla- 
 cently read a cheap novel, and felt sure that 
 in such a case I should have ended my career 
 upon the gallows. Had it been necessary 
 for me to work for my bread, I would have 
 been a housemaid, a cook, shop-girl — anything 
 rather than a governess or a nurse ! 
 
 Two or three foreigners, seedy and dirty 
 in appearance, were standing near me, and 
 looking rather impertinently in my face, which 
 gave me a desire to change my seat. I rose, 
 with the intention of crossing the deck, when 
 my hand-bag, which had been lying on my 
 lap, fell to the ground. 
 
 Some one quickly picked it up and restored 
 it to me. Not one of my seedy foreigners, 
 but a bright-haired English lad of not more, 
 I thought, than sixteen or seventeen years 
 old. 
 
 ' Do you -v^sh to go downstairs }' he 
 inquired politely ; ' and may I help you }'
 
 LAUNCHED. 57 
 
 It was such a nice, frank, boyish voice and 
 face, that I quite took to him. 
 
 * No, thank you,' I said ; ' I only wish to 
 sit on the other side of the boat.' 
 
 ' I will find you a seat. It is much cooler 
 there,' he answered, with alacrity. 
 
 My boy-gallant then accompanied me 
 across the deck, and having arranged my 
 plaid for me to sit down upon, ensconced 
 himself by my side. 
 
 ' We shall have a charming passage across 
 this time,' he remarked, confidentially. 
 
 ' Shall we .-^ I know nothing of the tides. 
 I have never crossed before.' 
 
 ' Do you go by Calais, then 1' 
 
 * No ! This is the first time' I have ever 
 left England !' 
 
 He opened his round eyes to their utmost. 
 
 * Oh ! I say ! Why, I cross six times every 
 year, and sometimes oftener.' 
 
 ' Do you live abroad, then ?'
 
 58 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 * No ! I live in t^ondon — at least, my dad 
 does — but I'm coaching for the Civil Service^ 
 with old Felton, at Rille, and run home at 
 Christmas and Easter and Midsummer. I'm 
 just going back after the summer vacation. 
 Isn't it a bore ?' 
 
 * Dreadful !' I acquiesced. * But is not 
 Rille near Artois T 
 
 ' About twenty miles distant. Why ?' 
 
 ' Only that I am going to Artois, or near it." 
 
 'That's jolly! I'll look after you and see 
 
 you get there all right, as you've not been 
 
 used to travelling — that is, if you'd like me 
 
 to.' 
 
 * Thank you, very much.' 
 
 I could not help inwardly smiling to think 
 that I, who had so scornfully rejected the 
 escort of the polite and experienced Mr. 
 Warrington, should be thanking a raw school- 
 boy for the offer of his valuable protection to 
 Rille. But the cordial unconventionality of
 
 LAUNCHED. 5^ 
 
 the lad pleased me, and I^ thought I should 
 like to have him for a travelling companion. 
 
 ' It is not much of a journey from Antwerp 
 to Rille,' I said. 
 
 ' Only a couple of hours. We shall get in 
 about eight o'clock to-morrow morning, and 
 there's a train at half-past which will land me 
 at my shop by half-past ten, and you at 
 Artois at eleven. I pity you staying at 
 Artois ; it's a horrid dull place.' 
 
 ' Oh ! I am not going to remain at Artois. 
 My friends live a little farther on.' 
 
 As he saw I did not volunteer the informa- 
 tion, his intuitive delicacy forbid his asking 
 me the name of my friends, or of myself. 
 But he frankly disclosed his own. 
 
 ' My dad's name is Sir John Stephenson. 
 Dare say you've heard of him. He's a big- 
 wig in the doctor way. He wanted me to 
 be one. He said, '' Fred, my boy, there's 
 nothing like the medical profession." But I
 
 60 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 didn't see it — I don't fancy cutting off arms 
 and legs — should you ?' 
 
 ' No, indeed ! And so your name is 
 Frederick Stephenson ?' 
 
 ' Yes ! And I've got two brothers, Bob 
 and Ernest ; but they're quite little chaps.' 
 
 ' I suppose I must tell you my name in 
 return, especially as we shall travel to Rille 
 together. I am called Hilda Marsh.' 
 
 * That's an awfully jolly name — Hilda, I 
 mean. I've got three sisters, and they have 
 rather nice names, I think : Jessie and Amy 
 and Blanche, but "Hilda" beats them all to 
 smash.' 
 
 ' I am glad you think so ! Do you like 
 living at Rille Y 
 
 ' Pretty well, but I shall be very glad when 
 I've done with it. We have larks now and 
 then, but old Felton's the clergyman there, 
 and awfully stiff with us. He hardly ever 
 lets us go into the town.'
 
 LA UNCHED, 61 
 
 At this juncture the dinner-bell rang, and 
 my young friend was all alert to obey it. 
 
 ' Won't you come down ?' he urged. 
 ' They give very good spreads on board this 
 boat, and if you're likely to be ill when we 
 get out to sea, you'll be all the worse for not 
 having eaten anything.' 
 
 But I could not join them at the dinner- 
 table. I had not sat down to a regular meal 
 for weeks, and the idea of roast and boiled 
 joints sickened me. I persuaded Master 
 Fred Stephenson to leave me where I was, 
 whilst he satisfied the cravings of nature, to 
 look at the charming sights which presented 
 themselves on either side the river, which 
 we were now fast leaving for the open 
 sea. 
 
 By six o'clock we were well out in the 
 ocean, which was calm as a lake at that time 
 of year ; and I shrank with dismay at the idea 
 of quitting the cool sweet-smelling deck for
 
 ^2 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 the stuffy cabin, to which I had been intro- 
 duced in the former part of the day. 
 
 * Why should you ?' exclaimed Master 
 Fred, to whom I had confided my grievance ; 
 ' we'll have a mattress and pillow sent up on 
 deck for you, and you'll sleep twice as well 
 here as you would below. I'll go and speak 
 to the captain at once about it.' 
 
 He strode off with the air of a man, before 
 I had time to dissuade him from asking for 
 what appeared to me an impossible indul- 
 gence. However, his application was speedily 
 followed by the appearance of a seaman bear- 
 ing the mattress, pillows, and blankets ; and 
 when I saw several others of the passengers 
 making themselves comfortable for the night 
 in the same manner, I grew less shy of using 
 my improvised couch, and was thankful to 
 rest upon it. 
 
 As I lay there through the dark night, 
 gazing up into the faces of the moon and the
 
 LAUNCHED. 63 
 
 stars, I could hardly believe that every throb 
 of the machinery was carrying me farther 
 and farther away from the scenes with which 
 I had been associated so long. It was a 
 lonely, peaceful sensation, that of being borne 
 along upon the lapping waves and through 
 the cool night air without any exertion, and 
 only the burr of the steamer's wheels, and an 
 occasional order from the captain to intimate 
 that some one was watching over my safety 
 whether I slept or not. I lay thus for some 
 hours, thinking the one great thought that 
 never left my brain then, by night or day, 
 until at last fatigue overcame me, and I fell 
 asleep. I woke with a sensation of being 
 stifled. There was no light, no air, nothing. 
 What had happened to me ? I struggled 
 violently for a moment, when some one, with 
 a gay laugh, suddenly twitched a blanket off 
 jny face, and I was free to breathe again. 
 * Holloa ! Miss Marsh,' exclaimed Fred
 
 64 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 Stephenson, * did you think you were burled 
 alive ?' 
 
 ' Something very like it,' I replied ; ' what 
 happened to me ?' 
 
 ' Only this, that when the dew began to 
 fall this morning, I drew the blanket over 
 your face. It isn't safe to sleep in it, you 
 know, and every one is covered up in the 
 same way.' 
 
 * Well, it was very kind of you to think of 
 it,' I said, ' but I certainly thought we were 
 all eoine to the bottom. How still the 
 sea is !' 
 
 'We've been out of the sea for the last 
 four hours. We are going up the Scheldt 
 now, and shall be in Antwerp before you've 
 had time to have your breakfast and make a 
 comfortable toilet.' 
 
 I scrambled to my feet at this intelligence, 
 and sought the shelter of my cabin, which 
 felt closer and more stuffy even than it had
 
 LA UNCHED. 65 
 
 done the day before. A cup of coffee woke 
 me completely up again, and by the time the 
 boat steamed alongside the quay at Antwerp, 
 I was on deck, ready to admire or be sur- 
 prised at every fresh thing I saw. Master 
 Fred Stephenson proved an admirable cice- 
 rone, and never ceased to call my attention to 
 everything that he thought would interest or 
 amuse me. 
 
 ' Aren't those rum houses and trees ?' he 
 said in his schoolboy language, as he pointed 
 out some quaint buildings on the quay ; ' they 
 look for all the world like the contents of one 
 of those German boxes of toys the children 
 get at home, set up on end. And that's a 
 milk-cart drawn by that dog,' with all those 
 brass cans in it. Did you ever see such caps 
 and bonnets as the women wear. I tried to 
 squash one of their bonnets once by sitting 
 on it, but it was no use. They're as hard as 
 wood. Holloa! here come the Custom-house 
 VOL. I. 5
 
 66 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 people to look at the boxes. If you will let 
 me have your keys, Miss Marsh, I'll see your 
 luggage passed. I suppose you've got nothing 
 to declare.' 
 
 I assured him I had not. 
 
 'Well, I've got lots, but I'm blessed if they 
 shall find them. I smuggle more things, every 
 time I cross, than the rest of the English 
 pupils put together ; but I'm an awfully lucky 
 fellow, and have never been caught yet.' 
 
 I stood on the bridge to watch the Custom- 
 house officers at their duty, and found it a 
 very amusing sight. The distinction they 
 made between searching the luggage of their 
 own countrymen and that of mine, inspired 
 me with a feeling of pride that, notwithstand- 
 ing Master Fred's peccadilloes, the word of 
 an Englishman should be so readily taken. 
 
 I observed that when the bridegroom and 
 the father of the obnoxious children had 
 simply said they had nothing in their boxes
 
 LAUNCHED, 67 
 
 liable to duty, the keys were returned to them 
 after the merest feint had been made of raising 
 the lids. But no such declarations availed 
 the seedy foreigners, though they accompanied 
 them with oaths. Their scanty apparel, very 
 yellow and shabby in appearance, was reli- 
 giously displayed on deck for the admiration 
 of the rest of the passengers, and every 
 crevice of their trunks carefully searched ; and 
 I felt sincere pity for one poor wretch who 
 was compelled to turn out the whole contents 
 of an enormous hamper, which was found, 
 after all, to contain nothing but apples and 
 pears. 
 
 When it came to the turn for Master 
 Fred's boxes, he threw his keys to the 
 Custom-house officers in the most noncha- 
 lant manner, desiring him to search for him- 
 self. 
 
 The consequence of which was that, the 
 trouble promising to prove too great, the 
 
 5—2
 
 68 A BROKEN BLOSSOM, 
 
 keys were merely turned in the locks and 
 delivered again to their owner. 
 
 ' That's the way I do them, Miss Marsh,' 
 said Master Fred, with the greatest glee, as 
 we drove together to the station, ' There's 
 nothing goes down in this world like a perfect 
 absence of fear. If you try to prevent those 
 fellows from rumpling your collars, they turn 
 everything over in order to find your contra- 
 band goods ; but if you tell them to look for 
 themselves and not bother you, they feel sure 
 directly that innocence alone can make you 
 so brave.' 
 
 'You are a very naughty boy,' I said, 
 smiling in spite of myself at his self-assurance 
 and British cheek.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 ST. PUCELLE. 
 
 But notwithstanding his youth, I found 
 Master Fred Stephenson not only entertain- 
 ing, but useful, for he took all trouble off my 
 hands, and before long I found myself sitting 
 by his side in a coupS, and travelling fast to- 
 wards 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
 
 70 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 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 beinsf 
 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
 
 ST. PUCELLE, 71 
 
 well disposed to listen to the social scandal 
 Master Stephenson amused himself by retail 
 ing 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. — whof 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 bio wed !' ejaculated my elegant 
 young friend. 
 
 ' Do you know him, then ?' 
 
 * Know him ! Of course I do ! Every- 
 body 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 consi-
 
 72 A BROKEN BLOSSOM, 
 
 dered quite a swell In his way, and Is often 
 over at Rllle. 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 coinci- 
 dence 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 ao^es ?' 
 
 ' 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 ; Tessle has fair hair
 
 ST, PVCELLE, 75 
 
 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 
 Rllle 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 aeain ! 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 assem- 
 bled 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
 
 74 A BROKEN BLOSSOM, 
 
 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 in- 
 terest. 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, deco- 
 rated 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
 
 ST, PUCELLE, 75 
 
 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 
 Artols, 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 moun- 
 tain in my inexperienced eyes, and was 
 covered to the top with purple heather, pre- 
 cisely similar to that we find in England and 
 Scotland, intermingled with wild flowers of 
 every form and colour. I was wrapt in ad- 
 miration of the view. I gazed from right to 
 left in silent wonder, thinking I had never
 
 76 A BROKEN BLOSSOM, 
 
 seen anything in my life before so beautiful 
 and bright, and forgetful alike of the uncom- 
 fortable 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 ' Citri 
 Anglais ; and my curiosity was just being 
 awakened by a few words of French which I 
 had caught from outside, when an old gentle- 
 man came round to the diligence-door and 
 looked in upon us. 
 
 ' Bonjoicr, monsieur f cried all its occu- 
 pants, save one, simultaneously ; and the
 
 ST. PUCELLE. 77 
 
 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 ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 ' 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
 
 78 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 meet the diligence. I hope you have travelled 
 here comfortably ?' 
 
 * Very comfortably, thank you. But are 
 we so short a distance, then, from St. Pu- 
 celle ?' 
 
 ' 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 dili- 
 gence 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.
 
 ST. PUCELLE. 79 
 
 ' 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 resem- 
 blance. 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 re- 
 plied ; ' 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 to- 
 day. You have come to the house of your 
 father's earliest and closest friend. You must
 
 80 A BROKEN BLOSSOM, 
 
 try and think that it is a second father him- 
 self who welcomes you there.' 
 
 ' Indeed you are very good to me,' I re- 
 plied ; ' 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 Conti- 
 nental ways and fashions as your girls are of 
 Enorlish.' 
 
 ' Then you must teach each other. We 
 are in what they call here the Wallon coun- 
 try, my dear, which they would term in Scot
 
 ST, PUCELLE. 81 
 
 land, I think, '' neither fish, flesh, nor good 
 red herrln'." The people hereabout speak a 
 patois of French and German, rather difficult 
 of comprehension at first, and which has con- 
 siderably 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 Abbe Morteville. I have offered 
 
 VOL I. 6
 
 S2 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 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.
 
 ST. PUCELLE, 85 
 
 * Some parochial confidence/ I thought, as 
 I saw my old friend move farther from my 
 iside, 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, ' A 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 
 
 6—2
 
 84 A BROKEN BLOSSOM, 
 
 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 chalets 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
 
 S2. PUCELLE, 85 
 
 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 r 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,
 
 86 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 ' 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 Mere 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
 
 Sr. PUCELLE, 87 
 
 a country-bred girl. But what struck me 
 most in Teresa Lovett's face was the unmis- 
 takable 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 
 others 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
 
 88 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 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
 
 ST, FUCELLE, 89 
 
 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 ex- 
 citement 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 im- 
 possible 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
 
 90 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 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 appear- 
 ance 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
 
 ST, FUCELLE. 91 
 
 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/
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ANGE. 
 
 ** Ange is your sister's name, is it not ?' I 
 asked her. 
 
 * Yes. And you will like her so much. 
 She is such a darling ! She was baptised 
 * Angela,' but we have always called her Ange 
 for short. The country people gave it to 
 her first. She was so pretty, like a little 
 angel, running amongst them with her golden 
 curls, and they named her 'Petite Ange P 
 And then we took it up, and she has been 
 called so ever since.'
 
 ANGE. 93 
 
 * It is a very pretty abbreviation! Is 
 there much difference in your ages ?' 
 
 * Five years. I am three-and-twenty, and 
 she is but just eighteen. Am I younger than 
 you ?* 
 
 * By a twelvemonth only. I hope we shall 
 be very good friends, Tessie — if I may call 
 you so.' 
 
 * Yes, indeed you must ; and I must call 
 you by your name — Hilda — since papa says 
 we are to be sisters. But if you should find 
 the life here too dull and stupid after Eng- 
 land ! That would be very sad for all of us, 
 would it not ?' 
 
 * Why should you anticipate it ? I have 
 not been accustomed to a gay life, Tessie. 
 I lived all alone with my dear mother until 
 — until ' 
 
 ' Yes, yes, I know !' cried the girl, with 
 ready sympathy. 
 
 *And, as you may imagine, I am hardly
 
 94 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 likely to wish to mix in scenes of gaiety now. 
 All I want is rest and peace. 
 
 * Shall we ever get it in this life ?' inquired 
 Tessie, in a low voice. 
 
 I looked up at her in astonishment. 
 
 * I mean — I mean — ' she wenton confusedly, 
 "* that I am not going to let you stand here 
 any longer. Come and see the bedroom I 
 have prepared for you.' 
 
 For we were still lingering in the barely- 
 furnished dining-room by which we had 
 entered the house. She led me through a 
 second apartment, smaller than the first, but 
 bearing more signs of occupation, having an 
 old piano in one corner, a case of books in 
 another, and a cage of canary birds singing 
 loudly in the window. Then, to my astonish- 
 ment, we entered a large stone kitchen, 
 from which a flight of stairs led up to the 
 bedroom floor. At the table in the centre 
 sat an old Frenchwoman, shredding potatoes
 
 ANGE, 95 
 
 into a wooden bowl ; but whether she was a 
 servant or not I felt puzzled to decide. 
 She wore a stuff gown, as good as Tessie's, 
 with a scarlet worsted shawl, notwithstanding 
 the heat, pinned tightly across her bosom, 
 and a net-cap much ornamented with arti- 
 ficial flowers and ribbons, such as is never 
 assumed by the lower classes in Belgium 
 except on Sundays and fete days. 
 
 She did not look up, either, as we entered 
 the kitchen, nor show any sign of noticing 
 our presence until Tessie addressed her, as I 
 thought, with some timidity. 
 
 ' This is Miss Marsh, Madame ; she has 
 just arrived by the diligence, and I am about 
 to take her up to her bedroom that she may 
 refresh herself before luncheon.' 
 
 ' Very good ! You know your way there,' 
 muttered the woman in French, going on 
 with her occupation. 
 
 * We generally have our luncheon about this
 
 96 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 time,' said Tessle to me, * but if you would 
 
 like to take any refreshment beforehand ' 
 
 'What refreshment would you offer her, 
 unless it be an apple and a glass of sour 
 beer ?' interrupted the potato-shredder, 
 who appeared to understand English per- 
 fectly, although she spoke in French. 
 
 * Oh, Madame ! we can surely find Miss 
 Marsh a roll and a little butter,' replied 
 Tessie, with a nervous laugh ; but I assured 
 her that I should need nothing until the 
 family meal was announced. 
 
 I heard the Frenchwoman grumbling to 
 herself as we ascended the stairs, and trusted 
 that a close association with her would not 
 form a necessary part of my new life. 
 
 ' Madame Marmoret is not very genial 
 with strangers,' remarked Tessie, as we 
 entered a long bare corridor upon which the 
 doors of the bedchambers opened. 
 
 * Is she your housekeeper ?' I inquired
 
 ANGE. 97 
 
 ' She is our everything. She nursed me 
 and Ange when we were babies, and has 
 reared us ever since. She is the cook and 
 the housemaid and the footman and the 
 butler all in one. But she is a shocking 
 tyrant, and Ange and I hardly dare call our 
 souls our own when she says that we shall 
 not.' 
 
 ' Why don't you get rid of her, then ?' 
 
 Tessie's eyes opened to their fullest ex- 
 tent. 
 
 * Get rid of Madame Marmoret ! We 
 should almost as soon think of getting rid of 
 papa. Oh, no ! we shall never get rid of her, 
 as long as we live. She is an \' institution." 
 She wouldn't go even if we asked her. She 
 would turn us all out of the house first.' 
 
 To me, who possessed a strongly conser- 
 vative spirit, and had no idea of permitting 
 my inferiors to take a liberty with me, 
 Tessie's mode of talking about Madame Mar- 
 
 VOL. I. 7
 
 98 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 moret appeared only as excellent satire. I 
 was yet to learn that It was sad and sober 
 truth. But we had arrived at my bed- 
 chamber, and though I was a little disap- 
 pointed at Its want of size, all the bulk of 
 the house seeming to be monopolised by 
 passages and staircases, I could not help ob- 
 serving with gratitude the evident care that 
 had been bestowed on the arrangement of 
 the little white bed, and the muslin curtain 
 that draped the window, and was touched be- 
 yond measure at the discovery of a small 
 blue silk pincushion on the toilet-table, ready 
 filled with pins, with ' Hilda ' worked across 
 the front of it In white beads. 
 
 'Ange did that,' said Tessle, delighted 
 with my pleasure at the sight ; ' she was 
 making that all last week, especially for your 
 table. She wanted to work a litde cross be- 
 neath your name, but I would not allow her. 
 I thought you might not like it.'
 
 ANGE, 99 
 
 ' Why not ?' 
 
 * Because the English, as a rule, are so 
 superstitious. They are afraid of a cross. 
 One would think it portended evil. But 
 Ange is so good — so pious ! She would live 
 In the church, if it were possible.' 
 
 * Is your church far from here ?' 
 
 ' Ah ! I did not mean our church— I meant 
 that of our good friend, Monsieur Morteville. 
 No, it is not far off — it is just over the way. 
 But it is not a church at all. It is only a 
 room.' 
 
 My face fell I had always greatly en- 
 joyed the services of religion, especially 
 where well conducted, and I. felt I should 
 need the comfort of them more than ever 
 now. 
 
 There had been something in Mr. Lovett's 
 manner and appearance — I know not why— 
 that had led me to hope that I should derive 
 
 7—2
 
 100 A BROKEN BLOSSOM, 
 
 much solace from being under his care. I 
 suppose it was the look of extra refinement 
 that had misled me. But Tessie's description 
 of their place of worship was very discourag- 
 ing. 
 
 * Only a room !' I echoed, in a tone of dis- 
 appointment. 
 
 ' Yes, and such an ugly one ! It is a 
 schoolroom on week-days, and we have to sit 
 on the dirty benches that the children use. 
 I play the harmonium, and Ange leads the 
 hymns, but it is sorry work. It will be 
 better now you have come. I hope you will 
 sing with us. Papa is grand, of course. He 
 is grand whatever he does, or wherever you 
 put him ; but it makes me sad to see him 
 thrown away in such a horrid place. I 
 always feel he ought to be preaching in a 
 splendid cathedral like St. Gudule, at 
 Brussels. He looks altogether out of place 
 'with whitewashed walls.'
 
 ANGE, 101 
 
 ' St. Paul, in the upper room at Athens/ 
 I said, smiling. 
 
 ' Ah ! St. Paul was never half such a man 
 as our father. He ought to be Archbishop 
 of Canterbury at the very least, or, as Ange 
 says, Pope of Rome !' 
 
 * He is certainly a very fine-looking old 
 gentleman,' I acquiesced. 
 
 ' Do you think he looks oldT said Tessie. 
 * He never seems to grow old, to Ange and 
 me. It would be a dreadful thing to wake 
 up some day and find that papa had really 
 changed into an old gentleman.' 
 
 I could not say he looked young, and so I 
 discreetly held my tongue. I had not quite 
 completed my toilette when a bell was heard 
 to tinkle. 
 
 * I must go !' cried Tessie. ' That is 
 Madame ringing the bell for me to lay the 
 table for gouter. You see, Ange and I are 
 obliged to help her in these little matters, or
 
 102 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 she could not get through her work. Do you 
 think you can find your way dowstairs again, 
 Hilda, without me ?' 
 
 ' I am sure I can,' I answered ; and in a 
 few minutes more I proved my words by 
 following her through the kitchen to the 
 apartment which held the piano. There I 
 found her busily employed in laying the 
 luncheon-table, and singing a little French 
 song as she worked. 
 
 The repast was a very simple one, but 
 it looked inviting. There was a loaf of 
 rye bread, a country cheese, a large basket of 
 rosy apples, a bowl of custard, and a plate of 
 gaufres, which Tessie told me she had made 
 herself. Everything was beautifully clean, 
 but there was evidence of strict economy, if 
 not of poverty, in the arrangements, which, 
 remembering what I had been told of the 
 Reverend Horace Lovett's grand patrons 
 "End connection with court, rather surprised
 
 ANGE, 103 
 
 me. However, I was no gourmand, and did 
 not give a second thought to the matter. As 
 soon as the gouter was prepared, Madame 
 Marmoret went out at the front door and 
 rang a handbell violently on the balcony, 
 which was shortly followed by the sound of 
 her master's voice and footsteps as he obeyed 
 the signal to return home. 
 
 ' There is papa !' exclaimed Tessie, ' and 
 there — yes ! there comes Ange with him ! I 
 thought she could not be much longer. They 
 must have met in the street.' 
 
 At this moment Mr. Lovett, his face beam- 
 ing with kindly benevolence, appeared on the 
 threshold of the room we sat In, dragging a 
 girl after him by both her hands held in one 
 of his. 
 
 *Here she is,' he said; 'here's my little 
 maid, Hilda. I found her hiding somewhere 
 away In the cow-house, afraid to show her 
 face indoors for fear you would bite her nose
 
 104 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 off; and I believe she would have stayed 
 there till to-morrow morning if I had not 
 chanced to come acioss her.' 
 
 * No, no, papa ! indeed,' remonstrated 
 Ange, with the same foreign accent I had 
 observed in her sister, ' you are not just to 
 me. I am not afraid : I was only going 
 round to give the eggs to Madame, and take 
 off my hat before presenting myself to Made> 
 moiselle Marsh.' 
 
 He swung the girl in front of him, and 
 nearly pushed her into my arms. 
 
 * Go and present yourself to Mademoiselle 
 Marsh, then,' he said, mimicking her pro- 
 nunciation. 
 
 As she stood before me, with her height- 
 ened colour and a deprecating look upon her 
 face, I thought I had never seen such a pretty 
 creature before as Mr. Lovett's 'little maid.* 
 She was dressed in black serge, like her 
 sister, and had a white muslin pelerine crossed
 
 ANGE. 105 
 
 quaintly over her bosom ; a straw hat, with a 
 black ribbon tied round it, and a wide flapping 
 brim that almost hid her features, formed her 
 head-dress, and a plain silver cross, depending 
 from her throat, was her only ornament. But 
 how shall I ever describe her face ! that 
 mobile face, the expression of which changed 
 every second, like a restless sea that never 
 can keep still ; and that delicate variable 
 bloom, that rose and fell in crimson waves 
 with every emotion that passed through her 
 sensitive little brain ! In actual appearance 
 she was very like the old man, which ac- 
 counted for his evident pride in her. She 
 had his rich blue eyes, with long dark lashes 
 and well-marked eyebrows : the chestnut hair 
 — which I afterwards learned he had also pos- 
 sessed when young — with a natural wave in it 
 like his, that kept it rippling low on her brow 
 and the nape of her neck and round about 
 her ears in little sunny curls. The tip of her
 
 106 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 pretty nose was just sufficiently tilted to 
 redeem it from being aquiline, and her 
 laughing mouth, displaying a row of firm 
 white teeth, was childlike in its dewy rose- 
 leaf bloom. 
 
 I am not given to falling into raptures over 
 the perfections of my own sex : few women 
 are, in this century of pearl powder, bella- 
 donna, rouge and auricomus. But it was 
 just because I had detected and been dis- 
 gusted at such falsehoods, that I gazed at 
 Angela Lovett as at something that I had 
 never seen before. She looked as if she had 
 but just stepped down, fresh made, from the 
 hand of her Creator. 
 
 * Oh, Ange !' I exclaimed involuntarily, my 
 admiration made patent by my voice, ' I hope 
 that you will like me !' 
 
 ' Like you — why, of course she will ! what 
 should she do else ?' replied her father, 
 answering for her. ' We must hear no more
 
 ANGE. '107 
 
 of likes and dislikes after to-day, Hilda! 
 Here are my three daughters, all ready to 
 attend me at my goilter, and I mean to make 
 no distinction between them henceforward. 
 So now, my little maid, kiss your sister 
 Hilda, and let us see if Madame has given 
 us anything that my poor old teeth can 
 manage to crack for luncheon.' 
 
 The old gentleman's kindness made me 
 feel so completely at home, that when Ange 
 blushingly advanced to salute me, I opened 
 my arms and pressed the girl to my heart as 
 if she had indeed been my younger sister. I 
 was not surprised, as we gathered round the 
 table, to see that Tessie had slipped out of 
 the room and returned with a basin of hot 
 soup, which she placed before her father, 
 whilst Ange silently rose and produced a 
 small tin of rusks for him to eat with it. It 
 was but right that the old man, whose diges- 
 tion was probably impaired, should fare more
 
 108 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 daintily than his young daughters, who could 
 eat anything. 
 
 I resolved that, before the morrow came, 
 I would ask Tessie to let me share in the 
 labour of waiting on him and attending to 
 his wants. 
 
 He was good enough to call me his 
 daughter, and I would not take the name 
 unless I were allowed to fulfil the service. 
 So we girls eat rye bread and cheese and 
 munched apples, whilst Mr. Lovett sipped 
 his soup and sherry, and talked to us of the 
 days before we were born, when he had been 
 hand-in-glove with some of the highest and 
 most celebrated names in England, until I 
 wondered why he should have left a country 
 which was reeking with patronage and interest 
 for him, to bury himself abroad, even though 
 it were as the tutor of a German prince. I 
 could not venture, however, to put the 
 question, ,/lthough I did ask him if he had
 
 ANGE. 109 
 
 not greatly missed the associates of whom he 
 spoke on first leaving them. 
 
 * Yes, my dear Hilda, you are right. I 
 certainly did so, but my motto through life 
 has been, Fais ce qtie dois^ advieniie que 
 pour7'a. It was duty that called me to this 
 country ; a hard and difficult duty it is true, 
 but one which I could not have neglected 
 without sacrificing what was dearer to me 
 than pleasure — my sense of right !' 
 
 And Mr. Lovett struck his broad chest 
 with an energy that raised him very consider- 
 ably in my estimation. There is something 
 so ennobling in the sight of a man who is 
 strong enough to conquer inclination in the 
 cause of his religion. His girls regarded the 
 sentiment he had expressed with the same 
 admiration that I did. I could see Ano-e's 
 blue eyes beaming upon him from the 
 opposite side of the table, whilst Tessie's 
 looked tenderer than before. It as beauti-
 
 110 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 ful to see their devotion to their father. How 
 glad I was to find myself in a family who 
 respected and loved each other, and were, 
 moreover, so perfectly united. 
 
 On rising from the table, the girls asked 
 me if I would accompany them in a walk^ 
 but the fatigue I had encountered since the 
 day before was beginning to make itself 
 palpably felt, and I decided to spend the 
 afternoon in my own room, putting my 
 wardrobe in order. Tessie offered to assist 
 me, but I declined her services. After so 
 much novelty and excitement, the idea of a 
 few hours' rest and solitude was grateful to 
 me. But when I got alone I found I was 
 too tired even to think. I turned out the 
 contents of my boxes into the wooden press 
 that waited for them, and then I flung myself 
 down upon the inviting-looking little bed and 
 fell fast asleep.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 TURKEY AND TRUFFLES. 
 
 I MUST have slept for several hours, when I 
 was awakened by the sound of a shrill voice 
 that reached me from the courtyard below. 
 For my room was at the back of the house,, 
 and looked out on a little paved court that 
 lay on the other side of the narrow garden, 
 and led through a cow-shed into the main 
 street again. So primitive was the mode of 
 architecture and the idea of comfort in the 
 town of St. Pucelle. 
 
 * Tiens /' the shrill voice was exclaiming
 
 112 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 when my ears were suddenly made cognisant 
 of Its existence ; * you are a fool — a pig, a 
 maladroit, to fancy any such thing! She 
 will cost twice the money to keep that one of 
 our girls do. Can we feed her on nettle soup 
 and dandelion salad ? Will she eat rye bread 
 every day, and be content with crust potage 
 for her dinner ? And her presence here will 
 make the town furious. We shall be beset by 
 them ; they will say you have no right to 
 increase your family; and if you tell them the 
 reason why, they will answer, " Then give us 
 justice," and you will look like a fool — as you 
 are !' 
 
 ' But, my dear good Marmoret,' replied a 
 soft voice, which sounded wonderfully like 
 that of my guardian, though I could not be- 
 lieve that it was he, you are mistaken ; I 
 shall tell them nothing.' 
 
 ' And you think I have four hands to work 
 with, perhaps, and four feet on which to run
 
 TURKEY AND TRUFFLES, 113 
 
 up and down these stairs from morning till 
 night, that you bring me another person to 
 cook for and clean after. Bah ! but it Is you 
 that will find yourself mistaken ! If justice Is 
 to be done to any one It begins with me, 
 Marie Marmoret, who has slaved and toiled 
 for the last twenty-two years without so much 
 as a " thank you " for it.' 
 
 ' Is that quite true ?' demanded the same 
 soft voice. ' But you are not yourself to-day, 
 my good Marmoret ; let us leave the discus- 
 sion of these domestic matters until to- 
 morrow.' 
 
 ' Not myself f echoed Madame, sharply ; 
 * It Is false. I am not myself when I cringe 
 and smile and speak softly, and pretend to 
 believe that which I know to be a lie ; but I 
 am telling you my true mind now, and you 
 can make what you please of it. I am 
 getting tired — that is the truth — tired and 
 
 VOL. I. 8
 
 114 A BROKEN BLOSSOM, 
 
 sick of it all ; and I know not why I should 
 hold my tongue more than others.' 
 
 * Well, well ! I am about to see Dumont 
 and Chretien to-morrow, and they will 
 believe what I say to thj n, if you do not.' 
 
 ' And much good your seeing them will do 
 them — poor fools ! They'd better by far 
 come to me. I could give them a piece of 
 advice worth two of yours.' 
 
 * Now, my dear good Marmoret,' said the 
 other voice, ' I must entreat you to be 
 reasonable. I can manage my own affairs 
 perfectly well, and need no assistance. You 
 must oblige me by not interfering.' 
 
 * Bah ! I have been "reasonable," as 
 you call it, too long. If Dumont and 
 Chretien are to see you, I do so first. Have, 
 I not the prior claim ? Answer me that !' 
 
 ' Certainly you have, and I always ac- 
 knowledge it. But be patient, and your 
 reward will come.'
 
 TURKE V AND TR UFFLES, 1 1 5 
 
 ' I should like to see it,' grumbled Madame 
 Marmoret, as she bustled into the house 
 again. 
 
 Now the whole of this conversation, being 
 carried on in volubk ^rench, was not patent 
 to my understanding ; but I could catch a 
 word here and there, and it made me un- 
 easy. 
 
 Madame Marmoret was evidently very 
 angry, and her anger was chiefly directed 
 against me. I was sure that the first part of 
 her conversation alluded to my arrival at St. 
 Pucelle, and her disgust at the prospect of 
 having more work to do in consequence. It 
 was annoying to think I had been the cause 
 of a disturbance so soon ; but Madame Mar- 
 ..moret had judged me too hastily, and I had 
 no doubt that when she knew more of me 
 she would alter her opinion. I should never 
 dream of entering a household with only one 
 servant, without taking my share of its duties.
 
 116 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 She thought, doubtless, that I was a fine 
 English lady, accustomed to be waited on 
 for everything, and unwilling to raise a hand 
 to help myself. She would soon find out her 
 mistake. I could dust and sweep and make 
 beds perhaps as well as she could, and I had 
 fully intended to join Tessie and Ange in 
 their domestic avocations the very next 
 morninof. 
 
 But what puzzled me was to guess to 
 whom Madame could possibly have been con- 
 fiding her grievances. At first I had thought 
 the voice was like that of Mr. Lovett, but 
 when I heard the familiar way in which she 
 addressed her companion, I knew at once 
 that it could not be her master with whom 
 she had been talking. And I was further 
 convinced of the justice of my conclusion 
 when a tap at my door was followed by the 
 entrance of Ange to tell me that dinner 
 would be ready in a few minutes.
 
 TURKE V AND TR UFFLES, 1 1 7 
 
 ' We have been for such a long walk, 
 Tessie and I,* she said, as she took off her 
 broad-brimmed hat and fanned her heated 
 face with it ; ' right up the hill and as far as 
 the forest. It was delightful when we got 
 there ! You would have enjoyed it, Hilda ! 
 The trees are so big and beautiful, and under 
 them it is as cool and as shady as a church. 
 And you and papa have been sleeping all the 
 afternoon away. Lazy people !' 
 
 ' Has your papa been asleep also ?' 
 
 ' Yes. We found him fast asleep in the 
 big straw chair. I hid behind it, and tickled 
 his nose with a branch of flowering lime 
 until he woke. It was such fun to see his 
 dear old head bobbing round to find out who 
 it was. Most people would have been cross, 
 you know, but papa is never cross about any- 
 thing.' 
 
 ' Not with j/<?^/, I expect,' I said, smiling. 
 
 ' Nor with anybody, unless they have done
 
 118 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 something very bad indeed. Papa is an 
 angel ; you will know that when you have 
 stayed here a little while. He is a great 
 deal too good for this world.' 
 
 ^ They say the best praise a man can have 
 is that of his own household.' 
 
 * Then papa deserves the very best, for 
 every one loves him — in the house and out of 
 it — they couldn't help it. He is so good 
 and holy. I should have no fear at all about 
 getting into heaven if I were only sure I 
 might keep hold of his skirts.' 
 
 * My dear, you shouldn't say that of any 
 man.' 
 
 * I must say it of papa. I often think he 
 is only half a man. He is so much more 
 like some of those dear old saints whose 
 lives Monsieur Morteville has lent me to 
 read, and who were too holy to live with 
 sinners upon earth. You will say the same 
 in a few days, Hilda. But now it is dinner-
 
 rURKE Y AND TR UFFLES. 1 1 ^ 
 
 time, and we must go down, or we shall get a 
 scolding.' 
 
 * Few gentlemen like being kept waiting 
 for their dinner,' I observed. 
 
 ' Oh, I didn't mean from papa ; he never 
 scolds. It is Madame who will be so angry 
 if we are late. And as likely as not she will 
 carry off the dishes again, and leave us with- 
 out any dinner at all,' cried Ange, laughing, 
 as she disappeared. 
 
 I did not consider it a laughing matter, 
 and so I quickly arranged my toilet and 
 hurried after her. 
 
 The meal was laid in the front room, I 
 found, this time — the salle, as they familiarly 
 termed it — and the family were already 
 assembled there. 
 
 Mr. Dovett sat at the head of the table, 
 looking like a veritable patriarch, with his 
 table-napkin pinned to his breast, after the 
 foreign fashion ; the girls were on either side
 
 120 A BROKEN BLOSSOM, 
 
 of him, and I found I was expected to fill the 
 seat of honour at the bottom. 
 
 * As the eldest, my dear — as the eldest,' he 
 averred. ' It is your proper place/ 
 
 Madame now appeared with a large 
 covered dish, which she put before her 
 master, and the contents of which, on being 
 disclosed, proved to be a turkey stuffed with 
 truffles. I felt quite hungry at the sight. 
 My gouter had been sparse, and the roast 
 turkey smelt delicious. I had no hesitation 
 in answering in the affirmative when I was 
 asked if I would take some of it. 
 
 I thought Madame Marmoret seemed to 
 be muttering very much to herself when she 
 held my plate to her master, and as she re- 
 turned it to me, her words were audible 
 enough. 
 
 * Extravagance — ruin !' she let off close to 
 my ears, like so many pistol-shots of anger. 
 
 I saw Ange and Tessie colour and look at
 
 TURKEY AND TRUFFLES, 121 
 
 me and then at their father, and Mr. Lovett 
 himself seemed to think it was time to put an 
 end to such exhibitions of folly. 
 
 * Tais-toi P he said quite sharply to the 
 woman, and then, appearing to regret his 
 harshness, he added : ' We know what we 
 are about, my friend. Suppose you help me 
 to some potatoes.' 
 
 Tessie and Ange made a simultaneous 
 grab at the potato-dish, and, under cover of 
 their alacrity to help their father, Madame 
 grumbled herself out of the room. 
 
 When the confusion which followed this 
 episode had somewhat subsided, I looked 
 round the table and saw that neither of the 
 girls had taken any turkey. I suppose their 
 father had offered it to them, but they had 
 not accepted it. Tessie was eating some 
 slices of spiced sausage and bread, and Ange 
 had cut up an entire cucumber as her share 
 of dinner.
 
 122 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 * Do you not eat meat ?' I inquired, with- 
 out thinking. 
 
 To the thoroughbred Briton, there appears 
 something so extraordinary in any one dining 
 on vegetables and bread. 
 
 * No,' replied Ange, with a pretty blush ^ 
 * we do not care for it. In this country you 
 see few people eat it, and, for my part, I 
 could live upon cucumbers all the year 
 round.' 
 
 Mr. Lovett was evidently not one of the 
 'few.' He consumed his turkey and truffles 
 with the air of a real connoisseur, returning 
 to it until he had nearly caused the whole of 
 the breast to disappear, and washing it down 
 with copious draughts of champagne, a bottle 
 of which stood at his elbow. He asked me 
 to take a glass, but I declined. I had never 
 been used to wine, and preferred drinking 
 water, as I saw the girls do. If Mr. Lovett's 
 daughters did not care for meat, it was not
 
 TURKEY AND TRUFFLES. 123- 
 
 because they meant to make up the deficiency 
 by pudding, for no second course followed 
 the turkey. Some Gruyere cheese and bis- 
 cuits were put upon the table for their father,, 
 but the flavour was too strong to suit any- 
 body but himself. Tessie picked some ripe 
 figs and grapes from the walls of the house 
 and offered them to me in her sweet shy way,, 
 and we sat together on the sill of the window 
 that looked out upon the street, eating our 
 fruit and watching Ange perched upon her 
 father's knee, tying up the silver curls that 
 hung over his brow with little bits of blue 
 ribbon, as she was accustomed to do with her 
 poodle's top-knot. 
 
 It was a charming sight to see them to-^ 
 gether — the handsome old man with his look 
 of proud contentment, and the beautiful girl 
 who was playing with him ; both so like and 
 yet so unlike each other ; she in her extreme 
 youth and innocence, and he with the weight
 
 124 A BROKEN BLOSSOM, 
 
 perhaps of five-and-slxty winters on his brow. 
 Yet, when at last her gentle touch had sent 
 him off to sleep in his chair, he almost 
 seemed the younger of the two, as he lay 
 back, peacefully slumbering, with scarcely a 
 wrinkle on his fair smooth skin, and the little 
 witch's blue ribbons fluttering in his silver 
 hair. 
 
 Meanwhile Ange joined Tessie and] my- 
 self in the window-sill, and there we sat 
 whispering to each other of all the thousand 
 and one foolish things that enter young 
 women's brains. 
 
 * And are you the only English in St. 
 Pucelle ?' I asked, after we had finished dis- 
 cussing the place. 
 
 ' Oh, Tessie ! only hear what Hilda is 
 saying!' exclaimed Ange. 'What would 
 Miss Sophia Markham do if she were to 
 hear her ? She would have a fit of hysterics, 
 •at the very least.'
 
 TURKE V AND TR UFFLES. 1 25 
 
 * Sophia Markham ! That sounds dread- 
 fully English,' I observed. 
 
 * And Miss Markham considers herself 
 essentially French,' replied Tessie, laughing. 
 * She is constantly putting us right on sub- 
 jects with which we have been familiar from 
 our birth, and on more than one occasion she 
 has been kind enouQ^h to correct our accent 
 for us.' 
 
 * What an unpleasant person ! Does she 
 live here ?' 
 
 ' No ; it is difficult to say where she 
 lives ' 
 
 ' I can tell you,' interrupted Ange, ' with 
 whoever will take her in.' 
 
 ' Or let themselves be taken in,' continued 
 her sister. * Miss Markham is ubiquitous. 
 She has no settled home, but we seem to 
 meet her everywhere. This summer she is 
 staying here with a family of the name of 
 Carolus, from Brussels.'
 
 126 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 *And, poor things, how sick they are of 
 her ! I am sure I pity them, having to listen 
 to her silly chatter all day.' 
 
 * Well, Ange, it strikes me that Mrs. 
 Carolus and Miss Markham get on very well 
 together. They are inseparable companions, 
 and have always some mutual acquaintance 
 to abuse. This Miss Markham is really 
 clever, Hilda ; she can do anything in 
 needle-work, and is very talkative and 
 pleasant ' 
 
 ' When there are gentlemen present,' inter- 
 posed Ange. 
 
 * Oh, Ange ! that is spiteful of you, though 
 I must allow she is more pleasant with them 
 than with her own sex.' 
 
 ' Is she a young woman ?' I asked. 
 
 ' Oh no ! I should think she must be forty 
 or more, but she always talks as if she were 
 very young indeed, and she calls me and 
 Anee '' mere children." '
 
 TURKEY AND TRUFFLES, 127 
 
 ' I know the sort of woman you mean, 
 exactly. We had one of them at Norwood, 
 who made herself pre-eminently ridiculous. 
 They can never believe they are too old for 
 love or admiration, and they generally dress 
 so as to make themselves the laughing-stocks 
 of society.' 
 
 ' Oh ! that is true, Hilda. Miss Markham 
 borrowed a pelerine from Ange last week, 
 and has come out in one exactly like it.' 
 
 ' Is It not strange,' said Ange, musingly, 
 ^that Madame, who in general dislikes strangers 
 so much, should have taken such a fancy to 
 Sophia Markham? She says she is '' ime 
 dame tres amiable^' that she has '* Fair noble,'' 
 and would well adorn a throne ! What can 
 Madame see In her to say all that ?' 
 
 ' I am sure I cannot tell, Ange. Hilda 
 will see her for herself, and then she can 
 judge. But Miss Markham does not com- 
 prise the whole English population of St.
 
 128 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 Pucelle. There are, I should think, at present 
 about a dozen families of visitors here, beside 
 several single men for shooting.' 
 
 * Is there shooting about here, then ?' 
 
 ' Oh yes, In the forest of PIron — wild boars 
 and rabbits, and hares and wolves ' 
 
 * Wolves ! Tessle ! Are you In earnest ? 
 You make me shiver.' 
 
 ' Indeed there are ! And M. Cond6 
 keeps one In a cage, which we will show you. 
 And there Is excellent trout-fishing here also, 
 Hilda.' 
 
 The mention of sport had recalled my 
 young travelling companion to my mind, and 
 I suddenly exclaimed : 
 
 ' By the way, I met some one on my 
 journey from England, who told me that he 
 knew you both : some one who met you at 
 Rllle, when you went to be confirmed there.' 
 
 Notwithstanding the fast-falling dusk, I 
 saw the crimson mount to the cheek of Ange.
 
 TURKE V AND TR UFFLES. 1 29 
 
 ' Who can it be ?' said Tessie. ' Was it 
 Mr. Henderson, a very old gentleman ?' 
 
 * No ; this gentleman was quite young.' 
 
 ' Not Mr. ' began Ange, and there she 
 
 stopped short, and would say no more. 
 
 ' Well, I won't keep you in suspense any 
 longer. It was a Master Frederick Stephen- 
 son who is at school at Mr. Felton's, and was 
 greatly interested at hearing I was coming 
 to live at St. Pucelle. He seems a very nice 
 boy. He was so kind and polite to me about 
 my luggage and train-ticket.' 
 
 ' Oh ! is that ^all ?' said Ange, disap- 
 pointedly. 
 
 ' Ange thought it was a duke at the very 
 least, coming back again to propose for her,' 
 said her sister. 
 
 ' I didn't,' pouted the little maid ; * but we 
 know such heaps of school-boys. It is nothing 
 new to hear they come backwards and for- 
 wards. I do not remember Master Stephen- 
 
 VOL. I. 9
 
 130 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 son, but Mr. Felton is a great friend of papa s, 
 
 and we stayed at his house whilst we were in 
 
 Rille.' 
 
 ^ Bonjour, mesdeinoiselles^ said a courteous 
 
 voice at the open door, and we started to see 
 
 a orentleman enter the salle. 
 <_> 
 
 ' Monsieur le Baron !' exclaimed Tessie 
 and Ange in a breath, as they rose to their 
 feet, and having saluted the new-comer, in- 
 troduced him to me as the Baron de Nessel- 
 rode. 
 
 ' Papa ! papa ! here is Monsieur le Baron !' 
 cried Ange, as she pulled the blue top-knots 
 out of her father's curls and wakened him 
 with a kiss on either cheek. 
 
 Mr. Lovett appeared delighted to welcome 
 his friend, and they were soon engaged In 
 active conversation. 
 
 ' Such an unfortunate young man,' whis- 
 pered Tessie to me, under cover of the gen- 
 tlemen's voices. ' He belongs to one of the
 
 TURKEY AND TRUFFLES, 131 
 
 highest families in France, but he got so 
 dreadfully into debt that his creditors have 
 confiscated all his fortune, and only leave him 
 a wretched little estate in St. Pucelle to live 
 upon. Is it not melancholy ? The poor 
 Baron always looks so sad and dull to me. 
 He has nothing to do but to shoot and visit 
 his neighbours, and during the winter season 
 we are almost the only people left here. 
 Papa is very fond of him. He pities him so 
 much, and thinks he has been so hardly used 
 for a little wildness.' 
 
 ' And papa's daughter seems to follow his 
 example,' I said, smiling. 
 
 * Oh ! no, indeed P remonstrated Tessie, 
 earnestly ; * but it is sad to be left to live 
 alone so young — don't you think so .'^ He is 
 not thirty yet.' 
 
 Ange, entering at that moment with a 
 lamp, showed me that Armand de Nessel- 
 rode was not only young, but very good- 
 
 9—2
 
 132 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 looking, which made me still further inclined 
 to doubt whether fair-haired Tessie had not 
 mistaken her feelings of compassion for him. 
 He had an air of melancholy also that, com- 
 bined with his dark languid eyes and the 
 story I had heard, made him doubtless a very 
 interesting object. He did not appear, how- 
 ever, to have paid his visit for the sake of 
 seeing the Miss Lovetts, for, after the first 
 ordinary greetings that had passed between 
 them, he confined his attention entirely to 
 their father, with whom he seemed to be on 
 terms of the greatest intimacy. Cigars were 
 produced and lighted, which was apparently 
 the signal for the weaker sex to retire, as 
 Tessie immediately asked me if I would go 
 into the next room with them and have some 
 music. Music I had little inclination for, but 
 the wisdom of withdrawal I saw at once. 
 
 * Papa always likes to be left alone with 
 the Baron,' said Tessie, as we entered the
 
 TURKEY AND TRUFFLES. 133^ 
 
 smaller apartment, ' they have so much tO' 
 talk about together.' 
 
 The girls asked me to sing, but I begged! 
 them to excuse me. I possessed a good 
 voice, and the use of it had formed one of 
 my favourite occupations. I had been accus- 
 tomed to sing at all sorts of places : in church 
 choirs, for charitable concerts, at evening 
 parties ; and she had always been so proud 
 to accompany me to the scenes of my small 
 triumphs, and to double the praises I earned. 
 Now I felt as if I should never sing again. 
 
 My voice, except for the common purposes 
 of speech, would be as silent as hers from 
 whom I had inherited it. I have learned 
 since that this is the commonest feeling at- 
 tendant upon sorrow. But grief was new to 
 me then, and I believed myself to be 
 thoroughly in earnest. Presently Ange sat 
 down to the tinkling old instrument, whose 
 notes were a misery to listen to, and began to
 
 134 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 sing — in low tones at first, but louder as she 
 gained confidence — a French chansonnette. 
 The little maid had not much volume of 
 voice, I could have extinguished it with 
 mine in a couple of bars ; but what she pos- 
 sessed was so sweetly fresh and true, that it 
 was a real pleasure to hear her. I sat at the 
 window gazing up into the dark blue sky, 
 now besprinkled with stars, and could have 
 fancied I was listening to a child-angel sing- 
 ing — that is, if they ever sing chansonnettes, 
 By-and-by she passed into a Latin hymn — 
 one of those half-solemn, half-joyous chants 
 that are so much in use in the Catholic 
 churches, and then indeed I could look up to 
 heaven through my tears and wonder if she 
 were listening too. Did she know of the 
 sudden change that had taken place in my 
 life, or were all my doings, my thoughts, my 
 joys and my sorrows, to be matters of indif- 
 ference to her thenceforward; to her who had
 
 TURKE Y AND TR UFFLES, ] 35 
 
 €ver been so ready to sympathise with me, 
 even if I had a finger-ache ? Under the in- 
 fluence of this thought and the music, my 
 tears fell faster, and, unwilling that the girls 
 should perceive my emotion, I rose, with the 
 intention of going to my own room for a few 
 minutes until I should have recovered myself. 
 But the geography of the house was as yet 
 unfamiliar to me, and in the dusk I made 
 a mistake, and turned the handle of the door 
 that led into the salle instead of that which 
 would have taken me to the kitchen. 
 
 I closed it again at once, but not before I 
 had seen what was Sfoinof on inside. The 
 Baron and Mr. Lovett were seated close 
 together at the table, playing cards by the 
 light of a shaded lamp. There was not much 
 harm in the circumstance, perhaps, but I had 
 been brought up with rather strict ideas with 
 regard to the clergy, and it offended my ideas 
 of propriety. Yet, after all, what was there
 
 136 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 in a game of cards ? I asked myself, as soon 
 as I was alone. It was not likely that Mr. 
 Lovett would play for anything but the 
 pleasure of defeating his antagonist. And in 
 a place like St. Pucelle, where there was no 
 amusement to be had but such as one might 
 devise for one's self, it seemed hard that even 
 a clergyman should be deprived of any inno- 
 cent diversion. So I put the game of cards 
 to one side, under the general decision that I 
 must not judge the customs of one country 
 by those of another.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE FAIR SOPHIA. 
 
 Had I waited a day or two, I should have 
 had no occasion to ask Teresa Lovett If her 
 family formed the English population of St. 
 Pucelle. The news of my arrival spread like 
 wild-fire, and before a week was over my 
 head, I had been Introduced to every Indi- 
 vidual, English or Belgian, In the place. 
 The very first whom I had the pleasure of 
 meeting was Miss Sophia Markham, who 
 ran In — Miss Markham never walked — on 
 the morning following my arrival. As soon
 
 138 A BROKEN BLOSSOM, 
 
 as I entered the room I recognised her, from 
 the description given me the night before. 
 She was so wonderfully infantile in dress, 
 manner, and conversation. She was a 
 woman of forty — of forty-five — perhaps even 
 fifty years of age, but she was very well pre- 
 served and looked much younger. And this 
 preservation had been accomplished, not by 
 means of cosmetics, but by the lack of them. 
 Miss Markham was wise in her generation. 
 She knew that powder and paint never yet 
 hid wrinkles "effectually, and that to dye the 
 hair a dIfTerent colour from that which nature 
 has bestowed upon it, is to violate one of the 
 first principles of art. 
 
 But this fact must not lead one to suppose 
 that she was not intensely vain of her personal 
 appearance, and took any amount of trouble 
 to maintain it. For years past she had never 
 gone to bed without plastering her face with 
 •cold cream, in order to keep her skin soft and
 
 THE FAIR SOPHIA. 139 
 
 unwrlnkled. Each grey hair, as it made its 
 unwelcome appearance, had been sedulously 
 rooted out, and she spent hours before the 
 looking-glass, brushing and oiling the re- 
 mainder. She had bestowed equal attention 
 on her teeth and her complexion and her 
 hgure, and the result was, that in middle life, 
 though she could not look a girl (as she 
 fondly persisted in thinking that she did), 
 Miss Sophia Markham had certainly con- 
 trived to drop at least ten years of her 
 existence. She was a short woman, with a 
 large head, and very small hands and feet, of 
 which she was inordinately vain. She had 
 iine eyes and good teeth ; a large nose and a 
 small brain. But, after the fashion of most 
 mortals, she was so shortsighted as to be 
 quite unable to distinguish in what she 
 excelled and in what she did not, and per- 
 sisted in imagining that her fleshy nose was 
 a pert retroussi, and her mind of a ponderous
 
 140 A BROKEN BLOSSOM, 
 
 and weighty order, equal in value to that of 
 any of her peers. 
 
 As a child, she had given promise of a 
 prettiness that had never been fulfilled. 
 This was unfortunate, as her parents' undue 
 admiration had taught her to believe her 
 pretensions would be realised, and after their 
 death she had refused to be convinced that 
 their judgment had proved false. She had 
 been left alone in the world with a small 
 income barely sufficient to procure the neces- 
 saries of life, and from an early period it had 
 been borne in upon her mind that she must 
 be dependent for its luxuries upon her friends. 
 Miss Sophia knew which side her bread was 
 buttered well enough. She found that, in 
 order to be welcome in other people's houses 
 and allowed to stay there as long as she 
 chose, she must give them a quid pro quo for 
 their hospitality over and above the charms 
 of her mind and person, and the questionable
 
 THE FAIR SOPHIA, 141 
 
 merit of her talents. Some she had to fawn 
 upon and flatter till they were full to surfeiting 
 with praises of themselves : for others she 
 was compelled to exercise her skill in needle- 
 work, and slave at making caps and dresses 
 wherewith to adorn their persons and recoup 
 them for the food she was consuming : to 
 others, again, she acted as a foil or a blind, 
 or in any other useful capacity that a woman 
 past her preniure jeiuiesse can fill, although 
 she would have been quite faithless and 
 unbelieving had she been told so. 
 
 At St. Pucelle she was staying, as Tessie 
 had told me, w^ith a couple of the name of 
 Carolus, who were spending a few months 
 on the Continent. It was easy to guess why 
 they had come together. Mrs. Carolus, 
 although older than Miss Markham, was 
 newly-married, and possessed scarcely any 
 knowledge of French. Mr. Carolus also, 
 who was again many years senior to his wife,
 
 142 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 was fussy, taciturn, and given, about every 
 other day, to making sudden resolutions to 
 return to England and his merchant's office^ 
 which Mrs. Carolus was anxious to prevents 
 She found, therefore, In Miss Markham at 
 once a companion, an Interpreter, and an 
 advocate to plead against and turn the rash 
 Intentions of her husband. 
 
 At the same time, the two ladles appeared 
 to be of very congenial temperaments, if 
 abusing each other behind their backs and 
 everybody else In common might be taken in 
 evidence of the fact. 
 
 On the first occasion of my meeting Miss 
 Sophia Markham, she was attired In a white 
 muslin dress striped with a tiny line of blue, 
 that might have been put on a child of ten : 
 a pelerine edged with lace, the pattern of 
 which she had borrowed from Angela ; and a 
 broad-brimmed hat, trimmed with the same 
 material and ornamented with a bunch of red
 
 THE FAIR SOPHIA. 143 
 
 cherries and leaves, that bobbed about in the 
 most tempting manner each time she moved. 
 In her arms she carried a Httle beast of a 
 terrier, that snapped at every one who ap- 
 proached within a few yards of it, and which 
 she spoke of and addressed as if it had been 
 a human being. 
 
 In attempting to sketch a biography of 
 Miss Markham as it came to my knowledge, 
 little by little, I have made one grand omis- 
 sion, which is to state that, throughout her 
 varied career, she had never lost, and evi- 
 dently never would lose, the hope of being 
 married. When she was young, nothing but 
 a duke or a marquis could have satisfied her 
 sense of what befitted her merits ; in riper 
 years, a baronet or a general would not have 
 been rejected without consideration : now, 
 she would have sworn to love, honour and 
 obey anything, so long as it was in the shape 
 of a man. From the youth of eighteen or
 
 144 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 twenty to the octogenarian, she could not be 
 made to beHeve but that the whole race of 
 man had been formed but for one purpose : 
 to admire, follow, and fall In love with her. 
 Yet she was by no means a specimen, at least 
 outwardly, of what iS termed ' a spiteful old 
 maid.' All Miss Markham's speeches were 
 placid, and her words oil and honey. Even 
 when she Intended to sting most sharply, it 
 was done under cover of the greatest amia- 
 bility and the very best intentions, and she 
 never lost an opportunity of wounding the 
 self-love of others by encouraging and 
 patronising them for that which they believed 
 they did better than anything else. But I 
 have spent too much time on a description of 
 Miss Markham's failings. She must come 
 forward now and speak for herself 
 
 When I first entered the room where she 
 was sitting, I found her engaged In an 
 animated conversation with the ' little maid,*
 
 TIiE FAIR SOPHIA. 145 
 
 on the component parts of a certain ball- 
 dress which she had worn the month before 
 at Paris. 
 
 * Yes ! it was so pretty, dear, the prettiest 
 dress in the room, everybody said so — all 
 pink and white silk — the very palest pink, 
 you know — and little rosebuds peeping out 
 every here and there from the trimming, and 
 one gentleman said I looked just like a little 
 rosebud myself in the midst of my pink and 
 white drapery ! He! he! he!' 
 
 At this juncture my entrance was perceived, 
 and an introduction gone through. 
 
 ' Marsh P exclaimed Miss Markham, as if 
 she had not heard my name before ; ' are you 
 any relation to the Marshes of Northampton ?' 
 
 ' No ! I have never heard of them.' 
 
 ' They were great friends of mine — indeed, 
 Walter Marsh wanted to marry me — he ! he ! 
 he ! — only I wouldn't have him. ^ He always 
 used to call me " the pocket Venus ;" and 
 
 VOL. I. lO
 
 146 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 when I refused him, his family thought he 
 would have gone out of his mind.' 
 
 * You are so hard-hearted, Sophia ! you 
 have refused so many people,' cried Tessie, 
 laughing ; but Miss Markham did not per- 
 ceive that the laugh was against herself. 
 
 *Well, one cannot marry every one, you 
 see, and perhaps my early experience has 
 made me rather particular. I was engaged 
 to Lord Vauxhall, you know, before I was 
 sixteen. Such a handsome man, and with an 
 income of ten thousand a year. Ah ! I was 
 very foolish in those days.' 
 
 ' Why didn't you marry him ?' asked Ange. 
 
 *Well, dear, I broke off the engagement 
 myself. I had been taught to look higher by 
 my dear father, who did not think any man 
 in the world good enough for me. Mrs. 
 Carolus cannot understand such a thing. 
 She evidently married the first man who 
 asked her — and such a man, too ! If you
 
 THE FAIR SOPHIA. . U7 
 
 could only see the way he mumbles his food, 
 it is enouorh to make one leave the dinner- 
 table. And they go on in the most absurd 
 manner for people of their age. She calls 
 him *' Willy," and if he does anything she 
 disapproves of, she says he's "a naughty boy." 
 Did you ever hear anything like it ? I have 
 found out, from some things Mrs. Carolus 
 has told me, that she must be past sixty 
 herself. Why, she was at a finishing school 
 when King William died. And as for Mr. 
 Carolus, he must be ten or fifteen years olden 
 He has had a wife before, and twelve children. 
 I think he ouofht to have been ashamed of 
 himself for marrying again. But as for her, 
 poor thing ! I expect it was her only chance, 
 so you can scarcely wonder at her taking it. 
 And I have heard — but mind you don't men- 
 tion my name — that she was not too particular 
 in her younger days, and so I dare say it was 
 rather unexpected her receiving an offer of 
 
 lO — 2
 
 148 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 marriage at all. My friends the Wllloughbys 
 met some people In Norfolk this spring, who 
 lived In the same place as Mrs. Carolus's 
 family, and I hear they had some very queer 
 stories to tell about her sisters and herself.' 
 
 ' Isn't It a great pity,' said Tessle, quiedy, 
 'that people should trouble themselves to 
 take away the character of a woman who Is a 
 perfect stranger to them ?' 
 
 ' Oh ! but she was not a perfect stranger, 
 my dear ! They knew her well — by repute, 
 that Is to say. And, Indeed, from all one 
 hears, she must have been quite notorious 
 some twenty or thirty years ago.' 
 
 ' Is It wise of you to stay with her, then .^' 
 asked Ange, Innocently. 
 
 I found afterwards that the little maid was 
 very much In the habit of putting awkward 
 questions In the most aggravatlngly innocent 
 manner. The present one caused Miss 
 Markham to redden up like a peony.
 
 THE FAIR SOPHIA. 149' 
 
 ' As for that matter, Ange,' she retorted,, 
 ' I might go far enough, I expect, before I 
 found any one to stay with against whose 
 advantage there is not to be heard some 
 story or other. I dare say Mrs. Carolus is 
 no worse than many of your own friends ; 
 Lucy Edgecombe for instance, who ran away 
 with and married a man against her parents* 
 wishes, and found out afterwards that he had 
 a wife already in America. That was a nice 
 Httle scandal, wasn't it '^' 
 
 ' Ah ! poor Lucy !' said Ange, her bright 
 eyes filling with tears ; ' it has been a most 
 terrible grief and misfortune for her — you 
 know that. Miss Markham. ' I am sure I 
 can never think of her without crying. She 
 used to be such a bright merry girl when we 
 knew her in Rille, two years ago. And it 
 broke her poor old father's heart.' 
 
 ' Oh yes ! I dare say. These scandals 
 always do break the heart of somebody or
 
 150 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 Other, and generally the one who is least to 
 blame in the matter. But that doesn't alter 
 the fact. Why do you let Ange wear her 
 hair so much over her eyes, Tessie ? It is 
 not bono tong at all. The Paris ladies all 
 wear their hair taken off the forehead, as I 
 do. But then you must have a high, intel- 
 lectual forehead for that style to suit you.' 
 ' Papa likes her to wear it so,' said Tessie. 
 
 * And I am not a Paris lady, and I have 
 not a high intellectual forehead,' interposed 
 Ange. ' So I'm much better as I am.' 
 
 * Perhaps so, my dear. Indeed your fore- 
 head is not high. Arthur Thrale was re- 
 marking only the other day that you had 
 more of the paysanne than the ancienne noblesse 
 air about you.' 
 
 ' Yet I should like to see papa's pedigree 
 placed by that of Arthur Thrale,' cried Tessie, 
 indignantly. 'We have some of the best 
 blood in England in our veins, though we
 
 THE FAIR SOPHIA, 151 
 
 are so poor. Papa has often said so, and 
 Mrs. Carolus told us the other day that Mr, 
 Thrale's father is a large linendraper in one 
 of the suburbs of London.' 
 
 ' Of course Mrs. Carolus will run the poor 
 boy down, because he is so absurdly devoted 
 to me. She has tried all she can to eet him 
 
 o 
 
 for herself, without success.' 
 
 ' Oh ! Sophia ! what can you be thinking 
 of ?' exclaimed Tessie. ' Why, Arthur Thrale 
 is young enough to be — — ' 
 
 'What?' demanded Miss Markham, sharply. 
 
 * Mrs. Carolus's grandson,' replied Tessie, 
 saving herself by a grand coup d'itat. 
 
 ' So he may be,' said Miss Markham, 
 drawing a long breath of relief, ' but that 
 makes no difference to her. Her jealousy of 
 me is proverbial. She has even said — he ! 
 he ! he ! — that I have tried to turn '' Willy's " 
 affections from her.' 
 
 ' There goes papa,' remarked Ange, more
 
 152 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 with the intention of diverting attention from 
 the folly of their visitor than anything else, 
 as she pointed out Mr. Lovett walking past 
 the window on his way to the town. 
 
 ' Well, good-bye then, dears, I can't stay 
 any longer,' exclaimed Miss Markham with 
 sudden energy, as she jumped up and kissed 
 the two girls. ' Adieu ! Miss Marsh ; I hope 
 we shall soon meet again. Come ! my sweet 
 little Toodles,' to the terrier, who was leap- 
 ing and yapping round her ; ' did It want to 
 go for a walk 1 Then its mammy shall take 
 it for one, the dear little angel ;' and off she 
 tripped, with the dog at her heels. In the 
 same direction as that taken by Mr, Lovett. 
 
 * I wonder,' said Ange thoughtfully, as she 
 watched her from the open window, ' why 
 Sophia Markham always pretends to like 
 papa so much. She is generally so bitter 
 against old men and worrsen. But just look 
 at her now, Hilda. She is actually taking his
 
 THE FAIR SOPHIA. 153 
 
 arm. And oh ! do see the cherries bobbing 
 up and down in his face, I should catch one in 
 my mouth if I were he. But do you think 
 she is in earnest, Hilda, or is it humbug ?' 
 
 * How can I tell, Ange ? I have only seen 
 the woman for an hour. But even from that 
 short experience, I should feel very much 
 disposed to call it '' humbug." Miss Mark- 
 ham has not the face of a true woman, neither 
 would I like to have her for my friend.' 
 
 * I observed that you were very silent 
 during tter visit.' 
 
 * I was listening to what she said, and 
 judging her out of her own mouth ; and I do 
 not think your father would have cared for 
 the style of conversation she kept up with 
 you this morning. It was worse than idle.' 
 
 * I think papa rather likes Miss Markham 
 than otherwise,' remarked Ange. * He Is 
 always pleased when she spends the evening 
 here.'
 
 154 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 ' Because she is such an abominable flat- 
 terer/ said Tessie. * She praises up his 
 appearance, and his preaching, and his 
 daughters to him, till he does not know 
 whether he is on his head or his heels. Any- 
 one would like it/ 
 
 ' Oh! Tessie! you do not suppose that papa 
 could be influenced by a woman like that, just 
 because she flattered him,' cried Ange, with 
 holy horror. 
 
 * Well, no, perhaps not,' replied Tessie, 
 dubiously, whilst I thought myself that Mr. 
 Lovett must be the saint his little daughter 
 made him out, and not a man, if he were 
 proof against flattery, even from Miss Mark- 
 ham.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 MADAME FROMARD. 
 
 Tessie had prophesied that Mrs. Carolus and 
 Miss Markham would not call in each other's 
 company, and so it happened. The married 
 lady did not pay her visit till some days after 
 her friend, and then it was performed with 
 much greater ceremony. The two girls had 
 gone out for a walk together towards Artois, 
 and I had promised to follow them as soon 
 as I had finished a long epistle which I was 
 writing to dear Mrs. Sandilands, descriptive 
 of my new life and the thoughts it had
 
 156 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 brought to me. I had sealed my letter and 
 put on my black hat and cloak, when Madame 
 Marmoret shouted at me from the kitchen 
 staircase that Mrs. Carolus had arrived, and 
 was waiting to see me In the salon. I would 
 willingly have avoided her, but found, on 
 inquiry, that she had asked for me by name, 
 and Madame had confessed I was at home. 
 So there was no alternative but to receive 
 her, and I descended to the sitting-room with 
 my letter In my hand. I found Mrs. Carolus 
 robed In state, with a Parisian bonnet on and 
 a Parisian mantle, and new lavender-coloured 
 gloves. Her grandeur quite overcame me, 
 and I felt very meek in my straw hat bound 
 with crape, and my untrimmed, every-day 
 costume. 
 
 * Miss Marsh, I believe,' she said, as she 
 shook hands with me, and I was fain to ac- 
 knowledge that she believed aright. 
 
 ' I have delayed my visit to you for a few
 
 MADAME FROMARD. 157 
 
 days, Miss Marsh,' Mrs. Carolus continued, 
 ' not from any want of desire to make your 
 acquaintance, I can assure you ; but because 
 I consider it the height of ill-breeding to rush 
 upon a stranger the very minute of her 
 arrival, without giving her time to turn 
 round, as if a lady had nothing else to do, at 
 the end of a fatiguing journey, than to make 
 the acquaintance of a pack of people she has 
 never seen before.' 
 
 ' It is very considerate of you,' I said. 
 ' I think it is only polite, and I have hinted 
 the same to others ; but my advice is not 
 often taken, I find, especially by those who 
 are most indebted to me. My husband, Mr. 
 Carolus,' said the bride, with an attempt at 
 a blush, ' would have had the pleasure of 
 accompanying me to-day ; but he is suffering 
 from a little Indigestion, and I forbid him to 
 move.' 
 
 ' I am sorry Mr. Carolus is 111.'
 
 158 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 ' It is not serious ; but gentlemen are 
 difficult creatures to keep in order, as per- 
 haps you will discover for yourself some day. 
 You know my friend Miss Markham, I 
 think ?' 
 
 * Yes ; she called here the day after my 
 arrival.' 
 
 * I guessed as much ! Mr. Lovett is the 
 great attraction here, I believe ; but I cannot 
 say I have ever seen much good result from 
 single ladies running after gentlemen in that 
 way — widowers or not. But this is a terrible 
 place for flirtation, Miss Marsh ! and you 
 will have as many opportunities of pursuing 
 it as anybody.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! I do not quite understand you.' 
 
 *Why, all the young men in St. Pucelle 
 
 collect about Mr. Lovett. He is a general 
 
 favourite with them. Have you not seen the 
 
 Baron de Nesselrode here ?' 
 
 * Yes ; he comes almost every evening.'
 
 MADAME FROMARD. 15^ 
 
 'Just so. Some people think it is a pity- 
 that Mr. Lovett should encourage his young 
 friends so much. It is not as if they came to 
 speak of the things that a clergyman is 
 usually supposed to talk about, you know.' 
 
 ' But surely young men could never derive 
 anything but benefit from association with 
 such a good man as Mr. Lovett,' I replied. 
 ' You should hear his daughters speak of him, 
 Mrs. Carolus. They cannot find terms high 
 enough in which to sing their father's, 
 praises.' 
 
 ' Oh yes, my dear ; I have heard them 
 speak of him. And, of course, no one could 
 dare to say that he would do his friends any 
 harm. But still, there's the Baron, you see. 
 Poor fellow ! he's gambled away more than 
 two-thirds of his fortune already, and has to 
 live on a pittance until his debts are dis- 
 charged. It is a pity, is it not, that he 
 should not have given up cards even yet .^ I
 
 160 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 wish dear o^ood Mr. Lovett would remon- 
 strate with him on the subject, and advise 
 him better. But he is too easy with young 
 men. I understand he was very wild him- 
 self in his early days — at least, so my Willy 
 tells me — and that makes him disposed to be 
 lenient, perhaps, with others.' 
 
 I felt that to this speech I had no answer 
 to make, so I evaded it with a remark : 
 
 ' With two such pretty girls in the house,' 
 I said, ' I should have thought people would 
 have had no difficulty in deciding the motive 
 which made young men congregate about 
 their father.' 
 
 ' Oh no, my dear, it's not that,' replied 
 Mrs. Carolus, hastily. ' He has not got 
 either of them off his hands yet, you see, 
 though the eldest must be seven-and-twenty.' 
 
 ' Three-and-twenty,' I murmured in cor- 
 rection. 
 
 * Only three-and-twenty ! Dear me ! She
 
 MADAME FROMARD. 161 
 
 looks very old for her age. There was a 
 talk, some few months ago, of the little one 
 being very much admired by a young fellow 
 of the name of — let me see, what was his 
 name ? I declare I have quite forgotten It. 
 But Sophia can tell you — Sophia can always 
 remember a gentleman's name, whatever she 
 forgets. However, the Lovetts met him at 
 Rille, where their father takes them every 
 now and then ; and I suppose he paid Miss 
 Angela some attention (for that little one 
 really, is very nice-looking), but It came to 
 nothing after all ; and it's my opinion they'll 
 neither of them ever be married.' 
 
 ' What a terrible fate !' I said, laughing. 
 
 ' Ah, well, my dear Miss Marsh, you may 
 be able to afford to laugh at the idea ; but a 
 single life is a terrible fate for a woman after 
 all ! And how it sours them ! Just look at 
 Sophia Markham ! That girl — I call her a 
 girl, you know, but in reality she Is many 
 
 VOL. I. II
 
 162 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 years older than myself; and I might have 
 been married fifty times over before I made 
 up my mind to take Willy — well, to hear her 
 speak of her own sex is shocking ! She has 
 never a good word to say for any one of them. 
 Now, I am sure I may trust you. Miss Marsh, 
 and you won't mention my name again, if I 
 tell you that the way Sophia Markham has 
 gone on under my roof has distressed me to 
 that degree, that I can never invite her to 
 stay with me again — never ! No gentleman 
 is safe from her attacks — young or old, rich 
 or poor, it is all the same. She would carry 
 my Willy off from under my very eyes if I 
 would let her ! But I drew the line there. 
 Of course I cannot interfere with her goings- 
 on in other directions ; still, it annoys me 
 greatly. For I am quite convinced she will 
 never be married. Not on account of her 
 age ; though I think few people would credit 
 she is only ten years my senior,' added Mrs.
 
 MADAME FROMARD, 163 
 
 Carolus with a smirk, * but because of her 
 manners, which are bold and forward to a 
 degree. But you were going out. Miss 
 Marsh ! I am afraid I am detaining you.' 
 
 ' I was going to post this letter, and then 
 to join the Miss Lovetts, who have gone for 
 a walk on the Artois road.' 
 
 ' Do not let me keep you any longer, then ; 
 indeed, I will walk a little way with you If 
 you will permit me,' said Mrs. Carolus. 
 
 I did not particularly wish for the company 
 of this lady, who appeared to me only a 
 degree less objectionable than her friend, but 
 as it was drawing near the post-time, and I 
 was anxious that Mrs. Sandilands should gfet 
 my letter without delay, I consented to the 
 proposal made me. 
 
 * Do you consider that Mr. Lovett is 
 likely to marry again, Miss Marsh i^' inquired 
 Mrs. Carolus, as we left the house together. 
 
 The question took me so completely by 
 
 II — 2
 
 164 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 surprise, that I did not know what to 
 answer. 
 
 ' Indeed,' I said, ' I have been here far too 
 short a time to be able to form any opinion 
 on the matter.' 
 
 ' I should think it very improbable myself, 
 with those girls dependent on him, and in the 
 state of his affairs too ; but doubtless you 
 know quite as much about them as I do. 
 Everybody in vSt. Pucelle is admiring you so 
 much for cominor to live with them. Miss 
 Marsh, and says that it is an act of pure 
 benevolence on your part.' 
 
 ' I am afraid you are giving me more 
 credit than I deserve, Mrs. Carolus. I came 
 here on the invitation of MiteLovett, simply 
 because I needed change of scene, and I con- 
 sidered myself more than any one else in 
 making the decision.' 
 
 ' Ah ! and so did he, my dear — so did he. 
 There is little doubt of that. But what is to
 
 MADAME FROMARD. 165 
 
 become of those poor girls when he is gone ? 
 He can't last for ever, you know. He must 
 be past seventy now !' 
 
 * I have never thouofht of it. It does not 
 come within my province to do so.' 
 
 * To be sure not, and I trust it never may. 
 Death is a sad thing ! I suppose you know 
 pretty nearly every one in St. Pucelle by this 
 time. Miss Marsh.' 
 
 ' I think I have made acquaintance with 
 all the ladies. A very pretty girl, a Mrs. 
 Arthur Johnstone called upon me yesterday. 
 She does not look much older than 
 Anore.' 
 
 ' Poor child ! yes, she has very tolerable 
 features. For my part, I like her, but one 
 cannot quite shut one's ears to all one hears. 
 Did the husband come with her ?' 
 
 ' No !' 
 
 ' I thought as much ! He never goes any- 
 where. Only too glad to keep out of sight,
 
 166 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 I should think. The Ormerods tell me he 
 has been cashiered from the army !' 
 
 ' How dreadful for his poor little wife ! 
 And she seems so cheerful too. She laughed 
 the whole time she was with us yesterday.' 
 
 ' Perhaps she doesn't know it, or doesn't 
 care. You will meet strange characters 
 abroad, my dear. The Continent is the 
 general refuge for all those who are unable 
 to live in England.' 
 
 ' So I have heard,' I answered listlessly. 
 
 I was thinking of Frederick Stephenson's 
 stories on the same subject, and it vexed me. 
 It was not pleasant to believe one's self sur- 
 rounded by a set of dishonourable vagabonds. 
 And if it were so, I would rather have been 
 left to find it out for myself than have been 
 told of it by Mrs. Carol us. We had reached 
 the high ground by this time which led to 
 the Artols road, and J. was looking about 
 me with the admiration with which I never
 
 MADAME FROMARD, 167 
 
 ceased to view the country that surrounded 
 St. Pucelle. The grass we trod upon sent 
 up a grateful fragrance of crushed herbs, and 
 little tufts of flowers grew between each cleft 
 of the rocky hill as if they had been planted 
 there on purpose for effect. 
 
 As we strolled along, we gazed down upon 
 the town which we had quitted, lying in the 
 steep hollow beneath us, with its long narrow 
 street of wooden houses and grey granite 
 walls, peopled by women in short petticoats, 
 bare feet, and snowy caps, with men in blue 
 blouses and leathern aprons, with rough carts 
 drawn by oxen, and a heterogeneous mass of 
 children tumbling about in the stream of 
 dirty water which the gutter conveyed 
 rapidly to its level in the valley. On the 
 summit of the green hill which we had to 
 gain before descending, like the dirty water, 
 to Artois, there stood a large wooden Calvary, 
 which might be seen for many miles round.
 
 168 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 Rough as this representation of the most Im- 
 portant event that ever occurred in the world's 
 history was upon a closer Inspection, its 
 size and colouring, with the green mound on 
 which It was erected, gave It a very solemn 
 appearance when viewed from a distance, 
 particularly when, as was the case on this 
 occasion, a group of worshippers knelt at the 
 foot of the Cross. 
 
 We instinctively dropped our voices and 
 walked slower as we approached the Calvary, 
 but before we had passed it, a woman and a 
 little girl rose hastily and confronted us. 
 They were peasants, and carried covered 
 baskets, filled probably with butter and eggs. 
 The woman was wiping her eyes on the 
 corner of her rough apron, when she per- 
 ceived Mrs. Carolus, and gave her a 'Bon 
 jo7ir, niadame! 
 
 My companion returned the greeting, and 
 w^e were continuing our walk when the woman
 
 MADAME FROMARD. 169 
 
 suddenly ran after us and touched Mrs. 
 Carolus on the sleeve. 
 
 ' Is that the demoiselle that has come to 
 live with Monsieur le Cure Anglais ?' she 
 demanded in her own language, as she inti- 
 mated me with her forefincrer. 
 
 ' Je 7ie comprenez pas,' replied Mrs. 
 Carolus. 
 
 Notwithstanding my inexperience of speak- 
 ing French, I thought I could do a little 
 better in the way of verbs than this, and 
 ventured to answ^er the woman my- 
 self. 
 
 ' Yes ! I am the demoiselle. What do you 
 want ? 
 
 But on hearing these few faltering words, 
 the poor woman gave vent to such a mingled 
 torrent of tears and explanations, that I was 
 out of my depth again directly. She was 
 desoMe ; she was distraite; she would pray 
 that the good Lord would take her life, only
 
 170 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 that Monsieur I'Abb^ would refuse her abso- 
 lution if she did so. 
 
 But would mademoiselle conceive of her 
 position. Monsieur le Cure Anglais was so 
 beloved and so respected, ' cest ten homme si 
 don, si amiable, si divoici! How could one 
 go to him again for the fourteenth time in a 
 month, and ask for his pity, his benevolence, 
 his compassion .^ But then mademoiselle must 
 consider her family. She had five children 
 to provide for, and here was the eldest, not 
 old enough to do more than carry the baskets 
 to and from the Artois market. It was but 
 little they wanted ; they had been very 
 patient, and she had been praying the ton 
 Dieu for more patience, but mademoiselle 
 must know that people cannot live without 
 eating, though 'twas but little enough they 
 had had inside them for the last month.' 
 
 * But what has all this got to do with me ?' 
 I said in despair.
 
 MADAME FROMARD. 171 
 
 I had tried to translate the question three 
 times into French, but faiHng to do so, was 
 obliged to have recourse to Mrs. Carolus and 
 the English language. 
 
 ' Oh ! I think I can guess fast enough,' she 
 replied, with a sarcastic laugh. 
 
 The woman, with the quickness of her 
 race, had caught the meaning of my words 
 and answered them. 
 
 ' If mademoiselle would only speak for me,' 
 she pleaded, ' we are so poor, and 711011 mai^i 
 has been in his bed for the last twelvemonth. 
 A few francs, mademoiselle. We do not ask 
 for a large sum, but if we could have half, or 
 even a quarter of it.' 
 
 ' Does she want me to give her money ?' 
 I inquired in my bewilderment of Mrs. 
 Carolus. 
 
 * I should hardly think so. There are no 
 beggars here. What does she say ?' 
 
 ' She says she is so poor — they have
 
 172 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 not enough to eat, and her husband Is 
 ill' 
 
 ' Give her half a franc, then ; but I should 
 hardly think it is true. The Catholics are 
 too well looked after to want. 
 
 I tendered the coin to the woman, but she 
 pushed it away impatiently. 
 
 * No ! no ! mademoiselle,' she said, shaking 
 her head, ' I am not a beggar. I do not 
 want your charity.' 
 
 ' Then what do you want ?' I asked, defying 
 grammar and accent in my desire to make 
 her understand. 
 
 ' Mo7i d7^oit! she answered proudly. 
 
 ' What is your name ?' I said. 
 
 * I am Madame Fromard.' 
 
 ' Fromard f echoed Mrs. Carolus suddenly ; 
 * you sell eggs, don't you ? votes vendez ttrfs — 
 2trfs et boorf she repeated for Madame Fro- 
 mard's benefit. 
 
 * Old, madame ! out ! des oeiifs et dti betirre!
 
 MADAME FROMARD. 173 
 
 ' Oh ! I know her well. You'd better come 
 on, Miss Marsh. It is of no use stopping to 
 talk to this woman. She will keep you till 
 midnight if you let her.' 
 
 ' What is her cause of complaint ?' I said, 
 as, having bidden Madame Fromard farewell, 
 and left her snivelling and wiping her eyes 
 upon her apron, we strolled on together. 
 
 Mrs. Carolus regarded me with a very 
 curious expression. 
 
 ' Haven't you found out ?' she said ; ' I 
 thought you understood French.' 
 
 'So I do, after the English fashion, but 
 when these natives begin to chatter, they run 
 on so fast, there is no keeping pace with 
 them. I could make out that she was very 
 poor and wanted francs, but I suppose they 
 would all say that, if they found any one to 
 listen to them.' 
 
 ' You'll understand them a great deal better 
 after you have been here a little while,' re-
 
 174 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 plied Mrs. Carolus, mysteriously, so mysteri- 
 ously and unpleasantly, indeed, that I did not 
 like her manner at all, and was quite glad 
 when I perceived the figures of Tessie and 
 Anee advancinof to meet us. 
 
 ' What a time you have been !' exclaimed 
 the little maid. ' We have walked half way 
 to Artois and back. Monsieur Conde met 
 us, and wanted us to go into the park and 
 see him shoot a young bear he keeps there 
 that has become dangerous — horrid man ! as 
 if we would ; and he is coming to see you 
 very soon, Hilda. He is anxious to take 
 you over the grottoes. He thinks they 
 are the only things worth seeing in the 
 world.' 
 
 ' What grottoes ?' 
 
 ' Why, the grottoes of St. Jean ! Have 
 you never heard of them ? They are very 
 wonderful, full of beautiful crystals and stalac- 
 tites. We must make a party and go over
 
 MADAME FROMARD. 175 
 
 them some day. It is no fun going alone. 
 Have you seen them, Mrs. Carolus }' 
 
 ' Oh yes ! We visited them on our first 
 arrival here, and thought them very interest- 
 ing.' 
 
 It was more, however, than Mrs. Carolus 
 appeared to think our conversation, for she 
 declined to turn back with us again. 
 
 ' Tell them all about Mere Fromard/ she 
 called out to me before she finally dis- 
 appeared. 
 
 ' What about Mere Fromard ?' asked 
 Tessie. 
 
 So I told them of the peasants we had en- 
 countered kneeling at the Calvary, and the 
 broken conversation that had subsequently 
 ensued between us. I saw Tessie and Ange 
 exchange glances as I proceeded with my 
 story, and I fancied they were not pleased 
 with it. 
 
 * I could barely catch her meaning,' I con-
 
 176 A BROKEN BLOSSOAf. 
 
 eluded, 'but I fancy she mentioned your 
 names. I suppose you know her.' 
 
 ' Oh yes ! we know her well,' said Tessle. 
 ' Is she amongst the poor that you visit ?'" 
 ' There are no families here whom we visit 
 in the way you mean. Monsieur I'Abbe 
 looks after them too well for that. But we 
 go if they are sick or in trouble, as we should 
 offer our sympathy to any other friends.' 
 * This poor w^oman seemed in trouble.' 
 ' Ange will go and see her as soon as she 
 has time,' said Tessie. ' For the present, we 
 cannot do her any good, so let us take this 
 little path into the town, or we may meet her 
 again. She is very troublesome to shake off 
 if she once gets a hearing.' 
 
 I thought both the girls seemed graver and 
 less sympathetic than they usually were when 
 talking of their poorer neighbours, and I con- 
 cluded that the Fromards were not amongst 
 the most deserving In St. Pucelle.
 
 MADAME FROMARD. 177 
 
 Mr. Lovett appeared at dinner-time look- 
 ing as handsome and benignant as usual, and 
 quite full of the pleasant stroll he had had 
 with Miss Markham, and the successful 
 manner in which she had bes^uiled the 
 time. 
 
 ' She is a most amusing companion,' he 
 said. ' Her fund of anecdotes seems inex- 
 haustible, and she tells her stories in an irre- 
 sistibly funny manner. I do not know when 
 I have lauQ^hed so much as I did this after- 
 noon.' 
 
 ' I am glad you enjoyed yourself, papa/ 
 remarked Tessie, quietly. 
 
 ' I did indeed ! Miss Markham reminds 
 me in a powerful degree of the late Duchess 
 of Rochester, who was one of the wittiest 
 women in society in Lord Amor's time. And 
 she is well-looking for her age too — very 
 well-lookinof !' 
 
 ' She is better than well-lookino-, is Made- 
 
 VOL. I. 12
 
 178 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 molselle Markham,' said the shrill voice of 
 Marmoret, as she placed a roast hare before 
 her master : ' she has got money, and that's 
 worth all the beauty in the world, in my 
 opinion.' 
 
 ' It's not a bad thing, Madame, is it,' replied 
 Mr. Lovett ; 'but how do you know the lady 
 in question possesses any ?' 
 
 ' Why, by using my eyes, to be sure ! Do 
 you think I'm blind, or a fool, like some I 
 could mention .^ Look at that demoiselle's 
 dresses. Why ! she wears a fresh muslin 
 every morning, and the silk she went to 
 church in last Sunday would have stood of 
 itself. Of course she's got money. How do 
 you suppose she could pay for such things 
 dse ?' 
 
 * Perhaps she doesn't pay for them,* re- 
 marked my guardian facetiously, but he had 
 to answer for doubting the truth of Madame 
 Marmoret's expressed opinion.
 
 MADAME FROMARD, 179 
 
 ' Doesnt pay for them P she echoed in a 
 tone steeped in vinegar. ' Why should you 
 imagine such a scandal ? It is not everybody, 
 remember, who would stoop to defraud honest 
 people of their money, when they've worked 
 hard to earn it.' 
 
 The woman was in such an evident rage 
 that the two girls looked quite frightened. 
 
 ' Dear Madame, do be reasonable,' pleaded 
 Tessie. 
 
 But Mr. Lovett put it down with a higher 
 hand. 
 
 ' Come — come ! let us have no nonsense of 
 this kind,' he said. * I like to have my dinner 
 in peace, or I shall digest nothing that I eat ; 
 and as for you, Madame, the kitchen is your 
 arena for display, and not the salle a manger! 
 
 'And much you would get to eat or to 
 digest either, if I stayed there,' she exclaimed, 
 as she flounced off to her own domains. 
 
 The girls looked annoyed, as they always 
 
 12 — 2
 
 180 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 did when Madame Marmoret displayed any 
 temper, but their father laughed as if it were 
 a very good joke. 
 
 'She will go out in the court and cool 
 herself upon the flagstones,' he said, * mean- 
 while we will discuss our dinner. Hilda, my 
 dear, may I help you to a little of this 
 hare ?* 
 
 I had found, since the first day of my 
 dining with them, that his daughters never 
 partook of the same dish as he did, and I 
 had learnt to follow their example. It is true 
 that, considering the amount that was to be 
 deducted from my income for my keep, I 
 might reasonably have considered myself en- 
 titled to the best that was put uoon the 
 table ; but there was a strong feeling in me 
 against sharing in the luxuries which they 
 were forbidden. I liked them both too well. 
 The meals greatly varied too, both in quality 
 and quantity. I had found that out already.
 
 MADAME FROMARD, 181 
 
 Sometimes there was barely sufficient to go 
 round the family, and that of food of the 
 commonest or most distasteful quality ; at 
 others, we rejoiced in an influx of fish, flesh, 
 and fowl — a regular embarras des rickesses, 
 and accompanied by bottles of champagne 
 and burgundy. On such occasions the old 
 father would be in the very best of spirits, 
 laughing and jesting with us all, and brilliant 
 with repartee and anecdote. At others, he 
 would seem low and despondent, remaining 
 silent during the dinner hour, or alluding only 
 to his poverty and altered circumstances. 
 
 Then his girls would vie with each other 
 to pet and caress him, reminding him of his 
 past successes, and of what a favourite he 
 was at the Belgian Court, until he would 
 leave them with the determination to write to 
 some of his friends in office and seek redress 
 for the hardness of his position. 
 
 Yet the very next day, perhaps, we would 
 
 4
 
 182 • A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 have trout for breakfast and beef for dinner, 
 and all would go merry as a marriage 
 bell. 
 
 To-day the secret springs that moved the 
 machinery of the kitchen and larder had 
 evidently gone right, for the roast hare was 
 crowned with red currant jelly and flanked 
 by sauterne ; but I refused all the dainties 
 Mr. Lovett pressed upon me, and preferred 
 to eat stewed veal, the commonest dish of 
 the country, with Tessie and Ange instead. 
 
 ' I heard an unpleasant thing to-day about 
 some acquaintances of ours,' remarked Mr. 
 Lovett, as he finished his second plate of hare 
 — ' a very unpleasant thing, indeed.' 
 
 '■ From Miss Markham, papa ?' inquired 
 Tessie, timidly. 
 
 ' Yes ; but not repeated with the slightest 
 ill-nature, I can assure you. In fact, I was 
 quite charmed with the candid and liberal 
 manner in which the story was told me.
 
 MADAME FROMARD, 18S 
 
 The truth Is, Miss Markham, who is quite 
 a woman of the world and shows a wonderful 
 interest in you two girls, considered it quite 
 her duty to inform me of it, and I assured her 
 she was right.' 
 
 ' Oh, papa ! what is it ?' cried Ange, 
 anxiously. 
 
 * Nothing to alarm you, my little maid. 
 It is only about the Johnstones. Miss 
 Markham does not think Mrs. Johnstone a 
 very desirable acquaintance for you, and 
 neither do I.' 
 
 ' What has she done, sir ?' I inquired. 
 
 ' Nothing herself, my dear Hilda, at least 
 that I have heard of, but the husband appears 
 to be a very loose character. It seems that 
 he was cashiered from the army for gambling, 
 and left England only to prevent himself from 
 being arrested for debt.' 
 
 ' Oh, how dishonourable that is !' I ex- 
 claimed. ' I think there is no meanness
 
 184 A BROKEN BLOSSOM, 
 
 equal to that of defrauding tradesmen of 
 their due.' 
 
 ' And neither do I,' said Angela, stoutly. 
 Tessie sat by and heard us, but she said 
 nothing. 
 
 ' Yet it is hard that her husband's dis- 
 honesty should inculpate poor Mrs. John- 
 stone,' I observed ; ' perhaps she knows 
 nothing of it all.' 
 
 'Perhaps not,' replied Mr. Lovett, 'but 
 she shares his disgrace. It is the penalty of 
 having married a man without principle. 
 And I would not have my children's names 
 associated with hers, after what I have heard 
 to-day. So mind, girls, what I say. Be 
 civil to her when you meet, but don't go to 
 her house any more, nor invite her to come 
 here.' 
 
 ' I am so sorry for the Johnstones,' re- 
 marked Tessie, softly, as we sat in our own 
 room together afterwards.
 
 MADAME FROMARD, 185 
 
 ' I am not,' said Ange ; ' I think there is 
 nothing so horrible in this world as swindling 
 tradesmen. Fancy, going to a lot of poor 
 people who trust your honour, and getting 
 clothes and provisions out of them, and then 
 running away and leaving them to pay for 
 you. It is so pitifully mean and ungenerous.' 
 
 ' I quite agree with you, Ange,' I said ; 
 * still, people do sometimes get into debt be- 
 fore they are aware of it.' 
 
 ' I can't believe that,' returned the little 
 maid ; ' no one but a child or an idiot could 
 do that. Why, if papa were to swindle or 
 cheat people, I don't think I could ever speak 
 to him again. It would break my heart with 
 shame and agony. I should never be able 
 to look anybody in the face. Would you, 
 Tessie Y 
 
 ' What did you say, dear 1 I was not 
 listening.' 
 
 ' Wouldn't you rather that papa were dead
 
 186 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 than a cheat and a swindler like Mr. John- 
 stone ?' 
 
 ' Oh, Ange ! don't say such hard things 
 of people.' 
 
 ' Are they too hard ? I didn't think they 
 could be. Well ! there's one comfort in 
 hearing of such villany. It makes one feel 
 so thankful that papa is not as other men 
 are! The dear, dear, good old pappy! If 
 he had ever done such things, I shoCild die 
 at once.'
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 SUNDAY. 
 
 Sunday at St. Pucelle was not such an un- 
 interesting day as I had anticipated. On the 
 first Saturday I spent there, I passed through 
 the kitchen and detected Tessie, with a large 
 holland apron and bib pinned over her serge 
 dress, busily employed in making tartlets. 
 How fair and gentle she looked — somehow 
 after I had seen Ange I never could call 
 Tessie pretty, although her sweet womanly 
 face gained by the contrast with that of her 
 lovely sister. There she stood with her
 
 188 A BROKEN BLOSSOM, 
 
 sleeves rolled off her arms, and a smile 
 dimpling every feature as I confronted 
 her. 
 
 ' Making good things for to-morrow's 
 dinner ?' I asked. 
 
 'Oh no! though I'll keep some for you, 
 Hilda, if you particularly wish it. These are 
 for papa during the service.' 
 
 ' For papa during the service f I could not 
 help re-echoing her words. There seemed 
 something so intensely ludicrous in the idea 
 of a minister of the Church consuming jam 
 tarts between the Litany and the Communion. 
 
 ' Yes ; he requires something to keep him 
 up, you know. It Is very fatiguing for an old 
 man to read and preach for two hours at a 
 time, so w^e always prepare him a little godtcr 
 in the vestry.' 
 
 'Has Mr. Lovett no help, then .'^' 
 
 ' A layman occasionally reads the lessons 
 for him. Young Mr. Thrale has promised to
 
 SUNDAY. \m 
 
 do so to-morrow, but otherwise he has all the 
 work on his own hands.' 
 
 ' And three services a day, I suppose ?' 
 ' Oh no ! only one In the morning. There 
 are not enouorh Protestants to make It worth 
 while. No one would come a second time. 
 But I hope you will like our service, Hilda. 
 It Is nothing very grand, of course, but Ange 
 and I try to make the singing as nice as we 
 can, and nothing could exceed papa's preach- 
 Inof. It Is beautiful !' 
 
 When I had become acquainted with the 
 Protestant service held In the schoolroom 
 vacated by the little Romanists of St. Pucelle, 
 I agreed with Tessle, that, considering all the 
 disadvantages It laboured under, It was very 
 nice, and It owed much of Its success to the 
 labours of herself and Anofe. From the moment 
 that Sunday dawned, these two girls were very 
 Important people Indeed. They appeared to 
 me to combine the offices of sacristan, clerk,
 
 190 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 organist and choir all In one. As soon as 
 their breakfast was completed they ran over 
 to the schoolroom to make sure that it was 
 properly aired, dusted and swept : to arrange 
 the Communion table, which was stowed away 
 In a cupboard during the week : to see that 
 the benches were properly placed ; the tiny 
 harmonium pulled into position, and the 
 lessons and hymns for the day looked out 
 ready for their father and themselves. They 
 had the arrangements for all the music and 
 chanting in their own hands, and merely 
 placed a list of the hymns to be sung on the 
 Communion table ; which always bore a vase 
 of flowers set there by Ange. 
 
 Of course they had secured me to take 
 part In the singing, which I was willing 
 enough to do. To sing praise to God and to 
 sing songs to the piano were two different 
 things. I felt I came nearer her whilst en- 
 gaged In the former practice, and that If my
 
 SUNDAY, 191 
 
 dull ears could only be opened, I might be 
 able to distinguish her own sweet voice min- 
 gling with mine. 
 
 So at a few minutes before eleven, we 
 three girls were established behind the har- 
 monium ; Tessie in front of it as accompanist, 
 and Ange and I on either side, to take 
 soprano and alto as lustily as we could, and 
 induce the congregation to chime in.. 
 
 It was difficult to divest one's mind of the 
 idea that we were only in a schoolroom, nor 
 to help being amused by the remarks Ange 
 made on the people as they filed in, one after 
 another. There were the poor condemned 
 Johnstones, looking handsomer and more 
 stylish than anybody there : there were, of 
 necessity, the giddy Sophia Markham, with 
 young Thrale in close attendance : Mr, and 
 Mrs. Carolus, dressed in their newest and 
 best. Colonel Berwick, with his Interminable 
 family of girls and boys — a gentleman of
 
 192 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 such ultra-Protestant views that he would not 
 permit his children to pass the Catholic 
 church in their daily walks, for fear the Abbe 
 Morteville should rush out and baptise them 
 all in the middle of the road : Mrs. Dart, a 
 handsome widow, of whose antecedents na 
 one could find out anything ; and a dozen or 
 more stray men and women whose names I 
 had been told, but who were not particularly 
 Intimate with the Lovetts. These naturally 
 did not constitute the resident part of the 
 population of St. Pucelle, who were all 
 Catholics. 
 
 They were the English visitors only, who 
 filled the two little primitive hotels of the 
 town — the Hotel de la Cloche and the Hotel 
 de rfitoile — for three to six months in the 
 year. They had scarcely settled down in 
 their seats — Miss Markham having turned 
 round first and nodded to us all in a manner 
 which I thought most irreverent in a place of
 
 SUNDAY, 195 
 
 worship — when Mr. Lovett entered and 
 ascended the temporary pulpit that was 
 dragged out of the cupboard with the Com- 
 munion-table every Sunday morning. As I 
 saw the old man in his surplice and bands, I 
 was ready to agree with all the admiration his 
 daughters bestowed upon him ; he looked so 
 handsome, so venerable and so much like a 
 saint, that he was what the nurses term ' 2l 
 perfect picture.' 
 
 As he knelt in prayer, with his finely- 
 shaped hands clasped together, his beautifu 
 blue eyes upraised to heaven, and his silver 
 curls crowninor a brow which must have 
 befitted an Antinous in earlier days, he 
 should have been painted for a prophet or an 
 apostle, pleading with the Almighty for mercy 
 on sins which he knew only through the 
 weakness of others. And if I thought my 
 guardian's personal appearance striking on 
 that occasion, I was still more delighted with 
 
 VOL. I. 13
 
 194 A BROKEN BLOSSOM, 
 
 his delivery. His elocution was remarkable. 
 Each word fell from his lips with musical 
 distinctness, and It was evident that the art 
 had formed an Important part of his studies. 
 He read the lessons- — young Thrale being 
 too nervous to do so when It came to the 
 point — as I had never heard them read 
 before. Without any theatrical display, he 
 gave the New Testament history for the day, 
 as a history, not divided Into so many mono- 
 tonous verses badly punctuated, but strongly 
 and energetically delivered, with an expres- 
 sion that must have riveted the attention of 
 every one who was listening to him. 
 
 I felt at once that there stood before me a 
 man of no common parts or learning, a man 
 who should have been (as his daughter had 
 fondly said) set In a high place to give light 
 to the world. Nor was I disappointed by 
 the sermon that followed the prayers. It 
 was stirring — terse — to the point, and de-
 
 SUNDAY, 195 
 
 livered with energy. The blue eyes flashed 
 with anger or glowed with feeling as he 
 denounced sin or invited to pardon, and 
 when In a few words he described the horrors 
 that awaited the impenitent, a thrill of terror 
 ran through his congregation. 
 
 I felt It keenly, and glanced towards my 
 companions to see what effect it had upon 
 them. Tessle was looking like an ordinary 
 mortal, quietly Interested ; but Ange had her 
 whole attention riveted on her father's words 
 and face. Her eyes were filled with tears, 
 her cheeks were glowing, her whole expres- 
 sion was one of adoring admiration. When 
 Mr. Lovett had finished his sermon, which 
 was so superabundantly superior to anything 
 I had ever heard from a pulpit before, that I 
 was quite surprised the congregation did not 
 applaud him, she waked up from her reverie 
 with a start and a long-drawn sigh, and had 
 only time to whisper hurriedly to me, ' Isn't
 
 196 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 he perfect ?' before the harmonium struck up 
 again, and we rose to sing the parting hymn. 
 
 The service, simply as It was conducted, 
 had had such a solemn effect upon me that I 
 was disgusted to see Miss Sophia Markham, 
 before she left the schoolroom, approach the 
 place where we were sitting, and to hear her 
 ask Ange In a loud whisper if we would all 
 go over to their hotel In the afternoon and 
 have tea with them. 
 
 * Arthur Thrale's friend — the sporting man 
 — my great admirer (you know who I mean), 
 has promised to come over from Rllle, If pos- 
 sible, and we can all go for a walk over the 
 hills together. Yotc can come, can't you, If 
 the others won't T 
 
 I saw the crimson colour rush like a flood 
 over Ange's lovely face, but she shook her head 
 determinately in answer to the Invitation. 
 
 ' We make a rule of never eolne out on 
 Sundays, Miss Markham.'
 
 SUNDA V. 197 
 
 ' Oh, well ! just as you like, you know ; but 
 I thought it would give you pleasure. What 
 are you going to do to-morrow ?' 
 
 * Papa will be waiting for us in the vestry> 
 Ange,' whispered Tessie, who had put away 
 the chant-books and did not appear to like 
 this sort of conversation going on in church 
 any more than I did. 
 
 Ange took the hint, and, rising without 
 further ceremony, we walked up to the little 
 room where Mr. Lovett robed and disrobed. 
 But here I was rather startled by coming 
 upon the reverend gentleman seated in his 
 surplice before a small table on which, spread 
 on an old newspaper, were some, sandwiches, 
 a flask of sherry, and the tartlets Tessie had 
 made the day before. Yet she did not seem 
 to see anything in the sight incongruous with 
 the words we had just heard fall from 
 those lips, now besmeared with compote de 
 /raises.
 
 198 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 'Are they good, papa?' she inquired affec- 
 tionately. 
 
 * Very good, my dear !' he replied, with his 
 mouth full ; ' but your second hymn was so 
 short, I had no time to eat them before. 
 You must look out a longer one for next 
 Sunday ! You forget the work I have to 
 do whilst you are singing a couple of 
 verses. Four is the very least I can accom- 
 plish it under.' 
 
 ' He shall have four — the dear old dad P 
 exclaimed Ange, as she kissed the top of his 
 head ; * or six if he likes it better. Oh, papa f 
 you were divine to-day. You made me cry 
 so ! How I wish we were all dead and safe 
 in heaven together !' 
 
 * Tut ! tut ! you silly little mouse !' said her 
 father, as he patted her rose-leaf cheek ; ' you 
 mustn't talk about being dead and buried 
 just yet ! You'll have to put me under 
 ground first, you know.'
 
 SUNDAY. 19^ 
 
 'Oh, papa! papa! dontf she cried, in a 
 voice of real pain. 
 
 ' Well, then, trot home and see after the 
 dinner being got ready in time. We are 
 obliged to dine early to-day, my dear Hilda, 
 in consideration of the proceedings of our 
 domestic tyrant Madame Marmoret, who 
 insists upon attending three services at her 
 own church every Sunday, and disregarding 
 everything she hears there on the remaining 
 six days of the week.' 
 
 ' A very common practice, Mr. Lovett, 
 with people much better instructed than 
 Madame Marmoret.' 
 
 ' Very true, my dear ! I wonder how many 
 of my congregation of to-day will even re- 
 member, let alone practise, the precepts I 
 have just preached to them. But come, little 
 people, clear out of my vestry, for I want to 
 resume my usual garb.' 
 
 I thought Ange was uncommonly thought-
 
 200 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 ful that afternoon, and I could not help asso- 
 ciating her mood with the information Mrs. 
 Carolus had given me about the young man 
 at Rille who had paid her so much attention, 
 which had come to nothing. 
 " Was it possible, I thought, as I watched 
 her sitting on the ground with her hands 
 folded idly on her lap, and her sunny head 
 laid against her father's knee, that her young 
 heart could have suffered a disappointment, 
 anything akin, in magnitude or bitterness, to 
 that which had been experienced by my 
 own ? I could not believe it. The infidelity 
 of Cave Charteris, whether it had been 
 brought on by my credulous folly or his 
 thoughtlessness, had left a mark upon me 
 which I knew that nothing in this world could 
 ever obliterate. I was not so young nor so 
 blind as to imagine that I should never be 
 happy again. I knew that men and women 
 had sustained and conquered greater griefs
 
 SUNDA K 201 
 
 and more crushing shames than mine. But I 
 no more believed that I should ever forget 
 the awful pain my first disappointment had 
 caused me, than that I should replace the 
 dear friend and mother whose death had left 
 a vacancy in my bruised heart that no mortal 
 could fill again. 
 
 Ange seemed to me too young to have 
 suffered in proportion with myself; not too 
 young in years, but in spirit. How I envied 
 the youthful gaiety with which she enjoyed 
 her walks and talks, and simple occupations, 
 the fresh laughter that burst from her, with 
 her will or against it, at anything that touched 
 her sense of ridicule ; and the innocent mis- 
 chief which made her love to tease her father 
 or her sister, or even Madame, until she was 
 compelled to win their pardon by her kisses. 
 
 No ! Ange could never have passed through 
 the same valley of suffering as I had ! Its 
 shadows would have frightened her light-
 
 202 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 heartedness to death. Yet she was certainly 
 very grave that afternoon, and very silent ; 
 but, when I taxed her with it, she replied 
 that she was always tired on Sundays, and 
 wanted rest after the exertion of singing, or, 
 as she expressed it, of ' bawling at the top of 
 her voice, for two hours, without stopping.' 
 After which I was surprised, when tea was 
 over, to see her come down into the sitting- 
 room, robed for walking. 
 
 ' Are you going out again, Ange ? 
 
 * Yes, to evening church.' 
 
 ' I thought there w^as only one service 
 here.' 
 
 ' Papa has only one ; but Monsieur lAbbe 
 has the regular number at his church. I 
 always go there in the evening, the service is 
 so beautiful. Will you come with me ?' 
 
 ' I shall be delighted.' 
 
 It was nothing extraordinary in me to 
 consent to attend a Catholic service, because
 
 SUNDA P. 203 
 
 I was a very broad and muscular Christian 
 indeed, bound, by my own conscience, to no 
 creed nor church whatever, but ready to join 
 in any prayers that satisfied my ideas of what 
 rehgious worship should be, and to believe 
 that the path that took him readiest to God 
 was the right path for each man to walk in, 
 Irrespective of the pilot who led the way. 
 But then I was not a minister of the Esta- 
 blished Church of England, who had taken a 
 very solemn oath to uphold her doctrines and 
 protect her interests in every possible manner, 
 and it seemed very strange to me that Mr. 
 Lovett should like it to be known, in a little 
 town like St. Pucelle, that his daughters 
 attended the services of a Church whose 
 doctrines were so diametrically opposed to 
 those of his own. 
 
 ' Does your papa approve of your going to 
 vespers at St. Marie ?' I said to Ange, as we 
 walked there together.
 
 204 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 * Oh, Hilda! Do you suppose I should do 
 so without his approval ? Why, of course he 
 does. And the Abbe Morteville is one of 
 papa's very best and most intimate friends.' 
 
 * That may be. I see no reason whatever 
 why a difference of religious opinion should 
 have any effect upon the friendship of men. 
 Still, I should have thought, as Mr. Lovett is 
 a Protestant minister, that he would have 
 been almost afraid to let you and Tessie 
 attend the Catholic services.* 
 
 ' Why ?' she asked quickly. 
 
 ' For various reasons ; the chief being, that 
 you might be converted to Catholicism your- 
 selves.' 
 
 * I don't think papa would object to it if we 
 were ! You don't half know yet how good 
 and generous and liberal-minded he is, 
 Hilda. If he thought Tessie and I were 
 fully persuaded that we should not be happy 
 unless we became Catholics, he would never
 
 SUNDA Y, 205 
 
 Oppose our wishes. But he need have no 
 fear ; at all events on my account. I shall 
 never leave the English Church so long as 
 he is in it.' 
 
 I admired the beautiful childlike faith 
 which she had in her father, and in every- 
 thing which he believed to be right, but I 
 could not join in it. To me it seemed the 
 most culpable negligence to allow a girl with 
 so unformed a mind as that of Ange to 
 attend regularly the offices of a church to 
 which she did not belong. However, it was 
 no concern of mine, and I was silent. 
 
 As we approached the porch of St. Marie, 
 we met the Baron de Nesselrode. 
 
 * How do you do, M. le Baron ?' exclaimed 
 Ange. *We are going to attend vespers 
 this evening. Will you come with us Y 
 
 Armand de Nesselrode laughed uneasily. 
 
 * I am afraid you must excuse me,' he 
 replied ; 'it is a very long time since I have
 
 206 A BROKEN BLOSSOM, 
 
 seen the Inside of a church, Mademoiselle 
 Ange.' 
 
 ' Is that so ? What a sad confession ! 
 What would Monsieur I'Abbe say were he 
 to hear it ?' 
 
 ' The truth, probably — that I am a lost 
 sheep not worth the looking after.* 
 
 ' Indeed he would not. I can answer for 
 that. Monsieur I'Abbe is far too good to 
 say such a thing of any one.' 
 
 * But he has given me up all the same, and 
 he Is wise to do so. He has too much occu- 
 pation for his time to waste it upon a vaiirien 
 like myself. No one remembers me. Made- 
 moiselle Ange. I am an outcast, and alone.' 
 
 Alone ! The word struck painfully upon 
 my ear. I had so often used it in reference 
 to my own condition. And although Armand 
 de Nesselrode laughed with apparent careless- 
 ness as he said it, I felt sure that he was 
 suffering bitterly the while. I wished, at
 
 SUNDA K 207 
 
 that moment, that I could speak French as 
 fluently as Ange did — that I might assure 
 him that I could sympathise In his sense of 
 solitude. But a foolish timidity bound my 
 tongue. The young Baron spoke with a 
 pure Parisian accent, and I was ashamed to 
 air my boarding-school French before him. 
 Yet, as he raised his hat to me In parting, I 
 ventured to say, in a very low voice : 
 
 ' Monsieur, when we pray to-night, we will 
 not forget you.' 
 
 A gleam of pleasure and sudden Interest 
 lit up the dark eyes which he fixed upon me. 
 
 ' I thank you — I thank you much, made- 
 moiselle,' he replied fervently, as we passed 
 into the church. 
 
 When we returned home that evening, we 
 went at once Into the little sitting-room where 
 Tessle was sitting by herself, reading. 
 
 * Where is papa, Tessle }' 
 
 ' He has gone over to the Hotel de la
 
 208 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 Cloche to see Miss Markham. She sent up 
 a note by Arthur Thrale to ask him to do 
 so. I suppose the visitor they expected from 
 Rille has arrived, and requires a Httle more 
 amusement than can be extracted from poor 
 old Mr. Carolus.' 
 
 Again that vivid burning blush on Ange's 
 cheek, but she did not make any remark upon 
 her sisters news. She only threw her hat 
 and cape upon a chair, and, going up to the 
 piano, sat down and commenced to play a 
 hymn. It was a familiar one to all of us. 
 
 Tessle left her book and took a seat beside 
 me, and put her arm round my waist, and 
 we sang the words together. Amidst the 
 noise which we made with our own voices, 
 I could not distinguish if the little maid joined 
 us or no. We had not finished the hymn, 
 however, when the door from the salle softly 
 opened, and the tall figure of the Baron de 
 Nesselrode stood upon the threshold. We
 
 SUNDA V. 209 
 
 would have stopped at once, but he motioned 
 us to proceed, and stood there, with the door 
 in his hand, until the hymn was concluded. 
 Then he closed it behind him, and advanced 
 into our midst. 
 
 ' Monsieur Lovett, I find, is not at home, 
 so I ventured to come a little farther than the 
 sa/le,' he said to Tessie. ' Will you con- 
 tinue your singing, Mademoiselle Ange ? It 
 is such a treat to me to listen to music. I 
 never hear any now.' 
 
 ' You are fond of it, then. Monsieur le 
 Baron ?' 
 
 ' Passionately, mademoiselle. At one time 
 I thouofht I could never live without it. But 
 one is forced to learn hard lessons in this 
 world. There is a fine organ up at my old 
 chateau, but it has not been opened for years ; 
 and I conclude that, like its owner, it is 
 ruined.^ 
 
 * What a pity ! You should have it 
 
 VOL. I. 14
 
 210 A BROKEN BLOSSOM, 
 
 examined. Why not get the opinion of the 
 organist of St. Marie upon it ?' 
 
 * I would rather have the opinion of you, 
 demoiselles, if you would graciously accord 
 it to me. Do you think Monsieur votre pere 
 would so far honour me as to bring you all 
 up to the chateau some day, that you may 
 see and pronounce on the merits of my poor 
 old organ for yourselves ?' 
 
 * We will ask papa, Monsieur le Baron, but 
 I do not think he will have any objection.' 
 
 ' Objection !' cried Ange, wheeling round 
 on her music-stool, ' I should think not. I 
 won't let him have an objection. Tessie and 
 I have so often longed to see your chateau, 
 Monsieur le Baron — the dear old romantic 
 tumbled-down place. I have peeped over 
 the wall dozens of times, and picked all the 
 roses within my reach, but of course I dared 
 not venture within the gates, it would not 
 have been coimne-il-faut P
 
 SUNDAY. 211 
 
 ' A dear old romantic tumbled-down place/ 
 repeated the Baron, bitterly. ' Yes ! that is 
 the fittest name for the only rest my folly has 
 left for the sole of my foot. Bah ! do not let 
 us talk of it any more. Monsieur will bring 
 you to visit me there, I trust, and old Denise 
 shall receive you with all the reverence be- 
 fitting your own position, if not with the 
 luxury a De Nesselrode should be able to 
 lavish upon his guests. Sing to me again, 
 mesdemoiselles. Let me forget the memories 
 this little conversation has provoked, in listen- 
 ing to your voices.' 
 
 So Ange struck up the plaintive air of 
 ' Sun of my soul,' and we all joined in the 
 evening hymn together. Its last chords were 
 dying away, when Mr. Lovett's footstep was 
 heard entering the salle. The Baron rose at 
 once to join him, but before he had time to 
 leave the room, Tessie and Ange had fiown 
 past him to welcome their father home. Con- 
 
 14—2
 
 212 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 sequently, he and I were left for one brief 
 moment together. 
 
 ' Did you forget your promise, mademoi- 
 selle ?' he asked me, in a low earnest voice. 
 
 ' I did not, monsieur.' 
 
 He made no answer, but he threw one 
 long searching glance upon me before he left 
 the room, and I sat there thinking what a 
 pity it was that he was so careless and dissi- 
 pated, and what a desirable husband he would 
 make for Tessie, if he could only be con- 
 verted to see the errors of his ways.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 CHATEAU DES ROSES. 
 
 I THOUGHT of this long after I went to bed 
 that night, and for several succeeding days. 
 I felt sure that Tessie liked the Baron, and 
 indeed few girls with hearts that were dis- 
 engaged could have helped doing so. He 
 was very handsome, with that dark Southern 
 beauty which bespeaks fire and energy, and 
 all that makes a man attractive to a woman. 
 And he was interestinof — a more daneerous 
 circumstance still. A halo of romance hung 
 around his ill-fortune and his solitude, even
 
 214 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 though both had been induced by his own 
 misdeeds. And I doubt, moreover, whether 
 a man's errors, unless directed towards her- 
 self, ever closed a woman's heart against him. 
 Although we are but too often the tempters 
 and destroyers of the other sex, w^e like to 
 flatter ourselves with the idea that we were 
 sent into this world to be their guardian 
 angels. The instinct of maternity, too, is 
 rampant in the breasts of most of us, and a 
 sick man or a naughty man is for the time 
 being very like a child, something that is to 
 be petted and tended and caressed, or coaxed 
 and reprimanded and forgiven. I never 
 heard the girls mention the young Baron de 
 Nesselrode without a word of pity or excuse, 
 and I too had much the same feeling for 
 him. 
 
 But I had heard that his present state of 
 poverty was not to last for ever. The 
 interest of his large fortune alone was being
 
 CHATEAU DES ROSES. 215 
 
 annually swallowed by his greedy creditors ; 
 and if the Baron could only be persuaded to 
 lose no more money in the interim, a few 
 years' probation would certainly set him free 
 again. Meanwhile his family had utterly re- 
 fused to assist him, over which piece of cruelty 
 I had heard Tessie properly indignant. But 
 privately I argued that in all probability his 
 family had not the means of doing so. The 
 Baron de Nesselrode was the representative 
 of his race, and his relations were naturally 
 incensed to hnd that his extravagance had led 
 him to represent it in a ruinous old chateau 
 'at St. Pucelle. 
 
 The great thing to be done now, I said 
 to myself, was to persuade him to give up 
 that fatal habit of gambling, which we heard 
 that he still continued to practise at more 
 than one private house in the town. 
 
 If he would only learn to be wise in time, 
 and to see the beauties of Tessie's character
 
 216 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 as I saw them, what a charming couple they 
 would make ! She was so thoroughly good 
 and amiable. Each day I seemed to discover 
 some fresh trait in her disposition which ren- 
 dered her more worthy of my affection ; and 
 I pictured her to myself as the future Baronne 
 de Nesselrode, and thought how well she 
 would look the part, and how faithfully she 
 would discharge the duties of her position as 
 wife and mother and mistress of the house- 
 hold. 
 
 I wonder now why I never thought of the 
 probability of the Baron preferring Ange to 
 her sister — Ange, with her lovely, ever- 
 changing countenance, her childlike gaiety of 
 disposition, her ardent faith in religion and 
 her father — but it never struck me that it 
 might be so. 
 
 Tessie, with her quiet, somewhat pensive 
 air, and her softly-braided flaxen locks, was 
 always the ideal Baronne that figured in my
 
 CHATEAU DES ROSES, 217 
 
 airy castles ; whilst bright-haired, blushing 
 Ange was nowhere. 
 
 But the first thing, of course, to be done 
 was to convert Armand de Nesselrode ; and 
 with that idea seething in my brain, I was 
 very pleased, a few days afterwards, to hear 
 that Mr. Lovett had arranged to take us all 
 over to the chateau that very afternoon. 
 
 ' Hilda, it will be delightful !' cried Ange, 
 dancing about me in her glee. ' You don't 
 know how often Tessie and I have longed 
 to see inside the old chateau.' 
 
 ' And Monsieur le Baron has never asked 
 you all these years ?' 
 
 ' Never once — until last Sunday ; indeed, 
 I believe we shall be the first people in 
 St. Pucelle who have set foot inside it. The 
 poor Baron is ashamed of his poverty, so 
 Madame says. I know he has only one ser- 
 vant to wait on him : I have seen her at 
 market. She looks like a veritable old
 
 218 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 chatelaine. I should never dare to ask her to 
 clean my boots. But I must go, Hilda, or I 
 shall not be back again by twelve o'clock. I 
 have five people to call upon within an hour.* 
 
 And off she ran, with a little basket on her 
 arm, to see her poor, 
 
 I have forgotten to mention what a charit- 
 able heart Ange Lovett had. Not the 
 charity that enters poor people's homes with- 
 out knockinof, and sows cfood advice and 
 platitudes broadcast, to bring up a crop of 
 curses and complaints ; but a large-hearted 
 love, that saw no distinction between herself 
 and them except that made by poverty, and 
 greater need of friendship. When I saw her 
 stop and salute her humbler friends, I was 
 not surprised to hear they called her ' Petite 
 Ange' even to that day. 
 
 Yet she carried them neither food nor 
 money : she had none to spare. The basket 
 on her arm held some trifling remembrance.
 
 CHATEAU DES EOSES. 21i> 
 
 perhaps : a rag doll, manufactured by herself, 
 for a sick child ; the Sunday cap of some old 
 woman which she had turned and made to 
 look as good as new ; or a bottle of physic for 
 cough or ague, concocted by Madame Mar- 
 moret, and which was about the only thing 
 in which that unpleasant domestic seemed 
 willing to accommodate herself to the wishes 
 of her young mistresses. So, although Ange 
 possessed nothing wherewith to win the affec- 
 tions of her poor neighbours, beyond her 
 ready sympathy and beaming smile, she was 
 the cherished friend of every one of them ; 
 and even the Abbe Morteville used to say 
 that he always knew, when called upon to 
 visit the sick, if the little Angel of St. Pucelle 
 had been there before him or no. Sweet 
 Ange ! She used to laugh at Tessie and me, 
 and call us lazy, because we did not join her 
 in her work of love ; but the fact was that 
 she left us nothing to do. There was scarcely
 
 :220 A BROKEN BLOSSOM, 
 
 a day that she had not flitted In and out of 
 half the cottages in St. Pucelle. She lived 
 amongst the poor as though she had been 
 one of themselves. 
 
 We were an expectant party as we walked 
 up together to the Chateau des Roses, as the 
 Baron's domicile was romantically called, for 
 the girls had talked to me so much on the 
 subject, that I had become almost as curious 
 to find myself within its walls as they were. 
 I found that the chateau was situated quite a 
 mile away from St. Pucelle. Two massive 
 pillars that had once supported the gates, and 
 were surmounted by wolves' heads carved in 
 stone, the armorial bearing of the family of 
 De Nesselrode, became visible some time 
 before we reached the entrance. When we 
 had gained it, we discovered that the way 
 was open : the gate being off its hinges and 
 thrown carelessly amongst the bushes within. 
 To the top of either pillar had climbed a
 
 CHATEAU DES ROSES, 221 
 
 rose-tree, the fragrant blossoms of which 
 were hanging halfway to the ground ; whilst 
 various costly shrubs, which had once been 
 planted about the entrance with a due regard 
 to effect, had obtruded their luxuriant growth 
 until it encroached upon the highway. 
 
 ' Is not this a reo^ular wilderness of sweets ?' 
 said Angela. ' These are the roses, papa, 
 that I told the Baron I had so often picked in 
 passing. I wonder if he has more of them 
 within ; for if so, I must steal a bouquet be- 
 fore we return again.' 
 
 We had little- time to wonder, for as we 
 took our way to the chateau by a pathway 
 cut through the pinewood, which sheltered it 
 on three sides from the mountain air, we dis- 
 covered that it well deserved its name. We 
 seemed to be surrounded by roses of every 
 size and colour. They ran along the ground 
 at our feet, they hung in clusters from the 
 trees at our side, they entangled themselves
 
 222 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 in the skirts of our dresses and caught the 
 flimsy trimmings of our hats. For myself, I 
 thought I had never traversed such a laby- 
 rinth of beauty ; though the rose-trees, in 
 common with everything else, bore the 
 appearance of a long-sustained and utter 
 neglect. 
 
 As we came in sight of the fine old 
 chateau, which had originally been built of 
 grey granite, but was much disfigured by 
 having been restored in various places by 
 common red brick, we saw our host approach- 
 ing to greet us. He looked so picturesque 
 in a black velveteen coat, with a little hand- 
 kerchief of grey silk carelessly knotted about 
 his throat, that I could not resist glancing at 
 Tessie to see how his appearance struck her. 
 To my disappointment, she was not looking 
 at the Baron at all, but busily engaged in 
 fastening a bunch of yellow rosebuds in her 
 bosom.
 
 CHATEAU DES ROSES, 223 
 
 Well, Tessle cared for something higher 
 than mere outward seeming, perhaps. So 
 much the better ! Her happiness, when it 
 came, would be all the more lasting and to be 
 depended on. Still, Monsieur le Baron did 
 look very graceful and aristocratic in his 
 artistic suit — there was no manner of doubt 
 about that ! 
 
 We all rushed at him, open-mouthed, with 
 praises of his lovely roses. 
 
 'Ah, les roses,' he said, indifferently. 
 Yes, they are very abundant ; and I am only 
 too flattered that mesdemoiselles should deign 
 to honour my poor flowers with their regard ! 
 But my little goiUei^' is waiting for you, and I 
 trust that your walk has given you an 
 appetite. Mademoiselle, will you 'permit 
 me to conduct you into the Chateau des 
 Roses ?' 
 
 He offered his arm to me as he spoke, and 
 I was surprised that he should not have chosen
 
 224 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 Tessle Instead, until I remembered that Mr. 
 Lovett had told several of his friends that he 
 regarded me as his eldest daughter. 
 
 The entrance-hall to the chateau was very 
 imposing ; only, had I not known It was in- 
 habited by a gentleman of the nineteenth 
 century, I should certainly have imagined I 
 was being Introduced to the residence of some 
 feudal chief of the tenth Instead. Suits of 
 armour, coated with rust, covered the walls ; 
 on the stone floor were laid numerous rough 
 skins of animals which the Baron had killed 
 in the chase. A stand, filled with all sorts of 
 murderous weapons, ornamented one end of 
 the hall ; whilst on the other hung an arras 
 of tapestry, faded into Indistinctness and 
 moth-eaten, until it would hardly hold together. 
 Here we encountered Denise, the old chate- 
 laine, as Anofe had desi^rnated her — an ancient 
 dame who had once been the Baron's nurse, 
 and had followed him Into his exile with a
 
 CHATEAU DES ROSES. 225 
 
 fidelity as rare as it Is beautiful. As I saw 
 this old servant, whose appearance was the 
 very picture of modest decorum, receiving 
 her young master's guests with as much state 
 as though she had had a band of domestics 
 behind her to execute her orders, I could 
 not help thinking that there must be some- 
 thing good left in the man who, in the midst 
 of misfortune brought on his own head, could 
 yet command the service and fidelity of so 
 thoroughly respectable a woman. 
 
 ' Denise,' said the Baron, ' these young 
 ladies have condescended to honour the 
 chateau with their presence for a few hours. 
 I commend them, during their .visit, to your 
 care.' 
 
 * Will mesdemoiselles follow me upstairs 
 and remove their walking attire before par- 
 taking of goUter f inquired the old servant, 
 and we were very thankful, after a hot and 
 dusty walk, to bathe our hands and faces in 
 
 VOL. I. 15
 
 226 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 the cool spring water she had provided 
 for us. 
 
 ' I never saw anything Hke this in my Hfe 
 before,' exclaimed Tessie, as we followed 
 Denise up a wide staircase into a long 
 corridor lined with flapping tapestry, and 
 ornamented with grim oil-paintings of the 
 martyred saints. ' Could you not fancy, 
 Hilda, this corridor at dead of night peopled 
 with the ghosts of these poor martyrs and 
 ringing with their groans ?' 
 
 Old Denise crossed herself. 
 
 ' Do not speak of it, mademoiselle,' she 
 said. ' The blessed martyrs are in heaven, 
 and would not return to this earth if they 
 could ; and as for the spirits of others, surely 
 Le don Dietc would never permit them to 
 terrify a poor old woman like me. Though, 
 for the matter of that, there has always been 
 a legend in our family that one of my dear 
 master's noble ancestors, Le Sieur Armand de
 
 CHATEAU DES ROSES. 227 
 
 Valois, still walks the Chateau des Roses, 
 which was his favourite summer residence 
 when alive ; and that is the reason, mesdemoi- 
 selles, that the old house is in so sad a condi- 
 tion of ruin and decay, for no one has cared 
 to keep it up or live in it.' 
 
 ' I wonder you were not afraid to come 
 here, then, madame,' I remarked. 
 
 ' I should not have been afraid to go any- 
 where with my dear master, mademoiselle ; 
 and since those thieves who stripped him of 
 his rightful property left him no shelter but 
 this, why I had no choice but to follow and 
 take care of him.' 
 
 ' It does you honour!' said Tessle, as we 
 entered the bed-chamber. 
 
 Such a chamber ! uncarpeted and uncur- 
 tained, with a huge bedstead of carved oak, 
 a Venetian mirror which distorted our fea- 
 tures until we did not recognise ourselves — 
 and for the purposes of washing, a brass ewer 
 
 15—2
 
 228 A BROKEN BLOSSOM. 
 
 and basin shining like burnished gold, but 
 placed upon a table of ebony. The towels 
 offered us were of the finest fringed damask, 
 but Denise was profuse in her apologies for 
 the humbleness of the accommodation she 
 had prepared. 
 
 ' This is not as it should be,' she said 
 sorrowfully, ' but mesdemoiselles must be 
 gracious and overlook our poverty. When 
 Monsieur le Baron told me that ladles were 
 •coming to the chateau, you might have 
 knocked me down with a feather. '' Ladles," 
 I said, "and not a room to show them Into." 
 
 * But my dear master assured me you would 
 excuse it. Ah, mesdemoiselles! until those 
 thieves and robbers restore his rights to him, 
 what can you expect ? We have no money 
 to replace these things. But when that day 
 comes,' exclaimed the old woman, brighten- 
 ing up, ' then his friends and his enemies 
 alike shall see what the Baron de Nesselrode
 
 CHATEAU DES ROSES. 229 
 
 can do. They shall be fine times, mesdemoi- 
 selles, when we go back to our chateau at 
 Versailles, and our chalet in beautiful Swit- 
 zerland, and above all, our hotel in Paris. 
 The Chateau des Roses may fall to the 
 ground then — we shall need it no longer. 
 But, meanwhile, we have sore need of pa- 
 tience — Heaven knows !' 
 
 ' But this is all very beautiful,' I said. 
 ^ What could be better ? I would not have it 
 changed for worlds, if it were mine.' 
 
 Denise shook her head despondently. 
 
 ' Mademoiselle is too good to say so,' she 
 replied, ' but if she and these young ladies 
 will excuse me, I will descend again and see 
 that the salle is prepared for their reception.' 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD, SURREY.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS-URBANA 
 
 3 0112 049087270