The Secret of Fontaine-la-Croix

Front matter

THE SECRET OF FONTAINE-LA-CROIX BV MARGARET FIELD ) LONDON F. V. WHITE AND COMPANY SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W. C. 18S9 Copyright, 1888, By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY. Printed in America. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. — Out into the World 5 II. — A Knight in Disguise 14 III. — The Lord of the Castle 35 IV. — Storms 56 V. — A Calm 84 VI. — Troubled Waters 99 VII. — Wrecked — or Saved? 130 VIII.— Parting 166 IX. — After Five Years 177 X— A Daughter of Eve 199 XI.— The Secret 225 XII. — Cleansing Fires 258 XIII. — Yvonnette 280 XIV. — Gelebt und Geliebt 3"

Chapter I. Out Into The World

Eager-eyed, yet grave, Beneath the mystery of the unknown to come, Though longing for its coming. Firm, prepared (So says the lifted head, and close, sweet mouth) For any future ; though the dreamy hope, Throned on her girlish forehead, whispers fond : ' Surely they err who say that life is hard ; Surely it shall not be with me as these.' " Miss Mulock, " Bygone Days. " Then you really mean to go, Anne ? " " Yes. You think I am wise, Stephen, do you not ? " He smiled at the quick, wistful change of the look and tone, and shook his head teasingly. " Wise, Nan, to leave your home and country to go oft alone into 'furrin parts,' especially that land of France which is hated of all true Britons, to live among strangers, tied all day to a chattering French girl — you do not know how French girls can chatter, nor how utterly feeble and senseless their chatter is — with the entertainment only varied by a sermon from madame — she is probably old and ill-tempered.

She says they live in great seclusion, so there will be no visitors, save M. le Cure, who will be old also, and will take snuff and talk through his nose, and think his own little parish the center of the universe." "You forget Mademoiselle St. Hilaire's fiance'." " You are not likely to see much of him. You must not expect him to come ' courting ' as an Englishman would. The engagement has probably been a strictly business affair. Very likely they have not seen each other above three times in their lives. You need not ex pect to have many opportunities of trying your powers of fascination on him, Miss Anne, even if you feel any incli nation to do so. I don't think you will when you see him. You have too much good taste to be attracted by a Frenchman." " What a prejudiced old John Bull you are, Stephen !

" " Yes, I am, and I glory in it. Those P'renchmen are a miserable set, especially the young ones, empty-headed and intolerably vain, whose one idea of manliness is, as somebody says truly enough, to deny the creed and break the commandments. No ; you had better have borne the ills you knew than tempted the unknown, Anne, even if Mabel is narrow-minded and hopelessly practical, and I a hard, close-fisted man of business, with no sympathy for romantic aspirations, and the children, tiresome little howling nuisances." Anne's gleeful laugh was a fitting accompaniment to the pretty look of affectionate confidence which was her first response to his words, but she said, rather doubt fully : " Do you mean it, Stephen ? " " Mean what ? that Mabel is a virago, and I a tyrant ? Certainly I express your sentiments, do I not ?

" " Exactly, only much more clearly than I could have done myself. Virago — yes, that is certainly an appropri ate word for Mabel. As for you — you are an arrant old OUT INTO THE WORLD. 7 humbug, and you know it, Stephen ! And now, after that little passage of arms, let us talk sense. Give me a serious answer to my question. Do you not think I am right in accepting Madame St. Hilaire's offer?" " Well, on the whole, perhaps I do. You do not want me to repeat to you that there is no need for you to do anything of the kind ; that this house is, now and always, your home — a home to abide in and to return to with never a doubt or question. You know that it feels more of a home to me when you are in it." " I know that you are better than a brother to me, Stephen, but yet I am not your sister, and even if I were, you and Mabel can not always wish for a third person's presence.

Ah ! I know you both care for me, but still at times it must be irksome — to Mabel, if not to you." " I know that you are a little goose, Anne, but I will not have any such fanciful nonsense ! Do you hear ? I will not have it, I say ! It is just like a woman, or rather a foolish chit of a girl, to take up such silly, fantastic scruples ! You will make me really angry if you think such things. Mabel and I are not just married we do not want to be always billing and cooing, and your presence would not stand much in the way if we did. When people have been married four years, and have got two babies, the romance settles down a little ! And I don't know what those same babies are going to do without you, Nan ! " " Nor what I shall do without them, the darlings ! But, after all, I am selfish, Stephen.

I want to see the world — to know something of a different kind of life — to get culture — " "Ah!" — as he uttered a sound somewhat resembling a growl. " I know you hate the word as it is used nowadays. You think it is only another term for intellectual selfishness FONTAINE- LA-CROLX. 8 and pseudo refinement ; but I mean the real thing, not the sham. I want to learn to take large views, to have wide sympathies, and I have often heard you say that to attain that end there is no means so sure as mixing with various classes and many kinds of society, and that no one can really understand the literature of a nation unless one knows something of the inner life of that nation. And, thirdly, I have a great desire for independence — there, don't scold me as ridiculously vain and proud before you have heard me out !

You see, as a matter of fact, I am very much alone in the world, though you and Mabel have never let me feel it, and I think I ought to learn to be self-reliant ; and also that I ought to be capable of supporting myself, if need were. Once more, don't be in a hurry to protest, Stephen ! I dare say there never will be any need. I know there will not if you have any control over circumstances, but one can never tell, and, in any case, I shall be none the worse for being fit to earn my own living. So I am going to serve my apprenticeship, first of all, by be coming governess-companion to Mademoiselle St. Hilaire. Treat it as a whim or a fad, if you like, but let me indulge it. When should one be allowed to have whims and fancies if not at twenty years old? " " My dear, you speak like a book !

I was lost in ad miration of your wisdom and practical common sense — indeed, I should have been utterly overpowered had you not kindly shown mercy on my weak mind by suddenly descending from heroics to something very like childish ness at the end of your oration ! Well, Nan, seriously, there is a great deal to be said both for your decision and its motives. And, as you say, having reached the mature age of twenty, you may certainly be allowed a few whims like the rest of your fellow-creatures. Only, when you are tired of your whim, let us know, and come back to Kingsdene." OUT INTO THE WORLD. 9 " Indeed, I will ; but I do not think I shall be tired of it very soon, though I may often long after dear little Kingsdene. And now I will write to Madame St. Hilaire." " Then I also will write to that Mrs. Marshall who promised to escort you."

They were soon engaged with their respective letters. Let us seize the opportunity to tell the reader something more about them than he has been enabled to gather from the preceding conversation. And first let us try to picture Anne Heriot as she sat writing busily, with an occasional pause for reflection, or for the interchange of are mark with her cousin. She was not beautiful. Anne never laid claim to that distinction, nor even did her friends for her, but most peo ple liked to look at her. She had a quantity of dark brown hair, with a red tinge in it, making it warm and bright, and she wore it (I am writing of the year '64) in a soft, abundant mass of coils wound round her head. She had a square, broad forehead, and eyes that matched her hair, seeming to have the same variety of shade, and her mouth, though large, was finely formed, with beautiful teeth.

When she smiled (and Anne smiled often) criticism was impossible. But, after all, you must picture her to yourselves, for no description would really tell you what a fine, frank, sensible face it was, nor do justice to the bright intelligence and sincerity of its expression. Close observers of it were, perhaps, most struck with its wealth of promise. Anne Heriot at twenty was a girl still, only half developed, but her face showed a deep, womanly nature, tender and strong and noble, only bid ing its time, awaiting the sunshine and the rain, to burst forth in gracious blossom, rare and fragrant. In the mean time, the bud was very fair and precious to those who loved her. Chief among these was Stephen Heriot. He was a man of seven or eight and thirty, a cousin of Anne's father, who had been dead some two years, and by whom he had been appointed her guardian.

He was in fact almost the only relation she had. Her mother had died soon after her birth, and her father's second wife was also dead. She had been a widow, with one daughter, Mabel Jervis, who four years ago, had married Stephen Heriot. It had thus seemed quite natural that, on her father's death, Stephen's house at Kingsdene should become Anne's home. It had been a very happy one. Mabel was an affectionate, cheery, sensible young wife, passionately de voted to her husband and children, and very kind to Anne. The latter was fond of her, but her affection for her was slight in comparison with that which she entertained for her cousin Stephen. She had known him first when she was about fourteen, at which time she amused her father by announcing with the emphatic decision which was one of her characteristics, even then, that he was the best man she had ever known.

To the end of her life she never altered that opinion. It was no mere romantic hero-worship. Stephen was far from resembling either the gallant fairy prince, or the ideal priest and saint to whom in turn young girls dedicate their imagination. He was a clear headed, practical man of business, living a prosaic, com fortable life. True he had known sorrows, many and deep, but they were past, and had left little trace to a casual eye. He was habitually cheerful, even gay, and he had so far outlived an early and bitter love-trouble as to woo and marry Mabel Jervis. But he was a man whom almost all women trusted, and who was worthy of the trust. Women, old and young, sometimes talked to Stephen Heriot as they would hardly talk to their own father or brother, untroubled by anv OUT INTO THE WORLD. 11 fear of their frankness being misconstrued.

There are a few men in the world who inspire this confidence, but it is hard to say by what rare combination of qualities it is won. Chiefly, perhaps, in his case, by great purity and sincerity of nature, loftiness of aim, together with a strong sense of the difficulty of doing right, unbending views of duty and rectitude, but a heart and an intellect wide enough for a generous tolerance and pity toward those who have failed in the struggle, which he knew by sore experience to be very hard. He had no patience with sentimentality and affectation ; they found no mercy at his hands, and the woman who was unlucky enough to display either to him sank almost irrevocably in his estimation. But the true and modest were sure of finding a patient hearing from him, and receiving counsel simple and prac tical, yet high-minded.

It was often stern and uncompro mising enough, yet few were offended by his plain speak ing, for women will bear much from a man of this kind. Anne owed a great deal to him. He had always taken an interest in her ; first, because the ties of blood counted for much with a man of his deep and constant affections, and then for her own sake. That tousinship which may mean so much or so little in different cases, represented a most close and real bond between these two. I may as well say at once, to avoid any danger of misconception, that there never was, and there never could have been, anything of the nature of love-making. Stephen was en gaged and married while Anne was still a child ; but even if he had been single, it would not probably have made much difference. He regarded her as a young sister, while to Anne their intercourse, with all the sweet familiarity of brotherhood, had that element of freedom and spontaneity which makes the charm of friendship, and which is sometimes lacking to the nearer tie.

She had, however, made up her mind to leave Kings dene for a time, influenced chiefly by the reasons which she had expressed to Stephen, but also to some extent by one at which she had only hinted. It had seemed to her once or twice lately that Mabel, fond as she was of her, would at times rather have been without her constant presence. She was much too good and sensible a woman to entertain any foolish jealousy of her husband's affection for Anne. She knew well that though Anne's intellect and even her character might be superior to her own, the mere sacred fact of her being his wife gave her a place in the heart of a man like Stephen to which no other woman might approach. But Mabel knew also that though he loved her truly, she was not his first love, that the passion of his youth had been given to another, and that though he was happy enough now, a certain fragrance had van ished out of his life which it would never know again.

There was a degree of bitterness in this consciousness to Mabel, who herself had given him the utter devotion of a virgin heart, and it manifested itself in a longing to do everything for him herself, a sort of impatience that she could not entirely fill his life, that he should turn to any one but herself for the smallest ministration either to his comfort or pleasure. It was foolish, perhaps, yet not altogether unnatural in a young wife with Mabel's somewhat narrow, intense character. Anne was generous enough not to be offended, to understand the element of justice in Mabel's feelings, and to make up her mind that she would not, in however slight a degree, come between husband and wife, would run no risk of losing the affec tion which was precious to her. In a year or two Mabel would have settled down — would have learned to appre ciate more fully the worth of the man whom, it some times seemed to Anne, she did not really understand, not- CUT INTO THE WORLD. 13 withstanding her worship of him — would be able to trust and rest in his love, and then she (Anne) might return.

For the present, it was better she should go. She was anxious to go to France, and that not merely as a visitor, but to see something of the ordinary home-life of the people. She had received through friends the offer of a situation as governess-companion to the daughter of a French lady — a widow, living in the village of Fontaine-la-Croix, in one of the western provinces of France. She learned that Mademoiselle St. Hilaire was betrothed to the Comte de Fontaine, who, having been brought up partly in England, was anxious that she should study the English language by intercourse with an English woman. Madame St. Hilaire wrote courteously and kindly to Anne, and the answers to the inquiries which Stephen made about her were very satisfactory. She was the granddaughter of a nobleman who had been exiled at the Revolution, but who had returned and recovered his estates.

She had married a man who was beneath her in birth, but who was possessed of a considerable income. Since his death, many years ago, she had lived very quietly, going little into society, but devoting herself to the educa tion of her one daughter. It was said that she was much respected and loved, and there seemed every probability that Anne would have a happy, if a somewhat quiet, home with her.

Chapter II

A KNIGHT IN DISGUISE. "As when a painter, posing on a face, Divinely through all hindrance finds the man Behind it . . . So the face before her lived Dark — splendid, speaking in the silence, full Of noble things." Tennyson, " Lancelot and Elaine." Aboui rive o'clock on an April day Anne Heriot was seated in a first-class carriage on the railway de I 'Slat, on her way to Fontaine-la-Croix. The lady under whose es cort she had hitherto traveled had put her into the train at Paris, telling her that the rest of the journey would present no difficulty. There was no change until she reached the little town of Aubry, where the railroad stopped, and whence an omnibus ran to Fontaine. Anne had no misgivings, for though unused to traveling alone, she was naturally self-reliant. She was not very happy, however, at this moment.

They had had a very stormy crossing that morning, and she had suffered considerably, and was rather worn out by fatigue. It had rained all day, so that she could see but little of the country through which she passed, and that little was not very interesting. She was weary and depressed, and her thoughts turned with a strange long ing to Stephen and Mabel and the babies at dear little Kingsdene. As she pictured the familiar homescene where her place was vacant, she felt a sudden thrill of misgiving that she had been very foolish to leave it for the cold, strange world, and something climbed up into her throat which, for the moment, threatened to choke her. But she controlled herself resolutely. Anne was a brave girl, and she was not going to let her heart fail her at the very outset. She turned round from the con templation of the rain-sodden country and the streaming windows, trying to resist her perilous tendency to the tears which she was wont to despise, by taking a survey of her fellow-travelers.

She had been alone until a short time before, when her privacy had been invaded by three persons. Opposite to her was a quick, lively French girl, traveling with her brother, to whom she was talking very fast. Anne listened for some time, amused by the vivacious chatter, of which she gathered the import but imperfectly, and the eager, rapid gesticulation. By-and-by her eye wandered to her third companion, who was sitting at the other end of the carriage. He was a young man of about six-and-twenty, dressed with some elegance, and looking like a gentleman — not like an English gentleman ; Anne noted the difference in type at once. The hall-mark was there, but the pat tern was not quite the same. He was tall and strongly made (Anne had already been obliged to modify her pre conceived notion that all Frenchmen were short and fat).

This one was dark enough to suit conventional ideas, how ever, and, as she quickly decided, very ugly. Yet there was something in the keen, irregular, sharply cut features which pleased her, and, in some curious way, reminded her of Stephen. That was enough to send her thoughts back to Kingsdene once more, and her mind began to retrace every incident of the parting the day before. She was quite unconscious that she had continued to gaze fix edly at the stranger, until all at once she encountered a swift glance from a pair of eyes bright, keen, and pierc ing as those of a hawk. They met hers for a moment with a searching expression, which, however, was neither impertinent nor unkindly. Anne withdrew hers hastily, very angry with herself for what she felt must appear rude ness on her part, especially in France, and still more angry at the hot blush which she felt mount to her face.

It would not in the least have affected her sense of shame and self-reproach, had she known how becoming was the brilliant color which gave life and brightness to her countenance. She was unreasonably annoyed with the young man, too, although he had given her no more than that quick, momentary look, and had then turned away and busied himself with his books and newspapers ; but she could not get rid of the uncomfortable suspicion that he was perfectly aware of her presence, and was quietly study ing her without appearing to do so. To solve her doubts, she at length ventured to glance at him once more, and then she saw that her impression must have arisen only from her own uneasy conscience, for he was reading in tently. It struck her that his expression had changed and softened ; it was altogether a gentler, nobler face than she had seen at first, and just now there was something very sweet and fine about the lips.

She was fond of studying faces, having a bright interest and curiosity about her fellow-creatures, but, mindful of her former experience, she quickly recalled her eyes. A moment afterward she was aroused to startled atten tion by a remark of the young girl opposite. Anne did not understand her very well, but she was speaking of the bad weather and the floods, and Anne thought she said that when she had passed Aubry in the morning, almost the whole country was under water and the roads impass able. Then followed something about an omnibus, which Anne could not quite comprehend. She was alarmed, for she knew that she was going to an out-of-the-way place, with which the omnibus was probably the only means of communication. " Pardon me," she said, in the best French that she could command, " but did I understand you to say that the omnibus was unable to go to Fontaine-la-Croix ?

" The girl looked rather surprised at being addressed. Anne had already become conscious that her traveling alone excited the astonishment of the French demoiselle, who had probably never been the length of the street un accompanied ; but she replied courteously : " Yes, mademoiselle, it is so, I assure you. It has rained, as you see, for a whole week ; and in the country of Aubry the roads are at the worst. We are come this morning from Lucon, and as we passed Aubry there were persons in the train — people of the country — who said that the omnibus to Fontaine broke itself last night, and that it could go no more until the weather was amelio rated " " But, then, how shall I get to Fontaine to-night ? " asked Anne. " Shall I be able to get a carriage at Aubry ? " " I fear not, mademoiselle," said the young lady's brother.

" Aubry is a very little town, and I fear that no one would take you as far as Fontaine in this weather." " What shall I do then ? " said Anne. " I fear that mademoiselle will be forced to pass the night at Aubry We must pray the bon Dieu to make the rain cease, and doubtless the omnibus will march in the morning," replied the young lady. Anne's heart sank. In spite of her courage, the pros pect of spending the night alone, in a strange town, in a foreign land, among people whom she could hardly com prehend, was somewhat terrible to the girl of twenty. " Mademoiselle is all alone ? " said the young lady, curiously. " Yes.' " Mademoiselle is, without doubt, English ! " At Anne's affirmative answer, a look of intelligence passed between the brother and sister, and she could not help feeling a little amused at the perception that her position was set down as another instance of English eccentricity.

Yet she was annoyed at the whispered remark, " Comme c 'est Anglais i '" which was intended to be inaudible, but which she comprehended perfectly, and the more so when she saw that the young man at the other end of the carriage had looked up, and was listening to the conversation. Did he, too, consider it a " very English thing " Anne wondered, feeling vexed and uncomfortable. But the real difficulties of her position once more pre sented themselves to her mind, and she inquired of her former interlocutors if they could tell her of a hotel or lodging-house at Aubry where she might stay for the night. . They replied with profuse and courteous expressions of regret that they were quite unable to do so ; they had no acquaintance with Aubry beyond passing the station, and they themselves were returning to Lucon.

Mademoi selle would doubtless be able to obtain all information at the station. Anne thanked them, and drew back into her corner, feeling rather forlorn. A rush of homesickness came over her, a sudden painful wonder what Stephen would say if he knew of her solitary, unprotected condition ; then she put her hand to her throat to force down weakness, and braced her courage once more. After all, no harm could come to her ; everybody had been very kind to her hither to, and she was quite capable of taking care of herself. She even tried to smile as she told herself that this was an adventure such as she had read of, and which she had al ways fancied would be rather amusing. The attempt was somewhat of a failure, and she found that the situation was less pleasant in reality than in imagination ; but, nevertheless, she had quieted her nerves and scolded her self into something like equanimity when the train stopped at Aubry a quarter of an hour later.

She received a courteous bon jour and a hope that she would safely ac complish her journey from the young lady and her brother as she got out, and she felt almost as though she were leaving friends. The other gentleman did not speak, having, indeed, taken no part in the conversation, but as she stood on the platform a moment later, feeling a little uncertain and bewildered, she suddenly saw him at her side. " Pardon, mademoiselle," he said, raising his hat, and speaking in very tolerable English. " I have asked about the omnibus, and I fear it is too much true that you can go no farther this night ; the roads are quite impassable. Dare I to name to you a house where you will be well lodged and quite comfort-able ? " "Thank, you, monsieur ! " said Anne, frankly. She was a little embarrassed, and had a quick misgiv ing that the situation was peculiar, that this young man was a strange person to confide in ; but her own language was like music in her ears, and he had a singularly clear and winning voice in which she recognized a ring of sin cerity.

His manner, too, was full of high-bred deference, and, glancing up, she met another look from the keen, bright eyes to which she gave instant trust. It was some what rash, perhaps, but simple, honest people like Anne have instincts which rarely deceive them. " It is at the widow Fauchet's, Rue St. Jean," he went on. " You will be there more quiet than at a hotel. She is a good woman who will care for you. You will be quite well there, and it is very convenable. This porter will con duct you, you will stay there this night, and in the morn ing you will go on to Fontaine quite tranquilly." " Thank you, monsieur ; thank you very much ! " said Anne, gratefully. " But, no — mademoiselle will pardon my indiscretion." There was something like real anxiety in the tone, and Anne could not help saying, cordially : " It is, on the contrary, a great kindness, monsieur, and I am very grateful."