A Long Probation

Front matter

A LONG PROBATION BY HENRY GIBBS "The virtue of the soul does not consist in flying high, but in walking orderly. Its grandeur does not exercise itself in, grandeur, but in mediocrity." — Montaigne LONDON : BURNS & OATES, Limited NEW YORK, CINCINNATI, CHICAGO : BENZIGER BROTHERS CONTENTS. Book I. — The Orphan. CHAPTER PAGE I. Ringing in the Orphan of St. Valerie - - - 1 II. At the Foot of the Cross - ----- 10 III. L'Inconnue -------- 16 IV. The Foster-Mother ------- 26 V. The Foundling has his Palm Examined 33 VI. The Foundling makes his Public Debut 38 VII. Anxious Foster-Parents ------ 45 VIII. Valerie-Michel-Desire ------ 54 IX. A Bohemian Dinner-Party ----- 58 X. Dream-Faces - 68 XI. Thomas Harrington ------- 75 XII. Thomas Harrington's Resolve ----- 82 XI II. A Childless Marriage ------ 87 XIV.

Dumb Show and Eloquence ----- 91 XV. The Poetry of Motion ------ 103 XVI. ABC - - - - - - - - - 109 XVII. Three Months' Notice - 116 Will. Pere Peutel's Smithy ------ 121 XIX. Michel's Farewell ------- 132 XX. A New Foster-Father for Valerie - - . - 144 Book II. — Count Herluin's Tribulation. I. A Chateau in Eastern France - - - - - 149 II. Herluin D'Heugleville ------ 158 III. Valerie in his New Home - - - - - - 162 IV. Educational -------- 168 V. The Rev. Stephen Harty ------ 173 VI. Diamond Dust -------- 177 VII. Docendo Dicimus ------- 181 VIII. The Liberal Soul Maketh Fat - - CONTENTS. VI CHAPTER PACE IX. Distinguished Visitors to Queensholme - - - 193 X. Valerie Leaps into Two Things at Once - - 205 XI. Imperial Congratulations - - - - - 211 XII. " For the Wounded in the Crimea "... 219 XIII.

Old Voices and Old Faces 228 XIV. Veuve Perpetue Makes a Present - 242 XV. The Unknown Dead and the Unknown Living - 247 XVI. Cissy 253 XVII. The Oath of Fealty 259 XVIII. The Knights Attack a Live Dragon - - - - 262 XIX. Easter Day in Rouen Cathedral - - - - 277 XX. One of the Congregation 283 XXI. The Vacant Chairs 287 XXII. Many Children, But No Son 295 XXIII. A Paris Salon -------- 298 XXIV. The Recreations of the " Spirits " - - - - 305 Book III. — Youth. I. Youth 311 II. The Bachelors' Menage 316 III. St. Cecilia's Day 321 IV. Serio-Comedy in Chelsea 328 V. The Foster-Brother 338 VI. The Foster-Brother (continued) - 348 VII. "St. Cecilia" - 358 VIII. Cissy's Bower 365 IX. An Oft-Told Tale 368 X. Abbe Hauchecorne Pays a Visit - 374 XI. A Home of Mercy 381 XII. The Two Comtes ..-..-._ 388 XIII.

Book I Chapter

I. RINGING IN THE ORPHAN OF ST. VALERIE It is a June morning in Normandy, and St. Valerie looks at its best. The glorious Seine is at full flood, and its clear broad stream reflects in its shining bosom the dappled sky above it. Numerous islands, what we English folk call eyots, are covered with fruit trees, apples and pears, and these are smothered in blossom. One would think that a snow-storm had occurred in the night, and that it had melted everywhere excepting on the trees. Off to the right the river runs under tall chalk cliffs which, now and then, are broken into chasms that open up long vistas of undulating land and of lovely valleys. Far away there are heights crowned with thick woods, and the early spring, with its abundant showers and prodigal sunshine, has clothed them with a wealth of foliage of every variety of green.

Every turret, every gable-end of the southern and eastern sides of the fine old abbey church of St. Valerie sur-Seine shines like burnished gold, and as its clock strikes five and its bells pour out a volume of glorious sound the scene is so etherealised that the joyous heart, transported from the earth, looks up to heaven and reads unutterable love. Deep, full, clear, rich, harmonious, how strange and impressive is the peal as it floods the morning light and trembles off in the distance, far along the surface of the stream, sweeping along the green pastures or wafted up the fir-crowned heights. The material universe is vividly present, but these bells suddenly clash out on the morning air and speak of things invisible and the mystery of life. Already there is a stir in the market-place. Under the very wing of the abbey church— a superb and admirably preserved example of fourteenth-century architec ture, at which in the course of this story we shall look more than once— some caravans, three in number, having spent the night, are now being got ready by their owners for departure to some neighbouring town or village.

The incongruity is striking. Piercing high into the air is the spire of the abbey church : a noble rose window is made resplendent over the west door, which, cut into many recesses, is decorated with the sculptured effigies of prophets, martyrs and saints. The whole front is a mass of rich carving and delicate tracery, and every stroke that was made in the stone was done by a craftsman who loved his work, and felt that he was working for the edification and delight of centuries. One could imagine many a cavalcade of brave knights and fair dames passing before it. Yet at the very doorway is clustered a sin gular group of people, dressed, the men in peaked caps and blouses and poor garments generally ; the women in simple clothing with the inevitable white cap with stream ers so characteristic of the country — chatting, joking, laughing evidently at some unwonted incident.

They are no pilgrims come to worship at the shrine here ; but they are the dramatis persona, the retinue of a quack doctress of celebrity in these parts, and they should be getting ready for a movement, or for an attack on some other town, having spent several days at St. Valerie (as we must call it), and sold all the elixirs, the tooth ache cures, the rheumatic embrocations, which the simple folk of St. Valerie are at present inclined to purchase. Their caravans are covered with huge and highly pre- Raphaelite drawings, vividly coloured, of skeletons, of skulls and of human stomachs of a very frightful character, calculated to impress beholders that they are fearfully and wonderfully made, and that elixirs and embrocations are essential to keep the complicated machinery in working order. The ill-kept, by no means well-fed, horses have been put into the shafts, the various impedimenta of rough bedding on which the men have slept over-night have been collected from under the caravans, and the whole, or nearly all, of the company are near the abbey door, grouped round a woman who holds a baby of perhaps ten months old in her arms.

" He bien, Madame Golard," exclaimed one of their number. " He bien ; we congratulate you and m'sieu. You kept your secret well. We did not even know that une petite was expected ; and hey, presto, in the twinkling of an eye, here it is alive and kicking, and madame herself again ! " " Oh, taisez-vous bete ! " replied the woman called Golard, as she held the baby caressingly to her bosom ; " go and see if La Paysanne is up." Before the man of badinage could reply, a voice, that of a woman, from the farthest and largest caravan, called out " Jules, Jules ! " The man hurried to the spot and came towards the caravan. A woman's head appeared from out of the upper part of the opened doorway. She was evidently the mistress and proprietor of the troupe. Over the door was a large scroll on which was printed, " Arrivee de La Jeune Paysanne Alsacienne ".

She was better dressed than the other women of the troupe, and spoke with authority. " Bonjour, ma'amselle, bonjour," saluted Jules, " but you are up early ! " "Early! did I not say that we must move off to Rouen for the Fetes Dieu the day after to-morrow ? Mais, mon Dieu, if I had been sleeping with the dead I should have been awoke by the cackling of such a lot of cocks and hens as are all of you ! Are the horses in ? " " Ma'amselle, it has hardly struck five— the bells have this moment rung it out ; yet all is ready ; but hold one minute. Madame Golard has presented us with an addi tion to our family ! " " Bah, idiot, you are always inventing fables. They are all very well when one is selling the elixir to the canaille, but amongst ourselves, Jules " " Mais, ma'amselle, it is 1, Jules Dors, trumpeter to La Paysanne Alsacienne, that assure you, on my faith (here he crossed himself and pointed to the church), that Madame Golard has in her arms at this moment the most exquisite little lump of humanity that ever was born in St. Valerie, or anywhere else.

If only he could be dissected ! What internal organs, what a heart, what a brain, what a soul ! " " A soul, idiot ! you cion't get at the soul by dissection ; but go bring Golard here." The group at the farther caravan, consisting of several men and women, now dressed like the ordinary French peasant — their imposing professional costumes of red jackets and helmets being packed in sacks on the top of their caravans — and the woman with the baby, hearing the voice of " La Paysanne," moved forward to her. At the same time the baby gave a loud chuckle as it seized and put into its mouth one of Madame Golard's cap strings. " Eh bien," called out La Paysanne from the doorway of her laboratory, sleeping apartment, and sitting-room, for it was all these, " what pleasantry is this ? Are we not bound for Rouen to-day ?

Speak, La Rue, what is it?" Madame Golard, alias La Rue, stepped out, and hand ing up the baby to her superior said, " Ma'amselle, see, is it not an angel? This morning at two o'clock my husband and myself were sleeping. Golard and I had done, as you know, much work on the trapeze last evening. He slumbered heavily. I myself slept but lightly, for I had a heavenly dream." La Paysanne looked scornful and raised her hands in a deprecatory manner ; a burst of laughter came from the rest of the audience. " La Rue," said the lady superior and proprietor, " time presses. I pray you confine yourself to facts ; do not indulge us with a romance of Dumas this morning. Dites done, how came you by this child?" " The very thing I was about to tell ma'amselle when she chid me. Let me see, was it two o'clock ?

Yes, it must have been two o'clock or thereabout when I dreamt that a child was crying to me for help. Pardon me, ma'amselle, be not impatient." Here La Paysanne stamped her foot and shrugged her shoulders, and looked very impatient indeed as she flung her white streamers over her shoulders. La Rue continued : " I thought it was my dear little one, the blessed angel that lies in the cimetiere yonder, come to life again. My heart beat with joy and delight. I sprang to meet him, when " Here La Paysanne, who perhaps did not like this imitation, unconscious though it might he, of her own grandiloquent style, stamped her foot ; but the others, knowing that by hook or by crook the woman would tell her story in her own way, looked pityingly at her husband and resigned themselves to their fate. " When I awoke, and, alas, it was a dream, my little one was not by my side.

I sat for some moments weeping when, hark, I heard a child's cry. Laugh at me, ma'amselle, if you will. Call me fool, idiot, but as I heard that cry methought, ' Yes, yes, it is he after all '. I hesitated no longer. I opened the door, and there, behold, a bundle was lying at my feet. In an ecstasy I shouted to Golard. He arose and found a light, and both of us gazed in astonishment and admiration on this superb infant. Is it not so, Golard ? " All eyes turned on Monsieur Golard ; but he did not possess the volubility of his spouse. He was the pro fessor of acrobatics of the troupe, and did, with Madame Golard, sometimes called by her maiden name — La Rue — daring deeds on the trapeze ; but when words were needed he was but a dealer in monosyllables. So he now puckered up his face into a thousand wrinkles, raised his hands, and, nodding his head backwards and forwards, said "Yes" with his whole body.

La Paysanne stretched out her arms, and Madame Golard carefully deposited the baby in them. At the same time the little creature gave a chuckle and, opening wide its eyes, smiled at the woman in a confiding manner. " Bon Dieu!" she exclaimed, as she looked at the child, examining its eyes, neck, arms, ears, abundant hair, its tiny, plump, little feet. " La Rue is right. What eyes! as deep and beautiful as the canopy of heaven above us ! (La Paysanne had dropped unconsciously into her ora torical manner.) What chiselled features, too, for an infant of not many months old. Why, my sister-in-law could not surpass it in wax ! Little beauty ! " and the woman pressed many kisses on the infant's lips. " It must be," interjected Madame Golard, " it must be nearly twelve months old — the very same age that my little Desire would have been had he been spared to me."

" Yes, probably ; but what limbs, what beauty — 'tis a very Cupid. See its little fingers ; it is perfect. Is there anything by which to identify it?" " Ma'amselle, there is a tiny gold chain of peculiar workmanship round its neck; but there is neither mark nor sign on its clothes or elsewhere. There was also this piece of paper tucked in its bosom.'' She handed up a scrap of paper, and La Paysanne read thus: — " 'Au unhappy woman confides her child to your care '. Strange ! what shall we do with it ? " " Oh, let me keep it, ma'amselle," cried Madame Golard beseechingly. " Let me keep it. It is a gift from heaven to me. Please let me keep it. 'Tis Desire come back again." " But it does not belong to us! It is not ours. What say you, Dors ? " Monsieur Jules Dors, a short, stout man, with swollen cheeks, — principal musician to the party, — looking as though he played a great deal on the horn, and that his heart was in his work, shook his head.

" Send it to the mairie." " Bah ! " exclaimed La Rue indignantly. " Send it to the mairie, indeed, to be fed on coarse bread and bad water; to have its long locks cut off; to be called by a number. Listen not, ma'amselle, to Jules Dors. He has no tenderness for anything but his trombone and his drum, and that he delights in beating. He has never had an infant, God be thanked ! he would beat it to death. Besides, its mother, whoever she is, poor soul, entrusted it to us. She could have sent it to the mairie." " Ales enfants," said La Paysanne ; her woman's feelings had been stirred by the emotion of La Rue, " there is something in what she says. Whoever left it here put us, or La Rue, on our honour. Its tiny mouth will be no burden to us: the very exhibition of it will sell at least three dozen of our Soothing Syrup, and our Infant Reviver will sell itself.

But we are a republic here ; the majority must decide. Tenez, those who are in favour of adopting the waif signify the same. Hands up ! " Madame Golard shouted out a passionate " Yes," and held both her hands up. Golard and another man sup ported her. " For," said La Paysanne as solemnly as though she were chairman of a school board or county council, " three. Against ? " Hereupon Jules Dors and another man raised their hands. Another man and woman did not vote. "The motion is carried by three to two. Here, La Rue, take your infant. He is heavy, and seems hungry. Golard, go purchase a feeding bottle for him, or biscuits, he has several teeth, I observe." " Mais, ma'amselle, all these things we have of our dear Desire, in our caravan." " Bon! it is well. Dors, let breakfast be prepared. In half an hour en route !

" The company dispersed. La Paysanne retired within her parlour to complete her toilet ; the others accompanied Dors, drummer, trumpeter, and cook to the tra velling company. In a few minutes coffee was served from a small stove ; a delicious omelette was carried to the directress, who always partook of her morning meal apart from the other professionals, while the remainder sat around Dors and consumed their cafe au lait and unbuffered bread, cut in slices from huge round loaves of the size of cheeses, and discussed the incident of the new-found baby. Many were the conjectures, some declared by Dors to be absurd and others too ingenious, that were hazarded respecting it ; but all agreed that, plain as were the garments in which the infant was wrapped, it was a superb one ; and that as Fate had determined to comfort Golard she could not have received a more beautiful sub stitute for her lamented little Desire.

But lengthy dis cussion was out of the question. Punctually at six, as the abbey bells rung out the hour, all St. Valerie was apprised of the fact that La Paysanne Alsacienne, with her elixirs, embrocations, and toothache cures, with her acrobats, her drums, trumpets, and shawms, was depart ing for a time. Jules Dors, sitting on the top of his caravan, and sup ported by Bosmelet, the trombonist, blew a loud and long blast of a wild and fantastic, not to say highly imaginative, character, while La Paysanne beat time with her wand or kissed her hand to the crowd which had assembled to witness the departure. The music seemed to convey, in true Wagnerian manner, congratulations on the cures that had been effected by the far-famed medicines, regrets that the world-renowned doctress must for a time disappear, and consolation that her absence would not be prolonged.

Perspiration poured down the red cheeks of Jules Dors and those of his able second, M. Bosmelet. The drummer was intent on beating soft or loud, or main taining a prolonged rumbling obligate, according to the inspirations of Dors. Then, at a signal from La Pay sanne, whips cracked, the horses tugged at the shafts, the Valerians lifted their caps or hats, and shouted, " Bon voyage : Au revoir ; " and the procession moved along the river road, which was to conduct them in due time to Rouen.

Chapter II. At The Foot Of The Cross

While Madame Golard, alias La Rue, was pleading with La Paysanne and her comrades in the market-place of St. Valerie, a strange incident was being enacted at the outskirts of the town. At the far and eastern end of this town in the Seine Inferieure stood the presbytery in which resided Monsieur L'Abbe Hauchecorne, with his housekeeper and his sacristan Francois Bressin. Mon sieur Armand-Jean-Marie-Edouard Hauchecorne, cure of St. Valerie, was an early riser. All Normans are early risers, but the abbe led the way. He did not wait to be aroused by the pealing bells from his beloved eglise in the market square yonder, but before they had told the hour of five the abbe's morning toilet was as a rule com plete, and he was in readiness to wander, if the morning air were warm and genial, round the garden, or, if rainy or otherwise inclement, to sit and meditate or study in one of the numerous rooms which composed his presby tery — always book in hand.

Twenty years had passed since Armand Hauchecorne had been sent as cure to St. Valerie ; but not one of his parishioners had ever seen him without at least one book in his hand. More often the good cure was carrying three. Every room in the presbytery was filled with books; every table was covered with them, and when the books themselves were ex amined by the privileged friend or visitor he marvelled not that the abbe was an early riser, for not one of the four or five thousand volumes that formed his library AT THE FOOT OF THE CROSS. 11 but was enriched with comments and annotations in the neat and delicately written handwriting of the priest and antiquarian who owned them. This morning was one of abundant sunshine: the sun had already mounted high in the eastern sky ; the ait was filled with the hum of insects, the song of birds, and the fragrance of the flowers ; and as the abbe stepped out into his garden, which surrounded the presbytery and detached it from all other houses at that end of the town, he felt — glorious and beautiful as was his beloved church — that the Supreme, the Eternal Father had built Himself a still more beautiful temple in the world around him ; that the azure vault above him was more splendid than the groined and painted roof of the eglise St. Valerie ; that the songs of the thrushes and the larks excelled those of the white-robed choristers, even in their grandest masses and when assisted by the tenors and the basses, the flutes, violins, and 'cellos which on great occasions lent their aid ; and that the odour of the musk and the roses which had now abundantly bloomed was even sweeter than the incense which floated upwards in clouds around him when he celebrated mass at the high altar of the abbey church.

So the abbe was in his garden pacing, the walks and reading from the spiritual letters of St. Francois de Sales — that mine of common-sense, of pure religion, and admirable wisdom. " Strive every where and in all things to be at peace. If trouble comes from within or without, receive it peacefully. If joy comes, receive it peacefully, without excitement. If we must needs fly from evil, let us do it calmly, without agi tation, or we may stumble and fall in our haste. Let us do good peacefully, or our hurry will lead us into sundry faults. Even repentance is a work that should be carried on peacefully." The priest paced slowly round, occasionally raising his .4 LONG PROBATION. 12 dark eyes from the page he was reading, and repeating aloud the lines that delighted him most. " Even repentance is a work that should be carried on peacefully."

" They are the words of a man of genius," murmured the abbe, " every priest should write them in letters of gold in his study." " But what is it, mon fils ? What agitates you, Francois ? " The priest addressed his inquiry to a man of some thirty years of age, a short, thickly built man, with dark eyes and hair like his own, who came running towards him, looking excited and alarmed as though he were the bearer of ill news. It was Francois-Boniface Bressin, the sacristan, precentor, and village schoolmaster. Ordi narily Monsieur Bressin was of most grave and measured mien. Like the abbe, his friend and patron, he was a lover of books, and his studious habits together with the duties in the Church, always punctually performed, had given him a measured gravity of demeanour which, abandoned now, caused alarm to the priest.

But breathless as he was and excited as he looked he knelt to receive the morning's blessing, and reverently kissed the father's hand. Then rising, he said : " Mon pere, come with me, there is a woman, a stranger to the place, lying faint and ill at the foot of the Cross. Come with me." " Bon, Francois, let us tell Flore to prepare for her and go immediately." They proceeded rapidly to the presbytery and called, " Flore, Flore ! " •• Me voici, m'sieu le cure," called a woman as she pre sented herself at the door. " Flore, there is a woman, a stranger, lying ill outside. Prepare a couch for her, get out the cognac while Francois and 1 go to her aid." Usually calm and measured in all he did, Abbe Hauche corne never lacked energy or speed when on a work of AT THE FOOT OF THE CROSS. 13 charity, and he strode along at a rapid pace, with which the shorter man, Francois, had difficulty in keeping up.

As he moved along the country road he was a picturesque object in his broad-brimmed beaver hat, his long black soutane and the spotless white bands which Flore the housekeeper got up with so much pride. A walk of live minutes and a bend in the road brought the two men within sight of the great crucifix, roughly carved in stone by some village mason many years ago. It stood in the middle of the intersection of two high roads, bathed in the rich light of the morning sun. The two men knelt and crossed themselves, and instantly ran to the foot of the monument as they saw at the same instant a woman lying flat, motionless, on her face, her hands clasped over her head as though she had fainted while in prayer. The priest on one side and the sacristan on the other, tenderly raised her up and turned her body over, when there was revealed the face of a girl, hardly a woman yet, of perhaps eighteen or nineteen years old.

Her abundant hair — raven black — fell from under her cap and formed a frame of ebony (as it were) for a face white as ivory, and of features of exquisite and chiselled beauty. It was of perfect and noble proportions: dark pencilled eyebrows, nostrils of exquisite shape and sensibility, rich full lips which could manifest love or scorn. All these things the two Samaritans saw and silently noted as they glanced eagerly, without speech, into each other's eyes. The priest rapidly unfastened the dress about the neck, the sacristan crossed to a little rivulet of water that trickled down from the limestone rock above and returned and bathed the woman's forehead and face and neck. She, however, manifested no sign of life : the priest felt her wrist. It was pulseless, and the hand was stiff and cold.

A LONG PROBATION. 14 " To the doctor, Francois. Bring cognac, too. 1 will stay by her side." Francois took off his blouse and his waistcoat and folded them up and made a pillow for the poor head, and they slowly, slowly, tenderly and reverently, lowered it down. Francois darted back for medical aid, while the abbe knelt, and chafing the poor cold hands, fervently re cited the prayers of his Church for the dying or the dead. The sight of death had no terrors for the priest. In the round of his duties he was but too familiar with it ; but the abbe's tender heart was afflicted that one so young and beautiful should be here dying or dead in a strange village, with no mother's or sister's hand to minister to her, to give a parting kiss or close the sightless eyes. Meantime, Francois had not been idle.

In but a few minutes he had reached the presbytery, seized the de canter of cognac, crossed to the doctor's house opposite, and summoned, in a manner that permitted no refusal, two men hoeing in the field opposite to follow him. The doctor, Francois, and the two villagers doubled down to the spot where monsieur le cure knelt in charge. They stood breathless while monsieur le medecin knelt down and quietly examined the body. Strange ! not one of these men had seen the woman before : they knew nothing of her : yet there pulsed through the heart of every one of them a burning, eager, throbbing desire that his verdict would be favourable. But it was not to be so. He examined the wrist and shook his head ; he placed his hand over the heart ; he examined the eyes. His hand dropped by his side. " Monsieur le cure," he said, " she has been dead some hours."

They all took off their caps and knelt around their de parted sister while the priest prayed. The sunbeams played on the sculptured image of the Man of Sorrows, AT THE FOOT OF THE CROSS. 15 and transfigured the face of the beautiful young creature who seemed not dead but sleeping, and the priest mur mured, " Requiem æternam dona ea Domine ; et lux perpetua luceat ea — Give her, O Lord, eternal rest, and let perpetual light shine upon her ". Then they arose to their feet. By this time many of the Valerians, having heard that something was astir at the far end of their town, had run to the presbytery to see if anything had happened to the beloved cure. These had been directed by Flore, the housekeeper, to the whereabouts of the accident, and quite a little crowd of men, women, and children had now gathered round the doctor, the cure, and Francois ; but the presence of death hushed them all.