"Why, mam'zelle?" he asked.

"Because you have lost your mother," I answered.

"Yes, mam'zelle," he said, simply; "she was a great loss to me, though she was always fretting about my inheriting the land. That is the law of the island, and no one can set it aside. The eldest son inherits the land, and I was not her own son, though I did my best to be like a real son to her. She died happier in thinking that her son, or grandson, would follow me when I am gone, and I was glad she had that to comfort her, poor woman."

"But you may marry again some day, my good Tardif," I said; "how I wish you would!"

"No, mam'zelle, no," he answered, with a strange quivering tone in his voice; "my mother knew why before she died, and it was a great comfort to her. Do not think I am not happy alone. There are some memories that are better company than most folks. Yes, there are some things I can think of that are more and better than any wife could be to me."

Why we were both silent after that I scarcely knew. Both of us had many things to think about, no doubt, and the ideas were tumbling over one another in my poor brain till I wished I could cease to think for a few hours.

Vespers ended, and the villagers began to disperse stealthily. Not a wooden _sabot_ clattered on the stones. Mademoiselle and Monsieur Laurentie came in, with a tread as soft as if they were afraid of waking a child out of a light slumber.

"Mademoiselle," I cried, "monsieur, behold me; I am here."

My voice and my greeting seemed to transport them with delight.

Mademoiselle embraced me, and kissed me on both cheeks. Monsieur le Cure blessed me, in a tremulously joyous accent, and insisted upon my keeping his arm-chair. We sat down to supper together, by the light of a brilliant little lamp, and Pierre, who was passing the uncurtained window, saw me there, and carried the news into the village.

The next day Tardif bade me farewell, and Monsieur Laurentie drove him to Granville on his way home to Sark.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH.

FAREWELL TO VILLE-EN-BOIS.

The unbroken monotony of Ville-en-bois closed over me again. The tolling of the morning bell; the hum of matins; the frugal breakfast in the sunlit _salon_; the long, hot day; vespers again; then an hour's chat by twilight with the drowsy cure and his sister, whose words were so rare.

Before six such days had passed, I felt as if they were to last my lifetime. Then the fretting of my uneasy woman's heart began. There was no sign that I had any friends in England. What ought I to do? How must I set about the intricate business of my affairs? Must I write to my trustees in Melbourne, giving them the information of my husband's death, and wait till I could receive from them instructions, and credentials to prove my identity, without which it was useless, if it were practicable, to return to London? Was there ever any one as friendless as I was? Monsieur Laurentie could give me no counsel, except to keep myself tranquil; but how difficult it was to keep tranquil amid such profound repose! I had often found it easier to be calm amid many provocations and numerous difficulties.

A week has glided by; a full week. The letter-carrier has brought me no letter. I am seated at the window of the _salon_, gasping in these simmering dog-days for a breath of fresh air; such a cool, balmy breeze as blows over the summer sea to the cliffs of Sark. Monsieur Laurentie, under the shelter of a huge red umbrella, is choosing the ripest cluster of grapes for our supper this evening. All the street is as still as at midnight. Suddenly there breaks upon us the harsh, metallic clang of well-shod horse-hoofs upon the stony roadway--the cracking of a postilion's whip--the clatter of an approaching carriage.

It proves to be a carriage with a pair of horses.

Pierre, who has been basking idly under the window, jumps to his feet, shouting, "It is Monsieur the Bishop!" Minima claps her hands, and cries, "The prince, Aunt Nelly, the prince!"

Monsieur Laurentie walks slowly down to the gate, his cotton umbrella spread over him, like a giant fungus. It is certainly not the prince; for an elderly, white-haired man, older than Monsieur Laurentie, but with a more imposing and stately presence, steps out of the carriage, and they salute one another with great ceremony. If that be Monsieur the Bishop, he has very much the air of an Englishman.

In a few minutes my doubt as to the bishop's nationality was solved. The two white-headed men, the one in a glossy and handsome suit of black, the other in his brown and worn-out cassock, came up the path together, under the red umbrella. They entered the house, and came directly to the _salon_. I was making my escape by another door, not being sure how I ought to encounter a bishop, when Monsieur Laurentie called to me.

"Behold a friend for you madame," he said, "a friend from England.--Monsieur, this is my beloved English child."

I turned back, and met the eyes of both, fixed upon me with that peculiar half-tender, half-regretful expression, with which so many old men look upon women as young as I. A smile came across my face, and I held out my hand involuntarily to the stranger.

"You do not know who I am, my dear!" he said. The English voice and words went straight to my heart. How many months it was since I had heard my own language spoken thus! Tardif had been too glad to speak in his own _patois_, now I understood it so well; and Minima's prattle had not sounded to me like those few syllables in the deep, cultivated voice which uttered them.

"No," I answered, "but you are come to me from Dr. Martin Dobree."

"Very true," he said, "I am his friend's father--Dr. John Senior's father. Martin has sent me to you. He wished Miss Johanna Carey to accompany me, but we were afraid of the fever for her. I am an old physician, and feel at home with disease and contagion. But we cannot allow you to remain in this unhealthy village; that is out of the question. I am come to carry you away, in spite of this old cure."

Monsieur Laurentie was listening eagerly, and watching Dr. Senior's lips, as if he could catch the meaning of his words by sight, if not by hearing.

"But where am I to go?" I asked. "I have no money, and cannot get any until I have written to Melbourne, and have an answer. I have no means of proving who I am."

"Leave all that to us, my dear girl," answered Dr. Senior, cordially. "I have already spoken of your affairs to an old friend of mine, who is an excellent lawyer. I am come to offer myself to you in place of your guardians on the other side of the world. You will do me a very great favor by frankly accepting a home in my house for the present. I have neither wife nor daughter; but Miss Carey is already there, preparing rooms for you and your little charge. We have made inquiries about the little girl, and find she has no friends living. I will take care of her future. Do you think you could trust yourself and her to me?"

"Oh, yes!" I replied, but I moved a little nearer to Monsieur Laurentie, and put my hand through his arm. He folded his own thin, brown hand over it caressingly, and looked down at me, with something like tears glistening in his eyes.

"Is it all settled?" he asked, "is monsieur come to rob me of my English daughter? She will go away now to her own island, and forget Ville-en-bois and her poor old French father!"

"Never! never!" I answered vehemently, "I shall not forget you as long as I live. Besides, I mean to come back very often; every year if I can.

I almost wish I could stay here altogether; but you know that is impossible, monsieur. Is it not quite impossible?"

"Quite impossible!" he repeated, somewhat sadly, "madame is too rich now; she will have many good friends."

"Not one better than you," I said, "not one more dear than you. Yes, I am rich; and I have been planning something to do for Ville-en-bois.

Would you like the church enlarged and beautified, Monsieur le Cure?"

"It is large enough and fine enough already," he answered.

"Shall I put some painted windows and marble images into it?" I asked.

"No, no, madame," he replied, "let it remain as it is during my short lifetime."

"I thought so," I said, "but I believe I have discovered what Monsieur le Cure would approve. It is truly English. There is no sentiment, no romance about it. Cannot you guess what it is, my wise and learned monsieur?"

"No, no, madame," he answered, smiling in spite of his sadness.

"Listen, dear monsieur," I continued: "if this village is unhealthy for me, it is unhealthy for you and your people. Dr. Martin told Tardif there would always be fever here, as long as there are no drains and no pure water. Very well; now I am rich I shall have it drained, precisely like the best English town; and there shall be a fountain in the middle of the village, where all the people can go to draw good water. I shall come back next year to see how it has been done, _Voila_, monsieur!

There is my secret plan for Ville-en-bois."

Nothing could have been more effectual for turning away Monsieur Laurentie's thoughts from the mournful topic of our near separation.

After vespers, and before supper, he, Dr. Senior, and I made the tour of Ville-en-bois, investigating the close, dark cottages, and discussing plans for rendering them more wholesome. The next day, and the day following, the same subject continued to occupy him and Dr. Senior; and thus the pain of our departure was counterbalanced by his pleasure in anticipating the advantages to be obtained by a thorough drainage of his village, and more ventilation and light in the dwellings.

The evening before we were to set out on our return to England, while the whole population, including Dr. Senior, were assisting at vespers, I turned my feet toward the little cemetery on the hill-side, which I had never yet visited.--The sun had sunk below the tops of the pollard-trees, which grew along the brow of the hill in grotesque and fantastic shapes; but a few stray beams glimmered through the branches, and fell here and there in spots of dancing light. The small square enclosure was crowded with little hillocks, at the head of which stood simple crosses of wood; crosses so light and little as to seem significant emblems of the difference between our sorrows, and those borne for our sakes upon Calvary. Wreaths of immortelles hung upon most of them. Below me lay the valley and the homes where the dead at my feet had lived; the sunshine lingered yet about the spire, with its cross, which towered above the belfry; but all else was in shadow, which was slowly deepening into night. In the west the sky was flushing and throbbing with transparent tints of amber and purple and green, with flecks of cloud floating across it of a pale gold. Eastward it was still blue, but fading into a faint gray. The dusky green of the cypresses looked black, as I turned my splendor-dazzled eyes toward them.

I strolled to and fro among the grassy mounds, not consciously seeking one of them; though, very deep down in my inmost spirit, there must have been an impulse which unwittingly directed me. I did not stay my feet, or turn away from the village burial-place, until I came upon a grave, the latest made among them. It was solitary, unmarked; with no cross to throw its shadow along it, as the sun was setting. I knew then that I had come to seek it, to bid farewell to it, to leave it behind me for evermore.

The next morning Monsieur Laurentie accompanied us on our journey, as far as the cross at the entrance to the valley. He parted with us there; and when I stood up in the carriage to look back once more at him, I saw his black-robed figure kneeling on the white steps of the Calvary, and the sun shining upon his silvery head.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIFTH.

TOO HIGHLY CIVILIZED.