The French Prisoners of Norman Cross Part 2

"Who was he?" but not the slightest curiosity was in the tone of enquiry.

"Our bishop."

The interest fell lower, if possible.

"You mean the chaplain. What does he want?"

"To see you."

Tournier was a gentleman, and therefore repressed the exclamation that was rising to his lips, and simply said, "Oh!" in a very languid sort of way.

But it was true. The chaplain to the prisoners had been asking after Tournier, expressing a very great desire to see him; and the Chaplain was none other than the Bishop of Moulines. He had voluntarily come to England, out of pure compa.s.sion for his imprisoned countrymen; and with true missionary zeal was giving himself up to their spiritual welfare. He was a venerable-looking man, much respected by the prisoners generally.

It was a n.o.ble act of self-sacrifice. {44}

But his work among the prisoners was no sinecure. Many of them were deeply tainted with the foul atheism engendered by the Revolution; many more with the practical atheism that comes of reckless living. Scenes of cruelty and depravity would occasionally take place, only too likely where a large number of men were left so much to themselves. Yet there were doubtless hundreds among them who, but for the demands of a most cruel war, would have been living the lives of peaceful, useful citizens.

It may be, moreover, that among the officers there was infidelity behind the outward decorum of gentlemen.

So the good bishop had plenty on his hands, and he did his best patiently and perseveringly, though by no means always with success (as is the case still with good efforts, under much more favourable circ.u.mstances); and all but the vilest respected him, and many paid at least outward attention to his ministrations: and for this reason--because they felt there could not be the slightest doubt that his kind intentions were altogether sincere.

A few days afterwards, the bishop came up to Tournier as he was taking exercise in the paved portion of the yard, and shaking him with gentle courtesy by the hand, said, "Captain Tournier, will you oblige me by letting us have a short walk together?" Then turning to others who were near, he added, with a pleasant smile, "Gentlemen, I hope you are all well this morning," and putting his arm in Tournier's went to the gate.

There was a guard-room and a turnkey's lodge outside. A glance through the grating of the heavy door, and the wicket was instantly unlocked.

They proceeded together along the Peterborough road towards Yaxley. The day was bright, and the broad distant view from the high ground they trod was very pretty, with comfortable-looking homesteads dotted about, the very picture of freedom and peace.

"The English have chosen an agreeable and healthy spot for us poor prisoners, Captain Tournier."

He called himself a "prisoner," but he was not. And yet he was--a prisoner to sympathy with the unhappy.

"May I hope that you are becoming more reconciled with your lot, my friend," he said, in a soft persuasive tone, as if he feared to seem intrusive.

"Not in the slightest degree, Monseigneur," was the answer. "Why should I? Yet, believe me, I am exceedingly touched by your interesting yourself in me."

"You say _why_ should you become more reconciled with your lot. My simple reply is, because it is G.o.d's will."

"I do not wish to shock you--you who are so good and true, and who hold so high a position in the church: but I will not deceive you, nor will I play the hypocrite even to gain your better opinion of me. I will be plain and honest from the first; and, therefore, I tell you, I do not believe there is a G.o.d."

The bishop did not withdraw his arm, nor start with horror, nor call him a fool (though he _was_ one). On the contrary, he pressed Tournier's arm a little closer, and said, very softly, as a kind doctor might say when he finds a patient's symptoms more serious than he thought, but does not therefore give him up, "I am so sorry."

There was a pause for a minute or two, and they went on walking together.

Tournier was the first to speak.

"I cannot believe that a good G.o.d (and I do not care to believe in an evil one--a devil, as the heathen do, so at least I have heard), but I cannot believe that a good G.o.d would blast my hopes as they have been blasted: and, therefore, I believe in none. I cannot. Excuse me, Monseigneur, but my reason refuses to let me do so. I can only believe in fate."

"And who regulates fate?" asked the bishop.

"Oh, I know not. It regulates itself, I suppose."

"And therefore is G.o.d," said the bishop, as if he were musing. "But tell me, my friend, how it is you take to heart so keenly the unkindness of fate (as you call it) to yourself, while thousands are buffeted by misfortunes, perhaps as great as your own, and yet maintain equanimity of mind, and even enjoy some pleasure in life?"

"They are not sensitive as I am."

"And who makes the difference?"

"Fate--Chance--Destiny."

"How miserable a notion! However, I should be wanting in my duty to Holy Church, of which I am an unworthy minister," and here he disengaged his arm from Tournier's, and looking him steadily in the face, with an expression, not of severity, but of yearning tenderness, that pierced the manly fellow's heart more than a hundred anathemas would have done, "if I did not most solemnly warn thee that these notions of thine are d.a.m.nable heresy, and that it behoves thee therefore to repent of this thy wickedness, if perhaps the thought of thine heart may be forgiven thee."

And then the good bishop took him by the hand and added, "Still look on me as a would-be friend, and whenever you want me seek me, and better far, whenever you want G.o.d seek Him, and you shall surely find Him."

He turned away and went to his lodging, not in the barracks, but in the village of Stilton, about a mile off.

Captain Tournier soon lost the impression made by the solemn words, but he never to his dying day forgot the compa.s.sionate look that accompanied them. The old priest left his mark.

Winter had pa.s.sed, and Spring was far advanced before Tournier paid his first visit to Mr. Cosin. It was not want of sociability or indifference to the friends.h.i.+p of such a very genial man that made him delay. He himself was naturally a very jolly sort of fellow, so that his friend, Villemet, could not in the least make out the transformation. In fact, he began to think him _un peu timbre_. However, at last, he made up his mind to call at the Manor Farm; and one sunny day he appeared at the door, somewhat like a martyr tied to the stake, but without his cheerfulness of resignation. He had not long to wait. The door was opened with a will, and Cosin himself stood before him with welcome beaming in his face. There could be no doubt of it. His friend, whom he had treated so coldly, was heartily glad to see him, and said as much.

"Can you forgive me, Mr. Cosin, for being so long in accepting your kind invitation?"

"Not a word about it. I am delighted to have you under my roof," and he led him into a cosy sitting-room, where a young lady was sitting at work.

"Let me introduce you to my sister, Captain Tournier. Oh, but you must not be so formal, dear Alice, in your welcome to my friend. I have been expecting him too long for that. Give him your hand."

And she did so in the prettiest way imaginable, with all the simple grace of true kindness of heart.

The effect on Tournier was reviving. It reminded him of happy days gone by, which he never thought to see again.

Alice Cosin was a girl worth looking at. And the gallant captain could not refrain from doing so whenever it was possible without rudeness. And if his true love, in France, had been watching him, she would have found no fault, if her love were as true as his. A jealous woman is a distrustful one; and a man who makes his own love first will always keep her first, however he may admire another. So it was, at all events, with Tournier.

And how shall we describe the young lady? It shall be done briefly. She was not what connoisseurs would call a beauty. Her features were not altogether regular enough for that, and _very_ regular features are rather of the dutch-doll type of beauty. But her open brow looked honesty itself, while a slightly aquiline nose betokened force of character of the true feminine type. The eyes, however, formed the great attraction in her face. You were struck by them at once. True blue eyes, not washed out, not milk and water, but grey-blue eyes, like "the body of heaven in its clearness:" yet with a glint in them, as if they could flash under just provocation.

They spent a pleasant afternoon together, Cosin doing all he could to divert and amuse his friend, and his sister helping him: for they were cheerful souls, though Tournier thought he saw at times a vein of sadness in his host, amid all his cheerfulness, which, they say, and say truly, always adds piquancy to mirth.

A message was brought to Cosin that required him to quit the room, and Alice and Tournier were left alone.

"Do you know, Miss Cosin, what it was that forced me at last to come and see your brother?"

"Indeed, I do not," she replied, a little surprised at the earnestness with which he so abruptly asked the question.

"It was misery. For months I have kept it to myself, and at last I could bear it no longer. I must have gone mad if I could not have spoken to some one outside that wretched prison house."

"I am very glad you have taken the first step towards making my brother your confidant. You will find him a very sensible and sympathizing friend."

"Oh, but I want you, Miss Cosin, to give me the first encouragement."

She was inclined at first to laugh, but seeing how serious, and even solemn, his manner was, she said, rather severely, "And do you think, sir, after so very short an acquaintance, you have any right to expect such a thing of me?"

He saw instantly what a mistake he had made, and how naturally she had misunderstood his meaning.

"Oh, pardon me, Miss Cosin; my eagerness to know something made me frame my words awkwardly. Let me explain. I have a dear mother in my home in France, and, if possible, a still dearer friend to whom I am engaged, and I love her with my whole heart and soul. I cannot tell you how I love her."