The Westcotes - Arthur Thomas Quiller Couch
"But there came a day--how shall I tell it?--when calamity fell upon
the cottage. For some time the farmers up the valley had been missing
sheep. What so easy now as to suspect the two women who were never
known to buy either bread or butcher's meat? You can guess! A rabble
marched up from the town and broke in upon them. It found nothing, of
course; and I am told that at sight of the face of the poor elder
sister it fled back in panic, leaving the place a wreck.
"It so happened that M. Benest had pretermitted his angling, that
afternoon, for a stroll along the cliff: but he heard the news on his
return, from his landlady, while he sat at tea--that is to say, he
heard a part of it, for before the story was out he had set down his
teacup, caught up hat and stick, and stumped out of the house. The most
of the townspeople were indoors at tea, discussing the sensation; the
few he encountered had no greeting from him. He looked neither to the
right nor to the left; had no ears for his friends, the trout, as they
rose at the evening flies. He reached the signpost and--walked past
it! He stumped straight up to the garden gate, which stood ajar, and
pushed it wide with his stick.
"There were signs of trampling on the flower-beds; but--for it was
July--the whole garden blazed with hollyhocks, oeillets, sweet
Williams, sweet peas, above all with that yellow flower--mimulus,
monkey flower, is it not?--which grows so profusely in gardens beside
streams. The air was weighted with scent of the reseda and of the
jasmine which climbed the wall and almost choked the roses.
"The cottage door stood ajar also. He thrust this open too, and for
the first time stood face to face with Mademoiselle Henriette.
"She sat by the kitchen table, with one arm flung across it, and her
body bowed with grief. At her feet lay a trodden bunch of the monkey
flowers: and at the tap-tap of his wooden leg on the threshold she
sprang up and faced him, across the yellow blossoms.
"'Mademoiselle,' he began, 'I have just learnt--but it is an infamy!
_Permettez_--I am French, I also, though you do not know me perhaps.'
"And with that M. Benest stammered and came to a halt, for her eyes
were worse than woeful. They were accusing--yes, accusing _him_. Of
what? _Nom de tonnerre_, what had he done?
"'You, Monsieur! _You_--an officer of France!'
"_'Mais quel rapport y a-t-il?'_
"'Your _parole_, Monsieur!'
"_'Peste!_ I forgot,' said M. Benest, half to himself.
"'Forgot? Forgot your _parole? Mais ecoutez donc! Nous savons souffrir,
nous autres franfaises . . . Et la petite qui meurt--et--et moi qui
mourrai Presqu' a l'heure--mais nous nous en tenons a' ne pas
dishonorer la Patrie a la fin. Ca finira bien, sous-officier--allez-
vous--allez-vous en. Mais allez!'_
"She stamped her foot upon the flowers, and M. Benest turned and fled
from her. Nay, in his haste, taking a short-cut towards the signpost,
he plunged his wooden leg deep in the marsh, and tumbled helpless,
overwhelmed with shame.
"He never passed the signpost again, nor caught another glimpse of
Mademoiselle Henriette's cap. Three days later the Rector broke into
the cottage and discovered her seated, dead and stiff, her hands
stained with digging her sister's grave.
"And the cottage had no new tenant. Only M. Benest continued to eye it
wistfully, as he cast his flies and pondered on his offence, which she
had died without forgiving.
"But one July, two years after her death, a patch of gold appeared on
the marsh below the hedge--a patch of the monkey-flower. Some seeds
had been blown thither, or carried down by the stream.
"Next July the patch had doubled its length.
"'The flowers are travelling towards me,' said M. Benest.
"And year by year the stream brought them nearer. That was a terrible
July for him when they came within two feet of the signpost; but he
would not stretch a hand beyond it.
"'She coquets with her forgiveness, the poor Mademoiselle Henriette.
But I can wait: _'faut pas deshonorer la patrie a la fin!'_
"Before the next July he had made sure of one plant at least on his
side of the signpost; and fished beside it day after day, fearful lest
some animal should browse upon it. But when the happy morning came for
it to open, and M. Benest knelt beside his prize, he drew back a hand.
"'Is it quite open?' he asked. 'Better wait, since all is safe, for the
sun to warm it a little longer.'
"And he waited, until a trout, to remind him, perhaps, took a fly with
a splash beneath his nose. Then, with a start, M. Benest's fingers
closed and snapped off the yellow blossom.
"'She has forgiven me,' said he. Now I can forgive myself.'"
For a moment or two, though his story was ended, the General continued
to toy with the stem of his wine glass. One or two of the guests cried
"Bravo!" But Lady Bateson's eyes were wet, and Dorothea gazed hard for
a while into the polished surface of the mahogany before she recalled
herself, and, with a nod, swept the ladies away to the drawing-room.
Later, in a pause between two songs, the General dropped into a seat
beside her.
"Can you guess who sent me that story?" he asked. "It was M. Raoul;
and he travelled across from Plymouth in the ship with this M. Benest,
who happened to get his exchange at about the same time. It was clever
of him to worm out the story--if, indeed, he did not invent it. But
that young man has genius for pathos."
"I did not know that you corresponded."
"Indeed, nor did I. He chose to write. I may answer; and, again, I may
not. To tell you the truth, I have never been sure if we condemned him
quite justly."
Dorothea found herself able to look straight into the kindly old eyes.
"It was a beautiful story. Did you tell it for me?"
"Yes, Mademoiselle, in thanks and in contrition. We are all prisoners
in this world; but while it is certain you have made fortitude easier
for us, I have suspected that there was a time when I, for one, might
have been bolder and repaid you, but stood aside. Also, I think you no
longer require help."
"No longer, General. But what you say is true: we are all prisoners
here, or sentries at the best." And Dorothea, resting her fan on her
lap, let these lines fall from her, not consciously quoting, but
musing on each word as it fell:
"Brutus and Cato might discharge their souls,
And give them furloughs for another world;
But we, like sentries, are obliged to stand
In starless nights, and wait the appointed hour."
The General stared.
"Ah, Mademoiselle, what poet taught you that?"
"It was a kinswoman," she answered, and caught herself blushing. "I do
not know the author."
* * * * * * * * *
The secret of the Commissary's dinner-party came out early next morning,
when the call came for the prisoners to leave Axcester. And, whenever
Dorothea looked back on this epoch in her life, what she found most
wonderful was the suddenness of its end. As day broke in a drizzle, and
before she was well awake, a troop of dragoons, followed by a company
of the 52nd Regiment of foot, passed the Bayfield gates on the way to
Axcester. The troopers entered the town while the Ting-tang was
sounding, and before the roll could be called the prisoners were
surrounded. Their release had come; and though many had sighed for it
for years, it found them quite unprepared.
Their release had come; but first they must be marched through the
length of the country to Kelso, there to await the formalities of
exchange. At four in the afternoon the infantry marched out with the
first great batch. Early next morning the rest--owners of furniture,
granted a few hours to arrange for its storage or sale--followed their
comrades. There was no cloud of dust upon the road for Dorothea to
watch. They departed in sheets of rain and under the dusk of dawn. She
never again saw General Rochambeau.
It is recorded that in his fifty-seventh year Endymion Westcote married
(but the bride was not Lady Bateson), and that children were born to
him. Narcissus lived on at Bayfield and compiled at his leisure a
_History of Axcester_, which mentions the decoration of the Orange Room
by "a young Frenchman of talent, who has been good enough to assist
the author in a most important work." But Dorothea preferred her
independence and a cottage not far from the bridge, where Endymion's
children might romp as they listed, but never seemed to disturb its
exquisite order.