The man bulked larger in her eyes than he had ever done, and she struggled with herself to keep the vow she had made to the Duke's Daughter the night that Angele had been found in De la Foret's rooms.
He had been the immediate cause, fated or accidental, of the destined breach between Leicester and herself; he had played a significant part in her own life. Glancing at her courtiers, she saw none that might compare with him, the form and being of calm boldness and courage. She sighed she knew scarce why.
When De la Foret first opened his mouth and essayed to call the worshippers to prayer no words came forth--only a dry whisper. Some ladies simpered, and more than one courtier laughed silently. Michel saw, and his face flamed up. But he laid a hand on himself, and a moment afterwards his voice came forth, clear, musical, and resonant, speaking simple words, direct and unlacquered sentences, passionately earnest withal. He stilled the people to a unison of sentiment, none the less interested and absorbed because it was known that he had been the cause of the great breach between the Queen and the favorite. Ere he had spoken far, flippant gallants had ceased to flutter handkerchiefs, to idly move their swords upon the floor.
[Illustration: "'AND WHAT MATTER WHICH IT IS WE WIELD'"]
He took for his text, "_Stand and search for the old paths_." The beginning of all systems of religion, the coming of the Nazarene, the rise and growth of Christianity, the martyrdoms of the early Church, the invasion of the truth by false doctrine, the abuses of the Church, the Reformation, the martyrdom of the Huguenots for the return to the early principles of Christianity, the "search for the old paths," he set forth in a tone generous but not fiery, presently powerful and searching, yet not declamatory. At the last he raised the sword that hung by his side and the book that lay before him, and said:
"And what matter which it is we wield--this steel that strikes for God or this book which speaks of Him? For the book is the sword of the Spirit, and the sword is the life of humanity; for all faith must be fought for and all that is has been won by strife. But the paths wherein ye go to battle must be the old paths; your sword shall be your staff by day and the book your lantern by night. That which ye love ye shall teach, and that which ye teach ye shall defend; and if your love be a true love your teaching shall be a great teaching and your sword a strong sword which none may withstand. It shall be the pride of sovereign and of people; and so neither 'height, nor depth, nor any other creature shall be able to separate us from the love of God.'"
Ere he had ended some of the ladies were overcome, the eyes of the Duke's Daughter were full of tears, and Elizabeth said, audibly, when he ceased speaking: "On my soul, I have no bishop with a tongue like his. Would that my lord of Ely were here to learn how truth should be spoke. Henceforth my bishops shall first be Camisards."
Of that hour's joyful business the Queen wrote thus to the Medici before the day was done:
"Cancelling all other letters on the matter, this M. de la Foret shall stay in my kingdom. I may not be the headsman of one of my faith--as eloquent a preacher as he was a brave soldier. Abiding by the strict terms of our treaty with my brother of France, he shall stay with us in peace and in our own care. He hath not the eloquence of a Knox, but he hath the true thing in him, and that speaks."
To the Duke's Daughter the Queen said, "On my soul, he shall be married instantly, or my ladies will carry him off and murder him for love."
And so it was that the heart of Elizabeth the Queen warmed again, and dearly, towards two Huguenot exiles, and showed that in doing justice she also had not so sour a heart towards her sex as was set down to her credit. Yet she made one further effort to keep De la Foret in her service. When Michel, once again, declined, dwelt earnestly on his duty towards the widow of his dead chief, and begged leave to share her exile in Jersey, Elizabeth said, "On my soul, but I did not think there was any man on earth so careless of princes' honors!"
To this De la Foret replied that he had given his heart and life to one cause, and since Montgomery had lost all, even life, the least Michel de la Foret could do was to see that the woman who loved him be not unprotected in the world. Also, since he might not at this present fight for the cause, he could speak for it; and he thanked the Queen of England for having shown him his duty. All that he desired was to be quiet for a space somewhere in "her high Majesty's good realm" till his way was clear to him.
"You would return to Jersey, then, with our friend of Rozel?"
Elizabeth said, with a gesture towards Lempriere, who, now recovered from his wound, was present at the audience.
De la Foret inclined his head. "If it be your high Majesty's pleasure."
And Lempriere of Rozel said, "He would return with myself your noble Majesty's friend before all the world, and Buonespoir his ship the _Honeyflower_."
Elizabeth's lips parted in a smile, for she was warmed with the luxury of doing good, and she answered:
"I know not what the end of this will be, whether our loyal Lempriere will become a pirate or Buonespoir a butler to my court; but it is too pretty a hazard to forego in a world of chance. By the rood, but I have never, since I sat on my father's throne, seen black so white as I have done this past three months. You shall have your Buonespoir, good Rozel; but if he plays pirate any more--tell him this from his Queen--upon an English ship, I will have his head, if I must needs send Drake of Devon to overhaul him."
That same hour the Queen sent for Angele, and by no leave, save her own, arranged the wedding-day, and ordained that it should take place at Southampton, whither the Comtesse de Montgomery had come on her way to Greenwich to plead for the life of Michel de la Foret and to beg Elizabeth to save her poverty, both of which things Elizabeth did, as the annals of her life record.
After Elizabeth--ever self-willed--had declared her way about the marriage ceremony, looking for no reply save that of silent obedience, she made Angele sit at her feet and tell her whole story again from first to last. They were alone, and Elizabeth showed to this young refugee more of her own heart than any other woman had ever seen. Not by words alone, for she made no long story; but once she stooped and kissed Angele upon the cheek, and once her eyes filled up with tears, and they dropped upon her lap unheeded. All the devotion shown herself as a woman had come to naught; and it may be that this thought stirred in her now. She remembered how Leicester and herself had parted, and how she was denied all those soft resources of regret which were the right of the meanest women in her realm. For, whatever she might say to her Parliament and people, she knew that all was too late--that she would never marry, and must go childless and uncomforted to her grave. Years upon years of delusion of her people, of sacrifice to policy, had at last become a self-delusion, to which her eyes were not full opened yet--she sought to shut them tight. But these refugees, coming at the moment of her own struggle, had changed her heart from an ever-growing bitterness to human sympathy. When Angele had ended her tale once more the Queen said:
"God knows ye shall not linger in my court. Such lives have no place here. Get you back to my Isle of Jersey, where ye may live in peace.
Here all is noise, self-seeking, and time-service. If ye twain are not happy I will say the world should never have been made."
Before they left Greenwich Palace--M. Aubert and Angele, De la Foret, Lempriere, and Buonespoir--the Queen made Michel de la Foret the gift of a chaplaincy to the crown. To Monsieur Aubert she gave a small pension, and in Angele's hands she placed a deed of dower worthy of a generosity greater than her own.
At Southampton Michel and Angele were married by royal license, and with the Comtesse de Montgomery set sail in Buonespoir's boat, the _Honeyflower_, which brought them safe to St. Helier's, in the Isle of Jersey.
XX
Followed several happy years for Michel and Angele. The protection of the Queen herself, the chaplaincy she had given De la Foret, the friendship with the governor of the island, and the boisterous tales Lempriere had told of those days at Greenwich Palace quickened the sympathy and held the interest of the people at large, while the simple lives of the two won their way into the hearts of all, even, at last, to that of De Carteret of St. Ouen's. It was Angele herself who brought the two seigneurs together at her own good table; and it needed all her tact on that occasion to prevent the ancient foes from drinking all the wine in her cellar.
There was no parish in Jersey that did not know their goodness, but mostly in the parishes of St. Martin's and Rozel were their faithful labors done. From all parts of the island people came to hear Michel speak, though that was but seldom; and when he spoke he always wore the sword the Queen had given him and used the Book he had studied in her palace. It was to their home that Buonespoir the pirate--faithful to his promise to the Queen that he would harry English ships no more--came wounded, after an engagement with a French boat sent to capture him, carried thither by Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. It was there he died, after having drunk a bottle of St. Ouen's muscadella, brought secretly to him by his unchanging friend Lempriere, so hastening the end.
The Comtesse de Montgomery, who lived in a cottage near by, came constantly to the little house on the hill-side by Rozel Bay. She had never loved her own children more than she did the brown-haired child with the deep-blue eyes which was the one pledge of the great happiness of Michel and Angele.
Soon after this child was born M. Aubert had been put to rest in St.
Martin's churchyard, and there his tombstone might be seen so late as a hundred years ago. So things went softly by for seven years, and then Madame de Montgomery journeyed to England, on invitation of the Queen and to better fortune, and Angele and De la Foret were left to their quiet life in Jersey. Sometimes this quiet was broken by bitter news from France of fresh persecution and fresh struggle on the part of the Huguenots. Thereafter for hours, sometimes for days, De la Foret would be lost in sorrowful and restless meditation; and then he fretted against his peaceful calling and his uneventful life. But the gracious hand of his wife and the eyes of his child led him back to cheerful ways again.
Suddenly one day came the fearful news from England that the plague had broken out and that thousands were dying. The flight from London was like the flight of the children of Israel into the desert. The dead-carts, filled with decaying bodies, rattled through the foul streets, to drop their horrid burdens into the great pit at Aldgate; the bells of London tolled all day and all night for the passing of human souls. Hundreds of homes, isolated because of a victim of the plague found therein, became ghastly breeding-places of the disease, and then silent, disgusting graves. If a man shivered in fear or staggered from weakness, or for very hunger turned sick, he was marked as a victim, and despite his protests was huddled away with the real victims to die the awful death. From every church, where clergy were left to pray, went up the cry for salvation from "plague, pestilence, and famine." Scores of ships from Holland and from France lay in the Channel, not allowed to touch the shores of England nor permitted to return whence they came. On the very day that news of this reached Jersey came a messenger from the Queen of England for Michel de la Foret to hasten to her court, for that she had need of him, and need which would bring him honor. Even as the young officer who brought the letter handed it to De la Foret in the little house on the hill-side above Rozel Bay, he was taken suddenly ill and fell at the Camisard's feet.
De la Foret straightway raised him in his arms. He called to his wife, but, bidding her not come near, he bore the doomed man away to the lonely Ecrehos rocks lying within sight of their own doorway.
Suffering no one to accompany him, he carried the sick man to the boat which had brought the Queen's messenger to Rozel Bay. The sailors of the vessel fled, and alone De la Foret set sail for the Ecrehos.
There, upon the black rocks, the young man died, and Michel buried him in the shore-bed of the Maitre ile. Then, after two days--for he could bear suspense no longer--he set sail for Jersey. Upon that journey there is no need to dwell. Any that hath ever loved a woman and a child must understand. A deep fear held him all the way, and when he stepped on shore at Rozel Bay he was as one who had come from the grave, haggard and old.
Hurrying up the hill-side to his doorway, he called aloud to his wife, to his child. Throwing open the door, he burst in. His dead child lay upon a couch, and near by, sitting in a chair, with the sweat of the dying on her brow, was Angele. As he dropped on his knee beside her, she smiled and raised her hand as if to touch him, but the hand dropped and the head fell forward on his breast. She was gone into a greater peace.
Once more Michel made a journey--alone--to the Ecrehos, and there, under the ruins of the old Abbey of Val Richer, he buried the twain he had loved. Not once in all the terrible hours had he shed a tear; not once had his hand trembled; his face was like stone and his eyes burned with an unearthly light.
He did not pray beside the graves. But he knelt and kissed the earth again and again. He had doffed his robes of peace, and now wore the garb of a soldier, armed at all points fully. Rising from his knees, he turned his face towards Jersey.
"Only mine! Only mine!" he said, aloud, in a dry, bitter voice.
In the whole island, only his loved ones had died of the plague. The holiness and charity and love of Michel and Angele had ended so!
When once more he set forth upon the Channel, he turned his back on Jersey and shaped his course towards France, having sent Elizabeth his last excuses for declining a service which would have given him honor, fame, and regard. He was bent upon a higher duty.
Not long did he wait for the death he craved. Next year, in a Huguenot sortie from Anvers, he was slain.
He died with these words on his lips:
"Maintenant, Angele!"
In due time the island people forgot them both, but the Seigneur of Rozel caused a stone to be set up on the highest point of land that faces France, and on the stone were carved the names of Michel and Angele. Having done much hard service for his country and for England's Queen, Lempriere at length hung up his sword and gave his years to peace. From the Manor of Rozel he was wont to repair constantly to the little white house, which remained as the two had left it--his own by order of the Queen--and there, as time went on, he spent most of his days. To the last he roared with laughter if ever the name of Buonespoir was mentioned in his presence; he swaggered ever before the royal court and De Carteret of St. Ouen's; and he spoke proudly of his friendship with the Duke's Daughter, who had admired the cut of his jerkin at the court of Elizabeth. But in the house where Angele had lived he moved about as though in the presence of a beloved sleeper he would not awake.
Michel and Angele had had their few years of exquisite life and love, and had gone; Lempriere had longer measure of life and little love, and who shall say which had more profit of breath and being? The generations have passed away, and the Angel of Equity hath a smiling pity as she scans the scales and the weighing of the past.
THE END
"Come hither, O come hither, There's a bride upon her bed; They have strewn her o'er with roses, There are roses 'neath her head: Life is love and tears and laughter, But the laughter it is dead-- Sing the way to the valley, to the valley!
Hey, but the roses they are red!"