Stephen told them too, one rainy day as they sat in his study, of Jeremiah Macrae and his still unfulfilled prophecy of the destruction of the garden. He even got down the great family Bible and turned the pages to find that same picture that had struck terror to the heart of little Margeret Radpath, the figure of one of the prophets of old, standing by the city gate and crying forth a warning of the ruin and desolation that would come to the land. The tale laid such hold upon Clotilde’s imagination that she dreamed that night of the ominous Master Macrae and thought for many a day thereafter of what he had foretold. So dearly did she love Master Simon’s garden and all that grew in it, that the very thought of harm coming to that dear place was more than she could bear. One day, some weeks after, Miles came upon her with the great Bible open on the table while she stared in terrified fascination at the picture of the prophet.
“Surely you are not thinking of that story still!” exclaimed Miles. “Why the man has been dead and his words forgotten for nearly a hundred years. You do not think that what he said could really come true, Clotilde?”
“N-no,” she faltered, closing the book with a great sigh, “I do not think his words could come true—but they might. I do not know what to think, yet I cannot put the tale out of my mind. When Master Sheffield comes home I will ask him whether I should believe it or not.”
“We will ask him,” returned Miles sturdily, “but I will not credit such a dismal prophecy unless I must.”
Clotilde would have given much to feel as he did, but could not put aside the secret misgiving hidden in her heart. She never let Miles see her looking at the picture again, but she peeped at it more than once, none the less. Quaint and rude as was the old woodcut, there was still something very earnest and very terrible about the face and figure that were supposed to resemble Jeremiah Macrae’s.
Before Stephen returned, however, the affair had very nearly drifted from her mind. There were long, long months now when the master of the house was from home, when she missed him sorely and when Mother Jeanne would shake her head and say:
“Our good Monsieur has not too strong a hold upon health. It will cost him his life if he does not give up these endless journeyings.”