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THE COUNCIL OF WAR.
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The Council now opened in due form. The Secretary read the royal despatches, which were listened to with attention and respect, although with looks of dissent in the countenances of many of the officers.
The Governor rose, and in a quiet, almost a solemn strain, addressed the Council: “Gentlemen,” said he, “from the tenor of the royal despatches just read by the Secretary, it is clear that our beloved New France is in great danger. The King, overwhelmed by the powers in alliance against him, can no longer reinforce our army here. The English fleet is supreme--for the moment only, I hope!” added the Governor, as if with a prevision of his own future triumphs on the ocean. “English troops are pouring into New York and Boston, to combine with the militia of New England and the Middle Colonies in a grand attack upon New France. They have commenced the erection of a great fort at Chouagen on Lake Ontario, to dispute supremacy with our stronghold at Niagara, and the gates of Carillon may ere long have to prove their strength in keeping the enemy out of the Valley of the Richelieu. I fear not for Carillon, gentlemen, in ward of the gallant Count de Lusignan, whom I am glad to see at our Council. I think Carillon is safe.”
The Count de Lusignan, a gray-headed officer of soldierly bearing, bowed low to this compliment from the Governor. “I ask the Count de Lusignan,” continued the Governor, “what he thinks would result from our withdrawing the garrison from Carillon, as is suggested in the despatches?”
“The Five Nations would be on the Richelieu in a week, and the English in Montreal a month after such a piece of folly on our part!” exclaimed the Count de Lusignan.
“You cannot counsel the abandonment of Carillon then, Count?” A smile played over the face of the Governor, as if he too felt the absurdity of his question.
“Not till Quebec itself fall into the enemy's hands. When that happens, His Majesty will need another adviser in the place of the old Count de Lusignan.”
“Well spoken, Count! In your hands Carillon is safe, and will one day, should the enemy assail it, be covered with wreaths of victory, and its flag be the glory of New France.”
“So be it, Governor. Give me but the Royal Roussillon and I pledge you neither English, Dutch, nor Iroquois shall ever cross the waters of St. Sacrament.”
“You speak like your ancestor the crusader, Count. But I cannot spare the Royal Roussillon. Think you you can hold Carillon with your present garrison?”
“Against all the force of New England. But I cannot promise the same against the English regulars now landing at New York.”
“They are the same whom the King defeated at Fontenoy, are they not?” interrupted the Intendant, who, courtier as he was, disliked the tenor of the royal despatches as much as any officer present,--all the more as he knew La Pompadour was advising peace out of a woman's considerations rather than upholding the glory of France.
“Among them are many troops who fought us at Fontenoy. I learned the fact from an English prisoner whom our Indians brought in from Fort Lydius,” replied the Count de Lusignan.
“Well, the more of them the merrier,” laughed La Corne St. Luc. “The bigger the prize, the richer they who take it. The treasure-chests of the English will make up for the beggarly packs of the New Englanders. Dried stock fish, and eel-skin garters to drive away the rheumatism, were the usual prizes we got from them down in Acadia!”
“The English of Fontenoy are not such despicable foes,” remarked the Chevalier de Lery; “they sufficed to take Louisbourg, and if we discontinue our walls, will suffice to take Quebec.”
“Louisbourg was not taken by THEM, but fell through the mutiny of the base Swiss!” replied Bigot, touched sharply by any allusion to that fortress where he had figured so discreditably. “The vile hirelings demanded money of their commander when they should have drawn the blood of the enemy!” added he, angrily.
“Satan is bold, but he would blush in the presence of Bigot,” remarked La Corne St. Luc to an Acadian officer seated next him. “Bigot kept the King's treasure, and defrauded the soldiers of their pay: hence the mutiny and the fall of Louisbourg.”
“It is what the whole army knows,” replied the officer. “But hark! the Abbé Piquet is going to speak. It is a new thing to see clergy in a Council of War!”
“No one has a better right to speak here than the Abbé Piquet,” replied La Corne. “No one has sent more Indian allies into the field to fight for New France than the patriotic Abbé.”
Other officers did not share the generous sentiments of La Corne St. Luc. They thought it derogatory to pure military men to listen to a priest on the affairs of the war.
“The Marshal de Belleisle would not permit even Cardinal de Fleury to put his red stockings beneath his council-table,” remarked a strict martinet of La Serre; “and here we have a whole flock of black gowns darkening our regimentals! What would Voltaire say?”
“He would say that when priests turn soldiers it is time for soldiers to turn tinkers and mend holes in pots, instead of making holes in our enemies,” replied his companion, a fashionable freethinker of the day.
“Well, I am ready to turn pedlar any day! The King's army will go to the dogs fast enough since the Governor commissions Recollets and Jesuits to act as royal officers,” was the petulant remark of another officer of La Serre.
A strong prejudice existed in the army against the Abbé Piquet for his opposition to the presence of French troops in his Indian missionary villages. They demoralized his neophytes, and many of the officers shared in the lucrative traffic of fire-water to the Indians. The Abbé was zealous in stopping those abuses, and the officers complained bitterly of his over-protection of the Indians.
The famous “King's Missionary,” as he was called, stood up with an air of dignity and authority that seemed to assert his right to be present in the Council of War, for the scornful looks of many of the officers had not escaped his quick glance.
The keen black eyes, thin resolute lips, and high swarthy forehead of the Abbé would have well become the plumed hat of a marshal of France. His loose black robe, looped up for freedom, reminded one of a grave senator of Venice whose eye never quailed at any policy, however severe, if required for the safety of the State.
The Abbé held in his hand a large roll of wampum, the tokens of treaties made by him with the Indian nations of the West, pledging their alliance and aid to the great Onontio, as they called the Governor of New France.
“My Lord Governor!” said the Abbé, placing his great roll on the table, “I thank you for admitting the missionaries to the Council. We appear less as churchmen on this occasion than as the King's ambassadors, although I trust that all we have done will redound to God's glory and the spread of religion among the heathen. These belts of wampum are tokens of the treaties we have made with the numerous and warlike tribes of the great West. I bear to the Governor pledges of alliance from the Miamis and Shawnees of the great valley of the Belle Rivière, which they call the Ohio. I am commissioned to tell Onontio that they are at peace with the King and at war with his enemies from this time forth forever. I have set up the arms of France on the banks of the Belle Rivière, and claimed all its lands and waters as the just appanage of our sovereign, from the Alleghanies to the plantations of Louisiana. The Sacs and Foxes, of the Mississippi; the Pottawatomies, Winnebagoes, and Chippewas of a hundred bands who fish in the great rivers and lakes of the West; the warlike Ottawas, who have carried the Algonquin tongue to the banks of Lake Erie,--in short, all enemies of the Iroquois have pledged themselves to take the field whenever the Governor shall require the axe to be dug up and lifted against the English and the Five Nations. Next summer the chiefs of all these tribes will come to Quebec, and ratify in a solemn General Council the wampums they now send by me and the other missionaries, my brothers in the Lord!”
The Abbé, with the slow, formal manner of one long accustomed to the speech and usages of the Indians, unrolled the belts of wampum, many fathoms in length, fastened end to end to indicate the length of the alliance of the various tribes with France. The Abbé interpreted their meaning, and with his finger pointed out the totems or signs manual--usually a bird, beast, or fish--of the chiefs who had signed the roll.
The Council looked at the wampums with intense interest, well knowing the important part these Indians were capable of assuming in the war with England.
“These are great and welcome pledges you bring us, Abbé,” said the Governor; “they are proofs at once of your ability and of your zealous labors for the King. A great public duty has been ably discharged by you and your fellow-missionaries, whose loyalty and devotion to France it shall be my pleasure to lay before His Majesty. The Star of Hope glitters in the western horizon, to encourage us under the clouds of the eastern. Even the loss of Acadia, should it be final, will be compensated by the acquisition of the boundless fertile territories of the Belle Riviere and of the Illinois. The Abbé Piquet and his fellow-missionaries have won the hearts of the native tribes of the West. There is hope now, at last, of uniting New France with Louisiana in one unbroken chain of French territory.
“It has been my ambition, since His Majesty honored me with the Government of New France, to acquire possession of those vast territories covered with forests old as time, and in soil rich and fertile as Provence and Normandy.
“I have served the King all my life,” continued the Governor, “and served him with honor and even distinction,--permit me to say this much of myself.”
He spoke in a frank, manly way, for vanity prompted no part of his speech. “Many great services have I rendered my country, but I feel that the greatest service I could yet do Old France or New would be the planting of ten thousand sturdy peasants and artisans of France in the valley of the far West, to make its forests vocal with the speech of our native land.
“This present war may end suddenly,--I think it will: the late victory at Lawfelt has stricken the allies under the Duke of Cumberland a blow hard as Fontenoy. Rumors of renewed negotiations for peace are flying thick through Europe. God speed the peacemakers, and bless them, I say! With peace comes opportunity. Then, if ever, if France be true to herself and to her heritage in the New World, she will people the valley of the Ohio and secure forever her supremacy in America!
“But our forts far and near must be preserved in the meantime. We must not withdraw from one foot of French territory. Quebec must be walled, and made safe against all attack by land or water. I therefore will join the Council in a respectful remonstrance to the Count de Maurepas, against the inopportune despatches just received from His Majesty. I trust the Royal Intendant will favor the Council now with his opinion on this important matter, and I shall be happy to have the cooperation of His Excellency in measures of such vital consequence to the Colony and to France.”
The Governor sat down, after courteously motioning the Intendant to rise and address the Council.
The Intendant hated the mention of peace. His interests, and the interests of his associates of the Grand Company, were all involved in the prolongation of the war.
War enabled the Grand Company to monopolize the trade and military expenditure of New France. The enormous fortunes its members made, and spent with such reckless prodigality, would by peace be dried up in their source; the yoke would be thrown off the people's neck, trade would again free.
Bigot was far-sighted enough to see that clamors would be raised and listened to in the leisure of peace. Prosecutions for illegal exactions might follow, and all the support of his friends at Court might not be able to save him and his associates from ruin--perhaps punishment.
The parliaments of Paris, Rouen, and Brittany still retained a shadow of independence. It was only a shadow, but the fury of Jansenism supplied the lack of political courage, and men opposed the Court and its policy under pretence of defending the rights of the Gallican Church and the old religion of the nation.
Bigot knew he was safe so long as the Marquise de Pompadour governed the King and the kingdom. But Louis XV. was capricious and unfaithful in his fancies; he had changed his mistresses, and his policy with them, many times, and might change once more, to the ruin of Bigot and all the dependents of La Pompadour.
Bigot's letters by the Fleur-de-Lis were calculated to alarm him. A rival was springing up at Court to challenge La Pompadour's supremacy: the fair and fragile Lange Vaubernier had already attracted the King's eye, and the courtiers versed in his ways read the incipient signs of a future favorite.
Little did the laughing Vaubernier forsee the day when, as Madame du Barry, she would reign as Dame du Palais, after the death of La Pompadour. Still less could she imagine that in her old age, in the next reign, she would be dragged to the guillotine, filling the streets of Paris with her shrieks, heard above the howlings of the mob of the Revolution: “Give me life! life! for my repentance! Life! to devote it to the Republic! Life! for the surrender of all my wealth to the nation!” And death, not life, was given in answer to her passionate pleadings.
These dark days were yet in the womb of the future, however. The giddy Vaubernier was at this time gaily catching at the heart of the King, but her procedure filled the mind of Bigot with anxiety: the fall of La Pompadour would entail swift ruin upon himself and associates. He knew it was the intrigues of this girl which had caused La Pompadour suddenly to declare for peace in order to watch the King more surely in his palace. Therefore the word peace and the name of Vaubernier were equally odious to Bigot, and he was perplexed in no small degree how to act.
Moreover, be it confessed that, although a bad man and a corrupt statesman, Bigot was a Frenchman, proud of the national success and glory. While robbing her treasures with one hand, he was ready with his sword in the other to risk life and all in her defence. Bigot was bitterly opposed to English supremacy in North America. The loss of Louisbourg, though much his fault, stung him to the quick, as a triumph of the national enemy; and in those final days of New France, after the fall of Montcalm, Bigot was the last man to yield, and when all others counselled retreat, he would not consent to the surrender of Quebec to the English.
To-day, in the Council of War, Bigot stood up to respond to the appeal of the Governor. He glanced his eye coolly, yet respectfully, over the Council. His raised hand sparkled with gems, the gifts of courtiers and favorites of the King. “Gentlemen of the Council of War! ,” said he, “I approve with all my heart of the words of His Excellency the Governor, with reference to our fortifications and the maintenance of our frontiers. It is our duty to remonstrate, as councillors of the King in the Colony, against the tenor of the despatches of the Count de Maurepas. The city of Quebec, properly fortified, will be equivalent to an army of men in the field, and the security and defence of the whole Colony depends upon its walls. There can be but one intelligent opinion in the Council on that point, and that opinion should be laid before His Majesty before this despatch be acted on.
“The pressure of the war is great upon us just now. The loss of the fleet of the Marquis de la Jonquière has greatly interrupted our communications with France, and Canada is left much to its own resources. But Frenchmen! the greater the peril the greater the glory of our defence! And I feel a lively confidence,”--Bigot glanced proudly round the table at the brave, animated faces that turned towards him,--“I feel a lively confidence that in the skill, devotion, and gallantry of the officers I see around this council-table, we shall be able to repel all our enemies, and bear the royal flag to fresh triumphs in North America.”
This timely flattery was not lost upon the susceptible minds of the officers present, who testified their approval by vigorous tapping on the table, and cries of “Well said, Chevalier Intendant!”
“I thank, heartily, the venerable Abbé Piquet,” continued he, “for his glorious success in converting the warlike savages of the West from foes to fast friends of the King; and as Royal Intendant I pledge the Abbé all my help in the establishment of his proposed fort and mission at La Présentation, for the purpose of dividing the power of the Iroquois.”
“That is right well said, if the Devil said it!” remarked La Corne St. Luc, to the Acadian sitting next him. “There is bell-metal in Bigot, and he rings well if properly struck. Pity so clever a fellow should be a knave!”
“Fine words butter no parsnips, Chevalier La Corne,” replied the Acadian, whom no eloquence could soften. “Bigot sold Louisbourg!” This was a common but erroneous opinion in Acadia.
“Bigot butters his own parsnips well, Colonel,” replied La Corne St. Luc; “but I did not think he would have gone against the despatches! It is the first time he ever opposed Versailles! There must be something in the wind! A screw loose somewhere, or another woman in the case! But hark, he is going on again!”
The Intendant, after examining some papers, entered into a detail of the resources of the Colony, the number of men capable of bearing arms, the munitions and material of war in the magazines, and the relative strength of each district of the Province. He manipulated his figures with the dexterity of an Indian juggler throwing balls; and at the end brought out a totality of force in the Colony capable unaided of prolonging the war for two years, against all the powers of the English.
At the conclusion of this speech Bigot took his seat. He had made a favorable impression upon the Council, and even his most strenuous opponents admitted that on the whole the Intendant had spoken like an able administrator and a true Frenchman.
Cadet and Varin supported their chief warmly. Bad as they were, both in private life and public conduct, they lacked neither shrewdness nor courage. They plundered their country--but were ready to fight for it against the national enemy.
Other officers followed in succession,--men whose names were already familiar, or destined to become glorious in New France,--La Corne, St. Luc, Celeron de Bienville, Colonel Philibert, the Chevalier de Beaujeu, the De Villiers, Le Gardeur de St. Pierre, and De Lery. One and all supported that view of the despatches taken by the Governor and the Intendant. All agreed upon the necessity of completing the walls of Quebec and of making a determined stand at every point of the frontier against the threatened invasion. In case of the sudden patching up of a peace by the negotiators at Aix La Chapelle--as really happened--on the terms of uti possidetis, it was of vital importance that New France hold fast to every shred of her territory, both East and West.
Long and earnest were the deliberations of the Council of War. The reports of the commanding officers from all points of the frontier were carefully studied. Plans of present defence and future conquest were discussed with reference to the strength and weakness of the Colony, and an accurate knowledge of the forces and designs of the English obtained from the disaffected remnant of Cromwellian republicans in New England, whose hatred to the Crown ever outweighed their loyalty, and who kept up a traitorous correspondence, for purposes of their own, with the governors of New France.
The lamps were lit and burned far into the night when the Council broke up. The most part of the officers partook of a cheerful refreshment with the Governor before they retired to their several quarters. Only Bigot and his friends declined to sup with the Governor: they took a polite leave, and rode away from the Château to the Palace of the Intendant, where a more gorgeous repast and more congenial company awaited them.
The wine flowed freely at the Intendant's table, and as the irritating events of the day were recalled to memory, the pent-up wrath of the Intendant broke forth. “Damn the Golden Dog and his master both!” exclaimed he. “Philibert shall pay with his life for the outrage of to-day, or I will lose mine! The dirt is not off my coat yet, Cadet!” said he, as he pointed to a spatter of mud upon his breast. “A pretty medal that for the Intendant to wear in a Council of War!”
“Council of War!” replied Cadet, setting his goblet down with a bang upon the polished table, after draining it to the bottom. “I would like to go through that mob again! and I would pull an oar in the galleys of Marseilles rather than be questioned with that air of authority by a botanizing quack like La Galissonière! Such villainous questions as he asked me about the state of the royal magazines! La Galissonière had more the air of a judge cross-examining a culprit than of a Governor asking information of a king's officer!”
“True, Cadet!” replied Varin, who was always a flatterer, and who at last saved his ill-gotten wealth by the surrender of his wife as a love-gift to the Duc de Choiseul. “We all have our own injuries to bear. The Intendant was just showing us the spot of dirt cast upon him by the mob; and I ask what satisfaction he has asked in the Council for the insult.”
“Ask satisfaction!” replied Cadet with a laugh. “Let him take it! Satisfaction! We will all help him! But I say that the hair of the dog that bit him will alone cure the bite! What I laughed at the most was this morning at Beaumanoir, to see how coolly that whelp of the Golden Dog, young Philibert, walked off with De Repentigny from the very midst of all the Grand Company!”
“We shall lose our young neophyte, I doubt, Cadet! I was a fool to let him go with Philibert!” remarked Bigot.
“Oh, I am not afraid of losing him, we hold him by a strong triple cord, spun by the Devil. No fear of losing him!” answered Cadet, grinning good-humoredly.
“What do you mean, Cadet?” The Intendant took up his cup and drank very nonchalantly, as if he thought little of Cadet's view of the matter. “What triple cord binds De Repentigny to us?”
“His love of wine, his love of gaming, and his love of women--or rather his love of a woman, which is the strongest strand in the string for a young fool like him who is always chasing virtue and hugging vice!”
“Oh! a woman has got him! eh, Cadet? Pray who is she? When once a woman catches a fellow by the gills, he is a dead mackerel: his fate is fixed for good or bad in this world. But who is she, Cadet? --she must be a clever one,” said Bigot, sententiously.
“So she is! and she is too clever for young De Repentigny: she has got her pretty fingers in his gills, and can carry her fish to whatever market she chooses!”
“Cadet! Cadet! out with it!” repeated a dozen voices. “Yes, out with it!” repeated Bigot. “We are all companions under the rose, and there are no secrets here about wine or women!”
“Well, I would not give a filbert for all the women born since mother Eve!” said Cadet, flinging a nut-shell at the ceiling. “But this is a rare one, I must confess. Now stop! Don't cry out again 'Cadet! out with it!' and I will tell you! What think you of the fair, jolly Mademoiselle des Meloises?”
“Angélique? Is De Repentigny in love with her?” Bigot looked quite interested now.
“In love with her? He would go on all fours after her, if she wanted him! He does almost, as it is.”
Bigot placed a finger on his brow and pondered for a moment. “You say well, Cadet; if De Repentigny has fallen in love with that girl, he is ours forever! Angélique des Meloises never lets go her ox until she offers him up as a burnt offering! The Honnêtes Gens will lose one of the best trout in their stream if Angélique has the tickling of him!”
Bigot did not seem to be quite pleased with Cadet's information. He rose from his seat somewhat flushed and excited by this talk respecting Angélique des Meloises. He walked up and down the room a few turns, recovered his composure, and sat down again.
“Come, gentlemen,” said he; “too much care will kill a cat! Let us change our talk to a merrier tune; fill up, and we will drink to the loves of De Repentigny and the fair Angélique! I am much mistaken if we do not find in her the dea ex machinâ to help us out of our trouble with the Honnêtes Gens!”
The glasses were filled and emptied. Cards and dice were then called for. The company drew their chairs into a closer circle round the table; deep play, and deeper drinking, set in. The Palais resounded with revelry until the morning sun looked into the great window, blushing red at the scene of drunken riot that had become habitual in the Palace of the Intendant.
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{
"id": "2735"
}
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15
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THE CHARMING JOSEPHINE.
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The few words of sympathy dropped by Bigot in the secret chamber had fallen like manna on the famine of Caroline's starving affections as she remained on the sofa, where she had half fallen, pressing her bosom with her hands as if a new-born thought lay there. “I am sure he meant it!” repeated she to herself. “I feel that his words were true, and for the moment his look and tone were those of my happy maiden days in Acadia! I was too proud then of my fancied power, and thought Bigot's love deserved the surrender of my very conscience to his keeping. I forgot God in my love for him; and, alas for me! that now is part of my punishment! I feel not the sin of loving him! My penitence is not sincere when I can still rejoice in his smile! Woe is me! Bigot! Bigot! unworthy as thou art, I cannot forsake thee! I would willingly die at thy feet, only spurn me not away, nor give to another the love that belongs to me, and for which I have paid the price of my immortal soul!”
She relapsed into a train of bitter reflections as her thoughts reverted to herself. Silence had been gradually creeping through the house. The noisy debauch was at an end. There were trampings, voices, and footfalls for a while longer, and then they died away. Everything was still and silent as the grave. She knew the feast was over and the guests departed; but not whether Bigot had accompanied them.
She sprang up as a low knock came to her door, thinking it was he, come to bid her adieu. It was with a feeling of disappointment she heard the voice of Dame Tremblay saying, “My Lady, may I enter?”
Caroline ran her fingers through her disordered hair, pressed her handkerchief into her eyes, and hastily tried to obliterate every trace of her recent agony. She bade her enter.
Dame Tremblay, shrewd as became the whilom Charming Josephine of Lake Beauport, had a kind heart, nevertheless, under her old-fashioned bodice. She sincerely pitied this young creature who was passing her days in prayer and her nights in weeping, although she might rather blame her in secret for not appreciating better the honor of a residence at Beaumanoir and the friendship of the Intendant.
“I do not think she is prettier than I, when I was the Charming Josephine!” thought the old dame. “I did not despise Beaumanoir in those days, and why should she now? But she will be neither maid nor mistress here long, I am thinking!” The dame saluted the young lady with great deference, and quietly asked if she needed her service.
“Oh! it is you, good dame!” --Caroline answered her own thoughts, rather than the question,--“tell me what makes this unusual silence in the Château?”
“The Intendant and all the guests have gone to the city, my Lady: a great officer of the Governor's came to summon them. To be sure, not many of them were fit to go, but after a deal of bathing and dressing the gentlemen got off. Such a clatter of horsemen as they rode out, I never heard before, my Lady; you must have heard them even here!”
“Yes, dame!” replied Caroline, “I heard it; and the Intendant, has he accompanied them?”
“Yes, my Lady; the freshest and foremost cavalier of them all. Wine and late hours never hurt the Intendant. It is for that I praise him, for he is a gallant gentleman, who knows what politeness is to women.”
Caroline shrank a little at the thought expressed by the dame. “What causes you to say that?” asked she.
“I will tell, my Lady! 'Dame Tremblay!' said he, just before he left the Château. 'Dame Tremblay'--he always calls me that when he is formal, but sometimes when he is merry, he calls me 'Charming Josephine,' in remembrance of my young days, concerning which he has heard flattering stories, I dare say--” “In heaven's name! go on, dame!” Caroline, depressed as she was, felt the dame's garrulity like a pinch on her impatience. “What said the Intendant to you, on leaving the Château?”
“Oh, he spoke to me of you quite feelingly--that is, bade me take the utmost care of the poor lady in the secret chamber. I was to give you everything you wished, and keep off all visitors, if such were your own desire.”
A train of powder does not catch fire from a spark more quickly than Caroline's imagination from these few words of the old housekeeper. “Did he say that, good dame? God bless you, and bless him for those words!” Her eyes filled with tears at the thought of his tenderness, which, although half fictitious, she wholly believed.
“Yes, dame,” continued she. “It is my most earnest desire to be secluded from all visitors. I wish to see no one but yourself. Have you many visitors--ladies, I mean--at the Château?”
“Oh, yes! the ladies of the city are not likely to forget the invitations to the balls and dinners of the bachelor Intendant of New France. It is the most fashionable thing in the city, and every lady is wild to attend them. There is one, the handsomest and gayest of them all, who, they say, would not object even to become the bride of the Intendant.”
It was a careless shaft of the old dame's, but it went to the heart of Caroline. “Who is she, good dame? --pray tell me!”
“Oh, my Lady, I should fear her anger, if she knew what I say! She is the most terrible coquette in the city--worshipped by the men, and hated, of course, by the women, who all imitate her in dress and style as much as they possibly can, because they see it takes! But every woman fears for either husband or lover when Angélique des Meloises is her rival.”
“Is that her name? I never heard it before, dame!” remarked Caroline, with a shudder. She felt instinctively that the name was one of direful omen to herself.
“Pray God you may never have reason to hear it again,” replied Dame Tremblay. “She it was who went to the mansion of Sieur Tourangeau and with her riding-whip lashed the mark of a red cross upon the forehead of his daughter, Cecile, scarring her forever, because she had presumed to smile kindly upon a young officer, a handsome fellow, Le Gardeur de Repentigny--whom any woman might be pardoned for admiring!” added the old dame, with a natural touch of the candor of her youth. “If Angélique takes a fancy to the Intendant, it will be dangerous for any other woman to stand in her way!”
Caroline gave a frightened look at the dame's description of a possible rival in the Intendant's love. “You know more of her, dame! Tell me all! Tell me the worst I have to learn!” pleaded the poor girl.
“The worst, my Lady! I fear no one can tell the worst of Angélique des Meloises,--at least, would not dare to, although I know nothing bad of her, except that she would like to have all the men to herself, and so spite all the women!”
“But she must regard that young officer with more than common affection, to have acted so savagely to Mademoiselle Tourangeau?” Caroline, with a woman's quickness, had caught at that gleam of hope through the darkness.
“Oh, yes, my Lady! All Quebec knows that Angélique loves the Seigneur de Repentigny, for nothing is a secret in Quebec if more than one person knows it, as I myself well recollect; for when I was the Charming Josephine, my very whispers were all over the city by the next dinner hour, and repeated at every table, as gentlemen cracked their almonds and drank their wine in toasts to the Charming Josephine.”
“Pshaw! dame! Tell me about the Seigneur de Repentigny! Does Angélique des Meloises love him, think you?” Caroline's eyes were fixed like stars upon the dame, awaiting her reply.
“It takes women to read women, they say,” replied the dame, “and every lady in Quebec would swear that Angélique loves the Seigneur de Repentigny; but I know that, if she can, she will marry the Intendant, whom she has fairly bewitched with her wit and beauty, and you know a clever woman can marry any man she pleases, if she only goes the right way about it: men are such fools!”
Caroline grew faint. Cold drops gathered on her brow. A veil of mist floated before her eyes. “Water! good dame water!” she articulated, after several efforts.
Dame Tremblay ran, and got her a drink of water and such restoratives as were at hand. The dame was profuse in words of sympathy: she had gone through life with a light, lively spirit, as became the Charming Josephine, but never lost the kindly heart that was natural to her.
Caroline rallied from her faintness. “Have you seen what you tell me, dame, or is it but the idle gossip of the city, no truth in it? Oh, say it is the idle gossip of the city! François Bigot is not going to marry this lady? He is not so faithless”--to me, she was about to add, but did not.
“So faithless to her, she means, poor soul!” soliliquized the dame. “It is but little you know my gay master if you think he values a promise made to any woman, except to deceive her! I have seen too many birds of that feather not to know a hawk, from beak to claw. When I was the Charming Josephine I took the measure of men's professions, and never was deceived but once. Men's promises are big as clouds, and as empty and as unstable!”
“My good dame, I am sure you have a kind heart,” said Caroline, in reply to a sympathizing pressure of the hand. “But you do not know, you cannot imagine what injustice you do the Intendant”--Caroline hesitated and blushed--“by mentioning the report of his marriage with that lady. Men speak untruly of him--” “My dear Lady, it is what the women say that frightens one! The men are angry, and won't believe it; but the women are jealous, and will believe it even if there be nothing in it! As a faithful servant I ought to have no eyes to watch my master, but I have not failed to observe that the Chevalier Bigot is caught man-fashion, if not husband-fashion, in the snares of the artful Angélique. But may I speak my real opinion to you, my Lady?”
Caroline was eagerly watching the lips of the garrulous dame. She started, brushed back with a stroke of her hand the thick hair that had fallen over her ear,--“Oh, speak all your thoughts, good dame! If your next words were to kill me, speak them!”
“My next words will not harm you, my Lady,” said she, with a meaning smile, “if you will accept the opinion of an old woman, who learned the ways of men when she was the Charming Josephine! You must not conclude that because the Chevalier Intendant admires, or even loves Angélique des Meloises, he is going to marry her. That is not the fashion of these times. Men love beauty, and marry money; love is more plenty than matrimony, both at Paris and at Quebec, at Versailles as well as at Beaumanoir or even at Lake Beauport, as I learned to my cost when I was the Charming Josephine!”
Caroline blushed crimson at the remark of Dame Tremblay. Her voice quivered with emotion. “It is sin to cheapen love like that, dame! And yet I know we have sometimes to bury our love in our heart, with no hope of resurrection.”
“Sometimes? Almost always, my Lady! When I was the Charming Josephine--nay, listen, Lady: my story is instructive.” Caroline composed herself to hear the dame's recital. “When I was the Charming Josephine of Lake Beauport I began by believing that men were angels sent for the salvation of us women. I thought that love was a better passport than money to lead to matrimony; but I was a fool for my fancy! I had a good score of lovers any day. The gallants praised my beauty, and it was the envy of the city; they flattered me for my wit,--nay, even fought duels for my favor, and called me the Charming Josephine, but not one offered to marry me! At twenty I ran away for love, and was forsaken. At thirty I married for money, and was rid of all my illusions. At forty I came as housekeeper to Beaumanoir, and have lived here comfortably ever since I know what royal intendants are! Old Hocquart wore night-caps in the daytime, took snuff every minute, and jilted a lady in France because she had not the dower of a duchess to match his hoards of wealth! The Chevalier Bigot's black eye and jolly laugh draw after him all the girls of the city, but not one will catch him! Angélique des Meloises is first in his favor, but I see it is as clear as print in the eye of the Intendant that he will never marry her--and you will prevent him, my Lady!”
“I? I prevent him!” exclaimed Caroline in amazement. “Alas! good dame, you little know how lighter than thistledown floating on the wind is my influence with the Intendant.”
“You do yourself injustice, my Lady. Listen! I never saw a more pitying glance fall from the eye of man than the Intendant cast upon you one day when he saw you kneeling in your oratory unconscious of his presence. His lips quivered, and a tear gathered under his thick eyelashes as he silently withdrew. I heard him mutter a blessing upon you, and curses upon La Pompadour for coming between him and his heart's desire. I was a faithful servant and kept my counsel. I could see, however, that the Intendant thought more of the lovely lady of Beaumanoir than of all the ambitious demoiselles of Quebec.”
Caroline sprang up, and casting off the deep reserve she had maintained, threw her arms round the neck of Dame Tremblay, and half choked with emotion, exclaimed,-- “Is that true? good, dear friend of friends! Did the Chevalier Bigot bless me, and curse La Pompadour for coming between him and his heart's desire! His heart's desire! but you do not know--you cannot guess what that means, dame?”
“As if I did not know a man's heart's desire! but I am a woman, and can guess! I was not the Charming Josephine for nothing, good Lady!” replied the dame, smiling, as the enraptured girl laid her fair, smooth cheek upon that of the old housekeeper.
“And did he look so pityingly as you describe, and bless me as I was praying, unwitting of his presence?” repeated she, with a look that searched the dame through and through.
“He did, my Lady; he looked, just then, as a man looks upon a woman whom he really loves. I know how men look when they really love us and when they only pretend to? No deceiving me!” added she. “When I was the Charming Josephine--” “Ave Maria!” said Caroline, crossing herself with deep devotion, not heeding the dame's reminiscences of Lake Beauport. “Heaven has heard my prayers! I can die happy!”
“Heaven forbid you should die at all, my Lady! You die? The Intendant loves you. I see it in his face that he will never marry Angélique des Meloises. He may indeed marry a great marchioness with her lap full of gold and châteaux--that is, if the King commands him: that is how the grand gentlemen of the Court marry. They wed rank, and love beauty--the heart to one, the hand to another. It would be my way too, were I a man and women so simple as we all are. If a girl cannot marry for love, she will marry for money; and if not for money, she can always marry for spite--I did, when I was the Charming Josephine!”
“It is a shocking and sinful way, to marry without love!” said Caroline, warmly.
“It is better than no way at all!” replied the dame, regretting her remark when she saw her lady's face flush like crimson. The dame's opinions were rather the worse for wear in her long journey through life, and would not be adopted by a jury of prudes. “When I was the Charming Josephine,” continued she, “I had the love of half the gallants of Quebec, but not one offered his hand. What was I to do? 'Crook a finger, or love and linger,' as they say in Alençon, where I was born?”
“Fie, dame! Don't say such things!” said Caroline, with a shamed, reproving look. “I would think better of the Intendant.” Her gratitude led her to imagine excuses for him. The few words reported to her by Dame Tremblay she repeated with silently moving lips and tender reiteration. They lingered in her ear like the fugue of a strain of music, sung by a choir of angelic spirits. “Those were his very words, dame?” added she again, repeating them--not for inquiry, but for secret joy.
“His very words, my Lady! But why should the Royal Intendant not have his heart's desire as well as that great lady in France? If any one had forbidden my marrying the poor Sieur Tremblay, for whom I did not care two pins, I would have had him for spite--yes, if I had had to marry him as the crows do, on a tree-top!”
“But no one bade you or forbade you, dame! You were happy that no one came between you and your heart's desire!” replied Caroline.
Dame Tremblay laughed out merrily at the idea. “Poor Giles Tremblay my heart's desire! Listen, Lady, I could no more get that than you could. When I was the Charming Josephine there was but one, out of all my admirers, whom I really cared for, and he, poor fellow, had a wife already! So what was I to do? I threw my line at last in utter despair, and out of the troubled sea I drew the Sieur Tremblay, whom I married, and soon put cosily underground with a heavy tombstone on top of him to keep him down, with this inscription, which you may see for yourself, my Lady, if you will, in the churchyard where he lies: “'Ci gît mon Giles, Ah! qu'il est bien, Pour son répos, Et pour le mien!'
“Men are like my Angora tabby: stroke them smoothly and they will purr and rub noses with you; but stroke them the wrong way and whirr! they scratch your hands and out of the window they fly! When I was the Charming--” “Oh, good dame, thanks! thanks! for the comfort you have given me!” interrupted Caroline, not caring for a fresh reminiscence of the Charming Josephine. “Leave me, I pray. My mind is in a sad tumult. I would fain rest. I have much to fear, but something also to hope for now,” she said, leaning back in her chair in deep and quiet thought.
“The Château is very still now, my Lady,” replied the dame, “the servants are all worn out with long attendance and fast asleep. Let my Lady go to her own apartments, which are bright and airy. It will be better for her than this dull chamber.”
“True, dame!” Caroline rose at the suggestion. “I like not this secret chamber. It suited my sad mood, but now I seem to long for air and sunshine. I will go with you to my own room.”
They ascended the winding stair, and Caroline seated herself by the window of her own chamber, overlooking the park and gardens of the Château. The huge, sloping forest upon the mountain side, formed, in the distance, with the blue sky above it, a landscape of beauty, upon which her eyes lingered with a sense of freshness and delight.
Dame Tremblay left her to her musings, to go, she said, to rouse up the lazy maids and menservants, to straighten up the confusion of everything in the Château after the late long feast.
On the great stair she encountered M. Froumois, the Intendant's valet, a favorite gossip of the dame's, who used to invite him into her snug parlor, where she regaled him with tea and cake, or, if late in the evening, with wine and nipperkins of Cognac, while he poured into her ear stories of the gay life of Paris and the bonnes fortunes of himself and master--for the valet in plush would have disdained being less successful among the maids in the servants' hall than his master in velvet in the boudoirs of their mistresses.
M. Froumois accepted the dame's invitation, and the two were presently engaged in a melée of gossip over the sayings and doings of fashionable society in Quebec.
The dame, holding between her thumb and finger a little china cup of tea well laced, she called it, with Cognac, remarked,--“They fairly run the Intendant down, Froumois: there is not a girl in the city but laces her boots to distraction since it came out that the Intendant admires a neat, trim ankle. I had a trim ankle myself when I was the Charming Josephine, M. Froumois!”
“And you have yet, dame,--if I am a judge,” replied Froumois, glancing down with an air of gallantry.
“And you are accounted a judge--and ought to be a good one, Froumois! A gentleman can't live at court as you have done, and learn nothing of the points of a fine woman!” The good dame liked a compliment as well as ever she had done at Lake Beauport in her hey-day of youth and beauty.
“Why, no, dame,” replied he; “one can't live at Court and learn nothing! We study the points of fine women as we do fine statuary in the gallery of the Louvre, only the living beauties will compel us to see their best points if they have them!” M. Froumois looked very critical as he took a pinch from the dame's box, which she held out to him. Her hand and wrist were yet unexceptionable, as he could not help remarking.
“But what think you, really, of our Quebec beauties? Are they not a good imitation of Versailles?” asked the dame.
“A good imitation! They are the real porcelain! For beauty and affability Versailles cannot exceed them. So says the Intendant, and so say I! ,” replied the gay valet. “Why, look you, Dame Tremblay!” continued he, extending his well-ringed fingers, “they do give gentlemen no end of hopes here! We have only to stretch out our ten digits and a ladybird will light on every one of them! It was so at Versailles--it is just so here. The ladies in Quebec do know how to appreciate a real gentleman!”
“Yes, that is what makes the ladies of Ville Marie so jealous and angry,” replied the dame; “the King's officers and all the great catches land at Quebec first, when they come out from France, and we take toll of them! We don't let a gentleman of them get up to Ville Marie without a Quebec engagement tacked to his back, so that all Ville Marie can read it, and die of pure spite! I say we, Froumois; but you understand I speak of myself only as the Charming Josephine of Lake Beauport. I must content myself now with telling over my past glories.”
“Well dame, I don't know but you are glorious yet! But tell me, what has got over my master to-day? Was the unknown lady unkind? Something has angered him, I am sure!”
“I cannot tell you, Froumois: women's moods are not to be explained, even by themselves.” The dame had been sensibly touched by Caroline's confidence in her, and she was too loyal to her sex to repeat even to Froumois her recent conversation with Caroline.
They found plenty of other topics, however, and over the tea and Cognac the dame and valet passed an hour of delightful gossip.
Caroline, left to the solitude of her chamber, sat silently with her hands clasped in her lap. Her thoughts pressed inward upon her. She looked out without seeing the fair landscape before her eyes.
Tears and sorrow she had welcomed in a spirit of bitter penitence for her fault in loving one who no longer regarded her. “I do not deserve any man's regard,” murmured she, as she laid her soul on the rack of self-accusation, and wrung its tenderest fibres with the pitiless rigor of a secret inquisitor. She utterly condemned herself while still trying to find some excuse for her unworthy lover. At times a cold half-persuasion, fluttering like a bird in the snow, came over her that Bigot could not be utterly base. He could not thus forsake one who had lost all--name, fame, home, and kindred--for his sake! She clung to the few pitying words spoken by him as a shipwrecked sailor to the plank which chance has thrown in his way. It might float her for a few hours, and she was grateful.
Immersed in these reflections, Caroline sat gazing at the clouds, now transformed into royal robes of crimson and gold--the gorgeous train of the sun filled the western horizon. She raised her pale hands to her head, lifting the mass of dark hair from her temples. The fevered blood, madly coursing, pulsed in her ear like the stroke of a bell.
She remembered a sunset like this on the shores of the Bay of Minas, where the thrush and oriole twittered their even-song before seeking their nests, where the foliage of the trees was all ablaze with golden fire, and a shimmering path of sunlight lay upon the still waters like a glorious bridge leading from themselves to the bright beyond.
On that well-remembered night her heart had yielded to Bigot's pleadings. She had leaned her head upon his bosom, and received the kiss and gave the pledge that bound her to him forever.
The sun kept sinking--the forests on the mountain tops burst into a bonfire of glory. Shadows went creeping up the hill-sides until the highest crest alone flamed out as a beacon of hope to her troubled soul.
Suddenly, like a voice from the spirit world, the faint chime of the bells of Charlebourg floated on the evening breeze: it was the Angelus, calling men to prayer and rest from their daily labor. Sweetly the soft reverberation floated through the forests, up the hill-sides, by plain and river, entering the open lattices of Château and cottage, summoning rich and poor alike to their duty of prayer and praise. It reminded men of the redemption of the world by the divine miracle of the incarnation announced by Gabriel, the angel of God, to the ear of Mary blessed among women.
The soft bells rang on. Men blessed them, and ceased from their toils in field and forest. Mothers knelt by the cradle, and uttered the sacred words with emotions such as only mothers feel. Children knelt by their mothers, and learned the story of God's pity in appearing upon earth as a little child, to save mankind from their sins. The dark Huron setting his snares in the forest and the fishers on the shady stream stood still. The voyageur sweeping his canoe over the broad river suspended his oar as the solemn sound reached him, and he repeated the angel's words and went on his way with renewed strength.
The sweet bells came like a voice of pity and consolation to the ear of Caroline. She knelt down, and clasping her hands, repeated the prayer of millions,-- “'Ave Maria! gratia plena.'”
She continued kneeling, offering up prayer after prayer for God's forgiveness, both for herself and for him who had brought her to this pass of sin and misery. “'Mea culpa! Mea maxima culpa!'” repeated she, bowing herself to the ground. “I am the chief of sinners; who shall deliver me from this body of sin and afliction?”
The sweet bells kept ringing. They woke reminiscences of voices of by-gone days. She heard her father's tones, not in anger as he would speak now, but kind and loving as in her days of innocence. She heard her mother, long dead--oh, how happily dead! for she could not die of sorrow now over her dear child's fall. She heard the voices of the fair companions of her youth, who would think shame of her now; and amidst them all, the tones of the persuasive tongue that wooed her maiden love. How changed it all seemed! and yet, as the repetition of two or three notes of a bar of music brings to recollection the whole melody to which it belongs, the few kind words of Bigot, spoken that morning, swept all before them in a drift of hope. Like a star struggling in the mist the faint voice of an angel was heard afar off in the darkness.
The ringing of the Angelus went on. Her heart was utterly melted. Her eyes, long parched, as a spent fountain in the burning desert, were suddenly filled with tears. She felt no longer the agony of the eyes that cannot weep. The blessed tears flowed quietly as the waters of Shiloh, bringing relief to her poor soul, famishing for one true word of affection. Long after the sweet bells ceased their chime Caroline kept on praying for him, and long after the shades of night had fallen over the Château of Beaumanoir.
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{
"id": "2735"
}
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16
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ANGÉLIQUE DES MELOISES.
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“Come and see me to-night, Le Gardeur.” Angélique des Meloises drew the bridle sharply as she halted her spirited horse in front of the officer of the guard at the St. Louis Gate. “Come and see me to-night: I shall be at home to no one but you. Will you come?”
Had Le Gardeur de Repentigny been ever so laggard and indifferent a lover the touch of that pretty hand, and the glance from the dark eye that shot fire down into his very heart, would have decided him to obey this seductive invitation.
He held her hand as he looked up with a face radiant with joy. “I will surely come, Angélique; but tell me--” She interrupted him laughingly: “No; I will tell you nothing till you come! So good-by till then.”
He would fain have prolonged the interview; but she capriciously shook the reins, and with a silvery laugh rode through the gateway and into the city. In a few minutes she dismounted at her own home, and giving her horse in charge of a groom, ran lightly up the broad steps into the house.
The family mansion of the Des Meloises was a tall and rather pretentious edifice overlooking the fashionable Rue St. Louis.
The house was, by a little artifice on the part of Angélique, empty of visitors this evening. Even her brother, the Chevalier des Meloises, with whom she lived, a man of high life and extreme fashion, was to-night enjoying the more congenial society of the officers of the Regiment de Béarn. At this moment, amid the clash of glasses and the bubbling of wine, the excited and voluble Gascons were discussing in one breath the war, the council, the court, the ladies, and whatever gay topic was tossed from end to end of the crowded mess-table.
“Mademoiselle's hair has got loose and looks like a Huron's,” said her maid Lizette, as her nimble fingers reärranged the rich dark-golden locks of Angélique, which reached to the floor as she sat upon her fauteuil.
“No matter, Lizette; do it up à la Pompadour, and make haste. My brain is in as great confusion as my hair. I need repose for an hour. Remember, Lizette, I am at home to no one to-night except the Chevalier de Repentigny.”
“The Chevalier called this afternoon, Mademoiselle, and was sorry he did not find you at home,” replied Lizette, who saw the eyelashes of her mistress quiver and droop, while a flush deepened for an instant the roseate hue of her cheek.
“I was in the country, that accounts for it! There, my hair will do!” said Angélique, giving a glance in the great Venetian mirror before her. Her freshly donned robe of blue silk, edged with a foam of snowy laces and furbelows, set off her tall figure. Her arms, bare to the elbows, would have excited Juno's jealousy or Homer's verse to gather efforts in praise of them. Her dainty feet, shapely, aspiring, and full of character as her face, were carelessly thrust forward, and upon one of them lay a flossy spaniel, a privileged pet of his fair mistress.
The boudoir of Angélique was a nest of luxury and elegance. Its furnishings and adornings were of the newest Parisian style. A carpet woven in the pattern of a bed of flowers covered the floor. Vases of Sèvres and Porcelain, filled with roses and jonquils, stood on marble tables. Grand Venetian mirrors reflected the fair form of their mistress from every point of view--who contemplated herself before and behind with a feeling of perfect satisfaction and sense of triumph over every rival.
A harpsichord occupied one corner of the room, and an elaborate bookcase, well-filled with splendidly bound volumes, another.
Angélique had small taste for reading, yet had made some acquaintance with the literature of the day. Her natural quick parts and good taste enabled her to shine, even in literary conversation. Her bright eyes looked volumes. Her silvery laugh was wiser than the wisdom of a précieuse. Her witty repartees covered acres of deficiencies with so much grace and tact that men were tempted to praise her knowledge no less than her beauty.
She had a keen eye for artistic effects. She loved painting, although her taste was sensuous and voluptuous--character is shown in the choice of pictures as much as in that of books or of companions.
There was a painting of Vanloo--a lot of full-blooded horses in a field of clover; they had broken fence, and were luxuriating in the rich, forbidden pasture. The triumph of Cleopatra over Antony, by Le Brun, was a great favorite with Angélique, because of a fancied, if not a real, resemblance between her own features and those of the famous Queen of Egypt. Portraits of favorite friends, one of them Le Gardeur de Repentigny, and a still more recent acquisition, that of the Intendant Bigot, adorned the walls, and among them was one distinguished for its contrast to all the rest--the likeness, in the garb of an Ursuline, of her beautiful Aunt Marie des Meloises, who, in a fit of caprice some years before, had suddenly forsaken the world of fashion, and retired to a convent.
The proud beauty threw back her thick golden tresses as she scanned her fair face and magnificent figure in the tall Venetian mirror. She drank the intoxicating cup of self-flattery to the bottom as she compared herself, feature by feature, with every beautiful woman she knew in New France. The longer she looked the more she felt the superiority of her own charms over them all. Even the portrait of her aunt, so like her in feature, so different in expression, was glanced at with something like triumph spiced with content.
“She was handsome as I!” cried Angélique. “She was fit to be a queen, and made herself a nun--and all for the sake of a man! I am fit to be a queen too, and the man who raises me nighest to a queen's estate gets my hand! My heart?” she paused a few moments. “Pshaw!” A slight quiver passed over her lips. “My heart must do penance for the fault of my hand!”
Petrified by vanity and saturated with ambition, Angélique retained under the hard crust of selfishness a solitary spark of womanly feeling. The handsome face and figure of Le Gardeur de Repentigny was her beau-ideal of manly perfection. His admiration flattered her pride. His love, for she knew infallibly, with a woman's instinct, that he loved her, touched her into a tenderness such as she felt for no man besides. It was the nearest approach to love her nature was capable of, and she used to listen to him with more than complacency, while she let her hand linger in his warm clasp while the electric fire passed from one to another and she looked into his eyes, and spoke to him in those sweet undertones that win man's hearts to woman's purposes.
She believed she loved Le Gardeur; but there was no depth in the soil where a devoted passion could take firm root. Still she was a woman keenly alive to admiration, jealous and exacting of her suitors, never willingly letting one loose from her bonds, and with warm passions and a cold heart was eager for the semblance of love, although never feeling its divine reality.
The idea of a union with Le Gardeur some day, when she should tire of the whirl of fashion, had been a pleasant fancy of Angélique. She had no fear of losing her power over him: she held him by the very heart-strings, and she knew it. She might procrastinate, play false and loose, drive him to the very verge of madness by her coquetries, but she knew she could draw him back, like a bird held by a silken string. She could excite, if she could not feel, the fire of a passionate love. In her heart she regarded men as beings created for her service, amazement, and sport,--to worship her beauty and adorn it with gifts. She took everything as her due, giving nothing in return. Her love was an empty shell that never held a kernel of real womanly care for any man.
Amid the sunshine of her fancied love for Le Gardeur had come a day of eclipse for him, of fresh glory for her. The arrival of the new Intendant, Bigot, changed the current of Angélique's ambition. His high rank, his fabulous wealth, his connections with the court, and his unmarried state, fanned into a flame the secret aspirations of the proud, ambitious girl. His wit and gallantry captivated her fancy, and her vanity was full fed by being singled out as the special object of the Intendant's admiration.
She already indulged in dreams which regarded the Intendant himself as but a stepping-stone to further greatness. Her vivid fancy, conjured up scenes of royal splendor, where, introduced by the courtly Bigot, princes and nobles would follow in her train and the smiles of majesty itself would distinguish her in the royal halls of Versailles.
Angélique felt she had power to accomplish all this could she but open the way. The name of Bigot she regarded as the open sesame to all greatness. “If women rule France by a right more divine than that of kings, no woman has a better right than I!” said she, gazing into the mirror before her. “The kingdom should be mine, and death to all other pretenders! And what is needed after all?” thought she, as she brushed her golden hair from her temples with a hand firm as it was beautiful. “It is but to pull down the heart of a man! I have done that many a time for my pleasure; I will now do it for my profit, and for supremacy over my jealous and envious sex!”
Angélique was not one to quail when she entered the battle in pursuit of any object of ambition or fancy. “I never saw the man yet,” said she, “whom I could not bring to my feet if I willed it! The Chevalier Bigot would be no exception--that is, he would be no exception”--the voice of Angélique fell into a low, hard monotone as she finished the sentence--“were he free from the influence of that mysterious woman at Beaumanoir, who, they say, claims the title of wife by a token which even Bigot may not disregard! Her pleading eyes may draw his compassion where they ought to excite his scorn. But men are fools to woman's faults, and are often held by the very thing women never forgive. While she crouches there like a lioness in my path the chances are I shall never be chatelaine of Beaumanoir--never, until she is gone!”
Angélique fell into a deep fit of musing, and murmured to herself, “I shall never reach Bigot unless she be removed--but how to remove her?”
Ay, that was the riddle of the Sphinx! Angélique's life, as she had projected it, depended upon the answer to that question.
She trembled with a new feeling; a shiver ran through her veins as if the cold breath of a spirit of evil had passed over her. A miner, boring down into the earth, strikes a hidden stone that brings him to a dead stand. So Angélique struck a hard, dark thought far down in the depths of her secret soul. She drew it to the light, and gazed on it shocked and frightened.
“I did not mean that!” cried the startled girl, crossing herself. “Mère de Dieu! I did not conceive a wicked thought like that! I will not! I cannot contemplate that!” She shut her eyes, pressing both hands over them as if resolved not to look at the evil thought that, like a spirit of darkness, came when evoked, and would not depart when bidden. She sprang up trembling in every limb, and supporting herself against a table, seized a gilded carafe and poured out a full goblet of wine, which she drank. It revived her fainting spirit. She drank another, and stood up herself again, laughing at her own weakness.
She ran to the window, and looked out into the night. The bright stars shone overhead; the lights in the street reassured her. The people passing by and the sound of voices brought back her familiar mood. She thought no more of the temptation from which she had not prayed to be delivered, just as the daring skater forgets the depths that underlie the thin ice over which he skims, careless as a bird in the sunshine.
An hour more was struck by the loud clock of the Recollets. The drums and bugles of the garrison sounded the signal for the closing of the gates of the city and the setting of the watch for the night. Presently the heavy tramp of the patrol was heard in the street. Sober bourgeois walked briskly home, while belated soldiers ran hastily to get into their quarters ere the drums ceased beating the tattoo.
The sharp gallop of a horse clattered on the stony pavement, and stopped suddenly at the door. A light step and the clink of a scabbard rang on the steps. A familiar rap followed. Angélique, with the infallible intuition of a woman who recognizes the knock and footstep of her lover from ten thousand others, sprang up and met Le Gardeur de Repentigny as he entered the boudoir. She received him with warmth, even fondness, for she was proud of Le Gardeur and loved him in her secret heart beyond all the rest of her admirers.
“Welcome, Le Gardeur!” exclaimed she, giving both hands in his: “I knew you would come; you are welcome as the returned prodigal!”
“Dear Angélique!” repeated he, after kissing her hands with fervor, “the prodigal was sure to return, he could not live longer on the dry husks of mere recollections.”
“So he rose, and came to the house that is full and overflowing with welcome for him! It is good of you to come, Le Gardeur! why have you stayed so long away?” Angélique in the joy of his presence forgot for the moment her meditated infidelity.
A swift stroke of her hand swept aside her flowing skirts to clear a place for him upon the sofa, where he sat down beside her.
“This is kind of you, Angélique,” said he, “I did not expect so much condescension after my petulance at the Governor's ball; I was wicked that night--forgive me.”
“The fault was more mine, I doubt, Le Gardeur.” Angélique recollected how she had tormented him on that occasion by capricious slights, while bounteous of her smiles to others. “I was angry with you because of your too great devotion to Cecile Tourangeau.”
This was not true, but Angélique had no scruple to lie to a lover. She knew well that it was only from his vexation at her conduct that Le Gardeur had pretended to renew some long intermitted coquetries with the fair Cecile. “But why were you wicked at all that night?” inquired she, with a look of sudden interest, as she caught a red cast in his eye, that spoke of much dissipation. “You have been ill, Le Gardeur!” But she knew he had been drinking deep and long, to drown vexation, perhaps, over her conduct.
“I have not been ill,” replied he; “shall I tell you the truth, Angélique?”
“Always, and all of it! The whole truth and nothing but the truth!” Her hand rested fondly on his; no word of equivocation was possible under that mode of putting her lover to the question. “Tell me why you were wicked that night!”
“Because I loved you to madness, Angélique; and I saw myself thrust from the first place in your heart, and a new idol set up in my stead. That is the truth?”
“That is not the truth!” exclaimed she vehemently; “and never will be the truth if I know myself and you. But you don't know women, Le Gardeur,” added she, with a smile; “you don't know me, the one woman you ought to know better than that!”
It is easy to recover affection that is not lost. Angélique knew her power, and was not indisposed to excess in the exercise of it. “Will you do something for me, Le Gardeur?” asked she, tapping his fingers coquettishly with her fan.
“Will I not? Is there anything in earth, heaven, or hell, Angélique, I would not do for you if I only could win what I covet more than life?”
“What is that?” Angélique knew full well what he coveted more than life; her own heart began to beat responsively to the passion she had kindled in his. She nestled up closer to his side. “What is that, Le Gardeur?”
“Your love, Angélique! I have no other hope in life if I miss that! Give me your love and I will serve you with such loyalty as never man served woman with since Adam and Eve were created.”
It was a rash saying, but Le Gardeur believed it, and Angélique too. Still she kept her aim before her. “If I give you my love,” said she, pressing her hand through his thick locks, sending from her fingers a thousand electric fires, “will you really be my knight, my preux chevalier, to wear my colors and fight my battles with all the world?”
“I will, by all that is sacred in man or woman! Your will shall be my law, Angélique; your pleasure, my conscience; you shall be to me all reason and motive for my acts if you will but love me!”
“I do love you, Le Gardeur!” replied she, impetuously. She felt the vital soul of this man breathing on her cheek. She knew he spoke true, but she was incapable of measuring the height and immensity of such a passion. She accepted his love, but she could no more contain the fulness of his overflowing affection than the pitcher that is held to the fountain can contain the stream that gushes forth perpetually.
Angélique was ALMOST carried away from her purpose, however. Had her heart asserted its rightful supremacy--that is, had nature fashioned it larger and warmer--she had there and then thrown herself into his arms and blessed him by the consent he sought. She felt assured that here was the one man God had made for her, and she was cruelly sacrificing him to a false idol of ambition and vanity. The word he pleaded for hovered on her tongue, ready like a bird to leap down into his bosom; but she resolutely beat it back into its iron cage.
The struggle was the old one--old as the race of man. In the losing battle between the false and true, love rarely comes out of that conflict unshorn of life or limb. Untrue to him, she was true to her selfish self. The thought of the Intendant and the glories of life opening to her closed her heart, not to the pleadings of Le Gardeur,--them she loved,--but to the granting of his prayer.
The die was cast, but she still clasped hard his hand in hers, as if she could not let him go. “And will you do all you say, Le Gardeur--make my will your law, my pleasure your conscience, and let me be to you all reason and motive? Such devotion terrifies me, Le Gardeur?”
“Try me! Ask of me the hardest thing, nay, the wickedest, that imagination can conceive or hands do--and I would perform it for your sake.” Le Gardeur was getting beside himself. The magic power of those dark, flashing eyes of hers was melting all the fine gold of his nature to folly.
“Fie!” replied she, “I do not ask you to drink the sea: a small thing would content me. My love is not so exacting as that, Le Gardeur.”
“Does your brother need my aid?” asked he. “If he does, he shall have it to half my fortune for your sake!” Le Gardeur was well aware that the prodigal brother of Angélique was in a strait for money, as was usual with him. He had lately importuned Le Gardeur, and obtained a large sum from him.
She looked up with well-affected indignation. “How can you think such a thing, Le Gardeur? my brother was not in my thought. It was the Intendant I wished to ask you about,--you know him better than I.” This was not true. Angélique had studied the Intendant in mind, person, and estate, weighing him scruple by scruple to the last attainable atom of information. Not that she had sounded the depths of Bigot's soul--there were regions of darkness in his character which no eye but God's ever penetrated. Angélique felt that with all her acuteness she did not comprehend the Intendant.
“You ask what I think of the Intendant?” asked he, surprised somewhat at the question.
“Yes--an odd question, is it not, Le Gardeur?” and she smiled away any surprise he experienced.
“Truly, I think him the most jovial gentleman that ever was in New France,” was the reply; “frank and open-handed to his friends, laughing and dangerous to his foes. His wit is like his wine, Angélique: one never tires of either, and no lavishness exhausts it. In a word, I, like the Intendant, I like his wit, his wine, his friends,--some of them, that is! --but above all, I like you, Angélique, and will be more his friend than ever for your sake, since I have learned his generosity towards the Chevalier des Meloises.”
The Intendant had recently bestowed a number of valuable shares in the Grand Company upon the brother of Angélique, making the fortune of that extravagant young nobleman.
“I am glad you will be his friend, if only for my sake,” added she, coquettishly. “But some great friends of yours like him not. Your sweet sister Amélie shrank like a sensitive plant at the mention of his name, and the Lady de Tilly put on her gravest look to-day when I spoke of the Chevalier Bigot.”
Le Gardeur gave Angélique an equivocal look at mention of his sister. “My sister Amélie is an angel in the flesh,” said he. “A man need be little less than divine to meet her full approval; and my good aunt has heard something of the genial life of the Intendant. One may excuse a reproving shake of her noble head.”
“Colonel Philibert too! he shares in the sentiments of your aunt and sister, to say nothing of the standing hostility of his father, the Bourgeois,” continued Angélique, provoked at Le Gardeur's want of adhesion.
“Pierre Philibert! He may not like the Intendant: he has reason for not doing so; but I stake my life upon his honor--he will never be unjust towards the Intendant or any man.” Le Gardeur could not be drawn into a censure of his friend.
Angélique shielded adroitly the stiletto of innuendo she had drawn. “You say right,” said she, craftily; “Pierre Philibert is a gentleman worthy of your regard. I confess I have seen no handsomer man in New France. I have been dreaming of one like him all my life! What a pity I saw you first, Le Gardeur!” added she, pulling him by the hair.
“I doubt you would throw me to the fishes were Pierre my rival, Angélique,” replied he, merrily; “but I am in no danger: Pierre's affections are, I fancy, forestalled in a quarter where I need not be jealous of his success.”
“I shall at any rate not be jealous of your sister, Le Gardeur,” said Angélique, raising her face to his, suffused with a blush; “if I do not give you the love you ask for it is because you have it already; but ask no more at present from me--this, at least, is yours,” said she, kissing him twice, without prudery or hesitation.
That kiss from those adored lips sealed his fate. It was the first--better it had been the last, better he had never been born than have drank the poison of her lips.
“Now answer me my questions, Le Gardeur,” added she, after a pause of soft blandishments.
Le Gardeur felt her fingers playing with his hair, as, like Delilah, she cut off the seven locks of his strength.
“There is a lady at Beaumanoir; tell me who and what she is, Le Gardeur,” said she.
He would not have hesitated to betray the gate of Heaven at her prayer; but, as it happened, Le Gardeur could not give her the special information she wanted as to the particular relation in which that lady stood to the Intendant. Angélique with wonderful coolness talked away, and laughed at the idea of the Intendant's gallantry. But she could get no confirmation of her suspicions from Le Gardeur. Her inquiry was for the present a failure, but she made Le Gardeur promise to learn what he could and tell her the result of his inquiries.
They sat long conversing together, until the bell of the Recollets sounded the hour of midnight. Angélique looked in the face of Le Gardeur with a meaning smile, as she counted each stroke with her dainty finger on his cheek. When finished, she sprang up and looked out of the lattice at the summer night.
The stars were twinkling like living things. Charles's Wain lay inverted in the northern horizon; Bootes had driven his sparkling herd down the slope of the western sky. A few thick tresses of her golden hair hung negligently over her bosom and shoulders. She placed her arm in Le Gardeur's, hanging heavily upon him as she directed his eyes to the starry heavens. The selfish schemes she carried in her bosom dropped for a moment to the ground. Her feet seemed to trample them into the dust, while she half resolved to be to this man all that he believed her to be, a true and devoted woman.
“Read my destiny, Le Gardeur,” said she, earnestly. “You are a Seminarist. They say the wise fathers of the Seminary study deeply the science of the stars, and the students all become adepts in it.”
“Would that my starry heaven were more propitious, Angélique,” replied he, gaily kissing her eyes. “I care not for other skies than these! My fate and fortune are here.”
Her bosom heaved with mingled passions. The word of hope and the word of denial struggled on her lips for mastery. Her blood throbbed quicker than the beat of the golden pendule on the marble table; but, like a bird, the good impulse again escaped her grasp.
“Look, Le Gardeur,” said she. Her delicate finger pointed at Perseus, who was ascending the eastern heavens: “there is my star. Mère Malheur,--you know her,--she once said to me that that was my natal star, which would rule my life.”
Like all whose passions pilot them, Angélique believed in destiny.
Le Gardeur had sipped a few drops of the cup of astrology from the venerable Professor Vallier. Angélique's finger pointed to the star Algol--that strange, mutable star that changes from bright to dark with the hours, and which some believe changes men's hearts to stone.
“Mère Malheur lied!” exclaimed he, placing his arm round her, as if to protect her from the baleful influence. “That cursed star never presided over your birth, Angélique! That is the demon star Algol.”
Angélique shuddered, and pressed still closer to him, as if in fear.
“Mère Malheur would not tell me the meaning of that star, but bade me, if a saint, to watch and wait; if a sinner, to watch and pray. What means Algol, Le Gardeur?” she half faltered.
“Nothing for you, love. A fig for all the stars in the sky! Your bright eyes outshine them all in radiance, and overpower them in influence. All the music of the spheres is to me discord compared with the voice of Angélique des Meloises, whom alone I love!”
As he spoke a strain of heavenly harmony arose from the chapel of the Convent of the Ursulines, where they were celebrating midnight service for the safety of New France. Amid the sweet voices that floated up on the notes of the pealing organ was clearly distinguished that of Mère St. Borgia, the aunt of Angélique, who led the choir of nuns. In trills and cadences of divine melody the voice of Mère St. Borgia rose higher and higher, like a spirit mounting the skies. The words were indistinct, but Angélique knew them by heart. She had visited her aunt in the Convent, and had learned the new hymn composed by her for the solemn occasion.
As they listened with quiet awe to the supplicating strain, Angélique repeated to Le Gardeur the words of the hymn as it was sung by the choir of nuns: “'Soutenez, grande Reine, Notre pauvre pays! Il est votre domaine, Faites fleurir nos lis! L'Anglais sur nos frontières Porte ses étendards; Exauces nos prières, Protégez nos remparts!'”
The hymn ceased. Both stood mute until the watchman cried the hour in the silent street.
“God bless their holy prayers, and good-night and God bless you, Angélique!” said Le Gardeur, kissing her. He departed suddenly, leaving a gift in the hand of Lizette, who courtesied low to him with a smile of pleasure as he passed out, while Angélique leaned out of the window listening to his horse's hoofs until the last tap of them died away on the stony pavement.
She threw herself upon her couch and wept silently. The soft music had touched her feelings. Le Gardeur's love was like a load of gold, crushing her with its weight. She could neither carry it onward nor throw it off. She fell at length into a slumber filled with troubled dreams. She was in a sandy wilderness, carrying a pitcher of clear, cold water, and though dying of thirst she would not drink, but perversely poured it upon the ground. She was falling down into unfathomable abysses and pushed aside the only hand stretched out to save her. She was drowning in deep water and she saw Le Gardeur buffeting the waves to rescue her but she wrenched herself out of his grasp. She would not be saved, and was lost! Her couch was surrounded with indefinite shapes of embryo evil.
She fell asleep at last. When she awoke the sun was pouring in her windows. A fresh breeze shook the trees. The birds sang gaily in the garden. The street was alive and stirring with people.
It was broad day. Angélique des Meloises was herself again. Her day-dream of ambition resumed its power. Her night-dream of love was over. Her fears vanished, her hopes were all alive, and she began to prepare for a possible morning call from the Chevalier Bigot.
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{
"id": "2735"
}
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17
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SPLENDIDE MENDAX.
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Amid the ruins of the once magnificent palace of the Intendant, massive fragments of which still remain to attest its former greatness, there may still be traced the outline of the room where Bigot walked restlessly up and down the morning after the Council of War. The disturbing letters he had received from France on both public and private affairs irritated him, while it set his fertile brain at work to devise means at once to satisfy the Marquise de Pompadour and to have his own way still.
The walls of his cabinet--now bare, shattered, and roofless with the blasts of six score winters--were hung with portraits of ladies and statesmen of the day; conspicuous among which was a fine picture from the pencil of Vanloo of the handsome, voluptuous Marquise de Pompadour.
With a world of faults, that celebrated dame, who ruled France in the name of Louis XV., made some amends by her persistent good nature and her love for art. The painter, the architect, the sculptor, and above all, the men of literature in France, were objects of her sincere admiration, and her patronage of them was generous to profusion. The picture of her in the cabinet of the Intendant had been a work of gratitude by the great artist who painted it, and was presented by her to Bigot as a mark of her friendship and demi-royal favor. The cabinet itself was furnished in a style of regal magnificence, which the Intendant carried into all details of his living.
The Chevalier de Pean, the Secretary and confidential friend of the Intendant, was writing at a table. He looked up now and then with a curious glance as the figure of his chief moved to and fro with quick turns across the room. But neither of them spoke.
Bigot would have been quite content with enriching himself and his friends, and turning out of doors the crowd of courtly sycophants who clamored for the plunder of the Colony. He had sense to see that the course of policy in which he was embarked might eventually ruin New France,--nay, having its origin in the Court, might undermine the whole fabric of the monarchy. He consoled himself, however, with the reflection that it could not be helped. He formed but one link in the great chain of corruption, and one link could not stand alone: it could only move by following those which went before and dragging after it those that came behind. Without debating a useless point of morals, Bigot quietly resigned himself to the service of his masters, or rather mistresses, after he had first served himself.
If the enormous plunder made out of the administration of the war by the great monopoly he had established were suddenly to cease, Bigot felt that his genius would be put to a severe test. But he had no misgivings, because he had no scruples. He was not the man to go under in any storm. He would light upon his feet, as he expressed it, if the world turned upside down.
Bigot suddenly stopped in his walk. His mind had been dwelling upon the great affairs of his Intendancy and the mad policy of the Court of Versailles. A new thought struck him. He turned and looked fixedly at his Secretary.
“De Pean!” said he. “We have not a sure hold of the Chevalier de Repentigny! That young fellow plays fast and loose with us. One who dines with me at the palace and sups with the Philiberts at the Chien d'Or cannot be a safe partner in the Grand Company!”
“I have small confidence in him, either,” replied De Pean. “Le Gardeur has too many loose ends of respectability hanging about him to make him a sure hold for our game.”
“Just so! Cadet, Varin, and the rest of you, have only half haltered the young colt. His training so far is no credit to you! The way that cool bully, Colonel Philibert, walked off with him out of Beaumanoir, was a sublime specimen of impudence. Ha! Ha! The recollection of it has salted my meat ever since! It was admirably performed! although, egad, I should have liked to run my sword through Philibert's ribs! and not one of you all was man enough to do it for me!”
“But your Excellency gave no hint, you seemed full of politeness towards Philibert,” replied De Pean, with a tone that implied he would have done it had Bigot given the hint.
“Zounds! as if I do not know it! But it was provoking to be flouted, so politely too, by that whelp of the Golden Dog! The influence of that Philibert is immense over young De Repentigny. They say he once pulled him out of the water, and is, moreover, a suitor of the sister, a charming girl, De Pean! with no end of money, lands, and family power. She ought to be secured as well as her brother in the interests of the Grand Company. A good marriage with one of our party would secure her, and none of you dare propose, by God!”
“It is useless to think of proposing to her,” replied De Pean. “I know the proud minx. She is one of the angelic ones who regard marriage as a thing of Heaven's arrangement. She believes God never makes but one man for one woman, and it is her duty to marry him or nobody. It is whispered among the knowing girls who went to school with her at the Convent,--and the Convent girls do know everything, and something more,--that she always cherished a secret affection for this Philibert, and that she will marry him some day.”
“Marry Satan! Such a girl as that to marry a cursed Philibert!” Bigot was really irritated at the information. “I think,” said he, “women are ever ready to sail in the ships of Tarshish, so long as the cargo is gold, silver, ivory, apes, and peacocks! It speaks ill for the boasted gallantry of the Grand Company if not one of them can win this girl. If we could gain her over we should have no difficulty with the brother, and the point is to secure him.”
“There is but one way I can see, your Excellency.” De Pean did not appear to make his suggestion very cheerfully, but he was anxious to please the Intendant.
“How is that?” the Intendant asked sharply. He had not the deepest sense of De Pean's wisdom.
“We must call in woman to fight woman in the interests of the Company,” replied the Secretary.
“A good scheme if one could be got to fight and win! But do you know any woman who can lay her fingers on Le Gardeur de Repentigny and pull him out from among the Honnêtes Gens?”
“I do, your Excellency. I know the very one can do it,” replied De Pean confidently.
“You do! Why do you hesitate then? Have you any arrière pensée that keeps you from telling her name at once?” asked the Intendant impatiently.
“It is Mademoiselle des Meloises. She can do it, and no other woman in New France need try!” replied De Pean.
“Why, she is a clipper, certainly! Bright eyes like hers rule the world of fools--and of wise men, too,” added Bigot in a parenthesis. “However, all the world is caught by that bird-lime. I confess I never made a fool of myself but a woman was at the bottom of it. But for one who has tripped me up, I have taken sweet revenge on a thousand. If Le Gardeur be entangled in Nerea's hair, he is safe in our toils. Do you think Angélique is at home, De Pean?”
The Intendant looked up at the clock. It was the usual hour for morning calls in Quebec.
“Doubtless she is at home at this hour, your Excellency,” replied De Pean. “But she likes her bed, as other pretty women do, and is practising for the petite levée, like a duchess. I don't suppose she is up!”
“I don't know that,” replied Bigot. “A greater runagate in petticoats there is not in the whole city! I never pass through the streets but I see her.”
“Ay, that is because she intends to meet your Excellency!” Bigot looked sharply at De Pean. A new thought flashed in his eyes.
“What! think you she makes a point of it, De Pean?”
“I think she would not go out of the way of your Excellency.” De Pean shuffled among his papers, but his slight agitation was noticed by the Intendant.
“Hum! is that your thought, De Pean? Looks she in this quarter?” Bigot meditated with his hand on his chin for a moment or two. “You think she is doubtless at home this morning?” added he.
“It was late when De Repentigny left her last night, and she would have long and pleasant dreams after that visit, I warrant,” replied the Secretary.
“How do you know? By St. Picot! You watch her closely, De Pean!”
“I do, your Excellency: I have reason,” was the reply.
De Pean did not say what his reason for watching Angélique was; neither did Bigot ask. The Intendant cared not to pry into the personal matters of his friends. He had himself too much to conceal not to respect the secrets of his associates.
“Well, De Pean! I will wait on Mademoiselle des Meloises this morning. I will act on your suggestion, and trust I shall not find her unreasonable.”
“I hope your Excellency will not find her unreasonable, but I know you will, for if ever the devil of contradiction was in a woman he is in Angélique des Meloises!” replied De Pean savagely, as if he spoke from some experience of his own.
“Well, I will try to cast out that devil by the power of a still stronger one. Ring for my horse, De Pean!”
The Secretary obeyed and ordered the horse. “Mind, De Pean!” continued the Intendant. “The Board of the Grand Company meet at three for business! actual business! not a drop of wine upon the table, and all sober! not even Cadet shall come in if he shows one streak of the grape on his broad face. There is a storm of peace coming over us, and it is necessary to shorten sail, take soundings, and see where we are, or we may strike on a rock.”
The Intendant left the palace attended by a couple of equerries. He rode through the palace gate and into the city. Habitans and citizens bowed to him out of habitual respect for their superiors. Bigot returned their salutations with official brevity, but his dark face broke into sunshine as he passed ladies and citizens whom he knew as partners of the Grand Company or partizans of his own faction.
As he rode rapidly through the streets many an ill wish followed him, until he dismounted before the mansion of the Des Meloises.
“As I live, it is the Royal Intendant himself,” screamed Lizette, as she ran, out of breath, to inform her mistress, who was sitting alone in the summer-house in the garden behind the mansion, a pretty spot tastefully laid out with flower beds and statuary. A thick hedge of privet, cut into fantastic shapes by some disciple of the school of Lenôtre, screened it from the slopes that ran up towards the green glacis of Cape Diamond.
Angélique looked beautiful as Hebe the golden-haired, as she sat in the arbor this morning. Her light morning dress of softest texture fell in graceful folds about her exquisite form. She held a Book of Hours in her hand, but she had not once opened it since she sat down. Her dark eyes looked not soft, nor kindly, but bright, defiant, wanton, and even wicked in their expression, like the eyes of an Arab steed, whipped, spurred, and brought to a desperate leap--it may clear the wall before it, or may dash itself dead against the stones. Such was the temper of Angélique this morning.
Hard thoughts and many respecting the Lady of Beaumanoir, fond almost savage regret at her meditated rejection of De Repentigny, glittering images of the royal Intendant and of the splendors of Versailles, passed in rapid succession through her brain, forming a phantasmagoria in which she colored everything according to her own fancy. The words of her maid roused her in an instant.
“Admit the Intendant and show him into the garden, Lizette. Now!” said she, “I shall end my doubts about that lady! I will test the Intendant's sincerity,--cold, calculating woman-slayer that he is! It shames me to contrast his half-heartedness with the perfect adoration of my handsome Le Gardeur de Repentigny!”
The Intendant entered the garden. Angélique, with that complete self-control which distinguishes a woman of half a heart or no heart at all, changed her whole demeanor in a moment from gravity to gayety. Her eyes flashed out pleasure, and her dimples went and came, as she welcomed the Intendant to her arbor.
“A friend is never so welcome as when he comes of his own accord!” said she, presenting her hand to the Intendant, who took it with empressement. She made room for him on the seat beside her, dashing her skirts aside somewhat ostentatiously.
Bigot looked at her admiringly. He thought he had never seen, in painting, statuary, or living form, a more beautiful and fascinating woman.
Angélique accepted his admiration as her due, feeling no thanks, but looking many.
“The Chevalier Bigot does not lose his politeness, however long he absents himself!” said she, with a glance like a Parthian arrow well aimed to strike home.
“I have been hunting at Beaumanoir,” replied he extenuatingly; “that must explain, not excuse, my apparent neglect.” Bigot felt that he had really been a loser by his absence.
“Hunting! indeed!” Angélique affected a touch of surprise, as if she had not known every tittle of gossip about the gay party and all their doings at the Château. “They say game is growing scarce near the city, Chevalier,” continued she nonchalantly, “and that a hunting party at Beaumanoir is but a pretty menotomy for a party of pleasure is that true?”
“Quite true, mademoiselle,” replied he, laughing. “The two things are perfectly compatible,--like a brace of lovers, all the better for being made one.”
“Very gallantly said!” retorted she, with a ripple of dangerous laughter. “I will carry the comparison no farther. Still, I wager, Chevalier, that the game is not worth the hunt.”
“The play is always worth the candle, in my fancy,” said he, with a glance of meaning; “but there is really good game yet in Beaumanoir, as you will confess, Mademoiselle, if you will honor our party some day with your presence.”
“Come now, Chevalier,” replied she, fixing him mischievously with her eyes, “tell me, what game do you find in the forest of Beaumanoir?”
“Oh! rabbits, hares, and deer, with now and then a rough bear to try the mettle of our chasseurs.”
“What! no foxes to cheat foolish crows? no wolves to devour pretty Red Riding Hoods straying in the forest? Come, Chevalier, there is better game than all that,” said she.
“Oh, yes!” he half surmised she was rallying him now--“plenty, but we don't wind horns after them.”
“They say,” continued she, “there is much fairer game than bird or beast in the forest of Beaumanoir, Chevalier.” She went on recklessly, “Stray lambs are picked up by intendants sometimes, and carried tenderly to the Château! The Intendant comprehends a gentleman's devoirs to our sex, I am sure.”
Bigot understood her now, and gave an angry start. Angélique did not shrink from the temper she had evoked.
“Heavens! how you look, Chevalier!” said she, in a tone of half banter. “One would think I had accused you of murder instead of saving a fair lady's life in the forest; although woman-killing is no murder I believe, by the laws of gallantry, as read by gentlemen--of fashion.”
Bigot rose up with a hasty gesture of impatience and sat down again. After all, he thought, what could this girl know about Caroline de St. Castin? He answered her with an appearance of frankness, deeming that to be the best policy.
“Yes, Mademoiselle, I one day found a poor suffering woman in the forest. I took her to the Château, where she now is. Many ladies beside her have been to Beaumanoir. Many more will yet come and go, until I end my bachelordom and place one there in perpetuity as 'mistress of my heart and home,' as the song says.”
Angélique could coquette in half-meanings with any lady of honor at Court. “Well, Chevalier, it will be your fault not to find one fit to place there. They walk every street of the city. But they say this lost and found lady is a stranger?”
“To me she is--not to you, perhaps, Mademoiselle!”
The fine ear of Angélique detected the strain of hypocrisy in his speech. It touched a sensitive nerve. She spoke boldly now.
“Some say she is your wife, Chevalier Bigot!” Angélique gave vent to a feeling long pent-up. She who trifled with men's hearts every day was indignant at the least symptom of repayment in kind. “They say she is your wife or, if not your wife, she ought to be, Chevalier,--and will be, perhaps, one of these fine days, when you have wearied of the distressed damsels of the city.”
It had been better for Bigot, better for Angélique, that these two could have frankly understood each other. Bigot, in his sudden admiration of the beauty of this girl, forgot that his object in coming to see her had really been to promote a marriage, in the interests of the Grand Company, between her and Le Gardeur. Her witcheries had been too potent for the man of pleasure. He was himself caught in the net he spread for another. The adroit bird-catching of Angélique was too much for him in the beginning: Bigot's tact and consummate heartlessness with women, might be too much for her in the end. At the present moment he was fairly dazzled with her beauty, spirit, and seductiveness.
“I am a simple quail,” thought he, “to be caught by her piping. Par Dieu! I am going to make a fool of myself if I do not take care! Such a woman as this I have not found between Paris and Naples. The man who gets her, and knows how to use her, might be Prime Minister of France. And to fancy it--I came here to pick this sweet chestnut out of the fire for Le Gardeur de Repentigny! François Bigot! as a man of gallantry and fashion I am ashamed of you!”
These were his thoughts, but in words he replied, “The lady of Beaumanoir is not my wife, perhaps never will be.” Angélique's eager question fell on very unproductive ground.
Angélique repeated the word superciliously. “'Perhaps!' 'Perhaps' in the mouth of a woman is consent half won; in the mouth of a man I know it has a laxer meaning. Love has nothing to say to 'perhaps': it is will or shall, and takes no 'perhaps' though a thousand times repeated!
“And you intend to marry this treasure trove of the forest--perhaps?” continued Angélique, tapping the ground with a daintier foot than the Intendant had ever seen before.
“It depends much on you, Mademoiselle des Meloises,” said he. “Had you been my treasure-trove, there had been no 'perhaps' about it.” Bigot spoke bluntly, and to Angélique it sounded like sincerity. Her dreams were accomplished. She trembled with the intensity of her gratification, and felt no repugnance at his familiar address.
The Intendant held out his hand as he uttered the dulcet flattery, and she placed her hand in his, but it was cold and passionless. Her heart did not send the blood leaping into her finger-ends as when they were held in the loving grasp of Le Gardeur.
“Angélique!” said he. It was the first time the Intendant had called her by her name. She started. It was the unlocking of his heart she thought, and she looked at him with a smile which she had practised with infallible effect upon many a foolish admirer.
“Angélique, I have seen no woman like you, in New France or in Old; you are fit to adorn a Court, and I predict you will--if--if--” “If what, Chevalier?” Her eyes fairly blazed with vanity and pleasure. “Cannot one adorn Courts, at least French Courts, without if's?”
“You can, if you choose to do so,” replied he, looking at her admiringly; for her whole countenance flashed intense pleasure at his remark.
“If I choose to do so? I do choose to do so! But who is to show me the way to the Court, Chevalier? It is a long and weary distance from New France.”
“I will show you the way, if you will permit me, Angélique: Versailles is the only fitting theatre for the display of beauty and spirit like yours.”
Angélique thoroughly believed this, and for a few moments was dazzled and overpowered by the thought of the golden doors of her ambition opened by the hand of the Intendant. A train of images, full-winged and as gorgeous as birds of paradise, flashed across her vision. La Pompadour was getting old, men said, and the King was already casting his eyes round the circle of more youthful beauties in his Court for a successor. “And what woman in the world,” thought she, “could vie with Angélique des Meloises if she chose to enter the arena to supplant La Pompadour? Nay, more! If the prize of the King were her lot, she would outdo La Maintenon herself, and end by sitting on the throne.”
Angélique was not, however, a milkmaid to say yes before she was asked. She knew her value, and had a natural distrust of the Intendant's gallant speeches. Moreover, the shadow of the lady of Beaumanoir would not wholly disappear. “Why do you say such flattering things to me, Chevalier?” asked she. “One takes them for earnest coming from the Royal Intendant. You should leave trifling to the idle young men of the city, who have no business to employ them but gallanting us women.”
“Trifling! By St. Jeanne de Choisy, I was never more in earnest, Mademoiselle!” exclaimed Bigot. “I offer you the entire devotion of my heart.” St. Jeanne de Choisy was the sobriquet in the petits appartements for La Pompadour. Angélique knew it very well, although Bigot thought she did not.
“Fair words are like flowers, Chevalier,” replied she, “sweet to smell and pretty to look at; but love feeds on ripe fruit. Will you prove your devotion to me if I put it to the test?”
“Most willingly, Angélique!” Bigot thought she contemplated some idle freak that might try his gallantry, perhaps his purse. But she was in earnest, if he was not.
“I ask, then, the Chevalier Bigot that before he speaks to me again of love or devotion, he shall remove that lady, whoever she may be, from Beaumanoir!” Angélique sat erect, and looked at him with a long, fixed look, as she said this.
“Remove that lady from Beaumanoir!” exclaimed he in complete surprise; “surely that poor shadow does not prevent your accepting my devotion, Angélique?”
“Yes, but it does, Chevalier! I like bold men. Most women do, but I did not think that even the Intendant of New France was bold enough to make love to Angélique des Meloises while he kept a wife or mistress in stately seclusion at Beaumanoir!”
Bigot cursed the shrewishness and innate jealousy of the sex, which would not content itself with just so much of a man's favor as he chose to bestow, but must ever want to rule single and alone. “Every woman is a despot,” thought he, “and has no mercy upon pretenders to her throne.”
“That lady,” replied he, “is neither wife nor mistress, Mademoiselle: she sought the shelter of my roof with a claim upon the hospitality of Beaumanoir.
“No doubt”--Angélique's nostril quivered with a fine disdain--“the hospitality of Beaumanoir is as broad and comprehensive as its master's admiration for our sex!” said she.
Bigot was not angry. He gave a loud laugh. “You women are merciless upon each other, Mademoiselle!” said he.
“Men are more merciless to women when they beguile us with insincere professions,” replied she, rising up in well-affected indignation.
“Not so, Mademoiselle!” Bigot began to feel annoyed. “That lady is nothing to me,” said he, without rising as she had done. He kept his seat.
“But she has been! you have loved her at some time or other! and she is now living on the scraps and leavings of former affection. I am never deceived, Chevalier!” continued she, glancing down at him, a wild light playing under her long eyelashes like the illumined under-edge of a thundercloud.
“But how in St. Picot's name did you arrive at all this knowledge, Mademoiselle?” Bigot began to see that there was nothing for it but to comply with every caprice of this incomprehensible girl if he would carry his point.
“Oh, nothing is easier than for a woman to divine the truth in such matters, Chevalier,” said she. “It is a sixth sense given to our sex to protect our weakness: no man can make love to two women but each of them knows instinctively to her finger-tips that he is doing it.”
“Surely woman is a beautiful book written in golden letters, but in a tongue as hard to understand as hieroglyphics of Egypt.” Bigot was quite puzzled how to proceed with this incomprehensible girl.
“Thanks for the comparison, Chevalier,” replied she, with a laugh. “It would not do for men to scrutinize us too closely, yet one woman reads another easily as a horn-book of Troyes, which they say is so easy that the children read it without learning.”
To boldly set at defiance a man who had boasted a long career of success was the way to rouse his pride, and determine him to overcome her resistance. Angélique was not mistaken. Bigot saw her resolution, and, although it was with a mental reservation to deceive her, he promised to banish Caroline from his château.
“It was always my good fortune to be conquered in every passage of arms with your sex, Angélique,” said he, at once radiant and submissive. “Sit down by me in token of amity.”
She complied without hesitation, and sat down by him, gave him her hand again, and replied with an arch smile, while a thousand inimitable coquetries played about her eyes and lips, “You speak now like an amant magnifique, Chevalier!
“'Quelque fort qu'on s'en defende, Il y faut venir un jour!'”
“It is a bargain henceforth and forever, Angélique!” said he; “but I am a harder man than you imagine: I give nothing for nothing, and all for everything. Will you consent to aid me and the Grand Company in a matter of importance?”
“Will I not? What a question, Chevalier! Most willingly I will aid you in anything proper for a lady to do!” added she, with a touch of irony.
“I wish you to do it, right or wrong, proper or improper, although there is no impropriety in it. Improper becomes proper if you do it, Mademoiselle!”
“Well, what is it, Chevalier,--this fearful test to prove my loyalty to the Grand Company, and which makes you such a matchless flatterer?”
“Just this, Angélique!” replied he. “You have much influence with the Seigneur de Repentigny?”
Angélique colored up to the eyes. “With Le Gardeur! What of him? I can take no part against the Seigneur de Repentigny;” said she, hastily.
“Against him? For him! We fear much that he is about to fall into the hands of the Honnêtes Gens: you can prevent it if you will, Angélique?”
“I have an honest regard for the Seigneur de Repentigny!” said she, more in answer to her own feelings than to the Intendant's remark--her cheek flushed, her fingers twitched nervously at her fan, which she broke in her agitation and threw the pieces vehemently upon the ground. “I have done harm enough to Le Gardeur I fear,” continued she. “I had better not interfere with him any more! Who knows what might result?” She looked up almost warningly at the Intendant.
“I am glad to find you so sincere a friend to Le Gardeur,” remarked Bigot, craftily. “You will be glad to learn that our intention is to elevate him to a high and lucrative office in the administration of the Company, unless the Honnêtes Gens are before us in gaining full possession of him.”
“They shall not be before us if I can prevent it, Chevalier,” replied she, warmly. She was indeed grateful for the implied compliment to Le Gardeur. “No one will be better pleased at his good fortune than myself.”
“I thought so. It was partly my business to tell you of our intentions towards Le Gardeur.”
“Indeed!” replied she, in a tone of pique. “I flattered myself your visit was all on my own account, Chevalier.”
“So it was.” Bigot felt himself on rather soft ground. “Your brother, the Chevalier des Meloises, has doubtless consulted you upon the plan of life he has sketched out for both of you?”
“My good brother sketches so many plans of life that I really am not certain I know the one you refer to.” She guessed what was coming, and held her breath hard until she heard the reply.
“Well, you of course know that his plan of life depends mainly upon an alliance between yourself and the Chevalier de Repentigny.”
She gave vent to her anger and disappointment. She rose up suddenly, and, grasping the Intendant's arm fiercely, turned him half round in her vehemence. “Chevalier Bigot! did you come here to propose for me on behalf of Le Gardeur de Repentigny?”
“Pardon me, Mademoiselle; it is no proposal of mine,--on behalf of Le Gardeur. I sanctioned his promotion. Your brother, and the Grand Company generally, would prefer the alliance. I don't!” He said this with a tone of meaning which Angélique was acute enough to see implied Bigot's unwillingness to her marrying any man--but himself, was the addendum she at once placed to his credit. “I regret I mentioned it,” continued he, blandly, “if it be contrary to your wishes.”
“It is contrary to my wishes,” replied she, relaxing her clutch of his arm. “Le Gardeur de Repentigny can speak for himself. I will not allow even my brother to suggest it; still less will I discuss such a subject with the Chevalier Bigot.”
“I hope you will pardon me, Mademoiselle--I will not call you Angélique until you are pleased with me again. To be sure, I should never have forgiven you had you conformed to your brother's wishes. It was what I feared might happen, and I--I wished to try you; that was all!”
“It is dangerous trying me, Chevalier,” replied she, resuming her seat with some heat. “Don't try me again, or I shall take Le Gardeur out of pure SPITE,” she said. Pure love was in her mind, but the other word came from her lips. “I will do all I can to rescue him from the Honnêtes Gens, but not by marrying him, Chevalier,--at present.”
They seemed to understand each other fully. “It is over with now,” said Bigot. “I swear to you, Angélique, I did not mean to offend you,--you cut deep.”
“Pshaw!” retorted she, smiling. “Wounds by a lady are easily cured: they seldom leave a mark behind, a month after.”
“I don't know that. The slight repulse of a lady's finger--a touch that would not crush a gnat--will sometimes kill a strong man like a sword-stroke. I have known such things to happen,” said Bigot.
“Well, happily, my touch has not hurt you, Chevalier. But, having vindicated myself, I feel I owe you reparation. You speak of rescuing Le Gardeur from the Honnêtes Gens. In what way can I aid you?”
“In many ways and all ways. Withdraw him from them. The great festival at the Philiberts--when is it to be?”
“To-morrow! See, they have honored me with a special invitation.” She drew a note from her pocket. “This is very polite of Colonel Philibert, is it not?” said she.
Bigot glanced superciliously at the note. “Do you mean to go, Angélique?” asked he.
“No; although, had I no feelings but my own to consult, I would certainly go.”
“Whose feelings do you consult, Angélique,” asked the Intendant, “if not your own?”
“Oh, don't be flattered,--the Grand Company's! I am loyal to the association without respect to persons.”
“So much the better,” said he. “By the way, it would not be amiss to keep Le Gardeur away from the festival. These Philiberts and the heads of the Honnêtes Gens have great sway over him.”
“Naturally; they are all his own kith and kin. But I will draw him away, if you desire it. I cannot prevent his going, but I can find means to prevent his staying!” added she, with a smile of confidence in her power.
“That will do, Angélique,--anything to make a breach between them!”
While there were abysses in Bigot's mind which Angélique could not fathom, as little did Bigot suspect that, when Angélique seemed to flatter him by yielding to his suggestions, she was following out a course she had already decided upon in her own mind from the moment she had learned that Cecile Tourangeau was to be at the festival of Belmont, with unlimited opportunities of explanation with Le Gardeur as to her treatment by Angélique.
The Intendant, after some pleasant badinage, rose and took his departure, leaving Angélique agitated, puzzled, and dissatisfied, on the whole, with his visit. She reclined on the seat, resting her head on her hand for a long time,--in appearance the idlest, in reality the busiest, brain of any girl in the city of Quebec. She felt she had much to do,--a great sacrifice to make,--but firmly resolved, at whatever cost, to go through with it; for, after all, the sacrifice was for herself, and not for others.
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{
"id": "2735"
}
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18
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THE MEROVINGIAN PRINCESS.
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The interior of the Cathedral of St. Marie seemed like another world, in comparison with the noisy, bustling Market Place in front of it.
The garish sunshine poured hot and oppressive in the square outside, but was shorn of its strength as it passed through the painted windows of the Cathedral, filling the vast interior with a cool, dim, religious light, broken by tall shafts of columns, which swelled out into ornate capitals, supporting a lofty ceiling, on which was painted the open heavens with saints and angels adoring the Lord.
A lofty arch of cunning work overlaid with gold, the masterpiece of Le Vasseur, spanned the chancel, like the rainbow round the throne. Lights were burning on the altar, incense went up in spirals to the roof; and through the wavering cloud the saints and angels seemed to look down with living faces upon the crowd of worshippers who knelt upon the broad floor of the church.
It was the hour of Vespers. The voice of the priest was answered by the deep peal of the organ and the chanting of the choir. The vast edifice was filled with harmony, in the pauses of which the ear seemed to catch the sound of the river of life as it flows out of the throne of God and the Lamb.
The demeanor of the crowd of worshippers was quiet and reverential. A few gay groups, however, whose occupation was mainly to see and be seen, exchanged the idle gossip of the day with such of their friends as they met there. The fee of a prayer or two did not seem excessive for the pleasure, and it was soon paid.
The perron outside was a favorite resort of the gallants of fashion at the hour of Vespers, whose practice it was to salute the ladies of their acquaintance at the door by sprinkling their dainty fingers with holy water. Religion combined with gallantry is a form of devotion not quite obsolete at the present day, and at the same place.
The church door was the recognized spot for meeting, gossip, business, love-making, and announcements; old friends stopped to talk over the news, merchants their commercial prospects. It was at once the Bourse and the Royal Exchange of Quebec: there were promulgated, by the brazen lungs of the city crier, royal proclamations of the Governor, edicts of the Intendant, orders of the Court of Justice, vendues public and private,--in short, the life and stir of the city of Quebec seemed to flow about the door of St. Marie as the blood through the heart of a healthy man.
A few old trees, relics of the primeval forest, had been left for shade and ornament in the great Market Place. A little rivulet of clear water ran sparkling down the slope of the square, where every day the shadow of the cross of the tall steeple lay over it like a benediction.
A couple of young men, fashionably dressed, loitered this afternoon near the great door of the Convent in the narrow Street that runs into the great square of the market. They walked about with short, impatient turns, occasionally glancing at the clock of the Recollets, visible through the tall elms that bounded the garden of the Gray Friars. Presently the door of the Convent opened. Half a dozen gaily-attired young ladies, internes or pupils of the Convent, sallied out. They had exchanged their conventual dress for their usual outside attire, and got leave to go out into the world on some errand, real or pretended, for one hour and no more.
They tripped lightly down the broad steps, and were instantly joined by the young men who had been waiting for them. After a hasty, merry hand-shaking, the whole party proceeded in great glee towards the Market Place, where the shops of the mercers and confectioners offered the attractions they sought. They went on purchasing bonbons and ribbons from one shop to another until they reached the Cathedral, when a common impulse seized them to see who was there. They flew up the steps and disappeared in the church.
In the midst of their devotions, as they knelt upon the floor, the sharp eyes of the young ladies were caught by gesticulations of the well-gloved hand of the Chevalier des Meloises, as he saluted them across the aisle.
The hurried recitation of an Ave or two had quite satisfied the devotion of the Chevalier, and he looked round the church with an air of condescension, criticizing the music and peering into the faces of such of the ladies as looked up, and many did so, to return his scrutiny.
The young ladies encountered him in the aisle as they left the church before the service was finished. It had long since been finished for him, and was finished for the young ladies also when they had satisfied their curiosity to see who was there and who with whom.
“We cannot pray for you any longer, Chevalier des Meloises!” said one of the gayest of the group; “the Lady Superior has economically granted us but one hour in the city to make our purchases and attend Vespers. Out of that hour we can only steal forty minutes for a promenade through the city, so good-by, if you prefer the church to our company, or come with us and you shall escort two of us. You see we have only a couple of gentlemen to six ladies.”
“I much prefer your company, Mademoiselle de Brouague!” replied he gallantly, forgetting the important meeting of the managers of the Grand Company at the Palace. The business, however, was being cleverly transacted without his help.
Louise de Brouague had no great esteem for the Chevalier des Meloises, but, as she remarked to a companion, he made rather a neat walking-stick, if a young lady could procure no better to promenade with.
“We come out in full force to-day, Chevalier,” said she, with a merry glance round the group of lively girls. “A glorious sample of the famous class of the Louises, are we not?”
“Glorious! superb! incomparable!” the Chevalier replied, as he inspected them archly through his glass. “But how did you manage to get out? One Louise at a time is enough to storm the city, but six of them at once--the Lady Superior is full of mercy to-day.”
“Oh! is she? Listen: we should not have got permission to come out to-day had we not first laid siege to the soft heart of Mère des Seraphins. She it was who interceded for us, and lo! here we are, ready for any adventure that may befall errant demoiselles in the streets of Quebec!”
Well might the fair Louise de Brouague boast of the famous class of “the Louises,” all composed of young ladies of that name, distinguished for beauty, rank, and fashion in the world of New France.
Prominent among them at that period was the beautiful, gay Louise de Brouague. In the full maturity of her charms, as the wife of the Chevalier de Lery she accompanied her husband to England after the cession of Canada, and went to Court to pay homage to their new sovereign, George III., when the young king, struck with her grace and beauty, gallantly exclaimed,-- “If the ladies of Canada are as handsome as you, I have indeed made a conquest!”
To escort young ladies, internes of the Convent, when granted permission to go out into the city, was a favorite pastime, truly a labor of love, of the young gallants of that day,--an occupation, if very idle, at least very agreeable to those participating in these stolen promenades, and which have not, perhaps, been altogether discontinued in Quebec even to the present day.
The pious nuns were of course entirely ignorant of the contrivances of their fair pupils to amuse themselves in the city. At any rate they good-naturedly overlooked things they could not quite prevent. They had human hearts still under their snowy wimples, and perhaps did not wholly lack womanly sympathy with the dear girls in their charge.
“Why are you not at Belmont to-day, Chevalier des Meloises?” boldly asked Louise Roy, a fearless little questioner in a gay summer robe. She was pretty, and sprightly as Titania. Her long chestnut hair was the marvel and boast of the Convent and, what she prized more, the admiration of the city. It covered her like a veil down to her knees when she chose to let it down in a flood of splendor. Her deep gray eyes contained wells of womanly wisdom. Her skin, fair as a lily of Artois, had borrowed from the sun five or six faint freckles, just to prove the purity of her blood and distract the eye with a variety of charms. The Merovingian Princess, the long-haired daughter of kings, as she was fondly styled by the nuns, queened it wherever she went by right divine of youth, wit, and beauty.
“I should not have had the felicity of meeting you, Mademoiselle Roy, had I gone to Belmont,” replied the Chevalier, not liking the question at all. “I preferred not to go.”
“You are always so polite and complimentary,” replied she, a trace of pout visible on her pretty lips. “I do not see how any one could stay away who was at liberty to go to Belmont! And the whole city has gone, I am sure! for I see nobody in the street!” She held an eye-glass coquettishly to her eye. “Nobody at all!” repeated she. Her companions accused her afterwards of glancing equivocally at the Chevalier as she made this remark; and she answered with a merry laugh that might imply either assent or denial.
“Had you heard in the Convent of the festival at Belmont, Mademoiselle Roy?” asked he, twirling his cane rather majestically.
“We have heard of nothing else and talked of nothing else for a whole week!” replied she. “Our mistresses have been in a state of distraction trying to stop our incessant whispering in the school instead of minding our lessons like good girls trying to earn good conduct marks! The feast, the ball, the dresses, the company, beat learning out of our heads and hearts! Only fancy, Chevalier,” she went on in her voluble manner; “Louise de Beaujeu here was asked to give the Latin name for Heaven, and she at once translated it Belmont!”
“Tell no school tales, Mademoiselle Roy!” retorted Louise de Beaujeu, her black eyes flashing with merriment. “It was a good translation! But who was it stumbled in the Greek class when asked for the proper name of the anax andron, the king of men in the Iliad?” Louise Roy looked archly and said defiantly, “Go on!” “Would you believe it, Chevalier, she replied 'Pierre Philibert!' Mère Christine fairly gasped, but Louise had to kiss the floor as a penance for pronouncing a gentleman's name with such unction.”
“And if I did I paid my penance heartily and loudly, as you may recollect, Louise de Beaujeu, although I confess I would have preferred kissing Pierre Philibert himself if I had had my choice!”
“Always her way! won't give in! never! Louise Roy stands by her translation in spite of all the Greek Lexicons in the Convent!” exclaimed Louise de Brouague.
“And so I do, and will; and Pierre Philibert is the king of men, in New France or Old! Ask Amélie de Repentigny!” added she, in a half whisper to her companion.
“Oh, she will swear to it any day!” was the saucy reply of Louise de Brouague. “But without whispering it, Chevalier des Meloises,” continued she, “the classes in the Convent have all gone wild in his favor since they learned he was in love with one of our late companions in school. He is the Prince Camaralzaman of our fairy tales.”
“Who is that?” The Chevalier spoke tartly, rather. He was excessively annoyed at all this enthusiasm in behalf of Pierre Philibert.
“Nay, I will tell no more fairy tales out of school, but I assure you, if our wishes had wings the whole class of Louises would fly away to Belmont to-day like a flock of ring-doves.”
Louise de Brouague noticed the pique of the Chevalier at the mention of Philibert, but in that spirit of petty torment with which her sex avenges small slights she continued to irritate the vanity of the Chevalier, whom in her heart she despised.
His politeness nearly gave way. He was thoroughly disgusted with all this lavish praise of Philibert. He suddenly recollected that he had an appointment at the Palace which would prevent him, he said, enjoying the full hour of absence granted to the Greek class of the Ursulines.
“Mademoiselle Angélique has of course gone to Belmont, if pressing engagements prevent YOU, Chevalier,” said Louise Roy. “How provoking it must be to have business to look after when one wants to enjoy life!” The Chevalier half spun round on his heel under the quizzing of Louise's eye-glass.
“No, Angélique has not gone to Belmont,” replied he, quite piqued. “She very properly declined to mingle with the Messieurs and Mesdames Jourdains who consort with the Bourgeois Philibert! She was preparing for a ride, and the city really seems all the gayer by the absence of so many commonplace people as have gone out to Belmont.”
Louise de Brouague's eyes gave a few flashes of indignation. “Fie, Chevalier! that was naughtily said of you about the good Bourgeois and his friends,” exclaimed she, impetuously. “Why, the Governor, the Lady de Tilly and her niece, the Chevalier La Corne St. Luc, Hortense and Claude de Beauharnais, and I know not how many more of the very élite of society have gone to do honor to Colonel Philibert! And as for the girls in the Convent, who you will allow are the most important and most select portion of the community, there is not one of us but would willingly jump out of the window, and do penance on dry bread and salt fish for a month, just for one hour's pleasure at the ball this evening, would we not, Louises?”
Not a Louise present but assented with an emphasis that brought sympathetic smiles upon the faces of the two young chevaliers who had watched all this pretty play.
The Chevalier des Meloises bowed very low. “I regret so much, ladies, to have to leave you! but affairs of State, you know--affairs of State! The Intendant will not proceed without a full board: I must attend the meeting to-day at the Palace.”
“Oh, assuredly, Chevalier,” replied Louise Roy. “What would become of the Nation, what would become of the world, nay, what would become of the internes of the Ursulines, if statesmen and warriors and philosophers like you and the Sieurs Drouillon and La Force here (this in a parenthesis, not to scratch the Chevalier too deep), did not take wise counsel for our safety and happiness, and also for the welfare of the nation?”
The Chevalier des Meloises took his departure under this shower of arrows.
The young La Force was as yet only an idle dangler about the city; but in the course of time became a man of wit and energy worthy of his name. He replied gaily,-- “Thanks, Mademoiselle Roy! It is just for sake of the fair internes of the Convent that Drouillon and I have taken up the vocation of statesmen, warriors, philosophers, and friends. We are quite ready to guide your innocent footsteps through the streets of this perilous city, if you are ready to go.”
“We had better hasten too!” ejaculated Louise Roy, looking archly through her eye-glass. “I can see Bonhomme Michel peeping round the corner of the Côte de Lery! He is looking after us stray lambs of the flock, Sieur Drouillon!”
Bonhomme Michel was the old watchman and factotum of the monastery. He had a general commission to keep a sharp eye upon the young ladies who were allowed to go out into the city. A pair of horn spectacles usually helped his vision,--sometimes marred it, however, when the knowing gallants slipped a crown into his hand to put in the place of his magnifiers! Bonhomme Michel placed all his propitiation money--he liked a pious word--in his old leathern sack, which contained the redemption of many a gadding promenade through the streets of Quebec. Whether he reported what he saw this time is not recorded in the Vieux Récit, the old annals of the Convent. But as Louise Roy called him her dear old Cupid, and knew so well how to bandage his eyes, it is probable the good nuns were not informed of the pleasant meeting of the class Louises and the gentlemen who escorted them round the city on the present occasion.
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{
"id": "2735"
}
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19
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PUT MONEY IN THY PURSE.
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The Chevalier des Meloises, quite out of humor with the merry Louises, picked his way with quick, dainty steps down the Rue du Palais. The gay Louises, before returning to the Convent, resolved to make a hasty promenade to the walls to see the people at work upon them. They received with great contentment the military salutes of the officers of their acquaintance, which they acknowledged with the courtesy of well-trained internes, slightly exaggerated by provoking smiles and mischievous glances which had formed no part of the lessons in politeness taught them by the nuns.
In justice be it said, however, the girls were actuated by a nobler feeling than the mere spirit of amusement--a sentiment of loyalty to France, a warm enthusiasm for their country, drew them to the walls: they wanted to see the defenders of Quebec, to show their sympathy and smile approval upon them.
“Would to heaven I were a man,” exclaimed Louise de Brouague, “that I might wield a sword, a spade, anything of use, to serve my country! I shame to do nothing but talk, pray, and suffer for it, while every one else is working or fighting.”
Poor girl! she did not foresee a day when the women of New France would undergo trials compared with which the sword stroke that kills the strong man is as the touch of mercy,--when the batteries of Wolfe would for sixty-five days shower shot and shell upon Quebec, and the South shore for a hundred miles together be blazing with the fires of devastation. Such things were mercifully withheld from their foresight, and the light-hearted girls went the round of the works as gaily as they would have tripped in a ballroom.
The Chevalier des Meloises, passing through the Porte du Palais, was hailed by two or three young officers of the Regiment of Béarn, who invited him into the Guard House to take a glass of wine before descending the steep hill. The Chevalier stopped willingly, and entered the well-furnished quarters of the officers of the guard, where a cool flask of Burgundy presently restored him to good humor with himself, and consequently with the world.
“What is up to-day at the Palace?” asked Captain Monredin, a vivacious Navarrois. “All the Gros Bonnets of the Grand Company have gone down this afternoon! I suppose you are going too, Des Meloises?”
“Yes! They have sent for me, you see, on affairs of State--what Penisault calls 'business.' Not a drop of wine on the board! Nothing but books and papers, bills and shipments, money paid, money received! Doit et avoir and all the cursed lingo of the Friponne! I damn the Friponne, but bless her money! It pays, Monredin! It pays better than fur-trading at a lonely outpost in the northwest.” The Chevalier jingled a handful of coin in his pocket. The sound was a sedative to his disgust at the idea of trade, and quite reconciled him to the Friponne.
“You are a lucky dog nevertheless, to be able to make it jingle!” said Monredin, “not one of us Béarnois can play an accompaniment to your air of money in both pockets. Here is our famous Regiment of Béarn, second to none in the King's service, a whole year in arrears without pay! Gad! I wish I could go into 'business,' as you call it, and woo that jolly dame, La Friponne!
“For six months we have lived on trust. Those leeches of Jews, who call themselves Christians, down in the Sault au Matelot, won't cash the best orders in the regiment for less than forty per cent. discount!”
“That is true!” broke in another officer, whose rather rubicund face told of credit somewhere, and the product of credit,--good wine and good dinners generally. “That is true, Monredin! The old curmudgeon of a broker at the corner of the Cul de Sac had the impudence to ask me fifty per cent. discount upon my drafts on Bourdeaux! I agree with Des Meloises there: business may be a good thing for those who handle it, but devil touch their dirty fingers for me!”
“Don't condemn all of them, Emeric,” said Captain Poulariez, a quiet, resolute-looking officer. “There is one merchant in the city who carries the principles of a gentleman into the usages of commerce. The Bourgeois Philibert gives cent. per cent. for good orders of the King's officers, just to show his sympathy with the army and his love for France.”
“Well, I wish he were paymaster of the forces, that is all, and then I could go to him if I wanted to,” replied Monredin.
“Why do you not go to him?” asked Poulariez.
“Why, for the same reason, I suppose, so many others of us do not,” replied Monredin. “Colonel Dalquier endorses my orders, and he hates the Bourgeois cordially, as a hot friend of the Intendant ought to do. So you see I have to submit to be plucked of my best pen-feathers by that old fesse-mathieu Penisault at the Friponne!”
“How many of yours have gone out to the great spread at Belmont?” asked Des Meloises, quite weary of commercial topics.
“Par Dieu!” replied Monredin, “except the colonel and adjutant, who stayed away on principle, I think every officer in the regiment, present company excepted--who being on duty could not go, much to their chagrin. Such a glorious crush of handsome girls has not been seen, they say, since our regiment came to Quebec.”
“And not likely to have been seen before your distinguished arrival--eh, Monredin?” ejaculated Des Meloises, holding his glass to be refilled. “That is delicious Burgundy,” added he, “I did not think any one beside the Intendant had wine like that.”
“That is some of La Martinière's cargo,” replied Poulariex. “It was kind of him, was it not, to remember us poor Béarnois here on the wrong side of the Atlantic?”
“And how earnestly we were praying for that same Burgundy,” ejaculated Monredin, “when it came, as if dropped upon us by Providence! Health and wealth to Captain La Martinière and the good frigate Fleur-de-Lis!”
Another round followed.
“They talk about those Jansenist convulsionnaires at the tomb of Master Paris, which are setting all France by the ears,” exclaimed Monredin, “but I say there is nothing so contagious as the drinking of a glass of wine like that.”
“And the glass gives us convulsions too, Monredin, if we try it too often, and no miracle about it either,” remarked Poulariez.
Monredin looked up, red and puffy, as if needing a bridle to check his fast gait.
“But they say we are to have peace soon. Is that true, Des Meloises?” asked Poulariez. “You ought to know what is under the cards before they are played.”
“No, I don't know; and I hope the report is not true. Who wants peace yet? It would ruin the King's friends in the Colony.” Des Meloises looked as statesmanlike as he could when delivering this dictum.
“Ruin the King's friends! Who are they, Des Meloises?” asked Poulariez, with a look of well-assumed surprise.
“Why, the associates of the Grand Company, to be sure! What other friends has the King got in New France?”
“Really! I thought he had the Regiment of Béarn for a number of them--to say nothing of the honest people of the Colony,” replied Poulariez, impatiently.
“The Honnêtes Gens, you mean!” exclaimed Des Meloises. “Well, Poulariez, all I have to say is that if this Colony is to be kept up for the sake of a lot of shopkeepers, wood-choppers, cobblers, and farmers, the sooner the King hands it over to the devil or the English the better!”
Poulariex looked indignant enough; but from the others a loud laugh followed this sally.
The Chevalier des Meloises pulled out his watch. “I must be gone to the Palace,” said he. “I dare say Cadet, Varin, and Penisault will have balanced the ledgers by this time, and the Intendant, who is the devil for business on such occasions, will have settled the dividends for the quarter--the only part of the business I care about.”
“But don't you help them with the work a little?” asked Poulariez.
“Not I; I leave business to them that have a vocation for it. Besides, I think Cadet, Vargin, and Penisault like to keep the inner ring of the company to themselves.” He turned to Emeric: “I hope there will be a good dividend to-night, Emeric,” said he. “I owe you some revenge at piquet, do I not?”
“You capoted me last night at the Taverne de Menut, and I had three aces and three kings.”
“But I had a quatorze, and took the fishes,” replied Des Meloises.
“Well, Chevalier, I shall win them back to-night. I hope the dividend will be good: in that way I too may share in the 'business' of the Grand Company.”
“Good-by, Chevalier; remember me to St. Blague!” (This was a familiar sobriquet of Bigot.) “Tis the best name going. If I had an heir for the old château on the Adour, I would christen him Bigot for luck.”
The Chevalier des Meloises left the officers and proceeded down the steep road that led to the Palace. The gardens were quiet to-day--a few loungers might be seen in the magnificent alleys, pleached walks, and terraces; beyond these gardens, however, stretched the King's wharves and the magazines of the Friponne. These fairly swarmed with men loading and unloading ships and bateaux, and piling and unpiling goods.
The Chevalier glanced with disdain at the magazines, and flourishing his cane, mounted leisurely the broad steps of the Palace, and was at once admitted to the council-room.
“Better late than never, Chevalier des Meloises!” exclaimed Bigot, carelessly glancing at him as he took a seat at the board, where sat Cadet, Varin, Penisault, and the leading spirits of the Grand Company. “You are in double luck to-day. The business is over, and Dame Friponne has laid a golden egg worth a Jew's tooth for each partner of the Company.”
The Chevalier did not notice, or did not care for, the slight touch of sarcasm in the Intendant's tone. “Thanks, Bigot!” drawled he. “My eggs shall be hatched to-night down at Menut's. I expect to have little more left than the shell of it to-morrow.”
“Well, never mind! We have considered all that, Chevalier. What one loses another gets. It is all in the family. Look here,” continued he, laying his finger upon a page of the ledger that lay open before him, “Mademoiselle Angélique des Meloises is now a shareholder in the Grand Company. The list of high, fair, and noble ladies of the Court who are members of the Company will be honored by the addition of the name of your charming sister.”
The Chevalier's eyes sparkled with delight as he read Angélique's name on the book. A handsome sum of five digits stood to her credit. He bowed his thanks with many warm expressions of his sense of the honor done his sister by “placing her name on the roll of the ladies of the Court who honor the Company by accepting a share of its dividends.”
“I hope Mademoiselle des Meloises will not refuse this small mark of our respect,” observed Bigot, feeling well assured she would not deem it a small one.
“Little fear of that!” muttered Cadet, whose bad opinion of the sex was incorrigible. “The game fowls of Versailles scratch jewels out of every dung-hill, and Angélique des Meloises has longer claws than any of them!”
Cadet's ill-natured remark was either unheard or unheeded; besides, he was privileged to say anything. Des Meloises bowed with an air of perfect complaisance to the Intendant as he answered,--“I guarantee the perfect satisfaction of Angélique with this marked compliment of the Grand Company. She will, I am sure, appreciate the kindness of the Intendant as it deserves.”
Cadet and Varin exchanged smiles, not unnoticed by Bigot, who smiled too. “Yes, Chevalier,” said he, “the Company gives this token of its admiration for the fairest lady in New France. We have bestowed premiums upon fine flax and fat cattle: why not upon beauty, grace, and wit embodied in handsome women?”
“Angélique will be highly flattered, Chevalier,” replied he, “at the distinction. She must thank you herself, as I am sure she will.”
“I am happy to try to deserve her thanks,” replied Bigot; and, not caring to talk further on the subject,--“what news in the city this afternoon, Chevalier?” asked he; “how does that affair at Belmont go off?”
“Don't know. Half the city has gone, I think. At the Church door, however, the talk among the merchants is that peace is going to be made soon. Is it so very threatening, Bigot?”
“If the King wills it, it is.” Bigot spoke carelessly.
“But your own opinion, Chevalier Bigot; what think you of it?”
“Amen! amen! Quod fiat fiatur! Seigny John, the fool of Paris, could enlighten you as well as I could as to what the women at Versailles may decide to do,” replied Bigot in a tone of impatience.
“I fear peace will be made. What will you do in that case, Bigot?” asked Des Meloises, not noticing Bigot's aversion to the topic.
“If the King makes it, invitus amabo! as the man said who married the shrew.” Bigot laughed mockingly. “We must make the best of it, Des Meloises! and let me tell you privately, I mean to make a good thing of it for ourselves whichever way it turns.”
“But what will become of the Company should the war expenditure stop?” The Chevalier was thinking of his dividend of five figures.
“Oh! you should have been here sooner, Des Meloises: you would have heard our grand settlement of the question in every contingency of peace or war.”
“Be sure of one thing,” continued Bigot, “the Grand Company will not, like the eels of Melun, cry out before they are skinned. What says the proverb, 'Mieux vaut êngin que force' (craft beats strength)? The Grand Company must prosper as the first condition of life in New France. Perhaps a year or two of repose may not be amiss, to revictual and reinforce the Colony; and by that time we shall be ready to pick the lock of Bellona's temple again and cry Vive la guerre! Vive la Grande Compagnie! more merrily than ever!”
Bigot's far-reaching intellect forecast the course of events, which remained so much subject to his own direction after the peace of Aix la Chapelle--a peace which in America was never a peace at all, but only an armed and troubled truce between the clashing interests and rival ambitions of the French and English in the New World.
The meeting of the Board of Managers of the Grand Company broke up, and--a circumstance that rarely happened--without the customary debauch. Bigot, preoccupied with his own projects, which reached far beyond the mere interests of the Company, retired to his couch. Cadet, Varin, and Penisault, forming an interior circle of the Friponne, had certain matters to shape for the Company's eye. The rings of corruption in the Grand Company descended, narrower and more black and precipitous, down to the bottom where Bigot sat, the Demiurgos of all.
The Chevalier des Meloises was rather proud of his sister's beauty and cleverness, and in truth a little afraid of her. They lived together harmoniously enough, so long as each allowed the other his or her own way. Both took it, and followed their own pleasures, and were not usually disagreeable to one another, except when Angélique commented on what she called his penuriousness, and he upon her extravagance, in the financial administration of the family of the Des Meloises.
The Chevalier was highly delighted to-day to be able to inform Angélique of her good fortune in becoming a partner of the Friponne and that too by grace of his Excellency the Intendant. The information filled Angélique with delight, not only because it made her independent of her brother's mismanagement of money, but it opened a door to her wildest hopes. In that gift her ambition found a potent ally to enable her to resist the appeal to her heart which she knew would be made to-night by Le Gardeur de Repentigny.
The Chevalier des Meloises had no idea of his sister's own aims. He had long nourished a foolish fancy that, if he had not obtained the hand of the wealthy and beautiful heiress of Repentigny, it was because he had not proposed. Something to-day had suggested the thought that unless he did propose soon his chances would be nil, and another might secure the prize which he had in his vain fancy set down as his own.
He hinted to Angélique to-day that he had almost resolved to marry, and that his projected alliance with the noble and wealthy house of Tilly could be easily accomplished if Angélique would only do her share, as a sister ought, in securing her brother's fortune and happiness.
“How?” asked she, looking up savagely, for she knew well at what her brother was driving.
“By your accepting Le Gardeur without more delay! All the city knows he is mad in love, and would marry you any day you choose if you wore only the hair on your head. He would ask no better fortune!”
“It is useless to advise me, Renaud!” said she, “and whether I take Le Gardeur or no it would not help your chance with Amélie! I am sorry for it, for Amélie is a prize, Renaud! but not for you at any price. Let me tell you, that desirable young lady will become the bride of Pierre Philibert, and the bride of no other man living.”
“You give one cold encouragement, sister! But I am sure, if you would only marry Le Gardeur, you could easily, with your tact and cleverness, induce Amélie to let me share the Tilly fortune. There are chests full of gold in the old Manor House, and a crow could hardly fly in a day over their broad lands!”
“Perfectly useless, brother! Amélie is not like most girls. She would refuse the hand of a king for the sake of the man she loves, and she loves Pierre Philibert to his finger-ends. She has married him in her heart a thousand times. I hate paragons of women, and would scorn to be one, but I tell you, brother, Amélie is a paragon of a girl, without knowing it!”
“Hum, I never tried my hand on a paragon: I should like to do so,” replied he, with a smile of decided confidence in his powers. “I fancy they are just like other women when you can catch them with their armor off.”
“Yes, but women like Amélie never lay off their armor! They seem born in it, like Minerva. But your vanity will not let you believe me, Renaud! So go try her, and tell me your luck! She won't scratch you, nor scold. Amélie is a lady, and will talk to you like a queen. But she will give you a polite reply to your proposal that will improve your opinions of our sex.”
“You are mocking me, Angélique, as you always do! One never knows when you are in jest or when in earnest. Even when you get angry, it is often unreal and for a purpose! I want you to be serious for once. The fortune of the Tillys and De Repentignys is the best in New France, and we can make it ours if you will help me.”
“I am serious enough in wishing you those chests full of gold, and those broad lands that a crow cannot fly over in a day; but I must forego my share of them, and so must you yours, brother!” Angélique leaned back in her chair, desiring to stop further discussion of a topic she did not like to hear.
“Why must you forego your share of the De Repentigny fortune, Angélique? You could call it your own any day you chose by giving your little finger to Le Gardeur! you do really puzzle me.”
The Chevalier did look perplexed at his inscrutable sister, who only smiled over the table at him, as she nonchalantly cracked nuts and sipped her wine by drops.
“Of course I puzzle you, Renaud!” said she at last. “I am a puzzle to myself sometimes. But you see there are so many men in the world,--poor ones are so plenty, rich ones so scarce, and sensible ones hardly to be found at all,--that a woman may be excused for selling herself to the highest bidder. Love is a commodity only spoken of in romances or in the patois of milkmaids now-a-days!”
“Zounds, Angélique! you would try the patience of all the saints in the calendar! I shall pity the fellow you take in! Here is the fairest fortune in the Colony about to fall into the hands of Pierre Philibert--whom Satan confound for his assurance! A fortune which I always regarded as my own!”
“It shows the folly and vanity of your sex! You never spoke a word to Amélie de Repentigny in the way of wooing in your life! Girls like her don't drop into men's arms just for the asking.”
“Pshaw! as if she would refuse me if you only acted a sister's part! But you are impenetrable as a rock, and the whole of your fickle sex could not match your vanity and caprice, Angélique.”
She rose quickly with a provoked air.
“You are getting so complimentary to my poor sex, Renaud,” said she, “that I must really leave you to yourself, and I could scarcely leave you in worse company.”
“You are so bitter and sarcastic upon one!” replied he, tartly; “my only desire was to secure a good fortune for you, and another for myself. I don't see, for my part, what women are made for, except to mar everything a man wants to do for himself and for them!”
“Certainly everything should be done for us, brother; but I have no defence to make for my sex, none! I dare say we women deserve all that men think of us, but then it is impolite to tell us so to our faces. Now, as I advised you, Renaud, I would counsel you to study gardening, and you may one day arrive at as great distinction as the Marquis de Vandriere--you may cultivate chou chou if you cannot raise a bride like Amélie de Repentigny.”
Angélique knew her brother's genius was not penetrating, or she would scarcely have ventured this broad allusion to the brother of La Pompadour, who, by virtue of his relationship to the Court favorite, had recently been created Director of the Royal Gardens. What fancy was working in the brain of Angélique when she alluded to him may be only surmised.
The Chevalier was indignant, however, at an implied comparison between himself and the plebeian Marquis de Vandriere. He replied, with some heat,-- “The Marquis de Vandriere! How dare you mention him and me together! There's not an officer's mess in the army that receives the son of the fishmonger! Why do you mention him, Angélique? You are a perfect riddle!”
“I only thought something might happen, brother, if I should ever go to Paris! I was acting a charade in my fancy, and that was the solution of it!”
“What was? You would drive the whole Sorbonne mad with your charades and fancies! But I must leave you.”
“Good-by, brother,--if you will go. Think of it! --if you want to rise in the world you may yet become a royal gardener like the Marquis de Vandriere!” Her silvery laugh rang out good-humoredly as he descended the stairs and passed out of the house.
She sat down in her fauteuil. “Pity Renaud is such a fool!” said she; “yet I am not sure but he is wiser in his folly than I with all my tact and cleverness, which I suspect are going to make a greater fool of me than ever he is!”
She leaned back in her chair in a deep thinking mood. “It is growing dark,” murmured she. “Le Gardeur will assuredly be here soon, in spite of all the attractions of Belmont. How to deal with him when he comes is more than I know: he will renew his suit, I am sure.”
For a moment the heart of Angélique softened in her bosom. “Accept him I must not!” said she; “affront him I will not! cease to love him is out of my power as much as is my ability to love the Intendant, whom I cordially detest, and shall marry all the same!” She pressed her hands over her eyes, and sat silent for a few minutes. “But I am not sure of it! That woman remains still at Beaumanoir! Will my scheming to remove her be all in vain or no?” Angélique recollected with a shudder a thought that had leaped in her bosom, like a young Satan, engendered of evil desires. “I dare hardly look in the honest eyes of Le Gardeur after nursing such a monstrous fancy as that,” said she; “but my fate is fixed all the same. Le Gardeur will vainly try to undo this knot in my life, but he must leave me to my own devices.” To what devices she left him was a thought that sprang not up in her purely selfish nature.
In her perplexity Angélique tied knot upon knot hard as pebbles in her handkerchief. Those knots of her destiny, as she regarded them, she left untied, and they remain untied to this day--a memento of her character and of those knots in her life which posterity has puzzled itself over to no purpose to explain.
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{
"id": "2735"
}
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20
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BELMONT.
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A short drive from the gate of St. John stood the old mansion of Belmont, the country-seat of the Bourgeois Philibert--a stately park, the remains of the primeval forest of oak, maple, and pine; trees of gigantic growth and ample shade surrounded the high-roofed, many-gabled house that stood on the heights of St. Foye overlooking the broad valley of the St. Charles. The bright river wound like a silver serpent through the flat meadows in the bottom of the valley, while the opposite slopes of alternate field and forest stretched away to the distant range of the Laurentian hills, whose pale blue summits mingled with the blue sky at midday or, wrapped in mist at morn and eve, were hardly distinguishable from the clouds behind them.
The gardens and lawns of Belmont were stirring with gay company to-day in honor of the fête of Pierre Philibert upon his return home from the campaign in Acadia. Troops of ladies in costumes and toilettes of the latest Parisian fashion gladdened the eye with pictures of grace and beauty which Paris itself could not have surpassed. Gentlemen in full dress, in an age when dress was an essential part of a gentleman's distinction, accompanied the ladies with the gallantry, vivacity, and politeness belonging to France, and to France alone.
Communication with the mother country was precarious and uncertain by reason of the war and the blockade of the Gulf by the English cruisers. Hence the good fortune and daring of the gallant Captain Martinière in running his frigate, the Fleur-de-Lis, through the fleet of the enemy, enabling him among other things to replenish the wardrobes of the ladies of Quebec with latest Parisian fashions, made him immensely popular on this gala day. The kindness and affability of the ladies extended without diminution of graciousness to the little midshipmen even, whom the Captain conditioned to take with him wherever he and his officers were invited. Captain Martinière was happy to see the lads enjoy a few cakes on shore after the hard biscuit they had so long nibbled on shipboard. As for himself, there was no end to the gracious smiles and thanks he received from the fair ladies at Belmont.
At the great door of the Manor House, welcoming his guests as they arrived, stood the Bourgeois Philibert, dressed as a gentleman of the period, in attire rich but not ostentatious. His suit of dark velvet harmonized well with his noble manner and bearing. But no one for a moment could overlook the man in contemplating his dress. The keen, discriminating eye of woman, overlooking neither dress nor man, found both worthy of warmest commendation, and many remarks passed between the ladies on that day that a handsomer man and more ripe and perfect gentleman than the Bourgeois Philibert had never been seen in New France.
His grizzled hair grew thickly all over his head, the sign of a tenacious constitution. It was powdered and tied behind with a broad ribbon, for he hated perukes. His strong, shapely figure was handsomely conspicuous as he stood, chapeau in hand, greeting his guests as they approached. His eyes beamed with pleasure and hospitality, and his usually grave, thoughtful lips were wreathed in smiles, the sweeter because not habitually seen upon them.
The Bourgeois had this in common with all complete and earnest characters, that the people believed in him because they saw that he believed in himself. His friends loved and trusted him to the uttermost, his enemies hated and feared him in equal measure; but no one, great or small, could ignore him and not feel his presence as a solid piece of manhood.
It is not intellect, nor activity, nor wealth, that obtains most power over men; but force of character, self-control, a quiet, compressed will and patient resolve; these qualities make one man the natural ruler over others by a title they never dispute.
The party of the Honnêtes Gens, the “honest folks” as they were derisively called by their opponents, regarded the Bourgeois Philibert as their natural leader. His force of character made men willingly stand in his shadow. His clear intellect, never at fault, had extended his power and influence by means of his vast mercantile operations over half the continent. His position as the foremost merchant of New France brought him in the front of the people's battle with the Grand Company, and in opposition to the financial policy of the Intendant and the mercantile assumption of the Friponne.
But the personal hostility between the Intendant and the Bourgeois had its root and origin in France, before either of them crossed the ocean to the hither shore of the Atlantic. The Bourgeois had been made very sensible of a fact vitally affecting him, that the decrees of the Intendant, ostensibly for the regulation of trade in New France, had been sharply pointed against himself. “They draw blood!” Bigot had boasted to his familiars as he rubbed his hands together with intense satisfaction one day, when he learned that Philibert's large trading-post in Mackinaw had been closed in consequence of the Indians having been commanded by royal authority, exercised by the Intendant, to trade only at the comptoirs of the Grand Company. “They draw blood!” repeated he, “and will draw the life yet out of the Golden Dog.” It was plain the ancient grudge of the courtly parasite had not lost a tooth during all those years.
The Bourgeois was not a man to talk of his private griefs, or seek sympathy, or even ask counsel or help. He knew the world was engrossed with its own cares. The world cares not to look under the surface of things for sake of others, but only for its own sake, its own interests, its own pleasures.
To-day, however, cares, griefs, and resentments were cast aside, and the Bourgeois was all joy at the return of his only son, and proud of Pierre's achievements, and still more of the honors spontaneously paid him. He stood at the door, welcoming arrival after arrival, the happiest man of all the joyous company who honored Belmont that day.
A carriage with outriders brought the Count de la Galissonière and his friend Herr Kalm and Dr. Gauthier, the last a rich old bachelor, handsome and generous, the physician and savant par excellence of Quebec. After a most cordial reception by the Bourgeois the Governor walked among the guests, who had crowded up to greet him with the respect due to the King's representative, as well as to show their personal regard; for the Count's popularity was unbounded in the Colony except among the partizans of the Grand Company.
Herr Kalm was presently enticed away by a bevy of young ladies, Hortense de Beauharnais leading them, to get the learned professor's opinion on some rare specimens of botany growing in the park. Nothing loath--for he was good-natured as he was clever, and a great enthusiast withal in the study of plants--he allowed the merry, talkative girls to lead him where they would. He delighted them in turn by his agreeable, instructive conversation, which was rendered still more piquant by the odd medley of French, Latin, and Swedish in which it was expressed.
An influx of fresh arrivals next poured into the park--the Chevalier de la Corne, with his pretty daughter, Agathe La Corne St. Luc; the Lady de Tilly and Amélie de Repentigny, with the brothers de Villiers. The brothers had overtaken the Chevalier La Corne upon the road, but the custom of the highway in New France forbade any one passing another without politely asking permission to do so.
“Yes, Coulon,” replied the Chevalier; “ride on!” He winked pleasantly at his daughter as he said this. “There is, I suppose, nothing left for an old fellow who dates from the sixteen hundreds but to take the side of the road and let you pass. I should have liked, however, to stir up the fire in my gallant little Norman ponies against your big New England horses. Where did you get them? Can they run?”
“We got them in the sack of Saratoga,” replied Coulon, “and they ran well that day, but we overtook them. Would Mademoiselle La Corne care if we try them now?”
Scarcely a girl in Quebec would have declined the excitement of a race on the highroad of St. Foye, and Agathe would fain have driven herself in the race, but being in full dress to-day, she thought of her wardrobe and the company. She checked the ardor of her father, and entered the park demurely, as one of the gravest of the guests.
“Happy youths! Noble lads, Agathe!” exclaimed the Chevalier, admiringly, as the brothers rode rapidly past them. “New France will be proud of them some day!”
The rest of the company now began to arrive in quick succession. The lawn was crowded with guests. “Ten thousand thanks for coming!” exclaimed Pierre Philibert, as he assisted Amélie de Repentigny and the Lady de Tilly to alight from their carriage.
“We could not choose but come to-day, Pierre,” replied Amélie, feeling without displeasure the momentary lingering of his hand as it touched hers. “Nothing short of an earthquake would have kept aunt at home,” added she, darting a merry glance of sympathy with her aunt's supposed feelings.
“And you, Amélie?” Pierre looked into those dark eyes which shyly turned aside from his gaze.
“I was an obedient niece, and accompanied her. It is so easy to persuade people to go where they wish to go!” She withdrew her hand gently, and took his arm as he conducted the ladies into the house. She felt a flush on her cheek, but it did not prevent her saying in her frank, kindly way,--“I was glad to come to-day, Pierre, to witness this gathering of the best and noblest in the land to honor your fête. Aunt de Tilly has always predicted greatness for you.”
“And you, Amélie, doubted, knowing me a shade better than your aunt?”
“No, I believed her; so true a prophet as aunt surely deserved one firm believer!”
Pierre felt the electric thrill run through him which a man feels at the moment he discovers a woman believes in him. “Your presence here to-day, Amélie! you cannot think how sweet it is,” said he.
Her hand trembled upon his arm. She thought nothing could be sweeter than such words from Pierre Philibert. With a charming indirectness, however, which did not escape him, she replied, “Le Gardeur is very proud of you to-day, Pierre.”
He laid his fingers upon her hand. It was a delicate little hand, but with the strength of an angel's it had moulded his destiny and led him to the honorable position he had attained. He was profoundly conscious at this moment of what he owed to this girl's silent influence. He contented himself, however, with saying, “I will so strive that one day Amélie de Repentigny shall not shame to say she too is proud of me.”
She did not reply for a moment. A tremor agitated her low, sweet voice. “I am proud of you now, Pierre,--more proud than words can tell to see you so honored, and proudest to think you deserve it all.”
It touched him almost to tears. “Thanks, Amélie; when you are proud of me I shall begin to feel pride of myself. Your opinion is the one thing in life I have most cared for,--your approbation is my best reward.”
Her eyes were eloquent with unspoken words, but she thought, “If that were all!” Pierre Philibert had long received the silent reward of her good opinion and approbation.
The Bourgeois at this moment came up to salute Amélie and the Lady de Tilly.
“The Bourgeois Philibert has the most perfect manner of any gentleman in New France,” was the remark of the Lady de Tilly to Amélie, as he left them again to receive other guests. “They say he can be rough and imperious sometimes to those he dislikes, but to his friends and strangers, and especially to ladies, no breath of spring can be more gentle and balmy.” Amélie assented with a mental reservation in the depths of her dark eyes, and in the dimple that flashed upon her cheek as she suppressed the utterance of a pleasant fancy in reply to her aunt.
Pierre conducted the ladies to the great drawing-room, which was already filled with company, who overwhelmed Amélie and her aunt with the vivacity of their greeting.
In a fine shady grove at a short distance from the house, a row of tables was set for the entertainment of several hundreds of the hardy dependents of the Bourgeois; for while feasting the rich the Bourgeois would not forget his poorer friends, and perhaps his most exquisite satisfaction was in the unrestrained enjoyment of his hospitality by the crowd of happy, hungry fellows and their families, who, under the direction of his chief factor, filled the tables from end to end, and made the park resound with songs and merriment--fellows of infinite gaiety, with appetites of Gargantuas and a capacity for good liquors that reminded one of the tubs of the Danaïdes. The tables groaned beneath mountains of good things, and in the centre of each, like Mont Blanc rising from the lower Alps, stood a magnificent Easter pie, the confection of which was a masterpiece of the skill of Maître Guillot Gobet, the head cook of the Bourgeois, who was rather put out, however, when Dame Rochelle decided to bestow all the Easter pies upon the hungry voyageurs, woodmen, and workmen, and banished them from the menu of the more patrician tables set for the guests of the mansion.
“Yet, after all,” exclaimed Maître Guillot, as he thrust his head out of the kitchen door to listen to the song the gay fellows were singing with all their lungs in honor of his Easter pie; “after all, the fine gentlemen and ladies would not have paid my noble pies such honor as that! and what is more the pies would not have been eaten up to the last crumb!” Maître Guillot's face beamed like a harvest moon, as he chimed in with the well-known ditty in praise of the great pie of Rouen: “'C'est dans la ville de Rouen, Ils ont fait un paté si grand, Ils ont fait un paté si grand, Qu'ils ont trouvê un homme dedans!'”
Maître Guillot would fain have been nearer, to share in the shouting and clapping of hands which followed the saying of grace by the good Curé of St. Foye, and to see how vigorously knives were handled, and how chins wagged in the delightful task of levelling down mountains of meat, while Gascon wine and Norman cider flowed from ever-replenished flagons.
The Bourgeois and his son, with many of his chief guests, honored for a time the merry feast out-of-doors, and were almost inundated by the flowing cups drunk to the health and happiness of the Bourgeois and of Pierre Philibert.
Maître Guillot Gobet returned to his kitchen, where he stirred up his cooks and scullions on all sides, to make up for the loss of his Easter pies on the grand tables in the hall. He capered among them like a marionette, directing here, scolding there, laughing, joking, or with uplifted hands and stamping feet despairing of his underlings' cooking a dinner fit for the fête of Pierre Philibert.
Maître Guilot was a little, fat, red-nosed fellow, with twinkling black eyes, and a mouth irascible as that of a cake-baker of Lerna. His heart was of the right paste, however, and full as a butter-boat of the sweet sauce of good nature, which he was ready to pour over the heads of all his fellows who quietly submitted to his dictation. But woe to man or maid servant who delayed or disputed his royal orders! An Indian typhoon instantly blew. At such a time even Dame Rochelle would gather her petticoats round her and hurry out of the storm, which always subsided quickly in proportion to the violence of its rage.
Maître Guillot knew what he was about, however. He did not use, he said, to wipe his nose with a herring! and on that day he was going to cook a dinner fit for the Pope after Lent, or even for the Reverend Father De Berey himself, who was the truest gourmet and the best trencherman in New France.
Maître Guillot honored his master, but in his secret soul he did not think his taste quite worthy of his cook! But he worshipped Father De Berey, and gloried in the infallible judgment and correct taste of cookery possessed by the jolly Recollet. The single approbation of Father De Berey was worth more than the praise of a world full of ordinary eating mortals, who smacked their lips and said things were good, but who knew no more than one of the Cent Suisses why things were good, or could appreciate the talents of an artiste of the cordon bleu.
Maître Guillot's Easter pie had been a splendid success. “It was worthy,” he said, “to be placed as a crown on top of the new Cathedral of St. Marie, and receive the consecration of the Bishop.”
Lest the composition of it should be forgotten, Maître Guillot had, with the solemnity of a deacon intoning the Litany, ravished the ear of Jules Painchaud, his future son-in-law, as he taught him the secrets of its confection.
With his white cap set rakishly on one side of his head and arms akimbo, Maître Guillot gave Jules the famous recipe: “Inside of circular walls of pastry an inch thick, and so rich as easily to be pulled down, and roomy enough within for the Court of King Pepin, lay first a thick stratum of mince-meat of two savory hams of Westphalia, and if you cannot get them, of two hams of our habitans.”
“Of our habitans!” ejaculated Jules, with an air of consternation.
“Precisely! don't interrupt me!” Maître Guillot grew red about the gills in an instant. Jules was silenced. “I have said it!” cried he; “two hams of our habitans! what have you to say against it--stock fish, eh?”
“Oh, nothing, sir,” replied Jules, with humility, “only I thought--” Poor Jules would have consented to eat his thought rather than fall out with the father of his Susette.
“You thought!” Maître Guillot's face was a study for Hogarth, who alone could have painted the alto tone of voice as it proceeded from his round O of a mouth. “Susette shall remain upon my hands an old maid for the term of her natural life if you dispute the confection of Easter pie!”
“Now listen, Jules,” continued he, at once mollified by the contrite, submissive air of his future son-in-law: “Upon the foundation of the mince-meat of two hams of Westphalia,--or, if you cannot get them, of two hams of our habitans,--place scientifically the nicely-cut pieces of a fat turkey, leaving his head to stick out of the upper crust, in evidence that Master Dindon lies buried there! Add two fat capons, two plump partridges, two pigeons, and the back and thighs of a brace of juicy hares. Fill up the whole with beaten eggs, and the rich contents will resemble, as a poet might say, 'fossils of the rock in golden yolks embedded and enjellied!' Season as you would a saint. Cover with a slab of pastry. Bake it as you would cook an angel, and not singe a feather. Then let it cool, and eat it! And then, Jules, as the Reverend Father de Berey always says after grace over an Easter pie, 'Dominus vobiscum!'”
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{
"id": "2735"
}
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21
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SIC ITUR AD ASTRA.
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The old hall of Belmont had been decorated for many a feast since the times of its founder, the Intendant Talon; but it had never contained a nobler company of fair women and brave men, the pick and choice of their race, than to-day met round the hospitable and splendid table of the Bourgeois Philibert in honor of the fête of his gallant son.
Dinner was duly and decorously despatched. The social fashion of New France was not for the ladies to withdraw when the wine followed the feast, but to remain seated with the gentlemen, purifying the conversation, and by their presence restraining the coarseness which was the almost universal vice of the age.
A troop of nimble servitors carried off the carved dishes and fragments of the splendid pâtisseries of Maître Guillot, in such a state of demolition as satisfied the critical eye of the chief cook that the efforts of his genius had been very successful. He inspected the dishes through his spectacles. He knew, by what was left, the ability of the guests to discriminate what they had eaten and to do justice to his skill. He considered himself a sort of pervading divinity, whose culinary ideas passing with his cookery into the bodies of the guests enabled them, on retiring from the feast, to carry away as part of themselves some of the fine essence of Maître Gobet himself.
At the head of his table, peeling oranges and slicing pineapples for the ladies in his vicinity, sat the Bourgeois himself, laughing, jesting, and telling anecdotes with a geniality that was contagious. “'The gods are merry sometimes,' says Homer, 'and their laughter shakes Olympus!'” was the classical remark of Father de Berey, at the other end of the table. Jupiter did not laugh with less loss of dignity than the Bourgeois.
Few of the guests did not remember to the end of their lives the majestic and happy countenance of the Bourgeois on this memorable day.
At his right hand sat Amélie de Repentigny and the Count de la Galissonière. The Governor, charmed with the beauty and agreeableness of the young chatelaine, had led her in to dinner, and devoted himself to her and the Lady de Tilly with the perfection of gallantry of a gentleman of the politest court in Europe. On his left sat the radiant, dark-eyed Hortense de Beauharnais. With a gay assumption of independence Hortense had taken the arm of La Corne St. Luc, and declared she would eat no dinner unless he would be her cavalier and sit beside her! The gallant old soldier surrendered at discretion. He laughingly consented to be her captive, he said, for he had no power and no desire but to obey. Hortense was proud of her conquest. She seated herself by his side with an air of triumph and mock gravity, tapping him with her fan whenever she detected his eye roving round the table, compassionating, she affirmed, her rivals, who had failed where she had won in securing the youngest, the handsomest, and most gallant of all the gentlemen at Belmont.
“Not so fast, Hortense!” exclaimed the gay Chevalier; “you have captured me by mistake! The tall Swede--he is your man! The other ladies all know that, and are anxious to get me out of your toils, so that you may be free to ensnare the philosopher!”
“But you don't wish to get away from me! I am your garland, Chevalier, and you shall wear me to-day. As for the tall Swede, he has no idea of a fair flower of our sex except to wear it in his button-hole,--this way!” added she, pulling a rose out of a vase and archly adorning the Chevalier's vest with it.
“All pretence and jealousy, mademoiselle. The tall Swede knows how to take down your pride and bring you to a proper sense of your false conceit of the beauty and wit of the ladies of New France.”
Hortense gave two or three tosses of defiance to express her emphatic dissent from his opinions.
“I wish Herr Kalm would lend me his philosophic scales, to weigh your sex like lambs in market,” continued La Corne St. Luc; “but I fear I am too old, Hortense, to measure women except by the fathom, which is the measure of a man.”
“And the measure of a man is the measure of an angel too scriptum est, Chevalier!” replied she. Hortense had ten merry meanings in her eye, and looked as if bidding him select which he chose. “The learned Swede's philosophy is lost upon me,” continued she, “he can neither weigh by sample nor measure by fathom the girls of New France!” She tapped him on the arm. “Listen to me, chevalier,” said she, “you are neglecting me already for sake of Cecile Tourangeau!” La Corne was exchanging some gay badinage with a graceful, pretty young lady on the other side of the table, whose snowy forehead, if you examined it closely, was marked with a red scar, in figure of a cross, which, although powdered and partially concealed by a frizz of her thick blonde hair, was sufficiently distinct to those who looked for it; and many did so, as they whispered to each other the story of how she got it.
Le Gardeur de Repentigny sat by Cecile, talking in a very sociable manner, which was also commented on. His conversation seemed to be very attractive to the young lady, who was visibly delighted with the attentions of her handsome gallant.
At this moment a burst of instruments from the musicians, who occupied a gallery at the end of the hall, announced a vocal response to the toast of the King's health, proposed by the Bourgeois. “Prepare yourself for the chorus, Chevalier,” exclaimed Hortense. “Father de Berey is going to lead the royal anthem!”
“Vive le Roi!” replied La Corne. “No finer voice ever sang Mass, or chanted 'God Save the King!' I like to hear the royal anthem from the lips of a churchman rolling it out ore rotundo, like one of the Psalms of David. Our first duty is to love God,--our next to honor the King! and New France will never fail in either!” Loyalty was ingrained in every fibre of La Corne St. Luc.
“Never, Chevalier. Law and Gospel rule together, or fall together! But we must rise,” replied Hortense, springing up.
The whole company rose simultaneously. The rich, mellow voice of the Rev. Father de Berey, round and full as the organ of Ste. Marie, commenced the royal anthem composed by Lulli in honor of Louis Quatorze, upon an occasion of his visit to the famous Convent of St. Cyr, in company with Madame de Maintenon.
The song composed by Madame Brinon was afterwards translated into English, and words and music became, by a singular transposition, the national hymn of the English nation.
“God Save the King!” is no longer heard in France. It was buried with the people's loyalty, fathoms deep under the ruins of the monarchy. But it flourishes still with pristine vigor in New France, that olive branch grafted on the stately tree of the British Empire. The broad chest and flexile lips of Father de Berey rang out the grand old song in tones that filled the stately old hall: “'Grand Dieu! Sauvez le Roi! Grand Dieu! Sauvez le Roi! Sauvez le Roi! Que toujours glorieux. Louis Victorieux, Voye ses ennemis Toujours soumis!'”
The company all joined in the chorus, the gentlemen raising their cups, the ladies waving their handkerchiefs, and male and female blending in a storm of applause that made the old walls ring with joy. Songs and speeches followed in quick succession, cutting as with a golden blade the hours of the dessert into quinzaines of varied pleasures.
The custom of the times had reduced speechmaking after dinner to a minimum. The ladies, as Father de Berey wittily remarked, preferred private confession to public preaching; and long speeches, without inlets for reply, were the eighth mortal sin which no lady would forgive.
The Bourgeois, however, felt it incumbent upon himself to express his deep thanks for the honor done his house on this auspicious occasion. And he remarked that the doors of Belmont, so long closed by reason of the absence of Pierre, would hereafter be ever open to welcome all his friends. He had that day made a gift of Belmont, with all its belongings, to Pierre, and he hoped,--the Bourgeois smiled as he said this, but he would not look in a quarter where his words struck home,--he hoped that some one of Quebec's fair daughters would assist Pierre in the menage of his home and enable him to do honor to his housekeeping.
Immense was the applause that followed the short, pithy speech of the Bourgeois. The ladies blushed and praised, the gentlemen cheered and enjoyed in anticipation the renewal of the old hospitalities of Belmont.
“The skies are raining plum cakes!” exclaimed the Chevalier La Corne to his lively companion. “Joy's golden drops are only distilled in the alembic of woman's heart! What think you, Hortense? Which of Quebec's fair daughters will be willing to share Belmont with Pierre?”
“Oh, any of them would!” replied she. “But why did the Bourgeois restrict his choice to the ladies of Quebec, when he knew I came from the Three Rivers?”
“Oh, he was afraid of you, Hortense; you would make Belmont too good for this world! What say you, Father de Berry? Do you ever walk on the cape?”
The friar, in a merry mood, had been edging close to Hortense. “I love, of all things, to air my gray gown on the cape of a breezy afternoon,” replied the jovial Recollet, “when the fashionables are all out, and every lady is putting her best foot foremost. It is then I feel sure that Horace is the next best thing to the Homilies: “'Teretesque suras laudo, et integer ego!'”
The Chevalier La Corne pinched the shrugging shoulder of Hortense as he remarked, “Don't confess to Father de Berey that you promenade on the cape! But I hope Pierre Philibert will soon make his choice! We are impatient to visit him and give old Provençal the butler a run every day through those dark crypts of his, where lie entombed the choicest vintages of sunny France.”
The Chevalier said this waggishly, for the benefit of old Provençal, who stood behind his chair looking half alarmed at the threatened raid upon his well-filled cellars.
“But if Pierre should not commit matrimony,” replied Hortense, “what will become of him? and especially what will become of us?”
“We will drink his wine all the same, good fellow that he is! But Pierre had as lief commit suicide as not commit matrimony; and who would not? Look here, Pierre Philibert,” continued the old soldier, addressing him, with good-humored freedom. “Matrimony is clearly your duty, Pierre; but I need not tell you so: it is written on your face plain as the way between Peronne and St. Quintin,--a good, honest way as ever was trod by shoe leather, and as old as Chinon in Touraine! Try it soon, my boy. Quebec is a sack full of pearls!” Hortense pulled him mischievously by the coat, so he caught her hand and held it fast in his, while he proceeded: “You put your hand in the sack and take out the first that offers. It will be worth a Jew's ransom! If you are lucky to find the fairest, trust me it will be the identical pearl of great price for which the merchant went and sold all that he had and bought it. Is not that Gospel, Father de Berey? I think I have heard something like that preached from the pulpit of the Recollets?”
“Matter of brimborion, Chevalier! not to be questioned by laymen! Words of wisdom for my poor brothers of St. Francis, who, after renouncing the world, like to know that they have renounced something worth having! But not to preach a sermon on your parable, Chevalier, I will promise Colonel Philibert that when he has found the pearl of great price,”--Father de Berey, who knew a world of secrets, glanced archly at Amélie as he said this,--“the bells of our monastery shall ring out such a merry peal as they have not rung since fat Brother Le Gros broke his wind, and short Brother Bref stretched himself out half a yard pulling the bell ropes on the wedding of the Dauphin.”
Great merriment followed the speech of Father de Berey. Hortense rallied the Chevalier, a good old widower, upon himself not travelling the plain way between Peronne and St. Quintin, and jestingly offered herself to travel with him, like a couple of gypsies carrying their budget of happiness pick-a-back through the world.
“Better than that!” La Corne exclaimed. Hortense was worthy to ride on the baggage-wagons in his next campaign! Would she go? She gave him her hand. “I expect nothing else!” said she. “I am a soldier's daughter, and expect to live a soldier's wife, and die a soldier's widow. But a truce to jest. It is harder to be witty than wise,” continued she. “What is the matter with Cousin Le Gardeur?” Her eyes were fixed upon him as he read a note just handed to him by a servant. He crushed it in his hand with a flash of anger, and made a motion as if about to tear it, but did not. He placed it in his bosom. But the hilarity of his countenance was gone.
There was another person at the table whose quick eye, drawn by sisterly affection, saw Le Gardeur's movement before even Hortense. Amélie was impatient to leave her seat and go beside him, but she could not at the moment leave the lively circle around her. She at once conjectured that the note was from Angélique des Meloises. After drinking deeply two or three times Le Gardeur arose, and with a faint excuse that did not impose on his partner left the table. Amélie rose quickly also, excusing herself to the Bourgeois, and joined her brother in the park, where the cool night air blew fresh and inviting for a walk.
Pretty Cecile Touraugeau had caught a glimpse of the handwriting as she sat by the side of Le Gardeur, and guessed correctly whence it had come and why her partner so suddenly left the table.
She was out of humor; the red mark upon her forehead grew redder as she pouted in visible discontent. But the great world moves on, carrying alternate storms and sunshine upon its surface. The company rose from the table--some to the ball-room, some to the park and conservatories. Cecile's was a happy disposition, easily consoled for her sorrows. Every trace of her displeasure was banished and almost forgotten from the moment the gay, handsome Jumonville de Villiers invited her out to the grand balcony, where, he said, the rarest pastime was going on.
And rare pastime it was! A group of laughing but half-serious girls were gathered round Doctor Gauthier, urging him to tell their fortunes by consulting the stars, which to-night shone out with unusual brilliancy.
At that period, as at the present, and in every age of the world, the female sex, like the Jews of old, asks signs, while the Greeks--that is, the men--seek wisdom.
The time never was, and never will be, when a woman will cease to be curious,--when her imagination will not forecast the decrees of fate in regard to the culminating event of her life and her whole nature--marriage. It was in vain Doctor Gauthier protested his inability to read the stars without his celestial eye-glasses.
The ladies would not accept his excuses: he knew the heavens by heart, they said, and could read the stars of destiny as easily as the Bishop his breviary.
In truth the worthy doctor was not only a believer but an adept in astrology. He had favored his friends with not a few horoscopes and nativities, when pressed to do so. His good nature was of the substance of butter: any one that liked could spread it over their bread. Many good men are eaten up in that way by greedy friends.
Hortense de Beauharnais urged the Doctor so merrily and so perseveringly, promising to marry him herself if the stars said so, that he laughingly gave way, but declared he would tell Hortense's fortune first, which deserved to be good enough to make her fulfil her promise just made.
She was resigned, she said, and would accept any fate from the rank of a queen to a cell among the old maids of St. Cyr! The girls of Quebec hung all their hopes on the stars, bright and particular ones especially. They were too loving to live single, and too proud to live poor. But she was one who would not wait for ships to land that never came, and plums to drop into her mouth that never ripened. Hortense would be ruled by the stars, and wise Doctor Gauthier should to-night declare her fate.
They all laughed at this free talk of Hortense. Not a few of the ladies shrugged their shoulders and looked askance at each other, but many present wished they had courage to speak like her to Doctor Gauthier.
“Well, I see there is nothing else for it but to submit to my ruling star, and that is you, Hortense!” cried the Doctor; “so please stand up before me while I take an inventory of your looks as a preliminary to telling your fortune.”
Hortense placed herself instantly before him. “It is one of the privileges of our dry study,” remarked he, as he looked admiringly on the tall, charming figure and frank countenance of the girl before him.
“The querent,” said he gravely, “is tall, straight, slender, arms long, hands and feet of the smallest, hair just short of blackness, piercing, roving eyes, dark as night and full of fire, sight quick, and temperament alive with energy, wit, and sense.”
“Oh, tell my fortune, not my character! I shall shame of energy, wit, and sense, if I hear such flattery, Doctor!” exclaimed she, shaking herself like a young eagle preparing to fly.
“We shall see what comes of it, Hortense!” replied he gravely, as with his gold-headed cane he slowly quartered the heavens like an ancient augur, and noted the planets in their houses. The doctor was quite serious, and even Hortense, catching his looks, stood very silent as he studied the celestial aspects, “Carrying through ether in perpetual round Decrees and resolutions of the Gods.”
“The Lord of the ascendant,” said he, “is with the Lord of the seventh in the tenth house. The querent, therefore, shall marry the man made for her, but not the man of her youthful hope and her first love.
“The stars are true,” continued he, speaking to himself rather than to her. “Jupiter in the seventh house denotes rank and dignity by marriage, and Mars in sextile foretells successful wars. It is wonderful, Hortense! The blood of Beauharnais shall sit on thrones more than one; it shall rule France, Italy, and Flanders, but not New France, for Saturn in quintile looks darkly upon the twins who rule America!”
“Come, Jumonville,” exclaimed Hortense, “congratulate Claude on the greatness awaiting the house of Beauharnais, and condole with me that I am to see none of it myself! I do not care for kings and queens in the third generation, but I do care for happy fortune in the present for those I know and love! Come, Jumonville, have your fortune told now, to keep me in countenance. If the Doctor hits the truth for you I shall believe in him for myself.”
“That is a good idea, Hortense,” replied Jumonville; “I long ago hung my hat on the stars--let the Doctor try if he can find it.”
The Doctor, in great good humor, surveyed the dark, handsome face and lithe, athletic figure of Jumonville de Villiers. He again raised his cane with the gravity of a Roman pontifex, marking off his templum in the heavens. Suddenly he stopped. He repeated more carefully his survey, and then turned his earnest eyes upon the young soldier.
“You see ill-fortune for me, Doctor!” exclaimed Jumonville, with bright, unflinching eyes, as he would look on danger of any kind.
“The Hyleg, or giver of life, is afflicted by Mars in the eighth house, and Saturn is in evil aspect in the ascendant!” said the Doctor slowly.
“That sounds warlike, and means fighting I suppose, Doctor. It is a brave fortune for a soldier. Go on!” Jumonville was in earnest now.
“The pars fortunae,” continued the Doctor, gazing upward, “rejoices in a benign aspect with Venus. Fame, true love, and immortality will be yours, Jumonville de Villiers; but you will die young under the flag of your country and for sake of your King! You will not marry, but all the maids and matrons of New France will lament your fate with tears, and from your death shall spring up the salvation of your native land--how, I see not; but decretum est, Jumonville, ask me no more!”
A thrill like a stream of electricity passed through the company. Their mirth was extinguished, for none could wholly free their minds from the superstition of their age. The good Doctor sat down, and wiped his moistened eye-glasses. He would tell no more to-night, he said. He had really gone too far, making jest of earnest and earnest of jest, and begged pardon of Jumonville for complying with his humor.
The young soldier laughed merrily. “If fame, immortality, and true love are to be mine, what care I for death? It will be worth giving up life for, to have the tears of the maids and matrons of New France to lament your fate. What could the most ambitious soldier desire more?”
The words of Jumonville struck a kindred chord in the bosom of Hortense de Beauharnais. They were stamped upon her heart forever. A few years after this prediction, Jumonville de Villiers lay slain under a flag of truce on the bank of the Monongahela, and of all the maids and matrons of New France who wept over his fate, none shed more and bitterer tears than his fair betrothed bride, Hortense de Beauharnais.
The prediction of the Sieur Gauthier was repeated and retold as a strangely true tale; it passed into the traditions of the people, and lingered in their memory generations after the festival of Belmont was utterly forgotten.
When the great revolt took place in the English Colonies, the death of the gallant Jumonville de Villiers was neither forgotten nor forgiven by New France. Congress appealed in vain for union and help from Canadians. Washington's proclamations were trodden under foot, and his troops driven back or captured. If Canada was lost to France partly through the death of Jumonville, it may also be said that his blood helped to save it to England. The ways of Providence are so mysterious in working out the problems of national existence that the life or death of a single individual may turn the scales of destiny over half a continent.
But all these events lay as yet darkly in the womb of the future. The gallant Jumonville who fell, and his brother Coulon who took his “noble revenge” upon Washington by sparing his life, were to-day the gayest of the gay throng who had assembled to do honor to Pierre Philibert.
While this group of merry guests, half in jest, half in earnest, were trying to discover in the stars the “far-reaching concords” that moulded the life of each, Amélie led her brother away from the busy grounds near the mansion, and took a quiet path that led into the great park which they entered.
A cool salt-water breeze, following the flood tide that was coming up the broad St. Lawrence, swept their faces as Amélie walked by the side of Le Gardeur, talking in her quiet way of things familiar, and of home interests until she saw the fever of his blood abate and his thoughts return into calmer channels. Her gentle craft subdued his impetuous mood--if craft it might be called--for more wisely cunning than all craft is the prompting of true affection, where reason responds like instinct to the wants of the heart.
They sat down upon a garden seat overlooking the great valley. None of the guests had sauntered out so far, but Amélie's heart was full; she had much to say, and wished no interruption.
“I am glad to sit in this pretty spot, Amélie,” said he, at last, for he had listened in silence to the sweet, low voice of his sister as she kept up her half sad, half glad monologue, because she saw it pleased him. It brought him into a mood in which she might venture to talk of the matter that pressed sorely upon her heart.
“A little while ago, I feared I might offend you, Le Gardeur,” said she, taking his hand tenderly in hers, “if I spoke all I wished. I never did offend you that I remember, brother, did I?”
“Never, my incomparable sister; you never did, and never could. Say what you will, ask me what you like; but I fear I am unworthy of your affection, sister.”
“You are not unworthy; God gave you as my only brother, you will never be unworthy in my eyes. But it touches me to the quick to suspect others may think lightly of you, Le Gardeur.”
He flinched, for his pride was touched, but he knew Amélie was right. “It was weakness in me,” said he, “I confess it, sister. To pour wine upon my vexation in hope to cure it, is to feed a fire with oil. To throw fire into a powder magazine were wisdom compared with my folly, Amélie: I was angry at the message I got at such a time. Angélique des Meloises has no mercy upon her lovers!”
“Oh, my prophetic heart! I thought as much! It was Angélique, then, sent you the letter you read at table?”
“Yes, who else could have moved me so? The time was ill-chosen, but I suspect, hating the Bourgeois as she does, Angélique intended to call me from Pierre's fête. I shall obey her now, but tonight she shall obey me, decide to make or mar me, one way or other! You may read the letter, Amélie, if you will.”
“I care not to read it, brother; I know Angélique too well not to fear her influence over you. Her craft and boldness were always a terror to her companions. But you will not leave Pierre's fête tonight?” added she, half imploringly; for she felt keenly the discourtesy to Pierre Philibert.
“I must do even that, sister! Were Angélique as faulty as she is fair, I should only love her the more for her faults, and make them my own. Were she to come to me like Herodias with the Baptist's head in a charger, I should outdo Herod in keeping my pledge to her.”
Amélie uttered a low, moaning cry. “O my dear infatuated brother, it is not in nature for a De Repentigny to love irrationally like that! What maddening philtre have you drank, to intoxicate you with a woman who uses you so imperiously? But you will not go, Le Gardeur!” added she, clinging to his arm. “You are safe so long as you are with your sister,--you will be safe no longer if you go to the Maison des Meloises tonight!”
“Go I must and shall, Amélie! I have drank the maddening philtre,--I know that, Amélie, and would not take an antidote if I had one! The world has no antidote to cure me. I have no wish to be cured of love for Angélique, and in fine I cannot be, so let me go and receive the rod for coming to Belmont and the reward for leaving it at her summons!” He affected a tone of levity, but Amélie's ear easily detected the false ring of it.
“Dearest brother!” said she, “are you sure Angélique returns, or is capable of returning, love like yours? She is like the rest of us, weak and fickle, merely human, and not at all the divinity a man in his fancy worships when in love with a woman.” It was in vain, however, for Amélie to try to persuade her brother of that.
“What care I, Amélie, so long as Angélique is not weak and fickle to me?” answered he; “but she will think her tardy lover is both weak and fickle unless I put in a speedy appearance at the Maison des Meloises!” He rose up as if to depart, still holding his sister by the hand.
Amélie's tears flowed silently in the darkness. She was not willing to plant a seed of distrust in the bosom of her brother, yet she remembered bitterly and indignantly what Angélique had said of her intentions towards the Intendant. Was she using Le Gardeur as a foil to set off her attractions in the eyes of Bigot?
“Brother!” said Amélie, “I am a woman, and comprehend my sex better than you. I know Angélique's far-reaching ambition and crafty ways. Are you sure, not in outward persuasion but in inward conviction, that she loves you as a woman should love the man she means to marry?”
Le Gardeur felt her words like a silver probe that searched his heart. With all his unbounded devotion, he knew Angélique too well not to feel a pang of distrust sometimes, as she showered her coquetries upon every side of her. It was the overabundance of her love, he said, but he thought it often fell like the dew round Gideon's fleece, refreshing all the earth about it, but leaving the fleece dry. “Amélie!” said he, “you try me hard, and tempt me too, my sister, but it is useless. Angélique may be false as Cressida to other men, she will not be false to me! She has sworn it, with her hand in mine, before the altar of Notre Dame. I would go down to perdition with her in my arms rather than be a crowned king with all the world of women to choose from and not get her.”
Amélie shuddered at his vehemence, but she knew how useless was expostulation. She wisely refrained, deeming it her duty, like a good sister, to make the best of what she could not hinder. Some jasmines overhung the seat; she plucked a handful, and gave them to him as they rose to return to the house.
“Take them with you, Le Gardeur,” said she, giving him the flowers, which she tied into a wreath; “they will remind Angélique that she has a powerful rival in your sister's love.”
He took them as they walked slowly back. “Would she were like you, Amélie, in all things!” said he. “I will put some of your flowers in her hair to-night for your sake, sister.”
“And for her own! May they be for you both an augury of good! Mind and return home, Le Gardeur, after your visit. I shall sit up to await your arrival, to congratulate you;” and, after a pause, she added, “or to console you, brother!”
“Oh, no fear, sister!” replied he, cheeringly. “Angélique is true as steel to me. You shall call her my betrothed tomorrow! Good-by! And now go dance with all delight till morning.” He kissed her and departed for the city, leaving her in the ball-room by the side of the Lady de Tilly.
Amélie related to her aunt the result of her conversation with Le Gardeur, and the cause of his leaving the fête so abruptly. The Lady de Tilly listened with surprise and distress. “To think,” said she, “of Le Gardeur asking that terrible girl to marry him! My only hope is, she will refuse him. And if it be as I hear, I think she will!”
“It would be the ruin of Le Gardeur if she did, aunt! You cannot think how determined he is on this marriage.”
“It would be his ruin if she accepted him!” replied the Lady de Tilly. “With any other woman Le Gardeur might have a fair chance of happiness; but none with her! More than one of her lovers lies in a bloody grave by reason of her coquetries. She has ruined every man whom she has flattered into loving her. She is without affection. Her thoughts are covered with a veil of deceit impenetrable. She would sacrifice the whole world to her vanity. I fear, Amélie, she will sacrifice Le Gardeur as ruthlessly as the most worthless of her admirers.”
“We can only hope for the best, aunt; and I do think Angélique loves Le Gardeur as she never loved any other.”
They were presently rejoined by Pierre Philibert. The Lady de Tilly and Amélie apologized for Le Gardeur's departure,--he had been compelled to go to the city on an affair of urgency, and had left them to make his excuses. Pierre Philibert was not without a shrewd perception of the state of affairs. He pitied Le Gardeur, and excused him, speaking most kindly of him in a way that touched the heart of Amélie. The ball went on with unflagging spirit and enjoyment. The old walls fairly vibrated with the music and dancing of the gay company.
The music, like the tide in the great river that night, reached its flood only after the small hours had set in. Amélie had given her hand to Pierre for one or two dances, and many a friendly, many a half envious guess was made as to the probable Chatelaine of Belmont.
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{
"id": "2735"
}
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22
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SO GLOZED THE TEMPTER.
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The lamps burned brightly in the boudoir of Angélique des Meloises on the night of the fête of Pierre Philibert. Masses of fresh flowers filled the antique Sèvres vases, sending delicious odors through the apartment, which was furnished in a style of almost royal splendor. Upon the white hearth a few billets of wood blazed cheerfully, for, after a hot day, as was not uncommon in New France, a cool salt-water breeze came up the great river, bringing reminders of cold sea-washed rocks and snowy crevices still lingering upon the mountainous shores of the St. Lawrence.
Angélique sat idly watching the wreaths of smoke as they rose in shapes fantastic as her own thoughts.
By that subtle instinct which is a sixth sense in woman, she knew that Le Gardeur de Repentigny would visit her to-night and renew his offer of marriage. She meant to retain his love and evade his proposals, and she never for a moment doubted her ability to accomplish her ends. Men's hearts had hitherto been but potter's clay in her hands, and she had no misgivings now; but she felt that the love of Le Gardeur was a thing she could not tread on without a shock to herself like the counter-stroke of a torpedo to the naked foot of an Indian who rashly steps upon it as it basks in a sunny pool.
She was agitated beyond her wont, for she loved Le Gardeur with a strange, selfish passion, for her own sake, not for his,--a sort of love not uncommon with either sex. She had the frankness to be half ashamed of it, for she knew the wrong she was doing to one of the most noble and faithful hearts in the world. But the arrival of the Intendant had unsettled every good resolution she had once made to marry Le Gardeur de Repentigny and become a reputable matron in society. Her ambitious fantasies dimmed every perception of duty to her own heart as well as his; and she had worked herself into that unenviable frame of mind which possesses a woman who cannot resolve either to consent or deny, to accept her lover or to let him go.
The solitude of her apartment became insupportable to her. She sprang up, opened the window, and sat down in the balcony outside, trying to find composure by looking down into the dark, still street. The voices of two men engaged in eager conversation reached her ear. They sat upon the broad steps of the house, so that every word they spoke reached her ear, although she could scarcely distinguish them in the darkness. These were no other than Max Grimeau and Blind Bartemy, the brace of beggars whose post was at the gate of the Basse Ville. They seemed to be comparing the amount of alms each had received during the day, and were arranging for a supper at some obscure haunt they frequented in the purlieus of the lower town, when another figure came up, short, dapper, and carrying a knapsack, as Angélique could detect by the glimmer of a lantern that hung on a rope stretched across the street. He was greeted warmly by the old mendicants.
“Sure as my old musket it is Master Pothier, and nobody else!” exclaimed Max Grimeau rising, and giving the newcomer a hearty embrace. “Don't you see, Bartemy? He has been foraging among the fat wives of the south shore. What a cheek he blows--red as a peony, and fat as a Dutch Burgomaster!” Max had seen plenty of the world when he marched under Marshal de Belleisle, so he was at no loss for apt comparisons.
“Yes!” replied Blind Bartemy, holding out his hand to be shaken. “I see by your voice, Master Pothier, that you have not said grace over bare bones during your absence. But where have you been this long time?”
“Oh, fleecing the King's subjects to the best of my poor ability in the law! and without half the success of you and Max here, who toll the gate of the Basse Ville more easily than the Intendant gets in the King's taxes!”
“Why not?” replied Bartemy, with a pious twist of his neck, and an upward cast of his blank orbs. “It is pour l'amour de Dieu! We beggars save more souls than the Curé; for we are always exhorting men to charity. I think we ought to be part of Holy Church as well as the Gray Friars.”
“And so we are part of Holy Church, Bartemy!” interrupted Max Grimeau. “When the good Bishop washed twelve pair of our dirty feet on Maunday Thursday in the Cathedral, I felt like an Apostle--I did! My feet were just ready for benediction; for see! they had never been washed, that I remember of, since I marched to the relief of Prague! But you should have been out to Belmont to-day, Master Pothier! There was the grandest Easter pie ever made in New France! You might have carried on a lawsuit inside of it, and lived off the estate for a year--I ate a bushel of it. I did!”
“Oh, the cursed luck is every day mine!” replied Master Pothier, clapping his hands upon his stomach. “I would not have missed that Easter pie--no, not to draw the Pope's will! But, as it is laid down in the Coutume d' Orléans (Tit. 17), the absent lose the usufruct of their rights; vide, also, Pothier des Successions--I lost my share of the pie of Belmont!”
“Well, never mind, Master Pothier,” replied Max. “Don't grieve; you shall go with us to-night to the Fleur-de-Lis in the Sault au Matelot. Bartemy and I have bespoken an eel pie and a gallon of humming cider of Normandy. We shall all be jolly as the marguilliers of Ste. Roche, after tithing the parish!”
“Have with you, then! I am free now: I have just delivered a letter to the Intendant from a lady at Beaumanoir, and got a crown for it. I will lay it on top of your eel pie, Max!”
Angélique, from being simply amused at the conversation of the old beggars, became in an instant all eyes and ears at the words of Master Pothier.
“Had you ever the fortune to see that lady at Beaumanoir?” asked Max, with more curiosity than was to be expected of one in his position.
“No; the letter was handed me by Dame Tremblay, with a cup of wine. But the Intendant gave me a crown when he read it. I never saw the Chevalier Bigot in better humor! That letter touched both his purse and his feelings. But how did you ever come to hear of the Lady of Beaumanoir?”
“Oh, Bartemy and I hear everything at the gate of the Basse Ville! My Lord Bishop and Father Glapion of the Jesuits met in the gate one day and spoke of her, each asking the other if he knew who she was--when up rode the Intendant; and the Bishop made free, as Bishops will, you know, to question him whether he kept a lady at the Château.
“'A round dozen of them, my Lord Bishop!' replied Bigot, laughing. La! It takes the Intendant to talk down a Bishop! He bade my Lord not to trouble himself, the lady was under his tutelle! which I comprehended as little, as little--” “As you do your Nominy Dominy!” replied Pothier. “Don't be angry, Max, if I infer that the Intendant quoted Pigean (Tit. 2, 27): 'Le Tuteur est comptable de sa gestion.'”
“I don't care what the pigeons have to say to it--that is what the Intendant said!” replied Max, hotly, “and THAT, for your law grimoire, Master Pothier!” Max snapped his fingers like the lock of his musket at Prague, to indicate what he meant by THAT!
“Oh, inepte loquens! you don't understand either law or Latin, Max!” exclaimed Pothier, shaking his ragged wig with an air of pity.
“I understand begging; and that is getting without cheating, and much more to the purpose,” replied Max, hotly. “Look you, Master Pothier! you are learned as three curates; but I can get more money in the gate of the Basse Ville by simply standing still and crying out Pour l'amour de Dieu! than you with your budget of law lingo-jingo, running up and down the country until the dogs eat off the calves of your legs, as they say in the Nivernois.”
“Well, never mind what they say in the Nivernois about the calves of my legs! Bon coq ne fut jamais gras! --a game-cock is never fat--and that is Master Pothier dit Robin. Lean as are my calves, they will carry away as much of your eel pie to-night as those of the stoutest carter in Quebec!”
“And the pie is baked by this time; so let us be jogging!” interrupted Bartemy, rising. “Now give me your arm, Max! and with Master Pothier's on the other side, I shall walk to the Fleur-de-Lis straight as a steeple.”
The glorious prospect of supper made all three merry as crickets on a warm hearth, as they jogged over the pavement in their clouted shoes, little suspecting they had left a flame of anger in the breast of Angélique des Meloises, kindled by the few words of Pothier respecting the lady of Beaumanoir.
Angélique recalled with bitterness that the rude bearer of the note had observed something that had touched the heart and opened the purse of the Intendant. What was it? Was Bigot playing a game with Angélique des Meloises? Woe to him and the lady of Beaumanoir if he was! As she sat musing over it a knock was heard on the door of her boudoir. She left the balcony and reëntered her room, where a neat, comely girl in a servant's dress was waiting to speak to her.
The girl was not known to Angélique. But courtesying very low, she informed her that she was Fanchon Dodier, a cousin of Lizette's. She had been in service at the Château of Beaumanoir, but had just left it. “There is no living under Dame Tremblay,” said she, “if she suspect a maid servant of flirting ever so little with M. Froumois, the handsome valet of the Intendant! She imagined that I did; and such a life as she has led me, my Lady! So I came to the city to ask advice of cousin Lizette, and seek a new place. I am sure Dame Tremblay need not be so hard upon the maids. She is always boasting of her own triumphs when she was the Charming Josephine.”
“And Lizette referred you to me?” asked Angélique, too occupied just now to mind the gossip about Dame Tremblay, which another time she would have enjoyed immensely. She eyed the girl with intense curiosity; for might she not tell her something of the secret over which she was eating her heart out?
“Yes, my Lady! Lizette referred me to you, and told me to be very circumspect indeed about what I said touching the Intendant, but simply to ask if you would take me into your service. Lizette need not have warned me about the Intendant; for I never reveal secrets of my masters or mistresses, never! never, my Lady!”
“You are more cunning than you look, nevertheless,” thought Angélique, “whatever scruple you may have about secrets.” “Fanchon,” said she, “I will make one condition with you: I will take you into my service if you will tell me whether you ever saw the Lady of Beaumanoir.”
Angélique's notions of honor, clear enough in theory, never prevented her sacrificing them without compunction to gain an object or learn a secret that interested her.
“I will willingly tell you all I know, my Lady. I have seen her once; none of the servants are supposed to know she is in the Château, but of course all do.” Fanchon stood with her two hands in the pockets of her apron, as ready to talk as the pretty grisette who directed Lawrence Sterne to the Opéra Comique.
“Of course!” remarked Angélique, “a secret like that could never be kept in the Château of Beaumanoir! Now tell me, Fanchon, what is she like?” Angélique sat up eagerly and brushed back the hair from her ear with a rapid stroke of her hand as she questioned the girl. There was a look in her eyes that made Fanchon a little afraid, and brought out more truth than she intended to impart.
“I saw her this morning, my Lady, as she knelt in her oratory: the half-open door tempted me to look, in spite of the orders of Dame Tremblay.”
“Ah! you saw her this morning!” repeated Angélique impetuously; “how does she appear? Is she better in looks than when she first came to the Château, or worse? She ought to be worse, much worse!”
“I do not know, my Lady, but, as I said, I looked in the door, although forbid to do so. Half-open doors are so tempting, and one cannot shut one's eyes! Even a keyhole is hard to resist when you long to know what is on the other side of it--I always found it so!”
“I dare say you did! But how does she look?” broke in Angélique, impatiently stamping her dainty foot on the floor.
“Oh, so pale, my Lady! but her face is the loveliest I ever saw,--almost,” added she, with an after-thought; “but so sad! she looks like the twin sister of the blessed Madonna in the Seminary chapel, my Lady.”
“Was she at her devotions, Fanchon?”
“I think not, my Lady: she was reading a letter which she had just received from the Intendant.”
Angélique's eyes were now ablaze. She conjectured at once that Caroline was corresponding with Bigot, and that the letter brought to the Intendant by Master Pothier was in reply to one from him. “But how do you know the letter she was reading was from the Intendant? It could not be!” Angélique's eyebrows contracted angrily, and a dark shadow passed over her face. She said “It could not be,” but she felt it could be, and was.
“Oh, but it was from the Intendant, my Lady! I heard her repeat his name and pray God to bless François Bigot for his kind words. That is the Intendant's name, is it not, my Lady?”
“To be sure it is! I should not have doubted you, Fanchon! but could you gather the purport of that letter? Speak truly, Fanchon, and I will reward you splendidly. What think you it was about?”
“I did more than gather the purport of it, my Lady: I have got the letter itself!” Angélique sprang up eagerly, as if to embrace Fanchon. “I happened, in my eagerness, to jar the door; the lady, imagining some one was coming, rose suddenly and left the room. In her haste she dropped the letter on the floor. I picked it up; I thought no harm, as I was determined to leave Dame Tremblay to-day. Would my Lady like to read the letter?”
Angélique fairly sprang at the offer. “You have got the letter, Fanchon? Let me see it instantly! How considerate of you to bring it! I will give you this ring for that letter!” She pulled a ring off her finger, and seizing Fanchon's hand, put it on hers. Fanchon was enchanted; she admired the ring, as she turned it round and round her finger.
“I am infinitely obliged, my Lady, for your gift. It is worth a million such letters,” said she.
“The letter outweighs a million rings,” replied Angélique as she tore it open violently and sat down to read.
The first word struck her like a stone: “DEAR CAROLINE:”--it was written in the bold hand of the Intendant, which Angélique knew very well--“You have suffered too much for my sake, but I am neither unfeeling nor ungrateful. I have news for you! Your father has gone to France in search of you! No one suspects you to be here. Remain patiently where you are at present, and in the utmost secrecy, or there will be a storm which may upset us both. Try to be happy, and let not the sweetest eyes that were ever seen grow dim with needless regrets. Better and brighter days will surely come. Meanwhile, pray! pray, my Caroline! it will do you good, and perhaps make me more worthy of the love which I know is wholly mine.
“Adieu, FRANÇOIS.”
Angélique devoured rather than read the letter. She had no sooner perused it than she tore it up in a paroxysm of fury, scattering its pieces like snowflakes over the floor, and stamping on them with her firm foot as if she would tread them into annihilation.
Fanchon was not unaccustomed to exhibitions of feminine wrath; but she was fairly frightened at the terrible rage that shook Angélique from head to foot.
“Fanchon! did you read that letter?” demanded she, turning suddenly upon the trembling maid. The girl saw her mistress's cheeks twitch with passion, and her hands clench as if she would strike her if she answered yes.
Shrinking with fear, Fanchon replied faintly, “No, my Lady; I cannot read.”
“And you have allowed no other person to read it?”
“No, my Lady; I was afraid to show the letter to any one; you know I ought not to have taken it!”
“Was no inquiry made about it?” Angélique laid her hand upon the girl's shoulder, who trembled from head to foot.
“Yes, my Lady; Dame Tremblay turned the Château upside down, looking for it; but I dared not tell her I had it!”
“I think you speak truth, Fanchon!” replied Angélique, getting somewhat over her passion; but her bosom still heaved, like the ocean after a storm. “And now mind what I say!” --her hand pressed heavily on the girl's shoulder, while she gave her a look that seemed to freeze the very marrow in her bones. “You know a secret about the Lady of Beaumanoir, Fanchon, and one about me too! If you ever speak of either to man or woman, or even to yourself, I will cut the tongue out of your mouth and nail it to that door-post! Mind my words, Fanchon! I never fail to do what I threaten.”
“Oh, only do not look so at me, my Lady!” replied poor Fanchon, perspiring with fear. “I am sure I never shall speak of it. I swear by our Blessed Lady of Ste. Foye! I will never breathe to mortal that I gave you that letter.”
“That will do!” replied Angélique, throwing herself down in her great chair. “And now you may go to Lizette; she will attend to you. But REMEMBER!”
The frightened girl did not wait for another command to go. Angélique held up her finger, which to Fanchon looked terrible as a poniard. She hurried down to the servants' hall with a secret held fast between her teeth for once in her life; and she trembled at the very thought of ever letting it escape.
Angélique sat with her hands on her temples, staring upon the fire that flared and flickered in the deep fireplace. She had seen a wild, wicked vision there once before. It came again, as things evil never fail to come again at our bidding. Good may delay, but evil never waits. The red fire turned itself into shapes of lurid dens and caverns, changing from horror to horror until her creative fancy formed them into the secret chamber of Beaumanoir with its one fair, solitary inmate, her rival for the hand of the Intendant,--her fortunate rival, if she might believe the letter brought to her so strangely. Angélique looked fiercely at the fragments of it lying upon the carpet, and wished she had not destroyed it; but every word of it was stamped upon her memory, as if branded with a hot iron.
“I see it all, now!” exclaimed she--“Bigot's falseness, and her shameless effrontery in seeking him in his very house. But it shall not be!” Angélique's voice was like the cry of a wounded panther tearing at the arrow which has pierced his flank. “Is Angélique des Meloises to be humiliated by that woman? Never! But my bright dreams will have no fulfilment so long as she lives at Beaumanoir,--so long as she lives anywhere!”
She sat still for a while, gazing into the fire; and the secret chamber of Beaumanoir again formed itself before her vision. She sprang up, touched by the hand of her good angel perhaps, and for the last time. “Satan whispered it again in my ear!” cried she. “Ste. Marie! I am not so wicked as that! Last night the thought came to me in the dark--I shook it off at dawn of day. To-night it comes again,--and I let it touch me like a lover, and I neither withdraw my hand nor tremble! To-morrow it will return for the last time and stay with me,--and I shall let it sleep on my pillow! The babe of sin will have been born and waxed to a full demon, and I shall yield myself up to his embraces! O Bigot, Bigot! what have you not done? C'est la faute à vous! C'est la faute à vous!” She repeated this exclamation several times, as if by accusing Bigot she excused her own evil imaginings and cast the blame of them upon him. She seemed drawn down into a vortex from which there was no escape. She gave herself up to its drift in a sort of passionate abandonment. The death or the banishment of Caroline were the only alternatives she could contemplate. “'The sweetest eyes that were ever seen'--Bigot's foolish words!” thought she; “and the influence of those eyes must be killed if Angélique des Meloises is ever to mount the lofty chariot of her ambition.”
“Other women,” she thought bitterly, “would abandon greatness for love, and in the arms of a faithful lover like Le Gardeur find a compensation for the slights of the Intendant!”
But Angélique was not like other women: she was born to conquer men--not to yield to them. The steps of a throne glittered in her wild fancy, and she would not lose the game of her life because she had missed the first throw. Bigot was false to her, but he was still worth the winning, for all the reasons which made her first listen to him. She had no love for him--not a spark! But his name, his rank, his wealth, his influence at Court, and a future career of glory there--these things she had regarded as her own by right of her beauty and skill in ruling men. “No rival shall ever boast she has conquered Angélique des Meloises!” cried she, clenching her hands. And thus it was in this crisis of her fate the love of Le Gardeur was blown like a feather before the breath of her passionate selfishness. The weights of gold pulled her down to the nadir. Angélique's final resolution was irrevocably taken before her eager, hopeful lover appeared in answer to her summons recalling him from the festival of Belmont.
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{
"id": "2735"
}
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23
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SEALS OF LOVE, BUT SEALED IN VAIN.
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She sat waiting Le Gardeur's arrival, and the thought of him began to assert its influence as the antidote of the poisonous stuff she had taken into her imagination. His presence so handsome, his manner so kind, his love so undoubted, carried her into a region of intense satisfaction. Angélique never thought so honestly well of herself as when recounting the marks of affection bestowed upon her by Le Gardeur de Repentigny. “His love is a treasure for any woman to possess, and he has given it all to me!” said she to herself. “There are women who value themselves wholly by the value placed upon them by others; but I value others by the measure of myself. I love Le Gardeur; and what I love I do not mean to lose!” added she, with an inconsequence that fitted ill with her resolution regarding the Intendant. But Angélique was one who reconciled to herself all professions, however opposite or however incongruous.
A hasty knock at the door of the mansion, followed by the quick, well-known step up the broad stair, brought Le Gardeur into her presence. He looked flushed and disordered as he took her eagerly-extended hand and pressed it to his lips.
Her whole aspect underwent a transformation in the presence of her lover. She was unfeignedly glad to see him. Without letting go his hand she led him to the sofa, and sat down by him. Other men had the semblance of her graciousness, and a perfect imitation it was too; but he alone had the reality of her affection.
“O Le Gardeur!” exclaimed she, looking him through and through, and detecting no flaw in his honest admiration, “can you forgive me for asking you to come and see me to-night? and for absolutely no reason--none in the world, Le Gardeur, but that I longed to see you! I was jealous of Belmont for drawing you away from the Maison des Meloises to-night!”
“And what better reason could I have in the world than that you were longing to see me, Angélique? I think I should leave the gate of Heaven itself if you called me back, darling! Your presence for a minute is more to me than hours of festivity at Belmont, or the company of any other woman in the world.”
Angélique was not insensible to the devotion of Le Gardeur. Her feelings were touched, and never slow in finding an interpretation for them she raised his hand quickly to her lips and kissed it. “I had no motive in sending for you but to see you, Le Gardeur!” said she; “will that content you? If it won't--” “This shall,” replied he, kissing her cheek--which she was far from averting or resenting.
“That is so like you, Le Gardeur!” replied she,--“to take before it is given!” She stopped--“What was I going to say?” added she. “It was given, and my contentment is perfect to have you here by my side!” If her thoughts reverted at this moment to the Intendant it was with a feeling of repulsion, and as she looked fondly on the face of Le Gardeur she could not help contrasting his handsome looks with the hard, swarthy features of Bigot.
“I wish my contentment were perfect, Angélique; but it is in your power to make it so--will you? Why keep me forever on the threshold of my happiness, or of my despair, whichever you shall decree? I have spoken to Amélie tonight of you!”
“O do not press me, Le Gardeur!” exclaimed she, violently agitated, anxious to evade the question she saw burning on his lips, and distrustful of her own power to refuse; “not now! not to-night! Another day you shall know how much I love you, Le Gardeur! Why will not men content themselves with knowing we love them, without stripping our favors of all grace by making them duties, and in the end destroying our love by marrying us?” A flash of her natural archness came over her face as she said this.
“That would not be your case or mine, Angélique,” replied he, somewhat puzzled at her strange speech. But she rose up suddenly without replying, and walked to a buffet, where stood a silver salver full of refreshments. “I suppose you have feasted so magnificently at Belmont that you will not care for my humble hospitalities,” said she, offering him a cup of rare wine, a recent gift of the Intendant,--which she did not mention, however. “You have not told me a word yet of the grand party at Belmont. Pierre Philibert has been highly honored by the Honnêtes Gens I am sure!”
“And merits all the honor he receives! Why were you not there too, Angélique? Pierre would have been delighted,” replied he, ever ready to defend Pierre Philibert.
“And I too! but I feared to be disloyal to the Fripponne!” said she, half mockingly. “I am a partner in the Grand Company you know, Le Gardeur! But I confess Pierre Philibert is the handsomest man--except one--in New France. I own to THAT. I thought to pique Amélie one day by telling her so, but on the contrary I pleased her beyond measure! She agreed without excepting even the one!”
“Amélie told me your good opinions of Pierre, and I thanked you for it!” said he, taking her hand. “And now, darling, since you cannot with wine, words, or winsomeness divert me from my purpose in making you declare what you think of me also, let me tell you I have promised Amélie to bring her your answer to-night!”
The eyes of Le Gardeur shone with a light of loyal affection. Angélique saw there was no escaping a declaration. She sat irresolute and trembling, with one hand resting on his arm and the other held up deprecatingly. It was a piece of acting she had rehearsed to herself for this foreseen occasion. But her tongue, usually so nimble and free, faltered for once in the rush of emotions that well-nigh overpowered her. To become the honored wife of Le Gardeur de Repentigny, the sister of the beauteous Amélie, the niece of the noble Lady de Tilly, was a piece of fortune to have satisfied, until recently, both her heart and her ambition. But now Angélique was the dupe of dreams and fancies. The Royal Intendant was at her feet. France and its courtly splendors and court intrigues opened vistas of grandeur to her aspiring and unscrupulous ambition. She could not forego them, and would not! She knew that, all the time her heart was melting beneath the passionate eyes of Le Gardeur.
“I have spoken to Amélie, and promised to take her your answer to-night,” said he, in a tone that thrilled every fibre of her better nature. “She is ready to embrace you as her sister. Will you be my wife, Angélique?”
Angélique sat silent; she dared not look up at him. If she had, she knew her hard resolution would melt. She felt his gaze upon her without seeing it. She grew pale and tried to answer no, but could not; and she would not answer yes.
The vision she had so wickedly revelled in flashed again upon her at this supreme moment. She saw, in a panorama of a few seconds, the gilded halls of Versailles pass before her, and with the vision came the old temptation.
“Angélique!” repeated he, in a tone full of passionate entreaty, “will you be my wife, loved as no woman ever was,--loved as alone Le Gardeur de Repentigny can love you?”
She knew that. As she weakened under his pleading and grasped both his hands tight in hers, she strove to frame a reply which should say yes while it meant no; and say no which he should interpret yes.
“All New France will honor you as the Châtelaine de Repentigny! There will be none higher, as there will be none fairer, than my bride!” Poor Le Gardeur! He had a dim suspicion that Angélique was looking to France as a fitting theatre for her beauty and talents.
She still sat mute, and grew paler every moment. Words formed themselves upon her lips, but she feared to say them, so terrible was the earnestness of this man's love, and no less vivid the consciousness of her own. Her face assumed the hardness of marble, pale as Parian and as rigid; a trembling of her white lips showed the strife going on within her; she covered her eyes with her hand, that he might not see the tears she felt quivering under the full lids, but she remained mute.
“Angélique!” exclaimed he, divining her unexpressed refusal; “why do you turn away from me? You surely do not reject me? But I am mad to think it! Speak, darling! one word, one sign, one look from those dear eyes, in consent to be the wife of Le Gardeur, will bring life's happiness to us both!” He took her hand, and drew it gently from her eyes and kissed it, but she still averted her gaze from him; she could not look at him, but the words dropped slowly and feebly from her lips in response to his appeal: “I love you, Le Gardeur, but I will not marry you!” said she. She could not utter more, but her hand grasped his with a fierce pressure, as if wanting to hold him fast in the very moment of refusal.
He started back, as if touched by fire. “You love me, but will not marry me! Angélique, what mystery is this? But you are only trying me! A thousand thanks for your love; the other is but a jest,--a good jest, which I will laugh at!” And Le Gardeur tried to laugh, but it was a sad failure, for he saw she did not join in his effort at merriment, but looked pale and trembling, as if ready to faint.
She laid her hands upon his heavily and sadly. He felt her refusal in the very touch. It was like cold lead. “Do not laugh, Le Gardeur, I cannot laugh over it; this is no jest, but mortal earnest! What I say I mean! I love you, Le Gardeur, but I will not marry you!”
She drew her hands away, as if to mark the emphasis she could not speak. He felt it like the drawing of his heartstrings.
She turned her eyes full upon him now, as if to look whether love of her was extinguished in him by her refusal. “I love you, Le Gardeur--you know I do! But I will not--I cannot--marry you now!” repeated she.
“Now!” he caught at the straw like a drowning swimmer in a whirlpool. “Now? I said not now but when you please, Angélique! You are worth a man's waiting his life for!”
“No, Le Gardeur!” she replied, “I am not worth your waiting for; it cannot be, as I once hoped it might be; but love you I do and ever shall!” and the false, fair woman kissed him fatuously. “I love you, Le Gardeur, but I will not marry you!”
“You do not surely mean it, Angélique!” exclaimed he; “you will not give me death instead of life? You cannot be so false to your own heart, so cruel to mine? See, Angélique! My saintly sister Amélie believed in your love, and sent these flowers to place in your hair when you had consented to be my wife,--her sister; you will not refuse them, Angélique?”
He raised his hand to place the garland upon her head, but Angélique turned quickly, and they fell at her feet. “Amélie's gifts are not for me, Le Gardeur--I do not merit them! I confess my fault: I am, I know, false to my own heart, and cruel to yours. Despise me,--kill me for it if you will, Le Gardeur! better you did kill me, perhaps! but I cannot lie to you as I can to other men! Ask me not to change my resolution, for I neither can nor will.” She spoke with impassioned energy, as if fortifying her refusal by the reiteration of it.
“It is past comprehension!” was all he could say, bewildered at her words thus dislocated from all their natural sequence of association. “Love me and not marry me! --that means she will marry another!” thought he, with a jealous pang. “Tell me, Angélique,” continued he, after several moments of puzzled silence, “is there some inscrutable reason that makes you keep my love and reject my hand?”
“No reason, Le Gardeur! It is mad unreason,--I feel that,--but it is no less true. I love you, but I will not marry you.” She spoke with more resolution now. The first plunge was over, and with it her fear and trembling as she sat on the brink.
The iteration drove him beside himself. He seized her hands, and exclaimed with vehemence,--“There is a man--a rival--a more fortunate lover--behind all this, Angélique des Meloises! It is not yourself that speaks, but one that prompts you. You have given your love to another, and discarded me! Is it not so?”
“I have neither discarded you, nor loved another,” Angélique equivocated. She played her soul away at this moment with the mental reservation that she had not yet done what she had resolved to do upon the first opportunity--accept the hand of the Intendant Bigot.
“It is well for that other man, if there be one!” Le Gardeur rose and walked angrily across the room two or three times. Angélique was playing a game of chess with Satan for her soul, and felt that she was losing it.
“There was a Sphinx in olden times,” said he, “that propounded a riddle, and he who failed to solve it had to die. Your riddle will be the death of me, for I cannot solve it, Angélique!”
“Do not try to solve it, dear Le Gardeur! Remember that when her riddle was solved the Sphinx threw herself into the sea. I doubt that may be my fate! But you are still my friend, Le Gardeur!” added she, seating herself again by his side, in her old fond, coquettish manner. “See these flowers of Amélie's, which I did not place in my hair; I treasure them in my bosom!” She gathered them up as she spoke, kissed them, and placed them in her bosom.
“You are still my friend, Le Gardeur?” Her eyes turned upon him with the old look she could so well assume.
“I am more than a thousand friends, Angélique!” replied he; “but I shall curse myself that I can remain so and see you the wife of another.”
The very thought drove him to frenzy. He dashed her hand away and sprang up towards the door, but turned suddenly round. “That curse was not for you, Angélique!” said he, pale and agitated; “it was for myself, for ever believing in the empty love you professed for me. Good-by! Be happy! As for me, the light goes out of my life, Angélique, from this day forth.”
“Oh, stop! stop, Le Gardeur! do not leave me so!” She rose and endeavored to restrain him, but he broke from her, and without adieu or further parley rushed out bareheaded into the street. She ran to the balcony to call him back, and leaning far over it, cried out, “Le Gardeur! Le Gardeur!” That voice would have called him from the dead could he have heard it, but he was already lost in the darkness. A few rapid steps resounded on the distant pavement, and Le Gardeur de Repentigny was lost to her forever!
She waited long on the balcony, looking over it for a chance of hearing his returning steps, but none came. It was the last impulse of her love to save her, but it was useless. “Oh, God!” she exclaimed in a voice of mortal agony, “he is gone forever--my Le Gardeur! my one true lover, rejected by my own madness, and for what?” She thought “For what!” and in a storm of passion, tearing her golden hair over her face, and beating her breast in her rage, she exclaimed,--“I am wicked, unutterably bad, worse and more despicable than the vilest creature that crouches under the bushes on the Batture! How dared I, unwomanly that I am, reject the hand I worship for sake of a hand I should loathe in the very act of accepting it? The slave that is sold in the market is better than I, for she has no choice, while I sell myself to a man whom I already hate, for he is already false to me! The wages of a harlot were more honestly earned than the splendor for which I barter soul and body to this Intendant!”
The passionate girl threw herself upon the floor, nor heeded the blood that oozed from her head, bruised on the hard wood. Her mind was torn by a thousand wild fancies. Sometimes she resolved to go out like the Rose of Sharon and seek her beloved in the city and throw herself at his feet, making him a royal gift of all he claimed of her.
She little knew her own wilful heart. She had seen the world bow to every caprice of hers, but she never had one principle to guide her, except her own pleasure. She was now like a goddess of earth, fallen in an effort to reconcile impossibilities in human hearts, and became the sport of the powers of wickedness.
She lay upon the floor senseless, her hands in a violent clasp. Her glorious hair, torn and disordered, lay over her like the royal robe of a queen stricken from her throne and lying dead upon the floor of her palace.
It was long after midnight, in the cold hours of the morning, when she woke from her swoon. She raised herself feebly upon her elbow, and looked dazedly up at the cold, unfeeling stars that go on shining through the ages, making no sign of sympathy with human griefs. Perseus had risen to his meridian, and Algol, her natal star, alternately darkened and brightened as if it were the scene of some fierce conflict of the powers of light and darkness, like that going on in her own soul.
Her face was stained with hard clots of blood as she rose, cramped and chilled to the bone. The night air had blown coldly upon her through the open lattice; but she would not summon her maid to her assistance. Without undressing she threw herself upon a couch, and utterly worn out by the agitation she had undergone, slept far into the day.
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{
"id": "2735"
}
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24
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THE HURRIED QUESTION OF DESPAIR.
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Le Gardeur plunged headlong down the silent street, neither knowing nor caring whither. Half mad with grief, half with resentment, he vented curses upon himself, upon Angélique, upon the world, and looked upon Providence itself as in league with the evil powers to thwart his happiness,--not seeing that his happiness in the love of a woman like Angélique was a house built on sand, which the first storm of life would sweep away.
“Holla! Le Gardeur de Repentigny! Is that you?” exclaimed a voice in the night. “What lucky wind blows you out at this hour?” Le Gardeur stopped and recognized the Chevalier de Pean. “Where are you going in such a desperate hurry?”
“To the devil!” replied Le Gardeur, withdrawing his hand from De Pean's, who had seized it with an amazing show of friendship. “It is the only road left open to me, and I am going to march down it like a garde du corps of Satan! Do not hold me, De Pean! Let go my arm! I am going to the devil, I tell you!”
“Why, Le Gardeur,” was the reply, “that is a broad and well-travelled road--the king's highway, in fact. I am going upon it myself, as fast and merrily as any man in New France.”
“Well, go on it then! March either before or after me, only don't go with me, De Pean; I am taking the shortest cuts to get to the end of it, and want no one with me.” Le Gardeur walked doggedly on; but De Pean would not be shaken off. He suspected what had happened.
“The shortest cut I know is by the Taverne de Menut, where I am going now,” said he, “and I should like your company, Le Gardeur! Our set are having a gala night of it, and must be musical as the frogs of Beauport by this hour! Come along!” De Pean again took his arm. He was not repelled this time.
“I don't care where I go, De Pean!” replied he, forgetting his dislike to this man, and submitting to his guidance,--the Taverne de Menut was just the place for him to rush into and drown his disappointment in wine. The two moved on in silence for a few minutes.
“Why, what ails you, Le Gardeur?” asked his companion, as they walked on arm in arm. “Has fortune frowned upon the cards, or your mistress proved a fickle jade like all her sex?”
His words were irritating enough to Le Gardeur. “Look you, De Pean,” said he, stopping, “I shall quarrel with you if you repeat such remarks. But you mean no mischief I dare say, although I would not swear it!” Le Gardeur looked savage.
De Pean saw it would not be safe to rub that sore again. “Forgive me, Le Gardeur!” said he, with an air of sympathy well assumed. “I meant no harm. But you are suspicious of your friends to-night as a Turk of his harem.”
“I have reason to be! And as for friends, I find only such friends as you, De Pean! And I begin to think the world has no better!” The clock of the Recollets struck the hour as they passed under the shadow of its wall. The brothers of St. Francis slept quietly on their peaceful pillows, like sea birds who find in a rocky nook a refuge from the ocean storms. “Do you think the Recollets are happy, De Pean?” asked he, turning abruptly to his companion.
“Happy as oysters at high water, who are never crossed in love, except of their dinner! But that is neither your luck nor mine, Le Gardeur!” De Pean was itching to draw from his companion something with reference to what had passed with Angélique.
“Well, I would rather be an oyster than a man, and rather be dead than either!” was the reply of Le Gardeur. “How soon, think you, will brandy kill a man, De Pean?” asked he abruptly, after a pause of silence.
“It will never kill you, Le Gardeur, if you take it neat at Master Menut's. It will restore you to life, vigor, and independence of man and woman. I take mine there when I am hipped as you are, Le Gardeur. It is a specific for every kind of ill-fortune,--I warrant it will cure and never kill you.”
They crossed the Place d'Armes. Nothing in sight was moving except the sentries who paced slowly like shadows up and down the great gateway of the Castle of St. Louis.
“It is still and solemn as a church-yard here,” remarked De Pean; “all the life of the place is down at Menut's! I like the small hours,” added he as the chime of the Recollets ceased. “They are easily counted, and pass quickly, asleep or awake. Two o'clock in the morning is the meridian of the day for a man who has wit to wait for it at Menut's! --these small hours are all that are worth reckoning in a man's life!”
Without consenting to accompany De Pean, Le Gardeur suffered himself to be led by him. He knew the company that awaited him there--the wildest and most dissolute gallants of the city and garrison were usually assembled there at this hour.
The famous old hostelry was kept by Master Menut, a burly Breton who prided himself on keeping everything full and plenty about his house--tables full, tankards full, guests full, and himself very full. The house was to-night lit up with unusual brilliance, and was full of company--Cadet, Varin, Mercier, and a crowd of the friends and associates of the Grand Company. Gambling, drinking, and conversing in the loudest strain on such topics as interested their class, were the amusements of the night. The vilest thoughts, uttered in the low argot of Paris, were much affected by them. They felt a pleasure in this sort of protest against the extreme refinement of society, just as the collegians of Oxford, trained beyond their natural capacity in morals, love to fall into slang and, like Prince Hal, talk to every tinker in his own tongue.
De Pean and Le Gardeur were welcomed with open arms at the Taverne de Menut. A dozen brimming glasses were offered them on every side. De Pean drank moderately. “I have to win back my losses of last night,” said he, “and must keep my head clear.” Le Gardeur, however, refused nothing that was offered him. He drank with all, and drank every description of liquor. He was speedily led up into a large, well-furnished room, where tables were crowded with gentlemen playing cards and dice for piles of paper money, which was tossed from hand to hand with the greatest nonchalance as the game ended and was renewed.
Le Gardeur plunged headlong into the flood of dissipation. He played, drank, talked argot, and cast off every shred of reserve. He doubled his stakes, and threw his dice reckless and careless whether he lost or won. His voice overbore that of the stoutest of the revellers. He embraced De Pean as his friend, who returned his compliments by declaring Le Gardeur de Repentigny to be the king of good fellows, who had the “strongest head to carry wine and the stoutest heart to defy dull care of any man in Quebec.”
De Pean watched with malign satisfaction the progress of Le Gardeur's intoxication. If he seemed to flag, he challenged him afresh to drink to better fortune; and when he lost the stakes, to drink again to spite ill luck.
But let a veil be dropped over the wild doings of the Taverne de Menut. Le Gardeur lay insensible at last upon the floor, where he would have remained had not some of the servants of the inn who knew him lifted him up compassionately and placed him upon a couch, where he lay, breathing heavily like one dying. His eyes were fixed; his mouth, where the kisses of his sister still lingered, was partly opened, and his hands were clenched, rigid as a statue's.
“He is ours now!” said De Pean to Cadet. “He will not again put his head under the wing of the Philiberts!”
The two men looked at him, and laughed brutally.
“A fair lady whom you know, Cadet, has given him liberty to drink himself to death, and he will do it.”
“Who is that? Angélique?” asked Cadet.
“Of course; who else? and Le Gardeur won't be the first or last man she has put under stone sheets,” replied De Pean, with a shrug of his shoulders.
“Gloria patri filioque!” exclaimed Cadet, mockingly; “the Honnêtes Gens will lose their trump card. How did you get him away from Belmont, De Pean?”
“Oh, it was not I! Angélique des Meloises set the trap and whistled the call that brought him,” replied De Pean.
“Like her, the incomparable witch!” exclaimed Cadet with a hearty laugh. “She would lure the very devil to play her tricks instead of his own. She would beat Satan at his best game to ruin a man.”
“It would be all the same, Cadet, I fancy--Satan or she! But where is Bigot? I expected him here.”
“Oh, he is in a tantrum to-night, and would not come. That piece of his at Beaumanoir is a thorn in his flesh, and a snow-ball on his spirits. She is taming him. By St. Cocufin! Bigot loves that woman!”
“I told you that before, Cadet. I saw it a month ago, and was sure of it on that night when he would not bring her up to show her to us.”
“Such a fool, De Pean, to care for any woman! What will Bigot do with her, think you?”
“How should I know? Send her adrift some fine day I suppose, down the Rivière du Loup. He will, if he is a sensible man. He dare not marry any woman without license from La Pompadour, you know. The jolly fish-woman holds a tight rein over her favorites. Bigot may keep as many women as Solomon--the more the merrier; but woe befall him if he marries without La Pompadour's consent! They say she herself dotes on Bigot,--that is the reason.” De Pean really believed that was the reason; and certainly there was reason for suspecting it.
“Cadet! Cadet!” exclaimed several voices. “You are fined a basket of champagne for leaving the table.”
“I'll pay it,” replied he, “and double it; but it is hot as Tartarus in here. I feel like a grilled salmon.” And indeed, Cadet's broad, sensual face was red and glowing as a harvest moon. He walked a little unsteady too, and his naturally coarse voice sounded thick, but his hard brain never gave way beyond a certain point under any quantity of liquor.
“I am going to get some fresh air,” said he. “I shall walk as far as the Fleur-de-Lis. They never go to bed at that jolly old inn.”
“I will go with you!” “And I!” exclaimed a dozen voices.
“Come on then; we will all go to the old dog-hole, where they keep the best brandy in Quebec. It is smuggled of course, but that makes it all the better.”
Mine host of the Taverne de Menut combatted this opinion of the goodness of the liquors at the Fleur-de-Lis. His brandy had paid the King's duties, and bore the stamp of the Grand Company, he said; and he appealed to every gentleman present on the goodness of his liquors.
Cadet and the rest took another round of it to please the landlord, and sallied out with no little noise and confusion. Some of them struck up the famous song which, beyond all others, best expressed the gay, rollicking spirit of the French nation and of the times of the old régime: “'Vive Henri Quatre! Vive le Roi vaillant! Ce diable à quatre A le triple talent, De boire et de battre, Et d'être un vert galant!'”
When the noisy party arrived at the Fleur-de-Lis, they entered without ceremony into a spacious room--low, with heavy beams and with roughly plastered walls, which were stuck over with proclamations of governors and intendants and dingy ballads brought by sailors from French ports.
A long table in the middle of the room was surrounded by a lot of fellows, plainly of the baser sort,--sailors, boatmen, voyageurs,--in rough clothes, and tuques--red or blue,--upon their heads. Every one had a pipe in his mouth. Some were talking with loose, loquacious tongues; some were singing; their ugly, jolly visages--half illumined by the light of tallow candles stuck in iron sconces on the wall--were worthy of the vulgar but faithful Dutch pencils of Schalken and Teniers. They were singing a song as the new company came in.
At the head of the table sat Master Pothier, with a black earthen mug of Norman cider in one hand and a pipe in the other. His budget of law hung on a peg in the corner, as quite superfluous at a free-and-easy at the Fleur-de-Lis.
Max Grimeau and Blind Bartemy had arrived in good time for the eel pie. They sat one on each side of Master Pothier, full as ticks and merry as grigs; a jolly chorus was in progress as Cadet entered.
The company rose and bowed to the gentlemen who had honored them with a call. “Pray sit down, gentlemen; take our chairs!” exclaimed Master Pothier, officiously offering his to Cadet, who accepted it as well as the black mug, of which he drank heartily, declaring old Norman cider suited his taste better than the choicest wine.
“We are your most humble servitors, and highly esteem the honor of your visit,” said Master Pothier, as he refilled the black mug.
“Jolly fellows!” replied Cadet, stretching his legs refreshingly, “this does look comfortable. Do you drink cider because you like it, or because you cannot afford better?”
“There is nothing better than Norman cider, except Cognac brandy,” replied Master Pothier, grinning from ear to ear. “Norman cider is fit for a king, and with a lining of brandy is drink for a Pope! It will make a man see stars at noonday. Won't it, Bartemy?”
“What! old turn-penny! are you here?” cried Cadet, recognizing the old beggar of the gate of the Basse Ville.
“Oh, yes, your Honor!” replied Bartemy, with his professional whine, “pour l'amour de Dieu!”
“Gad! you are the jolliest beggar I know out of the Friponne,” replied Cadet, throwing him a crown.
“He is not a jollier beggar than I am, your Honor,” said Max Grimeau, grinning like an Alsatian over a Strasbourg pie. “It was I sang bass in the ballad as you came in--you might have heard me, your Honor?”
“To be sure I did; I will be sworn there is not a jollier beggar in Quebec than you, old Max! Here is a crown for you too, to drink the Intendant's health and another for you, you roving limb of the law, Master Pothier! Come, Master Pothier! I will fill your ragged gown full as a demijohn of brandy if you will go on with the song you were singing.”
“We were at the old ballad of the Pont d'Avignon, your Honor,” replied Master Pothier.
“And I was playing it,” interrupted Jean La Marche; “you might have heard my violin, it is a good one!” Jean would not hide his talent in a napkin on so auspicious an occasion as this. He ran his bow over the strings and played a few bars,--“that was the tune, your Honor.”
“Ay, that was it! I know the jolly old song! Now go on!” Cadet thrust his thumbs into the armholes of his laced waistcoat and listened attentively; rough as he was, he liked the old Canadian music.
Jean tuned his fiddle afresh, and placing it with a knowing jerk under his chin, and with an air of conceit worthy of Lulli, began to sing and play the old ballad: “'A St. Malo, beau port de mer, Trois navires sont arrivés, Chargés d'avoine, chargés de bled; Trois dames s'en vont les merchander!'”
“Tut!” exclaimed Varin, “who cares for things that have no more point in them than a dumpling! give us a madrigal, or one of the devil's ditties from the Quartier Latin!”
“I do not know a 'devil's ditty,' and would not sing one if I did,” replied Jean La Marche, jealous of the ballads of his own New France. “Indians cannot swear because they know no oaths, and habitans cannot sing devil's ditties because they never learned them; but 'St. Malo, beau port de mer,'--I will sing that with any man in the Colony!”
The popular songs of the French Canadians are simple, almost infantine, in their language, and as chaste in expression as the hymns of other countries. Impure songs originate in classes who know better, and revel from choice in musical slang and indecency.
“Sing what you like! and never mind Varin, my good fellow,” said Cadet, stretching himself in his chair; “I like the old Canadian ballads better than all the devil's ditties ever made in Paris! You must sing your devil's ditties yourself, Varin; our habitans won't,--that is sure!”
After an hour's roystering at the Fleur-de-Lis the party of gentlemen returned to the Taverne de Menut a good deal more unsteady and more obstreperous than when they came. They left Master Pothier seated in his chair, drunk as Bacchus, and every one of the rest of his companions blind as Bartemy.
The gentlemen, on their return to the Taverne de Menut, found De Pean in a rage. Pierre Philibert had followed Amélie to the city, and learning the cause of her anxiety and unconcealed tears, started off with the determination to find Le Gardeur.
The officer of the guard at the gate of the Basse Ville was able to direct him to the right quarter. He hastened to the Taverne de Menut, and in haughty defiance of De Pean, with whom he had high words, he got the unfortunate Le Gardeur away, placed him in a carriage, and took him home, receiving from Amélie such sweet and sincere thanks as he thought a life's service could scarcely have deserved.
“Par Dieu! that Philibert is a game-cock, De Pean,” exclaimed Cadet, to the savage annoyance of the Secretary. “He has pluck and impudence for ten gardes du corps. It was neater done than at Beaumanoir!” Cadet sat down to enjoy a broad laugh at the expense of his friend over the second carrying off of Le Gardeur.
“Curse him! I could have run him through, and am sorry I did not,” exclaimed De Pean.
“No, you could not have run him through, and you would have been sorry had you tried it, De Pean,” replied Cadet. “That Philibert is not as safe as the Bank of France to draw upon. I tell you it was well for yourself you did not try, De Pean. But never mind,” continued Cadet, “there is never so bad a day but there is a fair to-morrow after it, so make up a hand at cards with me and Colonel Trivio, and put money in your purse; it will salve your bruised feelings.” De Pean failed to laugh off his ill humor, but he took Cadet's advice, and sat down to play for the remainder of the night.
“Oh, Pierre Philibert, how can we sufficiently thank you for your kindness to my dear, unhappy brother?” said Amélie to him, her eyes tremulous with tears and her hand convulsively clasping his, as Pierre took leave of her at the door of the mansion of the Lady de Tilly.
“Le Gardeur claims our deepest commiseration, Amélie,” replied he; “you know how this has happened?”
“I do know, Pierre, and shame to know it. But you are so generous ever. Do not blame me for this agitation!” She strove to steady herself, as a ship will right up for a moment in veering.
“Blame you! what a thought! As soon blame the angels for being good! But I have a plan, Amélie, for Le Gardeur--we must get him out of the city and back to Tilly for a while. Your noble aunt has given me an invitation to visit the Manor House. What if I manage to accompany Le Gardeur to his dear old home?”
“A visit to Tilly in your company would, of all things, delight Le Gardeur,” said she, “and perhaps break those ties that bind him to the city.”
These were pleasing words to Philibert, and he thought how delightful would be her own fair presence also at Tilly.
“All the physicians in the world will not help Le Gardeur as will your company at Tilly!” exclaimed she, with a sudden access of hope. “Le Gardeur needs not medicine, only care, and--” “The love he has set his heart on, Amélie! Men sometimes die when they fail in that.” He looked at her as he said this, but instantly withdrew his eyes, fearing he had been overbold.
She blushed, and only replied, with absolute indirection, “Oh, I am so thankful to you, Pierre Philibert!” But she gave him, as he left, a look of gratitude and love which never effaced itself from his memory. In after-years, when Pierre Philibert cared not for the light of the sun, nor for woman's love, nor for life itself, the tender, impassioned glance of those dark eyes wet with tears came back to him like a break in the dark clouds, disclosing the blue heaven beyond; and he longed to be there.
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{
"id": "2735"
}
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25
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BETWIXT THE LAST VIOLET AND THE EARLIEST ROSE.
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“Do not go out to-day, brother, I want you so particularly to stay with me to-day,” said Amélie de Repentigny, with a gentle, pleading voice. “Aunt has resolved to return to Tilly to-morrow; I need your help to arrange these papers, and anyway, I want your company, brother,” added she, smiling.
Le Gardeur sat feverish, nervous, and ill after his wild night spent at the Taverne de Menut. He started and reddened as his sister's eyes rested on him. He looked through the open window like a wild animal ready to spring out of it and escape.
A raging thirst was on him, which Amélie sought to assuage by draughts of water, milk, and tea--a sisterly attention which he more than once acknowledged by kissing the loving fingers which waited upon him so tenderly.
“I cannot stay in the house, Amélie,” said he; “I shall go mad if I do! You know how it has fared with me, sweet sister! I yesterday built up a tower of glass, high as heaven, my heaven--a woman's love; to-day I am crushed under the ruins of it.”
“Say not so, brother! you were not made to be crushed by the nay of any faithless woman. Oh! why will men think more of our sex than we deserve? How few of us do deserve the devotion of a good and true man!”
“How few men would be worthy of you, sweet sister!” replied he, proudly. “Ah! had Angélique had your heart, Amélie!”
“You will be glad one day of your present sorrow, brother,” replied she. “It is bitter I know, and I feel its bitterness with you, but life with Angélique would have been infinitely harder to bear.”
He shook his head, not incredulously, but defiantly at fate. “I would have accepted it,” said he, “had I been sure life with her had been hard as millstones! My love is of the perverse kind, not to be transmuted by any furnace of fiery trial.”
“I have no answer, brother, but this:” and Amdlie stooped and kissed his fevered forehead. She was too wise to reason in a case where she knew reason always made default.
“What has happened at the Manor House,” asked he after a short silence, “that aunt is going to return home sooner than she expected when she left?”
“There are reports to-day of Iroquois on the upper Chaudière, and her censitaires are eager to return to guard their homes from the prowling savages; and what is more, you and Colonel Philibert are ordered to go to Tilly to look after the defence of the Seigniory.”
Le Gardeur sat bolt upright. His military knowledge could not comprehend an apparently useless order. “Pierre Philibert and I ordered to Tilly to look after the defence of the Seigniory! We had no information yesterday that Iroquois were within fifty leagues of Tilly. It is a false rumor raised by the good wives to get their husbands home again! Don't you think so, Amélie?” asked he, smiling for the first time.
“No, I don't think so, Le Gardeur! but it would be a pretty ruse de guerre, were it true. The good wives naturally feel nervous at being left alone--I should myself,” added she, playfully.
“Oh, I don't know! the nervous ones have all come with the men to the city; but I suppose the works are sufficiently advanced, and the men can be spared to return home. But what says Pierre Philibert to the order despatching him to Tilly? You have seen him since?”
Amélie blushed a little as she replied, “Yes, I have seen him; he is well content, I think, to see Tilly once more in your company, brother.”
“And in yours, sister! --Why blush, Amélie? Pierre is worthy of you, should he ever say to you what I so vainly said last night to Angélique des Meloises!” Le Gardeur held her tightly by the hand.
Her face was glowing scarlet,--she was in utter confusion. “Oh, stop, brother! Don't say such things! Pierre never uttered such thoughts to me! --never will, in all likelihood!”
“But he will! And, my darling sister, when Pierre Philibert shall say he loves you and asks you to be his wife, if you love him, if you pity me, do not say him nay!” She was trembling with agitation, and without power to reply. But Le Gardeur felt her hand tighten upon his. He comprehended the involuntary sign, drew her to him, kissed her, and left the topic without pressing it further; leaving it in the most formidable shape to take deep root in the silent meditations of Amélie.
The rest of the day passed in such sunshine as Amélie could throw over her brother. Her soft influence retained him at home: she refreshed him with her conversation and sympathy, drew from him the pitiful story of his love and its bitter ending. She knew the relief of disburdening his surcharged heart; and to none but his sister, from whom he had never had a secret until this episode in his life, would he have spoken a word of his heart's trouble.
Numerous were the visitors to-day at the hospitable mansion of the Lady de Tilly; but Le Gardeur would see none of them except Pierre Philibert, who rode over as soon as he was relieved from his military attendance at the Castle of St. Louis.
Le Gardeur received Pierre with an effusion of grateful affection--touching, because real. His handsome face, so like Amélie's, was peculiarly so when it expressed the emotions habitual to her; and the pleasure both felt in the presence of Pierre brought out resemblances that flashed fresh on the quick, observant eye of Pierre.
The afternoon was spent in conversation of that kind which gives and takes with mutual delight. Le Gardeur seemed more his old self again in the company of Pierre; Amélie was charmed at the visible influence of Pierre over him, and a hope sprang up in her bosom that the little artifice of beguiling Le Gardeur to Tilly in the companionship of Pierre might be the means of thwarting those adverse influences which were dragging him to destruction.
If Pierre Philibert grew more animated in the presence of those bright eyes, which were at once appreciative and sympathizing, Amélie drank in the conversation of Pierre as one drinks the wine of a favorite vintage. If her heart grew a little intoxicated, what the wonder? Furtively as she glanced at the manly countenance of Pierre, she saw in it the reflection of his noble mind and independent spirit; and remembering the injunction of Le Gardeur,--for, woman-like, she sought a support out of herself to justify a foregone conclusion,--she thought that if Pierre asked her she could be content to share his lot, and her greatest happiness would be to live in the possession of his love.
Pierre Philibert took his departure early from the house of the Lady de Tilly, to make his preparations for leaving the city next day. His father was aware of his project, and approved of it.
The toils of the day were over in the house of the Chien d'Or. The Bourgeois took his hat and sword and went out for a walk upon the cape, where a cool breeze came up fresh from the broad river. It was just the turn of tide. The full, brimming waters, reflecting here and there a star, began to sparkle under the clear moon that rose slowly and majestically over the hills of the south shore.
The Bourgeois sat down on the low wall of the terrace to enjoy the freshness and beauty of the scene which, although he had seen it a hundred times before, never looked lovelier, he thought, than this evening. He was very happy in his silent thoughts over his son's return home; and the general respect paid him on the day of his fête had been more felt, perhaps, by the Bourgeois than by Pierre himself.
As he indulged in these meditations, a well-known voice suddenly accosted him. He turned and was cordially greeted by the Count de la Galissonière and Herr Kalm, who had sauntered through the garden of the Castle and directed their steps towards the cape with intention to call upon the Lady de Tilly and pay their respects to her before she left the city.
The Bourgeois, learning their intentions, said he would accompany them, as he too owed a debt of courtesy to the noble lady and her niece Amélie, which he would discharge at the same time.
The three gentlemen walked gravely on, in pleasant conversation. The clearness of the moonlit night threw the beautiful landscape, with its strongly accentuated features, into contrasts of light and shade to which the pencil of Rembrandt alone could have done justice. Herr Kalm was enthusiastic in his admiration,--moonlight over Drachenfels on the Rhine, or the midnight sun peering over the Gulf of Bothnia, reminded him of something similar, but of nothing so grand on the whole as the matchless scene visible from Cape Diamond--worthy of its name.
Lady de Tilly received her visitors with the gracious courtesy habitual to her. She especially appreciated the visit from the Bourgeois, who so rarely honored the houses of his friends by his welcome presence. As for His Excellency, she remarked, smiling, it was his official duty to represent the politeness of France to the ladies of the Colony, while Herr Kalm, representing the science of Europe, ought to be honored in every house he chose to visit,--she certainly esteemed the honor of his presence in her own.
Amélie made her appearance in the drawing-room, and while the visitors stayed exerted herself to the utmost to please and interest them by taking a ready and sympathetic part in their conversation. Her quick and cultivated intellect enabled her to do so to the delight, and even surprise, of the three grave, learned gentlemen. She lacked neither information nor opinions of her own, while her speech, soft and womanly, gave a delicacy to her free yet modest utterances that made her, in their recollections of her in the future, a standard of comparison,--a measure of female perfections.
Le Gardeur, learning who were in the house, came down after a while to thank the Governor, the Bourgeois, and Herr Kalm for the honor of their visit. He exerted himself by a desperate effort to be conversable,--not very successfully, however; for had not Amélie watched him with deepest sympathy and adroitly filled the breaks in his remarks, he would have failed to pass himself creditably before the Governor. As it was, Le Gardeur contented himself with following the flow of conversation which welled up copiously from the lips of the rest of the company.
After a while came in Félix Baudoin in his full livery, reserved for special occasions, and announced to his lady that tea was served. The gentlemen were invited to partake of what was then a novelty in New France. The Bourgeois, in the course of the new traffic with China that had lately sprung up in consequence of the discovery of ginseng in New France, had imported some chests of tea, which the Lady de Tilly, with instinctive perception of its utility, adopted at once as the beverage of polite society. As yet, however, it was only to be seen upon the tables of the refined and the affluent.
A fine service of porcelain of Chinese make adorned her table, pleasing the fancy with its grotesque pictures,--then so new, now so familiar to us all. The Chinese garden and summer-house, the fruit-laden trees, and river with overhanging willows; the rustic bridge with the three long-robed figures passing over it; the boat floating upon the water and the doves flying in the perspectiveless sky--who does not remember them all?
Lady de Tilly, like a true gentlewoman, prized her china, and thought kindly of the mild, industrious race who had furnished her tea-table with such an elegant equipage.
It was no disparagement to the Lady de Tilly that she had not read English poets who sang the praise of tea: English poets were in those days an unknown quantity in French education, and especially in New France until after the conquest. But Wolfe opened the great world of English poetry to Canada as he recited Gray's Elegy with its prophetic line,-- “The paths of glory lead but to the grave,” as he floated down the St. Lawrence in that still autumnal night to land his forces and scale by stealth the fatal Heights of Abraham, whose possession led to the conquest of the city and his own heroic death, then it was the two glorious streams of modern thought and literature united in New France, where they have run side by side to this day,--in time to be united in one grand flood stream of Canadian literature.
The Bourgeois Philibert had exported largely to China the newly discovered ginseng, for which at first the people of the flowery kingdom paid, in their sycee silver, ounce for ounce. And his Cantonese correspondent esteemed himself doubly fortunate when he was enabled to export his choicest teas to New France in exchange for the precious root.
Amélie listened to an eager conversation between the Governor and Herr Kalm, started by the latter on the nature, culture, and use of the tea-plant,--they would be trite opinions now,--with many daring speculations on the ultimate conquest of the tea-cup over the wine-cup. “It would inaugurate the third beatitude!” exclaimed the philosopher, pressing together the tips of the fingers of both hands, “and the 'meek would inherit the earth;'” so soon as the use of tea became universal, mankind would grow milder, as their blood was purified from the fiery products of the still and the wine-press! The life of man would be prolonged and made more valuable.
“What has given China four thousand of years of existence?” asked Herr Kaim, abruptly, of the Count.
The Count could not tell, unless it were that the nation was dead already in all that regarded the higher life of national existence,--had become mummified, in fact,--and did not know it.
“Not at all!” replied Herr Kalm. “It is the constant use of the life-giving infusion of tea that has saved China! Tea soothes the nerves; it clears the blood, expels vapors from the brain, and restores the fountain of life to pristine activity. Ergo, it prolongs the existence of both men and nations, and has made China the most antique nation in the world.”
Herr Kalm was a devotee to the tea-cup; he drank it strong to excite his flagging spirits, weak to quiet them down. He took Bohea with his facts, and Hyson with his fancy, and mixed them to secure the necessary afflatus to write his books of science and travel. Upon Hyson he would have attempted the Iliad, upon Bohea he would undertake to square the circle, discover perpetual motion, or reform the German philosophy.
The professor was in a jovial mood, and gambolled away gracefully as a Finland horse under a pack-saddle laden with the learning of a dozen students of Abo, travelling home for the holidays.
“We are fortunate in being able to procure our tea in exchange for our useless ginseng,” remarked the Lady de Tilly, as she handed the professor a tiny plate of the leaves, as was the fashion of the day. After drinking the tea, the infused leaves were regarded as quite a fashionable delicacy. Except for the fashion, it had not been perhaps considered a delicacy at all.
The observation of the Lady de Tilly set the professor off on another branch of the subject. “He had observed,” he said, “the careless methods of preparing the ginseng in New France, and predicted a speedy end of the traffic, unless it were prepared to suit the fancy of the fastidious Chinese.”
“That is true, Herr Kalm,” replied the Governor, “but our Indians who gather it are bad managers. Our friend Philibert, who opened this lucrative trade, is alone capable of ensuring its continuance. It is a mine of wealth to New France, if rightly developed. How much made you last year by ginseng, Philibert?”
“I can scarcely answer,” replied the Bourgeois, hesitating a moment to mention what might seem like egotism; “but the half million I contributed towards the war in defence of Acadia was wholly the product of my export of ginseng to China.”
“I know it was! and God bless you for it, Philibert!” exclaimed the Governor with emotion, as he grasped the hand of the patriotic merchant.
“If we have preserved New France this year, it was through your timely help in Acadia. The King's treasury was exhausted,” continued the Governor, looking at Herr Kalm, “and ruin imminent, when the noble merchant of the Chien d'Or fed, clothed, and paid the King's troops for two months before the taking of Grand Pré from the enemy!”
“No great thing in that, your Excellency,” replied the Bourgeois, who hated compliments to himself. “If those who have do not give, how can you get from those who have not? You may lay some of it to the account of Pierre too,--he was in Acadia, you know, Governor.” A flash of honest pride passed over the usually sedate features of the Bourgeois at the mention of his son.
Le Gardeur looked at his sister. She knew instinctively that his thoughts put into words would say, “He is worthy to be your father, Amélie!” She blushed with a secret pleasure, but spoke not. The music in her heart was without words yet; but one day it would fill the universe with harmony for her.
The Governor noticed the sudden reticence, and half surmising the cause, remarked playfully, “The Iroquois will hardly dare approach Tilly with such a garrison as Pierre Philibert and Le Gardeur, and with you, my Lady de Tilly, as commandant, and you, Mademoiselle Amélie, as aide-de-camp!”
“To be sure! your Excellency,” replied the Lady de Tilly. “The women of Tilly have worn swords and kept the old house before now!” she added playfully, alluding to a celebrated defence of the château by a former lady of the Manor at the head of a body of her censitaires; “and depend upon it, we shall neither give up Tilly nor Le Gardeur either, to whatever savages claim them, be they red or white!”
The lady's allusion to his late associates did not offend Le Gardeur, whose honest nature despised their conduct, while he liked their company. They all understood her, and laughed. The Governor's loyalty to the King's commission prevented his speaking his thoughts. He only remarked, “Le Gardeur and Pierre Philibert will be under your orders, my Lady, and my orders are that they are not to return to the city until all dangers of the Iroquois are over.”
“All right, your Excellency!” exclaimed Le Gardeur. “I shall obey my aunt.” He was acute enough to see through their kindly scheming for his welfare; but his good nature and thorough devotion to his aunt and sister, and his affectionate friendship for Pierre, made him yield to the project without a qualm of regret. Le Gardeur was assailable on many sides,--a fault in his character--or a weakness--which, at any rate, sometimes offered a lever to move him in directions opposite to the malign influences of Bigot and his associates.
The company rose from the tea-table and moved to the drawing-room, where conversation, music, and a few games of cards whiled away a couple of hours very pleasantly.
Amélie sang exquisitely. The Governor was an excellent musician, and accompanied her. His voice, a powerful tenor, had been strengthened by many a conflict with old Boreas on the high seas, and made soft and flexible by his manifold sympathies with all that is kindly and good and true in human nature.
A song of wonderful pathos and beauty had just been brought down from the wilds of the Ottawa, and become universally sung in New France. A voyageur flying from a band of Iroquois had found a hiding-place on a rocky islet in the middle of the Sept Chutes. He concealed himself from his foes, but could not escape, and in the end died of starvation and sleeplessness. The dying man peeled off the white bark of the birch, and with the juice of berries wrote upon it his death song, which was found long after by the side of his remains. His grave is now a marked spot on the Ottawa. La Complainte de Cadieux had seized the imagination of Amélie. She sang it exquisitely, and to-night needed no pressing to do so, for her heart was full of the new song, composed under such circumstances of woe. Intense was the sympathy of the company, as she began: “'Petit rocher de la haute montagne, Je viens finir ici cette campagne! Ah! doux echos, entendez mes soupirs! En languissant je vais bientôt--mourir.'”
There were no dry eyes as she concluded. The last sighs of Cadieux seemed to expire on her lips: “'Rossignole, va dire à ma maîtresse, A mes enfans, qu'un adieu je leur laisse, Que j'ai gardé mon amour et ma foi, Et desormais faut renoncer à moi.'”
A few more friends of the family dropped in--Coulon de Villiers, Claude Beauharnais, La Corne St. Luc, and others, who had heard of the lady's departure and came to bid her adieu.
La Corne raised much mirth by his allusions to the Iroquois. The secret was plainly no secret to him. “I hope to get their scalps,” said he, “when you have done with them and they with you, Le Gardeur!”
The evening passed on pleasantly, and the clock of the Recollets pealed out a good late hour before they took final leave of their hospitable hostess, with mutual good wishes and adieus, which with some of them were never repeated. Le Gardeur was no little touched and comforted by so much sympathy and kindness. He shook the Bourgeois affectionately by the hand, inviting him to come up to Tilly. It was noticed and remembered that this evening Le Gardeur clung filially, as it were, to the father of Pierre, and the farewell he gave him was tender, almost solemn, in a sort of sadness that left an impress upon all minds. “Tell Pierre--but indeed, he knows we start early,” said Le Gardeur, “and the canoes will be waiting on the Batture an hour after sunrise.
The Bourgeois knew in a general way the position of Le Gardeur, and sympathized deeply with him. “Keep your heart up, my boy!” said he on leaving. “Remember the proverb,--never forget it for a moment, Le Gardeur: Ce que Dieu garde est bien gardé!”
“Good-by, Sieur Philibert!” replied he, still holding him by the hand. “I would fain be permitted to regard you as a father, since Pierre is all of a brother to me!”
“I will be a father, and a loving one too, if you will permit me, Le Gardeur,” said the Bourgeois, touched by the appeal. “When you return to the city, come home with Pierre. At the Golden Dog, as well as at Belmont, there will be ever welcome for Pierre's friend as for Pierre's self.”
The guests then took their departure.
The preparations for the journey home were all made, and the household retired to rest, all glad to return to Tilly. Even Felix Baudoin felt like a boy going back on a holiday. His mind was surcharged with the endless things he had gathered up, ready to pour into the sympathizing ear of Barbara Sanschagrin; and the servants and censitaires were equally eager to return to relate their adventures in the capital when summoned on the King's corvée to build the walls of Quebec.
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{
"id": "2735"
}
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26
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THE CANADIAN BOAT-SONG.
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“V'là l'bon vent! V'là l'joli vent! V'là l'bon vent! Ma mie m'appelle! V'là l'bon vent! V'là l'joli vent! V'là l'bon vent! Ma mie m'attend!”
The gay chorus of the voyageurs made the shores ring, as they kept time with their oars, while the silver spray dripped like a shower of diamonds in the bright sunshine at every stroke of their rapid paddles. The graceful bark canoes, things of beauty and almost of life, leaped joyously over the blue waters of the St. Lawrence as they bore the family of the Lady de Tilly and Pierre Philibert with a train of censitaires back to the old Manor House.
The broad river was flooded with sunshine as it rolled majestically between the high banks crowned with green fields and woods in full leaf of summer. Frequent cottages and villages were visible along the shores, and now and then a little church with its bright spire or belfry marked the successive parishes on either hand.
The tide had already forced its way two hundred leagues up from the ocean, and still pressed irresistibly onward, surging and wrestling against the weight of the descending stream.
The wind too was favorable. A number of yachts and bateaux spread their snowy sails to ascend the river with the tide. They were for the most part laden with munitions of war for the Richelieu on their way to the military posts on Lake Champlain, or merchandise for Montreal to be reladen in fleets of canoes for the trading posts up the river of the Ottawas, the Great Lakes, or, mayhap, to supply the new and far-off settlements on the Belle Rivière and the Illinois.
The line of canoes swept past the sailing vessels with a cheer. The light-hearted crews exchanged salutations and bandied jests with each other, laughing immoderately at the well-worn jokes current upon the river among the rough voyageurs. A good voyage! a clear run! short portages and long rests! Some inquired whether their friends had paid for the bear and buffalo skins they were going to buy, or they complimented each other on their nice heads of hair, which it was hoped they would not leave behind as keepsakes with the Iroquois squaws.
The boat-songs of the Canadian voyageurs are unique in character, and very pleasing when sung by a crew of broad-chested fellows dashing their light birch-bark canoes over the waters rough or smooth, taking them, as they take fortune, cheerfully,--sometimes skimming like wild geese over the long, placid reaches, sometimes bounding like stags down the rough rapids and foaming saults.
Master Jean La Marche, clean as a new pin and in his merriest mood, sat erect as the King of Yvetot in the bow of the long canoe which held the Lady de Tilly and her family. His sonorous violin was coquettishly fixed in its place of honor under his wagging chin, as it accompanied his voice while he chanted an old boat-song which had lightened the labor of many a weary oar on lake and river, from the St. Lawrence to the Rocky Mountains.
Amélie sat in the stern of the canoe, laying her white hand in the cool stream which rushed past her. She looked proud and happy to-day, for the whole world of her affections was gathered together in that little bark.
She felt grateful for the bright sun; it seemed to have dispelled every cloud that lately shaded her thoughts on account of her brother, and she silently blessed the light breeze that played with her hair and cooled her cheek, which she felt was tinged with a warm glow of pleasure in the presence of Pierre Philibert.
She spoke little, and almost thanked the rough voyageurs for their incessant melodies, which made conversation difficult for the time, and thus left her to her own sweet silent thoughts, which seemed almost too sacred for the profanation of words.
An occasional look, or a sympathetic smile exchanged with her brother and her aunt, spoke volumes of pure affection. Once or twice the eyes of Pierre Philibert captured a glance of hers which might not have been intended for him, but which Amélie suffered him to intercept and hide away among the secret treasures of his heart. A glance of true affection--brief, it may be, as a flash of lightning--becomes, when caught by the eyes of love, a real thing, fixed and imperishable forever. A tender smile, a fond word of love's creation, contains a universe of light and life and immortality,--small things, and of little value to others, but to him or her whom they concern more precious and more prized than the treasures of Ind.
Master Jean La Marche, after a few minutes' rest, made still more refreshing by a draught from a suspicious-looking flask, which, out of respect for the presence of his mistress, the Lady de Tilly, he said contained “milk,” began a popular boat-song which every voyageur in New France knew as well as his prayers, and loved to his very finger-ends.
The canoe-men pricked up their ears, like troopers at the sound of a bugle, as Jean La Marche began the famous old ballad of the king's son who, with his silver gun, aimed at the beautiful black duck, and shot the white one, out of whose eyes came gold and diamonds, and out of whose mouth rained silver, while its pretty feathers, scattered to the four winds, were picked up by three fair dames, who with them made a bed both large and deep-- “For poor wayfaring men to sleep.”
Master Jean's voice was clear and resonant as a church bell newly christened; and he sang the old boat-song with an energy that drew the crews of half-a-dozen other canoes into the wake of his music, all uniting in the stirring chorus: “Fringue! Fringue sur la rivière! Fringue! Fringue sur l'aviron!”
The performance of Jean La Marche was highly relished by the critical boatmen, and drew from them that flattering mark of approval, so welcome to a vocalist,--an encore of the whole long ballad, from beginning to end.
As the line of canoes swept up the stream, a welcome cheer occasionally greeted them from the shore, or a voice on land joined in the gay refrain. They draw nearer to Tilly, and their voices became more and more musical, their gaiety more irrepressible, for they were going home; and home to the habitans, as well as to their lady, was the world of all delights.
The contagion of high spirits caught even Le Gardeur, and drew him out of himself, making him for the time forget the disappointments, resentments, and allurements of the city.
Sitting there in the golden sunshine, the blue sky above him, the blue waters below,--friends whom he loved around him, mirth in every eye, gaiety on every tongue,--how could Le Gardeur but smile as the music of the boatmen brought back a hundred sweet associations? Nay, he laughed, and to the inexpressible delight of Amélie and Pierre, who watched every change in his demeanor, united in the chorus of the glorious boat-song.
A few hours of this pleasant voyaging brought the little fleet of canoes under the high bank, which from its summit slopes away in a wide domain of forests, park, and cultivated fields, in the midst of which stood the high-pointed and many-gabled Manor House of Tilly.
Upon a promontory--as if placed there for both a land and sea mark, to save souls as well as bodies--rose the belfry of the Chapel of St. Michael, overlooking a cluster of white, old-fashioned cottages, which formed the village of St. Michael de Tilly.
Upon the sandy beach a crowd of women, children, and old men had gathered, who were cheering and clapping their hands at the unexpected return of the lady of the Manor with all their friends and relatives.
The fears of the villagers had been greatly excited for some days past by exaggerated reports of the presence of Iroquois on the upper waters of the Chaudière. They not unnaturally conjectured, moreover, that the general call for men on the King's corvée, to fortify the city, portended an invasion by the English, who, it was rumored, were to come up in ships from below, as in the days of Sir William Phipps with his army of New Englanders, the story of whose defeat under the walls of Quebec was still freshly remembered in the traditions of the Colony.
“Never fear them!” said old Louis, the one-eyed pilot. “It was in my father's days. Many a time have I heard him tell the story--how, in the autumn of the good year 1690, thirty-four great ships of the Bostonians came up from below, and landed an army of ventres bleus of New England on the flats of Beauport. But our stout Governor, Count de Frontenac, came upon them from the woods with his brave soldiers, habitans, and Indians, and drove them pell-mell back to their boats, and stripped the ship of Admiral Phipps of his red flag, which, if you doubt my word,--which no one does,--still hangs over the high altar of the Church of Notre Dame des Victoires. Blessed be our Lady, who saved our country from our enemies,--and will do so again, if we do not by our wickedness lose her favor! But the arbre sec--the dry tree--still stands upon the Point de Levis, where the Boston fleet took refuge before beating their retreat down the river again,--and you know the old prophecy: that while that tree stands, the English shall never prevail against Quebec!”
Much comforted by this speech of old Louis the pilot, the villagers of Tilly rushed to the beach to receive their friends.
The canoes came dashing into shore. Men, women, and children ran knee-deep into the water to meet them, and a hundred eager hands were ready to seize their prows and drag them high and dry upon the sandy beach.
“Home again! and welcome to Tilly, Pierre Philibert!” exclaimed Lady de Tilly, offering her hand. “Friends like you have the right of welcome here.” Pierre expressed his pleasure in fitting terms, and lent his aid to the noble lady to disembark.
Le Gardeur assisted Amélie out of the canoe. As he led her across the beach, he felt her hand tremble as it rested on his arm. He glanced down at her averted face, and saw her eyes directed to a spot well remembered by himself--the scene of his rescue from drowning by Pierre Philibert.
The whole scene came before Amélie at this moment. Her vivid recollection conjured up the sight of the inanimate body of her brother as it was brought ashore by the strong arm of Pierre Philibert and laid upon the beach; her long agony of suspense, and her joy, the greatest she had ever felt before or since, at his resuscitation to life, and lastly, her passionate vow which she made when clasping the neck of his preserver--a vow which she had enshrined as a holy thing in her heart ever since.
At that moment a strange fancy seized her: that Pierre Philibert was again plunging into deep water to rescue her brother, and that she would be called on by some mysterious power to renew her vow or fulfil it to the very letter.
She twitched Le Gardeur gently by the arm and said to him, in a half whisper, “It was there, brother! do you remember?”
“I know it, sister!” replied he; “I was also thinking of it. I am grateful to Pierre; yet, oh, my Amélie, better he had left me at the bottom of the deep river, where I had found my bed! I have no pleasure in seeing Tilly any more!”
“Why not, brother? Are we not all the same? Are we not all here? There is happiness and comfort for you at Tilly.”
“There was once, Amélie,” replied he, sadly; “but there will be none for me in the future, as I feel too well. I am not worthy of you, Amélie.”
“Come, brother!” replied she, cheerily, “you dampen the joy of our arrival. See, the flag is going up on the staff of the turret, and old Martin is getting ready to fire off the culverin in honor of your arrival.”
Presently there was a flash, a cloud of smoke, and the report of a cannon came booming down to the shore from the Manor House.
“That was well done of Martin and the women!” remarked Felix Baudoin, who had served in his youth, and therefore knew what was fitting in a military salute. “'The women of Tilly are better than the men of Beauce,' says the proverb.”
“Ay, or of Tilly either!” remarked Josephte Le Tardeur, in a sharp, snapping tone. Josephte was a short, stout virago, with a turned-up nose and a pair of black eyes that would bore you through like an auger. She wore a wide-brimmed hat of straw, overtopping curls as crisp as her temper. Her short linsey petticoat was not chary of showing her substantial ankles, while her rolled-up sleeves displayed a pair of arms so red and robust that a Swiss milkmaid might well have envied them.
Her remark was intended for the ear of José Le Tardeur, her husband, a lazy, good-natured fellow, whose eyes had been fairly henpecked out of his head all the days of his married life. Josephte's speech hit him without hurting him, as he remarked to a neighbor. Josephte made a target of him every day. He was glad, for his part, that the women of Tilly were better soldiers than the men, and so much fonder of looking after things! It saved the men a deal of worry and a good deal of work.
“What are you saying, José?” exclaimed Felix, who only caught a few half words.
“I say, Master Felix, that but for Mère Eve there would have been no curse upon men, to make them labor when they do not want to, and no sin either. As the Curé says, we could have lain on the grass sunning ourselves all day long. Now it is nothing but work and pray, never play, else you will save neither body nor soul. Master Felix, I hope you will remember me if I come up to the Manor house.”
“Ay, I will remember you, José,” replied Felix, tartly; “but if labor was the curse which Eve brought into the world when she ate the apple, I am sure you are free from it. So ride up with the carts, José, and get out of the way of my Lady's carriage!”
José obeyed, and taking off his cap, bowed respectfully to the Lady de Tilly as she passed, leaning on the arm of Pierre Philibert, who escorted her to her carriage.
A couple of sleek Canadian horses, sure-footed as goats and strong as little elephants, drew the coach with a long, steady trot up the winding road which led to the Manor House.
The road, unfenced and bordered with grass on each side of the track, was smooth and well kept, as became the Grande Chaussée of the Barony of Tilly. It ran sometimes through stretches of cultivated fields--green pastures or corn-lands ripening for the sickle of the censitaire. Sometimes it passed through cool, shady woods, full of primeval grandeur,--part of the great Forest of Tilly, which stretched away far as the eye could reach over the hills of the south shore. Huge oaks that might have stood there from the beginning of the world, wide-branching elms, and dark pines overshadowed the highway, opening now and then into vistas of green fields where stood a cottage or two, with a herd of mottled cows grazing down by the brook. On the higher ridges the trees formed a close phalanx, and with their dark tops cut the horizon into a long, irregular line of forest, as if offering battle to the woodman's axe that was threatening to invade their solitudes.
Half an hour's driving brought the company to the Manor House, a stately mansion, gabled and pointed like an ancient château on the Seine.
It was a large, irregular structure of hammered stone, with deeply-recessed windows, mullioned and ornamented with grotesque carvings. A turret, loopholed and battlemented, projected from each of the four corners of the house, enabling its inmates to enfilade every side with a raking fire of musketry, affording an adequate defence against Indian foes. A stone tablet over the main entrance of the Manor House was carved with the armorial bearings of the ancient family of Tilly, with the date of its erection, and a pious invocation placing the house under the special protection of St. Michael de Thury, the patron saint of the House of Tilly.
The Manor House of Tilly had been built by Charles Le Gardeur de Tilly, a gentleman of Normandy, one of whose ancestors, the Sieur de Tilly, figures on the roll of Battle Abbey as a follower of Duke William at Hastings. His descendant, Charles Le Gardeur, came over to Canada with a large body of his vassals in 1636, having obtained from the King a grant of the lands of Tilly, on the bank of the St. Lawrence, “to hold in fief and seigniory,”--so ran the royal patent,--“with the right and jurisdiction of superior, moyenne and basse justice, and of hunting, fishing, and trading with the Indians throughout the whole of this royal concession; subject to the condition of foi et hommage, which he shall be held to perform at the Castle of St. Louis in Quebec, of which he shall hold under the customary duties and dues, agreeably to the coutume de Paris followed in this country.”
Such was the style of the royal grants of seignioral rights conceded in New France, by virtue of one of which this gallant Norman gentleman founded his settlement and built this Manor House on the shores of the St. Lawrence.
A broad, smooth carriage road led up to the mansion across a park dotted with clumps of evergreens and deciduous trees. Here and there an ancient patriarch of the forest stood alone,--some old oak or elm, whose goodly proportions and amplitude of shade had found favor in the eyes of the seigniors of Tilly, and saved it from the axe of the woodman.
A pretty brook, not too wide to be crossed over by a rustic bridge, meandered through the domain, peeping occasionally out of the openings in the woods as it stole away like a bashful girl from the eyes of her admirer.
This brook was the outflow of a romantic little lake that lay hidden away among the wooded hills that bounded the horizon, an irregular sheet of water a league in circumference, dotted with islands and abounding with fish and waterfowl that haunted its quiet pools. That primitive bit of nature had never been disturbed by axe or fire, and was a favorite spot for recreation to the inmates of the Manor House, to whom it was accessible either by boat up the little stream, or by a pleasant drive through the old woods.
As the carriages drew up in front of the Manor House, every door, window, and gable of which looked like an old friend in the eyes of Pierre Philibert, a body of female servants--the men had all been away at the city--stood ranged in their best gowns and gayest ribbons to welcome home their mistress and Mademoiselle Amélie, who was the idol of them all.
Great was their delight to see Monsieur Le Gardeur, as they usually styled their young master, with another gentleman in military costume, whom it did not take two minutes for some of the sharp-eyed lasses to recognize as Pierre Philibert, who had once saved the life of Le Gardeur on a memorable occasion, and who now, they said one to another, was come to the Manor House to--to--they whispered what it was to each other, and smiled in a knowing manner.
Women's wits fly swiftly to conclusions, and right ones too on most occasions. The lively maids of Tilly told one another in whispers that they were sure Pierre Philibert had come back to the Manor House as a suitor for the hand of Mademoiselle Amélie, as was most natural he should do, so handsome and manly looking as he was, and mademoiselle always liked to hear any of them mention his name. The maids ran out the whole chain of logical sequences before either Pierre or Amélie had ventured to draw a conclusion of any kind from the premises of this visit.
Behind the mansion, overlooking poultry-yards and stables which were well hidden from view, rose a high colombière, or pigeon-house, of stone, the possession of which was one of the rights which feudal law reserved to the lord of the manor. This colombière was capable of containing a large army of pigeons, but the regard which the Lady de Tilly had for the corn-fields of her censitaires caused her to thin out its population to such a degree that there remained only a few favorite birds of rare breed and plumage to strut and coo upon the roofs, and rival the peacocks on the terrace with their bright colors.
In front of the mansion, contrasting oddly with the living trees around it, stood a high pole, the long, straight stem of a pine-tree, carefully stripped of its bark, bearing on its top the withered remains of a bunch of evergreens, with the fragments of a flag and ends of ribbon which fluttered gaily from it. The pole was marked with black spots from the discharge of guns fired at it by the joyous habitans, who had kept the ancient custom of May-day by planting this May-pole in front of the Manor House of their lady.
The planting of such a pole was in New France a special mark of respect due to the feudal superior, and custom as well as politeness required that it should not be taken down until the recurrence of another anniversary of Flora, which in New France sometimes found the earth white with snow and hardened with frost, instead of covered with flowers as in the Old World whence the custom was derived.
The Lady de Tilly duly appreciated this compliment of her faithful censitaires, and would sooner have stripped her park of half its live trees than have removed that dead pole, with its withered crown, from the place of honor in front of her mansion.
The revels of May in New France, the king and queen of St. Philip, the rejoicings of a frank, loyal peasantry--illiterate in books but not unlearned in the art of life,--have wholly disappeared before the levelling spirit of the nineteenth century.
The celebration of the day of St. Philip has been superseded by the festival of St. John the Baptist, at a season of the year when green leaves and blooming flowers give the possibility of arches and garlands in honor of the Canadian summer.
Felix Beaudoin with a wave of his hand scattered the bevy of maid servants who stood chattering as they gazed upon the new arrivals. The experience of Felix told him that everything had of course gone wrong during his absence from the Manor House, and that nothing could be fit for his mistress's reception until he had set all to rights again himself.
The worthy majordomo was in a state of perspiration lest he should not get into the house before his mistress and don his livery to meet her at the door with his white wand and everything en régle, just as if nothing had interrupted their usual course of housekeeping.
The Lady de Tilly knew the weakness of her faithful old servitor, and although she smiled to herself, she would not hurt his feelings by entering the house before he was ready at his post to receive her. She continued walking about the lawn conversing with Amélie, Pierre, and Le Gardeur, until she saw old Felix with his wand and livery standing at the door, when, taking Pierre's arm, she led the way into the house.
The folding doors were open, and Felix with his wand walked before his lady and her companions into the mansion. They entered without delay, for the day had been warm, and the ladies were weary after sitting several hours in a canoe, a mode of travelling which admits of very little change of position in the voyagers.
The interior of the Manor House of Tilly presented the appearance of an old French château. A large hall with antique furniture occupied the center of the house, used occasionally as a court of justice when the Seigneur de Tilly exercised his judicial office for the trial of offenders, which was very rarely, thanks to the good morals of the people, or held a cour plenière of his vassals, on affairs of the seigniory for apportioning the corvées for road-making and bridge-building, and, not the least important by any means, for the annual feast to his censitaires on the day of St. Michael de Thury.
From this hall, passages led into apartments and suites of rooms arranged for use, comfort, and hospitality. The rooms were of all sizes, panelled, tapestried, and furnished in a style of splendor suited to the wealth and dignity of the Seigneurs of Tilly. A stair of oak, broad enough for a section of grenadiers to march up it abreast, led to the upper chambers, bedrooms, and boudoirs, which looked out of old mullioned windows upon the lawn and gardens that surrounded the house, affording picturesque glimpses of water, hills, and forests far enough off for contemplation, and yet near enough to be accessible by a short ride from the mansion.
Pierre Philibert was startled at the strange familiarity of everything he saw: the passages and all their intricacies, where he, Le Gardeur, and Amélie had hid and found one another with cries of delight,--he knew where they all led to; the rooms with their antique and stately furniture, the paintings on the wall, before which he had stood and gazed, wondering if the world was as fair as those landscapes of sunny France and Italy and why the men and women of the house of Tilly, whose portraits hung upon the walls, looked at him so kindly with those dark eyes of theirs, which seemed to follow him everywhere, and he imagined they even smiled when their lips were illumined by a ray of sunshine. Pierre looked at them again with a strange interest,--they were like the faces of living friends who welcomed him back to Tilly after years of absence.
Pierre entered a well-remembered apartment which he knew to be the favorite sitting-room of the Lady de Tilly. He walked hastily across it to look at a picture upon the wall which he recognized again with a flush of pleasure.
It was the portrait of Amélie painted by himself during his last visit to Tilly. The young artist, full of enthusiasm, had put his whole soul into the work, until he was himself startled at the vivid likeness which almost unconsciously flowed from his pencil. He had caught the divine upward expression of her eyes, as she turned her head to listen to him, and left upon the canvas the very smile he had seen upon her lips. Those dark eyes of hers had haunted his memory forever after. To his imagination that picture had become almost a living thing. It was as a voice of his own that returned to his ear as the voice of Amélie. In the painting of that portrait Pierre had the first revelation of a consciousness of his deep love which became in the end the master passion of his life.
He stood for some minutes contemplating this portrait, so different from her in age now, yet so like in look and expression. He turned suddenly and saw Amélie; she had silently stepped up behind him, and her features in a glow of pleasure took on the very look of the picture.
Pierre started. He looked again, and saw every feature of the girl of twelve looking through the transparent countenance of the perfect woman of twenty. It was a moment of blissful revelation, for he felt an assurance at that moment that Amélie was the same to him now as in their days of youthful companionship. “How like it is to you yet, Amélie!” said he; “it is more true than I knew how to make it!”
“That sounds like a paradox, Pierre Philibert!” replied she, with a smile. “But it means, I suppose, that you painted a universal portrait of me which will be like through all my seven ages. Such a picture might be true of the soul, Pierre, had you painted that, but I have outgrown the picture of my person.”
“I could imagine nothing fairer than that portrait! In soul and body it is all true, Amélie.”
“Flatterer that you are!” said she, laughing. “I could almost wish that portrait would walk out of its frame to thank you for the care you bestowed upon its foolish little original.”
“My care was more than rewarded! I find in that picture my beau-ideal of the beauty of life, which, belonging to the soul, is true to all ages.”
“The girl of twelve would have thanked you more enthusiastically for that remark, Pierre, than I dare do,” replied she.
“The thanks are due from me, not from you, Amélie! I became your debtor for a life-long obligation when without genius I could do impossibilities. You taught me that paradox when you let me paint that picture.”
Amélie glanced quickly up at him. A slight color came and went on her cheek. “Would that I could do impossibilities,” said she, “to thank you sufficiently for your kindness to Le Gardeur and all of us in coming to Tilly at this time.
“It would be a novelty, almost a relief, to put Pierre Philibert under some obligation to us for we all owe him, would it not, Le Gardeur?” continued she, clasping the arm of her brother, who just now came into the room. “We will discharge a portion of our debt to Pierre for this welcome visit by a day on the lake,--we will make up a water-party. What say you, brother? The gentlemen shall light fires, the ladies shall make tea, and we will have guitars and songs, and maybe a dance, brother! and then a glorious return home by moonlight! What say you to my programme, Le Gardeur de Repentigny? What say you, Pierre Philibert?”
“It is a good programme, sister, but leave me out of it. I shall only mar the pleasure of the rest; I will not go to the lake. I have been trying ever since my return home to recognize Tilly; everything looks to me in an eclipse, and nothing bright as it once was, not even you, Amélie. Your smile has a curious touch of sadness in it which does not escape my eyes; accursed as they have been of late, seeing things they ought not to see, yet I can see that, and I know it, too; I have given you cause to be sad, sister.”
“Hush, brother! it is a sin against your dear eyes to speak of them thus! Tilly is as bright and joyous as ever. As for my smiles, if you detect in them one trace of that sadness you talk about, I shall grow as melancholy as yourself, and for as little cause. Come! you shall confess before three days, brother, if you will only help me to be gay, that your sister has the lightest heart in New France.”
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{
"id": "2735"
}
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27
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CHEERFUL YESTERDAYS AND CONFIDENT TO-MORROWS.
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The ladies retired to their several rooms, and after a general rearranging of toilets descended to the great parlor, where they were joined by Messire La Lande, the curé of the parish, a benevolent, rosy old priest, and several ladies from the neighborhood, with two or three old gentlemen of a military air and manner, retired officers of the army who enjoyed their pensions and kept up their respectability at a cheaper rate in the country than they could do in the city.
Felix Beaudoin had for the last two hours kept the cooks in hot water. He was now superintending the laying of the table, resolved that, notwithstanding his long absence from home, the dinner should be a marvellous success.
Amélie was very beautiful to-day. Her face was aglow with pure air and exercise, and she felt happy in the apparent contentment of her brother, whom she met with Pierre on the broad terrace of the Manor House.
She was dressed with exquisite neatness, yet plainly. An antique cross of gold formed her only adornment except her own charms. That cross she had put on in honor of Pierre Philibert. He recognized it with delight as a birthday gift to Amélie which he had himself given her during their days of juvenile companionship, on one of his holiday visits to Tilly.
She was conscious of his recognition of it,--it brought a flush to her cheek. “It is in honor of your visit, Pierre,” said she, frankly, “that I wear your gift. Old friendship lasts well with me, does it not? But you will find more old friends than me at Tilly who have not forgotten you.”
“I am already richer than Croesus, if friendship count as riches, Amélie. The hare had many friends, but none at last; I am more fortunate in possessing one friend worth a million.”
“Nay, you have the million too, if good wishes count in your favor, Pierre, you are richer”--the bell in the turret of the château began to ring for dinner, drowning her voice somewhat.
“Thanks to the old bell for cutting short the compliment, Pierre,” continued she, laughing; “you don't know what you have lost! but in compensation you shall be my cavalier, and escort me to the dining-room.”
She took the arm of Pierre, and in a merry mood, which brought back sweet memories of the past, their voices echoed again along the old corridors of the Manor House as they proceeded to the great dining-room, where the rest of the company were assembling.
The dinner was rather a stately affair, owing to the determination of Felix Beaudoin to do especial honor to the return home of the family. How the company ate, talked, and drank at the hospitable table need not be recorded here. The good Curé's face, under the joint influence of good humor and good cheer, was full as a harvest moon. He rose at last, folded his hands, and slowly repeated “agimus gratias.” After dinner the company withdrew to the brilliantly lighted drawing-room, where conversation, music, and a few games of cards for such as liked them, filled up a couple of hours longer.
The Lady de Tilly, seated beside Pierre Philibert on the sofa, conversed with him in a pleasant strain, while the Curé, with a couple of old dowagers in turbans, and an old veteran officer of the colonial marine, long stranded on a lee shore, formed a quartette at cards.
These were steady enthusiasts of whist and piquet, such as are only to be found in small country circles where society is scarce and amusements few. They had met as partners or antagonists, and played, laughed, and wrangled over sixpenny stakes and odd tricks and honors, every week for a quarter of a century, and would willingly have gone on playing till the day of judgment without a change of partners if they could have trumped death and won the odd trick of him.
Pierre recollected having seen these same old friends seated at the same card-table during his earliest visits to the Manor House. He recalled the fact to the Lady de Tilly, who laughed and said her old friends had lived so long in the company of the kings and queens that formed the paste-board Court of the Kingdom of Cocagne that they could relish no meaner amusement than one which royalty, although mad, had the credit of introducing.
Amélie devoted herself to the task of cheering her somewhat moody brother. She sat beside him, resting her hand with sisterly affection upon his shoulder, while in a low, sweet voice she talked to him, adroitly touching those topics only which she knew awoke pleasurable associations in his mind. Her words were sweet as manna and full of womanly tenderness and sympathy, skilfully wrapped in a strain of gaiety like a bridal veil which covers the tears of the heart.
Pierre Philibert's eyes involuntarily turned towards her, and his ears caught much of what she said. He was astonished at the grace and perfection of her language; it seemed to him like a strain of music filled with every melody of earth and heaven, surpassing poets in beauty of diction, philosophers in truth,--and in purity of affection, all the saints and sweetest women of whom he had ever read.
Her beauty, her vivacity, her modest reticences, and her delicate tact in addressing the captious spirit of Le Gardeur, filled Pierre with admiration. He could at that moment have knelt at her feet and worshipped in her the realization of every image which his imagination had ever formed of a perfect woman.
Now and then she played on the harp for Le Gardeur the airs which she knew he liked best. His sombre mood yielded to her fond exertions, and she had the reward of drawing at last a smile from his eyes as well as from his lips. The last she knew might be simulated, the former she felt was real, for the smile of the eye is the flash of the joy kindled in the glad heart.
Le Gardeur was not dull nor ungrateful; he read clearly enough the loving purpose of his sister. His brow cleared up under her sunshine. He smiled, he laughed; and Amélie had the exquisite joy of believing she had gained a victory over the dark spirit that had taken possession of his soul, although the hollow laugh struck the ear of Pierre Philibert with a more uncertain sound than that which fluttered the fond hopes of Amélie.
Amélie looked towards Pierre, and saw his eyes fixed upon her with that look which fills every woman with an emotion almost painful in its excess of pleasure when first she meets it--that unmistakable glance from the eyes of a man who, she is proud to perceive, has singled her out from all other women for his love and homage.
Her face became of a deep glow in spite of her efforts to look calm and cold; she feared Pierre might have misinterpreted her vivacity of speech and manner. Sudden distrust of herself came over her in his presence,--the flow of her conversation was embarrassed, and almost ceased.
To extricate herself from her momentary confusion, which she was very conscious had not escaped the observation of Pierre,--and the thought of that confused her still more,--she rose and went to the harpsichord, to recover her composure by singing a sweet song of her own composition, written in the soft dialect of Provence, the Languedoc, full of the sweet sadness of a tender, impassioned love.
Her voice, tremulous in its power, flowed in a thousand harmonies on the enraptured ears of her listeners. Even the veteran card-players left a game of whist unfinished, to cluster round the angelic singer.
Pierre Philibert sat like one in a trance. He loved music, and understood it passing well. He had heard all the rare voices which Paris prided itself in the possession of, but he thought he had never known what music was till now. His heart throbbed in sympathy with every inflection of the voice of Amélie, which went through him like a sweet spell of enchantment. It was the voice of a disembodied spirit singing in the language of earth, which changed at last into a benediction and good-night for the parting guests, who, at an earlier hour than usual, out of consideration for the fatigue of their hosts, took their leave of the Manor House and its hospitable inmates.
The family, as families will do upon the departure of their guests, drew up in a narrower circle round the fire, that blessed circle of freedom and confidence which belongs only to happy households. The novelty of the situation kept up the interest of the day, and they sat and conversed until a late hour.
The Lady de Tilly reclined comfortably in her fauteuil looking with good-natured complacency upon the little group beside her. Amélie, sitting on a stool, reclined her head against the bosom of her aunt, whose arm embraced her closely and lovingly as she listened with absorbing interest to an animated conversation between her aunt and Pierre Philibert.
The Lady de Tilly drew Pierre out to talk of his travels, his studies, and his military career, of which he spoke frankly and modestly. His high principles won her admiration; the chivalry and loyalty of his character, mingled with the humanity of the true soldier, touched a chord in her own heart, stirring within her the sympathies of a nature akin to his.
The presence of Pierre Philibert, so unforeseen at the old Manor House, seemed to Amélie the work of Providence for a good and great end--the reformation of her brother. If she dared to think of herself in connection with him it was with fear and trembling, as a saint on earth receives a beatific vision that may only be realized in Heaven.
Amélie, with peculiar tact, sought to entangle Le Gardeur's thoughts in an elaborate cobweb of occupations rivalling that of Arachne, which she had woven to catch every leisure hour of his, so as to leave him no time to brood over the pleasures of the Palace of the Intendant or the charms of Angélique des Meloises.
There were golden threads too in the network in which she hoped to entangle him: long rides to the neighboring seigniories, where bright eyes and laughing lips were ready to expel every shadow of care from the most dejected of men, much more from a handsome gallant like Le Gardeur de Repentigny, whose presence at any of these old manors put their fair inmates at once in holiday trim and in holiday humor; there were shorter walks through the park and domain of Tilly, where she intended to botanize and sketch, and even fish and hunt with Le Gardeur and Pierre, although, sooth to say, Amélie's share in hunting would only be to ride her sure-footed pony and look at her companions; there were visits to friends far and near, and visits in return to the Manor House, and a grand excursion of all to the lake of Tilly in boats,--they would colonize its little island for a day, set up tents, make a governor and intendant, perhaps a king and queen, and forget the world till their return home.
This elaborate scheme secured the approbation of the Lady de Tilly, who had, in truth, contributed part of it. Le Gardeur said he was a poor fly whom they were resolved to catch and pin to the wall of a château en Espagne, but he would enter the web without a buzz of opposition on condition that Pierre would join him. So it was all settled.
Amélie did not venture again that night to encounter the eyes of Pierre Philibert,--she needed more courage than she felt just now to do that; but in secret she blessed him, and treasured those fond looks of his in her heart, never to be forgotten any more. When she retired to her own chamber and was alone, she threw herself in passionate abandonment before the altar in her little oratory, which she had crowned with flowers to mark her gladness. She poured out her pure soul in invocations of blessings upon Pierre Philibert and upon her brother and all the house. The golden head of her rosary lingered long in her loving fingers that night, as she repeated over and over her accustomed prayers for his safety and welfare.
The sun rose gloriously next morning over the green woods and still greener meadows of Tilly. The atmosphere was soft and pure; it had been washed clean of all its impurities by a few showers in the night. Every object seemed nearer and clearer to the eye, while the delicious odor of fresh flowers filled the whole air with fragrance.
The trees, rocks, waters, and green slopes stood out with marvellous precision of outline, as if cut with a keen knife. No fringe of haze surrounded them, as in a drought or as in the evening when the air is filled with the shimmering of the day dust which follows the sun's chariot in his course round the world.
Every object, great and small, seemed magnified to welcome Pierre Philibert, who was up betimes this morning and out in the pure air viewing the old familiar scenes.
With what delight he recognized each favorite spot! There was the cluster of trees which crowned a promontory overlooking the St. Lawrence where he and Le Gardeur had stormed the eagle's nest. In that sweep of forest the deer used to browse and the fawns crouch in the long ferns. Upon yonder breezy hill they used to sit and count the sails turning alternately bright and dark as the vessels tacked up the broad river. There was a stretch of green lawn, still green as it was in his memory--how everlasting are God's colors! There he had taught Amélie to ride, and, holding fast, ran by her side, keeping pace with her flying Indian pony. How beautiful and fresh the picture of her remained in his memory! --the soft white dress she wore, her black hair streaming over her shoulders, her dark eyes flashing delight, her merry laugh rivalling the trill of the blackbird which flew over their heads chattering for very joy. Before him lay the pretty brook with its rustic bridge reflecting itself in the clear water as in a mirror. That path along the bank led down to the willows where the big mossy stones lay in the stream and the silvery salmon and speckled trout lay fanning the water gently with their fins as they contemplated their shadows on the smooth, sandy bottom.
Pierre Philibert sat down on a stone by the side of the brook and watched the shoals of minnows move about in little battalions, wheeling like soldiers to the right or left at a wave of the hand. But his thoughts were running in a circle of questions and enigmas for which he found neither end nor answer.
For the hundredth time Pierre proposed to himself the tormenting enigma, harder, he thought, to solve than any problem of mathematics,--for it was the riddle of his life: “What thoughts are truly in the heart of Amélie de Repentigny respecting me? Does she recollect me only as her brother's companion, who may possibly have some claim upon her friendship, but none upon her love?” His imagination pictured every look she had given him since his return. Not all! Oh, Pierre Philibert! the looks you would have given worlds to catch, you were unconscious of! Every word she had spoken, the soft inflection of every syllable of her silvery voice lingered in his ear. He had caught meanings where perhaps no meaning was, and missed the key to others which he knew were there--never, perhaps, to be revealed to him. But although he questioned in the name of love, and found many divine echoes in her words, imperceptible to every ear but his own, he could not wholly solve the riddle of his life. Still he hoped.
“If love creates love, as some say it does,” thought he, “Amélie de Repentigny cannot be indifferent to a passion which governs every impulse of my being! But is there any especial merit in loving her whom all the world cannot help admiring equally with myself? I am presumptuous to think so! --and more presumptuous still to expect, after so many years of separation and forgetfulness, that her heart, so loving and so sympathetic, has not already bestowed its affection upon some one more fortunate than me.”
While Pierre tormented himself with these sharp thorns of doubt,--and of hopes painful as doubts,--little did he think what a brave, loving spirit was hid under the silken vesture of Amélie de Repentigny, and how hard was her struggle to conceal from his eyes those tender regards, which, with over-delicacy, she accounted censurable because they were wholly spontaneous.
He little thought how entirely his image had filled her heart during those years when she dreamed of him in the quiet cloister, living in a world of bright imaginings of her own; how she had prayed for his safety and welfare as she would have prayed for the soul of one dead,--never thinking, or even hoping, to see him again.
Pierre had become to her as one of the disembodied saints or angels whose pictures looked down from the wall of the Convent chapel--the bright angel of the Annunciation or the youthful Baptist proclaiming the way of the Lord. Now that Pierre Philibert was alive in the flesh,--a man, beautiful, brave, honorable, and worthy of any woman's love,--Amélie was frightened. She had not looked for that, and yet it had come upon her. And, although trembling, she was glad and proud to find she had been remembered by the brave youth, who recognized in the perfect woman the girl he had so ardently loved as a boy.
Did he love her still? Woman's heart is quicker to apprehend all possibilities than man's. She had caught a look once or twice in the eyes of Pierre Philibert which thrilled the inmost fibres of her being; she had detected his ardent admiration. Was she offended? Far from it! And although her cheek had flushed deeply red, and her pulses throbbed hard at the sudden consciousness that Pierre Philibert admired, nay, more,--she could not conceal it from herself,--she knew that night that he loved her! She would not have foregone that moment of revelation for all that the world had to offer.
She would gladly at that moment of discovery have fled to her own apartment and cried for joy, but she dared not; she trembled lest his eyes, if she looked up, should discover the secret of her own. She had an overpowering consciousness that she stood upon the brink of her fate; that ere long that look of his would be followed by words--blessed, hoped-for words, from the lips of Pierre Philibert! words which would be the pledge and assurance to her of that love which was hereafter to be the joy--it might be the despair, but in any case the all in all of her life forever.
Amélie had not yet realized the truth that love is the strength, not the weakness of woman; and that the boldness of the man is rank cowardice in comparison with the bravery she is capable of, and the sacrifices she will make for the sake of the man who has won her heart.
God locks up in a golden casket of modesty the yearnings of a woman's heart; but when the hand in which he has placed the key that opens it calls forth her glorified affections, they come out like the strong angels, and hold back the winds that blow from the four corners of the earth that they may not hurt the man whose forehead is sealed with the kiss of her acknowledged love.
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{
"id": "2735"
}
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28
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A DAY AT THE MANOR HOUSE.
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Amélie, after a night of wakefulness and wrestling with a tumult of new thoughts and emotions,--no longer dreams, but realities of life,--dressed herself in a light morning costume, which, simple as it was, bore the touch of her graceful hand and perfect taste. With a broad-brimmed straw hat set upon her dark tresses, which were knotted with careless care in a blue ribbon, she descended the steps of the Manor House. There was a deep bloom upon her cheeks, and her eyes looked like fountains of light and gladness, running over to bless all beholders.
She inquired of Felix Beaudoin of her brother. The old majordomo, with a significant look, informed her that Monsieur Le Gardeur had just ordered his horse to ride to the village. He had first called for a decanter of Cognac, and when it was brought to him he suddenly thrust it back and would not taste it. “He would not drink even Jove's nectar in the Manor House, he said; but would go down to the village, where Satan mixed the drink for thirsty souls like his! Poor Le Gardeur!” continued Felix, “you must not let him go to the village this morning, mademoiselle!”
Amélie was startled at this information. She hastened at once to seek her brother, whom she found walking impatiently in the garden, slashing the heads off the poppies and dahlias within reach of his riding-whip. He was equipped for a ride, and waited the coming of the groom with his horse.
Amélie ran up, and clasping his arms with both hands as she looked up in his face with a smile, exclaimed, “Do not go to the village yet, Le Gardeur! Wait for us!”
“Not go to the village yet, Amélie?” replied he; “why not? I shall return for breakfast, although I have no appetite. I thought a ride to the village would give me one.”
“Wait until after breakfast, brother, when we will all go with you to meet our friends who come this morning to Tilly,--our cousin Héloise de Lotbinière is coming to see you and Pierre Philibert; you must be there to welcome her,--gallants are too scarce to allow her to spare the handsomest of all, my own brother!”
Amélie divined truly from Le Gardeur's restless eyes and haggard look that a fierce conflict was going on in his breast between duty and desire,--whether he should remain at home, or go to the village to plunge again into the sea of dissipation out of which he had just been drawn to land half-drowned and utterly desperate.
Amélie resolved not to leave his side, but to cleave to him, and inch by inch to fight the demons which possessed him until she got the victory.
Le Gardeur looked fondly in the face of Amélie. He read her thoughts, and was very conscious why she wished him not to go to the village. His feelings gave way before her love and tenderness. He suddenly embraced her and kissed her cheeks, while the tears stood welling in his eyes. “I am not worthy of you, Amélie,” said he; “so much sisterly care is lost on me!”
“Oh, say not that, brother,” replied she, kissing him fondly in return. “I would give my life to save you, O my brother!”
Amélie was greatly moved, and for a time unable to speak further; she laid her head on his shoulder, and sobbed audibly. Her love gained the victory where remonstrance and opposition would have lost it.
“You have won the day, Amélie!” said he; “I will not go to the village except with you. You are the best and truest girl in all Christendom! Why is there no other like you? If there were, this curse had not come upon me, nor this trial upon you, Amélie! You are my good angel, and I will try, oh, so faithfully try, to be guided by you! If you fail, you will at least have done all and more than your duty towards your erring brother.”
“Le Brun!” cried he to the groom who had brought his horse, and to whom he threw the whip which had made such havoc among the flowers, “lead Black Caesar to the stable again! and hark you! when I bid you bring him out in the early morning another time, lead him to me unbridled and unsaddled, with only a halter on his head, that I may ride as a clown, not as a gentleman!”
Le Brun stared at this speech, and finally regarded it as a capital joke, or else, as he whispered to his fellow-grooms in the stable, he believed his young master had gone mad.
“Pierre Philibert,” continued Amélie, “is down at the salmon pool. Let us join him, Le Gardeur, and bid him good morning once more at Tilly.”
Amélie, overjoyed at her victory, tripped gaily by the side of her brother, and presently two friendly hands, the hands of Pierre Philibert, were extended to greet her and Le Gardeur.
The hand of Amélie was retained for a moment in that of Pierre Philibert, sending the blood to her cheeks. There is a magnetic touch in loving fingers which is never mistaken, though their contact be but for a second of time: it anticipates the strong grasp of love which will ere long embrace body and soul in adamantine chains of a union not to be broken even by death.
If Pierre Philibert retained the hand of Amélie for one second longer than mere friendship required of him, no one perceived it but God and themselves. Pierre felt it like a revelation--the hand of Amélie yielding timidly, but not unwillingly, to his manly grasp. He looked in her face. Her eyes were averted, and she withdrew her hand quietly but gently, as not upbraiding him.
That moment of time flashed a new influence upon both their lives: it was the silent recognition that each was henceforth conscious of the special regard of the other.
There are moments which contain the whole quintessence of our lives,--our loves, our hopes, our failures, in one concentrated drop of happiness or misery. We look behind us and see that our whole past has led up to that infinitesimal fraction of time which is the consummation of the past in the present, the end of the old and the beginning of the new. We look forward from the vantage ground of the present, and the world of a new revelation lies before us.
Pierre Philibert was conscious from that moment that Amélie de Repentigny was not indifferent to him,--nay, he had a ground of hope that in time she would listen to his pleadings, and at last bestow on him the gift of her priceless love.
His hopes were sure hopes, although he did not dare to give himself the sweet assurance of it, nor did Amélie herself as yet suspect how far her heart was irrevocably wedded to Pierre Philibert.
Deep as was the impression of that moment upon both of them, neither Philibert nor Amélie yielded to its influence more than to lapse into a momentary silence, which was relieved by Le Gardeur, who, suspecting not the cause,--nay, thinking it was on his account that his companions were so unaccountably grave and still, kindly endeavored to force the conversation upon a number of interesting topics, and directed the attention of Philibert to various points of the landscape which suggested reminiscences of his former visits to Tilly.
The equilibrium of conversation was restored, and the three, sitting down on a long, flat stone, a boulder which had dropped millions of years before out of an iceberg as it sailed slowly over the glacial ocean which then covered the place of New France, commenced to talk over Amélie's programme of the previous night, the amusements she had planned for the week, the friends in all quarters they were to visit, and the friends from all quarters they were to receive at the Manor House. These topics formed a source of fruitful comment, as conversation on our friends always does. If the sun shone hot and fierce at noontide in the dog-days, they would enjoy the cool shade of the arbors with books and conversation; they would ride in the forest, or embark in their canoes for a row up the bright little river; there would be dinners and diversions for the day, music and dancing for the night.
The spirits of the inmates of the Manor House could not help but be kept up by these expedients, and Amélie flattered herself that she would quite succeed in dissipating the gloomy thoughts which occupied the mind of Le Gardeur.
They sat on the stone by the brook-side for an hour, conversing pleasantly while they watched the speckled trout dart like silver arrows spotted with blood in the clear pool.
Le Gardeur strove to be gay, and teased Amélie in playfully criticizing her programme, and, half in earnest, half in jest, arguing for the superior attractions of the Palace of the Intendant to those of the Manor House of Tilly. He saw the water standing in her eyes, when a consciousness of what must be her feelings seized him; he drew her to his side, asked her forgiveness, and wished fire were set to the Palace and himself in the midst of it! He deserved it for wounding, even in jest, the heart of the best and noblest sister in the world.
“I am not wounded, dear Le Gardeur,” replied she, softly; “I knew you were only in jest. My foolish heart is so sensitive to all mention of the Palace and its occupants in connection with you, that I could not even take in jest what was so like truth.”
“Forgive me, I will never mention the Palace to you again, Amélie, except to repeat the malediction I have bestowed upon it a thousand times an hour since I returned to Tilly.”
“My own brave brother!” exclaimed she, embracing him, “now I am happy!”
The shrill notes of a bugle were heard sounding a military call to breakfast. It was the special privilege of an old servitor of the family, who had been a trumpeter in the troop of the Seigneur of Tilly, to summon the family of the Manor House in that manner to breakfast only. The old trumpeter had solicited long to be allowed to sound the reveille at break of day, but the good Lady de Tilly had too much regard for the repose of the inmates of her house to consent to any such untimely waking of them from their morning slumbers.
The old, familiar call was recognized by Philibert, who reminded Amélie of a day when Aeolus (the ancient trumpeter bore that windy sobriquet) had accompanied them on a long ramble in the forest,--how, the day being warm, the old man fell asleep under a comfortable shade, while the three children straggled off into the depths of the woods, where they were speedily lost.
“I remember it like yesterday, Pierre,” exclaimed Amélie, sparkling at the reminiscence; “I recollect how I wept and wrung my hands, tired out, hungry, and forlorn, with my dress in tatters, and one shoe left in a miry place! I recollect, moreover, that my protectors were in almost as bad a plight as myself, yet they chivalrously carried the little maiden by turns, or together made a queen's chair for me with their locked hands, until we all broke down together and sat crying at the foot of a tree, reminding one another of the babes in the wood, and recounting stories of bears which had devoured lost naughty children in the forest. I remember how we all knelt down at last and recited our prayers until suddenly we heard the bugle-call of Aeolus sounding close by us. The poor old man, wild with rapture at having found us, kissed and shook us so violently that we almost wished ourselves lost in the forest again.”
The recollection of this adventure was very pleasing to Pierre. He recalled every incident of it perfectly, and all three of them seemed for a while transported back into the fairy-land of their happy childhood.
The bugle-call of old Aeolus again sounded, and the three friends rose and proceeded towards the house.
The little brook--it had never looked so bright before to Amélie--sparkled with joy like her own eyes. The orioles and blackbirds warbled in the bushes, and the insects which love warmth and sunshine chirmed and chirruped among the ferns and branches as Amélie, Pierre, and Le Gardeur walked home along the green footpath under the avenue of elms that led to the château.
The Lady de Tilly received them with many pleasant words. Leading them into the breakfast-room, she congratulated Le Gardeur upon the satisfaction it afforded her to see her dear children, so she called them, once more seated round her board in health and happiness. Amélie colored slightly, and looked at her aunt as if questioning whether she included Philibert among her children.
The Lady de Tilly guessed her thought, but pretending not to, bade Felix proceed with the breakfast, and turned the conversation to topics more general. “The Iroquois,” she said, “had left the Chaudière and gone further eastward; the news had just been brought in by messengers to the Seigniory, and it was probable, nay, certain that they would not be heard of again. Therefore Le Gardeur and Pierre Philibert were under no necessity of leaving the Manor to search for the savages, but could arrange with Amélie for as much enjoyment as they could crowd into these summer days.”
“It is all arranged, aunt!” replied Amélie. “We have held a cour plenière this morning, and made a code of laws for our Kingdom of Cocagne during the next eight days. It needs only the consent of our suzeraine lady to be at once acted upon.”
“And your suzeraine lady gives her consent without further questioning, Amélie! although I confess you have an admirable way of carrying your point, Amélie,” said her aunt, laughing; “you resolve first what you will do, and ask my approbation after.”
“Yes, aunt, that is our way in the kingdom of pleasure! And we begin this morning: Le Gardeur and Pierre will ride to the village to meet our cousin Héloise, from Lotbinière.”
“But you will accompany us, Amélie!” exclaimed Le Gardeur. “I will not go else,--it was a bargain!”
“Oh, I did not count myself for anything but an embarrassment! of course I shall go with you, Le Gardeur, but our cousin Héloise de Lotbinière is coming to see you, not me. She lost her heart,” remarked she, turning to Pierre, “when she was last here, at the feast of St. John, and is coming to seek it again.”
“Ah! how was that, Amélie?” asked Philibert. “I remember the lovely face, the chestnut curls, and bright black eyes of Héloise de Lotbinière. And has hers really gone the way of all hearts?”
“Of all good hearts, Pierre,--but you shall hear if you will be good and listen. She saw the portraits of you and Le Gardeur, one day, hung in the boudoir of my aunt. Héloise professed that she admired both until she could not tell which she liked best, and left me to decide.”
“Ah! and which of us did you give to the fair Héloise?” demanded Philibert with a sudden interest.
“Not the Abélard she wanted, you may be sure, Pierre,” exclaimed Le Gardeur; “she gave me, and kept you! It was a case of clear misappropriation.”
“No, brother, not so!” replied Amélie, hastily. “Héloise had tried the charm of the three caskets with the three names without result, and at last watched in the church porch, on the eve of St. John, to see the shade of her destined lover pass by, and lo, Héloise vowed she saw me, and no one else, pass into the church!”
“Ah! I suppose it was you? It is no rare thing for you to visit the shrine of our Lady on the eve of St. John. Pierre Philibert, do you recollect? Oh, not as I do, dear friend,” continued Le Gardeur with a sudden change of voice, which was now filled with emotion: “it was on the day of St. John you saved my poor worthless life. We are not ungrateful! She has kept the eve of St. John in the church ever since, in commemoration of that event.”
“Brother, we have much to thank Heaven for!” replied Amélie, blushing deeply at his words, “and I trust we shall never be ungrateful for its favor and protection.”
Amélie shied from a compliment like a young colt at its own shadow. She avoided further reference to the subject broached by Le Gardeur by saying,--“It was I whom Héloise saw pass into the church. I never explained the mystery to her, and she is not sure yet whether it was my wraith or myself who gave her that fright on St. John's eve. But I claimed her heart as one authorized to take it, and if I could not marry her myself I claimed the right to give her to whomsoever I pleased, and I gave her to you, Le Gardeur, but you would not accept the sweetest girl in New France!”
“Thanks, Amélie,” replied he, laughing, yet wincing. “Héloise is indeed all you say, the sweetest girl in New France! But she was too angelic for Le Gardeur de Repentigny. Pshaw! you make me say foolish things, Amélie. But in penance for my slight, I will be doubly attentive to my fair cousin de Lotbinière to-day. I will at once order the horses and we will ride down to the village to meet her.”
Arrayed in a simple riding-dress of dark blue, which became her as did everything else which she wore,--Amélie's very attire seemed instinct with the living graces and charms of its wearer,--she mounted her horse, accepting the aid of Philibert to do so, although when alone she usually sprang to the saddle herself, saluting the Lady de Tilly, who waved her hand to them from the lawn. The three friends slowly cantered down the broad avenue of the park towards the village of Tilly.
Amélie rode well. The exercise and the pure air brought the fresh color to her face, and her eyes sparkled with animation as she conversed gaily with her brother and Philibert.
They speedily reached the village, where they met Héloise de Lotbinière, who, rushing to Amélie, kissed her with effusion, and as she greeted Le Gardeur looked up as if she would not have refused a warmer salutation than the kind shake of the hand with which he received her. She welcomed Philibert with glad surprise, recognizing him at once, and giving a glance at Amélie which expressed an ocean of unspoken meaning and sympathy.
Héloise was beautiful, gay, spirited, full of good humor and sensibility. Her heart had long been devoted to Le Gardeur, but never meeting with any response to her shy advances, which were like the wheeling of a dove round and round its wished-for mate, she had long concluded with a sigh that for her the soul of Le Gardeur was insensible to any touch of a warmer regard than sprang from the most sincere friendship.
Amélie saw and understood all this; she loved Héloise, and in her quiet way had tried to awaken a kinder feeling for her in the heart of her brother. As one fights fire with fire in the great conflagrations of the prairies, Amélie hoped also to combat the influence of Angélique des Meloises by raising up a potent rival in the fair Héloise de Lotbinière but she soon found how futile were her endeavors. The heart of Le Gardeur was wedded to the idol of his fancy, and no woman on earth could win him away from Angélique.
Amélie comforted Héloise by the gift of her whole confidence and sympathy. The poor disappointed girl accepted the decree of fate, known to no other but Amélie, while in revenge upon herself--a thing not rare in proud, sensitive natures--she appeared in society more gay, more radiant and full of mirth than ever before. Héloise hid the asp in her bosom, but so long as its bite was unseen she laughed cruelly at the pain of it, and deceived, as she thought, the eyes of the world as to her suffering.
The arrival of Héloise de Lotbinière was followed by that of a crowd of other visitors, who came to the Manor House to pay their respects to the family on their return home, and especially to greet Le Gardeur and Colonel Philibert, who was well remembered, and whom the busy tongues of gossip already set down as a suitor for the hand of the young chatelaine.
The report of what was said by so many whispering friends was quickly carried to the ear of Amélie by some of her light-hearted companions. She blushed at the accusation, and gently denied all knowledge of it, laughing as a woman will laugh who carries a hidden joy or a hidden sorrow in her heart, neither of which she cares to reveal to the world's eye. Amélie listened to the pleasant tale with secret complaisance, for, despite her tremor and confusion, it was pleasant to hear that Pierre Philibert loved her, and was considered a suitor for her hand. It was sweet to know that the world believed she was his choice.
She threaded every one of these precious words, like a chaplet of pearls upon the strings of her heart,--contemplating them, counting them over and over in secret, with a joy known only to herself and to God, whom she prayed to guide her right whatever might happen.
That something would happen ere long she felt a premonition, which at times made her grave in the midst of her hopes and anticipations.
The days passed gaily at Tilly. Amélie carried out the elaborate programme which she had arranged for the amusement of Le Gardeur as well as for the pleasures of her guests.
Every day brought a change and a fresh enjoyment. The mornings were devoted by the gentlemen to hunting, fishing, and other sport; by the ladies to reading, music, drawing, needlework, or the arrangements of dress and ornaments. In the afternoons all met together, and the social evening was spent either at the Manor House or some neighboring mansion. The hospitality of all was alike: a profusion of social feeling formed, at that day, a marked characteristic of the people of New France.
The Lady de Tilly spent an hour or two each day with her trusty land steward, or bailli, Master Coté, in attending to the multifarious business of her Seigniory. The feudal law of New France imposed great duties and much labor upon the lords of the manor, by giving them an interest in every man's estate, and making them participators in every transfer of land throughout a wide district of country. A person who acquired, by purchase or otherwise, the lands of a censitaire, or vassal, was held to perform foi et hommage for the lands so acquired, and to acquit all other feudal dues owing by the original holder to his seigneur.
It was during one of these fair summer days at Tilly that Sieur Tranchelot, having acquired the farm of the Bocage, a strip of land a furlong wide and a league in depth, with a pleasant frontage on the broad St. Lawrence, the new censitaire came as in duty bound to render foi et hommage for the same to the lady of the Manor of Tilly, according to the law and custom of the Seigniory.
At the hour of noon, Lady de Tilly, with Le Gardeur, Amélie, and Pierre Philibert, in full dress, stood on a dais in the great hall; Master Coté sat at a table on the floor in front, with his great clasped book of record open before him. A drawn sword lay upon the table, and a cup of wine stood by the side of it.
When all was arranged, three loud knocks were heard on the great door, and the Sieur Tranchelot, dressed in his holiday costume, but bareheaded and without sword or spurs,--not being gentilhomme he was not entitled to wear them,--entered the door, which was ceremoniously opened for him by the majordomo. He was gravely led up to the dais, where stood the lady of the Manor, by the steward bearing his wand of office.
The worthy censitaire knelt down before the lady, and repeating her name three times, pronounced the formula of foi et hommage prescribed by the law, as owing to the lords of the Manor of Tilly.
“My Lady de Tilly! My Lady de Tilly! My Lady de Tilly! I render you fealty and homage due to you on account of my lands of the Bocage, which belong to me by virtue of the deed executed by the Sieur Marcel before the worthy notary Jean Pothier dit Robin, on the day of Palms, 1748, and I avow my willingness to acquit the seigniorial and feudal cens et rentes, and all other lawful dues, whensoever payable by me; beseeching you to be my good liege lady, and to admit me to the said fealty and homage.”
The lady accepted the homage of Sieur Tranchelot, graciously remitted the lods et ventes,--the fines payable to the seigneur,--gave him the cup of wine to drink when he rose to his feet, and ordered him to be generously entertained by her majordomo, and sent back to the Bocage rejoicing.
So the days passed by in alternation of business and pastime, but all made a pleasure for the agreeable inmates of the Manor House. Philibert gave himself up to the delirium of enchantment which the presence of Amélie threw over him. He never tired of watching the fresh developments of her gloriously-endowed nature. Her beauty, rare as it was, grew day by day upon his wonder and admiration, as he saw how fully it corresponded to the innate grace and nobility of her mind.
She was so fresh of thought, so free from all affectation, so gentle and winning in all her ways, and, sooth to say, so happy in the admiration of Philibert, which she was very conscious of now. It darted from his eyes at every look, although no word of it had yet passed his lips. The radiance of her spirits flashed like sunbeams through every part of the old Manor House.
Amélie was carried away in a flood of new emotion; she tried once or twice to be discreetly angry with herself for admitting so unreservedly the pleasure she felt in Pierre's admiration; she placed her soul on a rack of self-questioning torture, and every inquisition she made of her heart returned the self-same answer: she loved Pierre Philibert!
It was in vain she accused herself of possible impropriety: that it was bold, unmaidenly, censurable, nay, perhaps sinful, to give her heart before it had been asked for; but if she had to die for it, she could not conceal the truth, that she loved Pierre Philibert! “I ought to be angry with myself,” said she. “I try to be so, but I cannot! Why?”
“Why?” Amélie solved the query as every true woman does, who asks herself why she loves one man rather than another. “Because he has chosen me out in preference to all others, to be the treasure-keeper of his affections! I am proud,” continued Amélie, “that he gives his love to me, to me! unworthy as I am of such preference. I am no better than others.” Amélie was a true woman: proud as an empress before other men, she was humble and lowly as the Madonna in the presence of him whom she felt was, by right of love, lord and master of her affections.
Amélie could not overcome a feeling of tremor in the presence of Pierre since she made this discovery. Her cheek warmed with an incipient flush when his ardent eyes glanced at her too eloquently. She knew what was in his heart, and once or twice, when casually alone with Philibert, she saw his lips quivering under a hard restraint to keep in the words, the dear words, she thought, which would one day burst forth in a flood of passionate eloquence, overwhelming all denial, and make her his own forever.
Time and tide, which come to all once in our lives, as the poet says, and which must be taken at their flood to lead to fortune, came at length to Amélie de Repentigny.
It came suddenly and in an unlooked-for hour, the great question of questions to her as to every woman.
The hour of birth and the hour of death are in God's hand, but the hour when a woman, yielding to the strong enfolding arm of a man who loves her, falters forth an avowal of her love, and plights her troth, and vows to be one with him till death, God leaves that question to be decided by her own heart. His blessing rests upon her choice, if pure love guides and reason enlightens affection. His curse infallibly follows every faithless pledge where no heart is, every union that is not the marriage of love and truth. These alone can be married, and where these are absent there is no marriage at all in the face of Heaven, and but the simulation of one on earth, an unequal yoking, which, if man will not sunder, God will at last, where there is neither marriage nor giving in marriage, but all are as his angels.
The day appointed for the long-planned excursion to the beautiful Lake of Tilly came round. A numerous and cheerful water-party left the Manor House in the bright, cool morning to spend the day gipsying in the shady woods and quiet recesses of the little lake. They were all there: Amélie's invitation to her young friends far and near had been eagerly accepted. Half a dozen boats and canoes, filled with light-hearted companions and with ample provisions for the day, shot up the narrow river, and after a rapid and merry voyage, disembarked their passengers and were drawn up on the shores and islands of the lake.
That bright morning was followed by a sunny day of blue skies, warm yet breezy. The old oaks wove a carpet of shadows, changing the pattern of its tissue every hour upon the leaf-strewn floor of the forest. The fresh pines shed their resinous perfume on every side in the still shade, but out in the sunshine the birds sang merrily all day.
The groups of merrymakers spent a glorious day of pleasure by the side of the clear, smooth lake, fishing and junketing on shore, or paddling their birch canoes over its waters among the little islands which dotted its surface.
Day was fast fading away into a soft twilight; the shadows which had been drawing out longer and longer as the sun declined, lay now in all their length, like bands stretched over the greensward. The breeze went down with the sun, and the smooth surface of the lake lay like a sheet of molten gold reflecting the parting glories of the day that still lit up the western sky.
A few stars began to twinkle here and there--they were not destined to shine brilliantly to-night, for they would ere long be eclipsed by the splendor of the full moon, which was just at hand, rising in a hemisphere of light, which stood like a royal pavilion on the eastern horizon. From it in a few minutes would emerge the queen of heaven, and mildly replace the vanishing glory of the day.
The company, after a repast under the trees, rose full of life and merriment and rearranged themselves into little groups and couples as chance or inclination led them. They trooped down to the beach to embark in their canoes for a last joyous cruise round the lake and its fairy islands, by moonlight, before returning home.
Amid a shower of lively conversation and laughter, the ladies seated themselves in the light canoes, which danced like corks upon the water. The gentlemen took the paddles, and, expert as Indians in the use of them, swept out over the surface of the lake, which was now all aglow with the bright crimson of sunset.
In the bow of one of the canoes sat the Arion of Tilly, Jean de La Marche; a flute or two accompanied his violin, and a guitar tinkled sweetly under the fingers of Héloise de Lotbinière. They played an old air, while Jean led the chorus in splendid voice: “'Nous irons sur l'eau, Nous y prom-promener, Nous irons jouer dans l'isle.'”
The voices of all united in the song as the canoes swept away around a little promontory, crowned with three pine-trees, which stood up in the blaze of the setting sun like the three children in the fiery furnace, or the sacred bush that burned and was not consumed.
Faint and fainter, the echoes repeated the receding harmony, until at last they died away. A solemn silence succeeded. A languor like that of the lotus-eaters crept over the face of nature and softened the heart to unwonted tenderness. It was the hour of gentle thoughts, of low spoken confidences, and love between young and sympathizing souls, who alone with themselves and God confess their mutual love and invoke his blessing upon it.
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{
"id": "2735"
}
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29
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FELICES TER ET AMPLIUS.
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Amélie, by accident or by contrivance of her fair companions,--girls are so wily and sympathetic with each other,--had been left seated by the side of Philibert, on the twisted roots of a gigantic oak forming a rude but simple chair fit to enthrone the king of the forest and his dryad queen. No sound came to break the quiet of the evening hour save the monotonous plaint of a whippoorwill in a distant brake, and the ceaseless chirm of insects among the leafy boughs and down in the ferns that clustered on the knolls round about.
Philibert let fall upon his knee the book which he had been reading. His voice faltered, he could not continue without emotion the touching tale of Paolo and Francesca da Rimini. Amélie's eyes were suffused with tears of pity, for her heart had beat time to the music of Dante's immortal verse as it dropped in measured cadence from the lips of Philibert.
She had read the pathetic story before, but never comprehended until now the weakness which is the strength of love. Oh, blessed paradox of a woman's heart! And how truly the Commedia, which is justly called Divine, unlocks the secret chambers of the human soul.
“Read no more, Pierre,” said she, “that book is too terrible in its beauty and in its sadness! I think it was written by a disembodied spirit who had seen all worlds, knew all hearts, and shared in all sufferings. It sounds to me like the sad voice of a prophet of woe.”
“Amélie,” replied he, “believe you there are women faithful and true as Francesca da Rimini? She would not forsake Paolo even in the gloomy regions of despair. Believe you that there are such women?”
Amélie looked at him with a quick, confident glance. A deep flush covered her cheek, and her breath went and came rapidly; she knew what to answer, but she thought it might seem overbold to answer such a question. A second thought decided her, however. Pierre Philibert would ask her no question to which she might not answer, she said to herself.
Amélie replied to him slowly, but undoubtingly: “I think there are such women, Pierre,” replied she, “women who would never, even in the regions of despair, forsake the man whom they truly love, no, not for all the terrors recorded in that awful book of Dante!”
“It is a blessed truth, Amélie,” replied he, eagerly; and he thought, but did not say it, “Such a woman you are; the man who gets your love gets that which neither earth nor heaven nor hell can take away.”
He continued aloud, “The love of such a woman is truly given away, Amélie; no one can merit it! It is a woman's grace, not man's deserving.”
“I know not,” said she; “it is not hard to give away God's gifts: love should be given freely as God gives it to us. It has no value except as the bounty of the heart, and looks for no reward but in its own acceptance.”
“Amélie!” exclaimed he, passionately, turning full towards her; but her eyes remained fixed upon the ground. “The gift of such a woman's love has been the dream, the ambition of my life! I may never find it, or having found it may never be worthy of it; and yet I must find it or die! I must find it where alone I seek it--there or nowhere! Can you help me for friendship's sake--for love's sake, Amélie de Repentigny, to find that one treasure that is precious as life, which is life itself to the heart of Pierre Philibert?”
He took hold of her passive hands. They trembled in his, but she offered not to withdraw them. Indeed, she hardly noticed the act in the tide of emotion which was surging in her bosom. Her heart moved with a wild yearning to tell him that he had found the treasure he sought,--that a love as strong and as devoted as that of Francesca da Rimini was her own free gift to him.
She tried to answer him, but could not. Her hand still remained fast locked in his. He held to it as a drowning man holds to the hand that is stretched to save him.
Philibert knew at that moment that the hour of his fate was come. He would never let go that hand again till he called it his own, or received from it a sign to be gone forever from the presence of Amélie de Repentigny.
The soft twilight grew deeper and deeper every moment, changing the rosy hues of the west into a pale ashen gray, over which hung the lamp of love,--the evening star, which shines so brightly and sets so soon,--and ever the sooner as it hastens to become again the morning star of a brighter day.
The shadow of the broad, spreading tree fell darker round the rustic seat where sat these two--as myriads have sat before and since, working out the problems of their lives, and beginning to comprehend each other, as they await with a thrill of anticipation the moment of mutual confidence and fond confession.
Pierre Philibert sat some minutes without speaking. He could have sat so forever, gazing with rapture upon her half-averted countenance, which beamed with such a divine beauty, all aglow with the happy consciousness of his ardent admiration, that it seemed the face of a seraph; and in his heart, if not on his knees, he bent in worship, almost idolatrous, at her feet.
And yet he trembled, this strong man who had faced death in every form but this! He trembled by the side of this gentle girl,--but it was for joy, not for fear. Perfect love casts out fear, and he had no fear now for Amélie's love, although she had not yet dared to look at him. But her little hand lay unreprovingly in his,--nestling like a timid bird which loved to be there, and sought not to escape. He pressed it gently to his heart; he felt by its magnetic touch, by that dumb alphabet of love, more eloquent than spoken words, that he had won the heart of Amélie de Repentigny.
“Pierre,” said she,--she wanted to say it was time to rejoin their companions, but the words would not come. Her face was still half-averted, and suffused with an unseen blush, as she felt his strong arm round her; and his breath, how sweet it seemed, fanning her cheek. She had no power, no will to resist him, as he drew her close, still closer to his heart.
She trembled, but was happy. No eye saw but God's through the blessed twilight; and “God will not reprove Pierre Philibert for loving me,” thought she, “and why should I?” She tried, or simulated, an attempt at soft reproof, as a woman will who fears she may be thought too fond and too easily won, at the very moment she is ready to fall down and kiss the feet of the man before her.
“Pierre,” said she, “it is time we rejoin our companions; they will remark our absence. We will go.”
But she still sat there, and made no effort to go. A gossamer thread could have held her there forever, and how could she put aside the strong arm that was mightier than her own will?
Pierre spoke now; the feelings so long pent up burst forth in a torrent that swept away every bond of restraint but that of love's own laws.
He placed his hand tenderly on her cheek, and turned her glowing face full towards him. Still she dared not look up. She knew well what he was going to say. She might control her words, but not her tell-tale eyes. She felt a wild joy flashing and leaping in her bosom, which no art could conceal, should she look up at this moment in the face of Pierre Philibert.
“Amélie,” said he, after a pause, “turn those dear eyes, and see and believe in the truth of mine! No words can express how much I do love you!”
She gave a start of joy,--not of surprise, for she knew he loved her. But the avowal of Pierre Philibert's love lifted at once the veil from her own feelings. She raised her dark, impassioned eyes to his, and their souls met and embraced in one look both of recognition and bliss. She spake not, but unconsciously nestled closer to his breast, faltering out some inarticulate words of tenderness.
“Amélie,” continued he, straining her still harder to his heart, “your love is all I ask of Heaven and of you. Give me that. I must have it, or live henceforth a man forlorn in the wide world. Oh, say, darling, can you, do you care for me?”
“Yes, indeed I do!” replied she, laying her arm over his neck, as if drawing him towards her with a timid movement, while he stooped and kissed her sweet mouth and eyes in an ecstasy of passionate joy. She abandoned herself for a moment to her excess of bliss. “Kiss me, darling!” said he; and she kissed him more than once, to express her own great love and assure him that it was all his own.
They sat in silence for some minutes; her cheek lay upon his, as she breathed his name with many fond, faltering expressions of tenderness.
He felt her tears upon his face. “You weep, Amélie,” said he, starting up and looking at her cheeks and eyes suffused with moisture.
“I do,” said she, “but it is for joy! Oh, Pierre Philibert, I am so happy! Let me weep now; I will laugh soon. Forgive me if I have confessed too readily how much I love you.”
“Forgive you! 'tis I need forgiveness; impetuous that I am to have forced this confession from you to-night. Those blessed words, 'Yes, indeed I do,'--God's finger has written them on my heart forever. Never will I forsake the dear lips which spake them, nor fail in all loving duty and affection to you, my Amélie, to the end of my life.”
“Of both our lives, Pierre,” replied she; “I can imagine no life, only death, separated from you. In thought you have always been with me from the beginning; my life and yours are henceforth one.”
He gave a start of joy, “And you loved me before, Amélie!” exclaimed he.
“Ever and always; but irrevocably since that day of terror and joy when you saved the life of Le Gardeur, and I vowed to pray for you to the end of my life.”
“And during these long years in the Convent, Amélie,--when we seemed utterly forgotten to each other?”
“You were not forgotten by me, Pierre! I prayed for you then,--earnest prayers for your safety and happiness, never hoping for more; least of all anticipating such a moment of bliss as the present. Oh, my Pierre, do not think me bold! You give me the right to love you without shame by the avowal of your love to me.”
“Amélie!” exclaimed he, kissing her in an ecstasy of joy and admiration, “what have I done--what can I ever do, to merit or recompense such condescension as your dear words express?”
“Love me, Pierre! Always love me! That is my reward. That is all I ask, all my utmost imagination could desire.”
“And this little hand, Amélie, will be forever mine?”
“Forever, Pierre, and the heart along with it.”
He raised her hand reverently to his lips and kissed it. “Let it not be long,” said he. “Life is too short to curtail one hour of happiness from the years full of trouble which are most men's lot.”
“But not our lot, Pierre; not ours. With you I forbode no more trouble in this life, and eternal joy in the next.”
She looked at him, and her eyes seemed to dilate with joy. Her hand crept timidly up to his thick locks; she fondly brushed them aside from his broad forehead, which she pressed down to her lips and kissed.
“Tell my aunt and Le Gardeur when we return home,” continued she. “They love you, and will be glad--nay, overjoyed, to know that I am to be your--your--” “My wife! ---Amélie, thrice blessed words! Oh, say my wife!”
“Yes, your wife, Pierre! Your true and loving wife forever.”
“Forever! Yes. Love like ours is imperishable as the essence of the soul itself, and partakes of the immortality of God, being of him and from him. The Lady de Tilly shall find me a worthy son, and Le Gardeur a true and faithful brother.”
“And you, Pierre! Oh, say it; that blessed word has not sounded yet in my ear--what shall I call you?” And she looked in his eyes, drawing his soul from its inmost depths by the magnetism of her look.
“Your husband,--your true and loving husband, as you are my wife, Amélie.”
“God be praised!” murmured she in his ear. “Yes, my HUSBAND! The blessed Virgin has heard my prayers.” And she pressed him in a fond embrace, while tears of joy flowed from her eyes. “I am indeed happy!”
The words hardly left her lips when a sudden crash of thunder rolled over their heads and went pealing down the lake and among the islands, while a black cloud suddenly eclipsed the moon, shedding darkness over the landscape, which had just begun to brighten in her silvery rays.
Amélie was startled, frightened, clinging hard to the breast of Pierre, as her natural protector. She trembled and shook as the angry reverberations rolled away in the distant forests. “Oh, Pierre!” exclaimed she, “what is that? It is as if a dreadful voice came between us, forbidding our union! But nothing shall ever do that now, shall it? Oh, my love!”
“Nothing, Amélie. Be comforted,” replied he. “It is but a thunder-storm coming up. It will send Le Gardeur and all our gay companions quickly back to us, and we shall return home an hour sooner, that is all. Heaven cannot frown on our union, darling.”
“I should love you all the same, Pierre,” whispered she. Amélie was not hard to persuade; she was neither weak nor superstitious beyond her age and sex. But she had not much time to indulge in alarms.
In a few minutes the sound of voices was heard; the dip and splash of hasty paddles followed, and the fleet of canoes came rushing into shore like a flock of water-fowl seeking shelter in bay or inlet from a storm.
There was a hasty preparation on all sides for departure. The camp-fires were trampled out lest they should kindle a conflagration in the forest. The baskets were tossed into one of the large canoes. Philibert and Amélie embarked in that of Le Gardeur, not without many arch smiles and pretended regrets on the part of some of the young ladies for having left them on their last round of the lake.
The clouds kept gathering in the south, and there was no time for parley. The canoes were headed down the stream, the paddles were plied vigorously: it was a race to keep ahead of the coming storm, and they did not quite win it.
The black clouds came rolling over the horizon in still blacker masses, lower and lower, lashing the very earth with their angry skirts, which were rent and split with vivid flashes of lightning. The rising wind almost overpowered with its roaring the thunder that pealed momentarily nearer and nearer. The rain came down in broad, heavy splashes, followed by a fierce, pitiless hail, as if Heaven's anger was pursuing them.
Amélie clung to Philibert. She thought of Francesca da Rimini clinging to Paolo amidst the tempest of wind and the moving darkness, and uttered tremblingly the words, “Oh, Pierre! what an omen. Shall it be said of us as of them, 'Amor condusse noi ad una morte'?” (“Love has conducted us into one death.”)
“God grant we may one day say so,” replied he, pressing her to his bosom, “when we have earned it by a long life of mutual love and devotion. But now cheer up, darling; we are home.”
The canoes pushed madly to the bank. The startled holiday party sprang out; servants were there to help them. All ran across the lawn under the wildly-tossing trees, and in a few moments, before the storm could overtake them with its greatest fury, they reached the Manor House, and were safe under the protection of its strong and hospitable roof.
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{
"id": "2735"
}
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30
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“NO SPEECH OF SILK WILL SERVE YOUR TURN.”
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Angélique des Meloises was duly informed, through the sharp espionage of Lizette, as to what had become of Le Gardeur after that memorable night of conflict between love and ambition, when she rejected the offer of his hand and gave herself up to the illusions of her imagination.
She was sorry, yet flattered, at Lizette's account of his conduct at the Taverne de Menut; for, although pleased to think that Le Gardeur loved her to the point of self-destruction, she honestly pitied him, and felt, or thought she felt, that she could sacrifice anything except herself for his sake.
Angélique pondered in her own strange, fitful way over Le Gardeur. She had no thought of losing him wholly. She would continue to hold him in her silken string, and keep him under the spell of her fascinations. She still admired him,--nay, loved him, she thought. She could not help doing so; and if she could not help it, where was the blame? She would not, to be sure, sacrifice for him the brilliant hopes which danced before her imagination like fire-flies in a summer night--for no man in the world would she do that! The Royal Intendant was the mark she aimed at. She was ready to go through fire and water to reach that goal of her ambition. But if she gave the Intendant her hand it was enough; it was all she could give him, but not the smallest corner of her heart, which she acknowledged to herself belonged only to Le Gardeur de Repentigny.
While bent on accomplishing this scheme by every means in her power, and which involved necessarily the ruin of Le Gardeur, she took a sort of perverse pride in enumerating the hundred points of personal and moral superiority possessed by him over the Intendant and all others of her admirers. If she sacrificed her love to her ambition, hating herself while she did so, it was a sort of satisfaction to think that Le Gardeur's sacrifice was not less complete than her own; and she rather felt pleased with the reflection that his heart would be broken, and no other woman would ever fill that place in his affections which she had once occupied.
The days that elapsed after their final interview were days of vexation to Angélique. She was angry with herself, almost; angry with Le Gardeur that he had taken her at her word, and still more angry that she did not reap the immediate reward of her treachery against her own heart. She was like a spoiled and wilful child which will neither have a thing nor let it go. She would discard her lover and still retain his love! and felt irritated and even jealous when she heard of his departure to Tilly with his sister, who had thus, apparently, more influence to take him away from the city than Angélique had to keep him there.
But her mind was especially worked upon almost to madness by the ardent professions of love, with the careful avoidance of any proposal of marriage, on the part of the Intendant. She had received his daily visits with a determination to please and fascinate him. She had dressed herself with elaborate care, and no woman in New France equalled Angélique in the perfection of her attire. She studied his tastes in her conversation and demeanor, which were free beyond even her wont, because she saw that a manner bold and unconstrained took best with him. Angélique's free style was the most perfect piece of acting in the world. She laughed loudly at his wit, and heard without blushes his double entendres and coarse jests, not less coarse because spoken in the polished dialect of Paris. She stood it all, but with no more result than is left by a brilliant display of fireworks after it is over. She could read in the eager looks and manner of the Intendant that she had fixed his admiration and stirred his passions, but she knew by a no less sure intuition that she had not, with all her blandishments, suggested to his mind one serious thought of marriage.
In vain she reverted to the subject of matrimony, in apparent jest but secret earnest. The Intendant, quick-witted as herself, would accept the challenge, talk with her and caracole on the topic which she had caparisoned so gaily for him, and amid compliments and pleasantries, ride away from the point, she knew not whither! Then Angélique would be angry after his departure, and swear,--she could swear shockingly for a lady when she was angry! --and vow she would marry Le Gardeur after all; but her pride was stung, not her love. No man had ever defeated her when she chose to subdue him, neither should this proud Intendant! So Angélique collected her scattered forces again, and laid closer siege to Bigot than ever.
The great ball at the Palais had been the object of absorbing interest to the fashionable society of the Capital for many weeks. It came on at last, turning the heads of half the city with its splendor.
Angélique shone the acknowledged queen of the Intendant's ball. Her natural grace and beauty, set off by the exquisite taste and richness of her attire, threw into eclipse the fairest of her rivals. If there was one present who, in admiration of her own charms, claimed for herself the first place, she freely conceded to Angélique the second. But Angélique feared no rival there. Her only fear was at Beaumanoir. She was profoundly conscious of her own superiority to all present, while she relished the envy and jealousy which it created. She cared but little what the women thought of her, and boldly challenging the homage of the men, obtained it as her rightful due.
Still, under the gay smiles and lively badinage which she showered on all around as she moved through the brilliant throng, Angélique felt a bitter spirit of discontent rankling in her bosom. She was angry, and she knew why, and still more angry because upon herself lay the blame! Not that she blamed herself for having rejected Le Gardeur: she had done that deliberately and for a price; but the price was not yet paid, and she had, sometimes, qualms of doubt whether it would ever be paid!
She who had had her own way with all men, now encountered a man who spoke and looked like one who had had his own way with all women, and who meant to have his own way with her!
She gazed often upon the face of Bigot, and the more she looked the more inscrutable it appeared to her. She tried to sound the depths of his thoughts, but her inquiry was like the dropping of a stone into the bottomless pit of that deep cavern of the dark and bloody ground talked of by adventurous voyageurs from the Far West.
That Bigot admired her beyond all other women at the ball, was visible enough from the marked attention which he lavished upon her and the courtly flatteries that flowed like honey from his lips. She also read her preëminence in his favor from the jealous eyes of a host of rivals who watched her every movement. But Angélique felt that the admiration of the Intendant was not of that kind which had driven so many men mad for her sake. She knew Bigot would never go mad for her, much as he was fascinated! and why? why?
Angélique, while listening to his honeyed flatteries as he led her gaily through the ballroom, asked herself again and again, why did he carefully avoid the one topic that filled her thoughts, or spoke of it only in his mocking manner, which tortured her to madness with doubt and perplexity?
As she leaned on the arm of the courtly Intendant, laughing like one possessed with the very spirit of gaiety at his sallies and jests, her mind was torn with bitter comparisons as she remembered Le Gardeur, his handsome face and his transparent admiration, so full of love and ready for any sacrifice for her sake,--and she had cast it all away for this inscrutable voluptuary, a man who had no respect for women, but who admired her person, condescended to be pleased with it, and affected to be caught by the lures she held out to him, but which she felt would be of no more avail to hold him fast than the threads which a spider throws from bush to bush on a summer morn will hold fast a bird which flies athwart them!
The gayest of the gay to all outward appearance, Angélique missed sorely the presence of Le Gardeur, and she resented his absence from the ball as a slight and a wrong to her sovereignty, which never released a lover from his allegiance.
The fair demoiselles at the ball, less resolutely ambitious than Angélique, found by degrees, in the devotion of other cavaliers, ample compensation for only so much of the Intendant's favor as he liberally bestowed on all the sex; but that did not content Angélique: she looked with sharpest eyes of inquisition upon the bright glances which now and then shot across the room where she sat by the side of Bigot, apparently steeped in happiness, but with a serpent biting at her heart, for she felt that Bigot was really unimpressible as a stone under her most subtle manipulation.
Her thoughts ran in a round of ceaseless repetition of the question: “Why can I not subdue François Bigot as I have subdued every other man who exposed his weak side to my power?” and Angélique pressed her foot hard upon the floor as the answer returned ever the same: “The heart of the Intendant is away at Beaumanoir! That pale, pensive lady” (Angélique used a more coarse and emphatic word) “stands between him and me like a spectre as she is, and obstructs the path I have sacrificed so much to enter!”
“I cannot endure the heat of the ballroom, Bigot!” said Angélique; “I will dance no more to-night! I would rather sit and catch fireflies on the terrace than chase forever without overtaking it the bird that has escaped from my bosom!”
The Intendant, ever attentive to her wishes, offered his arm to lead her into the pleached walks of the illuminated garden. Angélique rose, gathered up her rich train, and with an air of royal coquetry took his arm and accompanied the Intendant on a promenade down the grand alley of roses.
“What favorite bird has escaped from your bosom, Angélique?” asked the Intendant, who had, however, a shrewd guess of the meaning of her metaphor.
“The pleasure I had in anticipation of this ball! The bird has flown, I know not where or how. I have no pleasure here at all!” exclaimed she, petulantly, although she knew the ball had been really got up mainly for her own pleasure.
“And yet Momus himself might have been your father, and Euphrosyne your mother, Angélique,” replied Bigot, “to judge by your gaiety to-night. If you have no pleasure, it is because you have given it all away to others! But I have caught the bird you lost, let me restore it to your bosom pray!” He laid his hand lightly and caressingly upon her arm. Her bosom was beating wildly; she removed his hand, and held it firmly grasped in her own.
“Chevalier!” said she, “the pleasure of a king is in the loyalty of his subjects, the pleasure of a woman in the fidelity of her lover!” She was going to say more, but stopped. But she gave him a glance which insinuated more than all she left unsaid.
Bigot smiled to himself. “Angélique is jealous!” thought he, but he only remarked, “That is an aphorism which I believe with all my heart! If the pleasure of a woman be in the fidelity of her lover, I know no one who should be more happy than Angélique des Meloises! No lady in New France has a right to claim greater devotion from a lover, and no one receives it!”
“But I have no faith in the fidelity of my lover! and I am not happy, Chevalier! far from it!” replied she, with one of those impulsive speeches that seemed frankness itself, but in this woman were artful to a degree.
“Why so?” replied he; “pleasure will never leave you, Angélique, unless you wilfully chase it away from your side! All women envy your beauty, all men struggle to obtain your smiles. For myself, I would gather all the joys and treasures of the world, and lay them at your feet, would you let me!
“I do not hinder you, Chevalier!” she replied, with a laugh of incredulity, “but you do not do it! It is only your politeness to say that. I have told you that the pleasure of a woman is in the fidelity of her lover; tell me now, Chevalier, what is the highest pleasure of a man?”
“The beauty and condescension of his mistress,--at least, I know none greater.” Bigot looked at her as if his speech ought to receive acknowledgement on the spot.
“And it is your politeness to say that, also, Chevalier!” replied she very coolly.
“I wish I could say of your condescension, Angélique, what I have said of your beauty: François Bigot would then feel the highest pleasure of a man.” The Intendant only half knew the woman he was seeking to deceive. She got angry.
Angélique looked up with a scornful flash. “My condescension, Chevalier? to what have I not condescended on the faith of your solemn promise that the lady of Beaumanoir should not remain under your roof? She is still there, Chevalier, in spite of your promise!”
Bigot was on the point of denying the fact, but there was sharpness in Angélique's tone, and clearness of all doubt in her eyes. He saw he would gain nothing by denial.
“She knows the whole secret, I do believe!” muttered he. “Argus with his hundred eyes was a blind man compared to a woman's two eyes sharpened by jealousy.”
“The lady of Beaumanoir accuses me of no sin that I repent of!” replied he. “True! I promised to send her away, and so I will; but she is a woman, a lady, who has claims upon me for gentle usage. If it were your case, Angélique--” Angélique quitted his arm and stood confronting him, flaming with indignation. She did not let him finish his sentence: “If it were my case, Bigot! as if that could ever be my case, and you alive to speak of it!”
Bigot stepped backwards. He was not sure but a poniard glittered in the clenched hand of Angélique. It was but the flash of her diamond rings as she lifted it suddenly. She almost struck him.
“Do not blame me for infidelities committed before I knew you, Angélique!” said he, seizing her hand, which he held forcibly in his, in spite of her efforts to wrench it away.
“It is my nature to worship beauty at every shrine. I have ever done so until I found the concentration of all my divinities in you. I could not, if I would, be unfaithful to you, Angélique des Meloises!” Bigot was a firm believer in the classical faith that Jove laughs at lovers' perjuries.
“You mock me, Bigot!” replied she. “You are the only man who has ever dared to do so twice.”
“When did I mock you twice, Angélique?” asked he, with an air of injured innocence.
“Now! and when you pledged yourself to remove the lady of Beaumanoir from your house! I admire your courage, Bigot, in playing false with me and still hoping to win! But never speak to me more of love while that pale spectre haunts the secret chambers of the Château!”
“She shall be removed, Angélique, since you insist upon it,” replied he, secretly irritated; “but where is the harm? I pledge my faith she shall not stand in the way of my love for you.”
“Better she were dead than do so!” whispered Angélique to herself. “It is my due, Bigot!” replied she aloud, “you know what I have given up for your sake!”
“Yes! I know you have banished Le Gardeur de Repentigny when it had been better to keep him securely in the ranks of the Grand Company. Why did you refuse to marry him, Angélique?”
The question fairly choked her with anger. “Why did I refuse to marry him? François Bigot! Do you ask me seriously that question? Did you not tell me of your own love, and all but offer me your hand, giving me to understand--miserable sinner that you are, or as you think me to be--that you pledged your own faith to me, as first in your choice, and I have done that which I had better have been dead and buried with the heaviest pyramid of Egypt on top of me, buried without hope of resurrection, than have done?”
Bigot, accustomed as he was to woman's upbraidings, scarcely knew what to reply to this passionate outburst. He had spoken to her words of love, plenty of them, but the idea of marriage had not flashed across his mind for a moment,--not a word of that had escaped his lips. He had as little guessed the height of Angélique's ambition as she the depths of his craft and wickedness, and yet there was a wonderful similarity between the characters of both,--the same bold, defiant spirit, the same inordinate ambition, the same void of principle in selecting means to ends,--only the one fascinated with the lures of love, the other by the charms of wit, the temptations of money, or effected his purposes by the rough application of force.
“You call me rightly a miserable sinner,” said he, half smiling, as one not very miserable although a sinner. “If love of fair women be a sin, I am one of the greatest of sinners; and in your fair presence, Angélique, I am sinning at this moment enough to sink a shipload of saints and angels!”
“You have sunk me in my own and the world's estimation, if you mean what you say, Bigot!” replied she, unconsciously tearing in strips the fan she held in her hand. “You love all women too well ever to be capable of fixing your heart upon one!” A tear, of vexation perhaps, stood in her angry eye as she said this, and her cheek twitched with fierce emotion.
“Come, Angélique!” said he, soothingly, “some of our guests have entered this alley. Let us walk down to the terrace. The moon is shining bright over the broad river, and I will swear to you by St. Picaut, my patron, whom I never deceive, that my love for all womankind has not hindered me from fixing my supreme affection upon you.”
Angélique allowed him to press her hand, which he did with fervor. She almost believed his words. She could scarcely imagine another woman seriously preferred to herself, when she chose to flatter a man with a belief of her own preference for him.
They walked down a long alley brilliantly illuminated with lamps of Bohemian glass, which shone like the diamonds, rubies, and emeralds which grew upon the trees in the garden of Aladdin.
At every angle of the geometrically-cut paths of hard-beaten sea-shells, white as snow, stood the statue of a faun, a nymph, or dryad, in Parian marble, holding a torch, which illuminated a great vase running over with fresh, blooming flowers, presenting a vista of royal magnificence which bore testimony to the wealth and splendid tastes of the Intendant.
The garden walks were not deserted: their beauty drew out many a couple who sauntered merrily, or lovingly, down the pleached avenues, which looked like the corridors of a gorgeously-decorated palace.
Bigot and Angélique moved among the guests, receiving, as they passed, obsequious salutations, which to Angélique seemed a foretaste of royalty. She had seen the gardens of the palace many times before, but never illuminated as now. The sight of them so grandly decorated filled her with admiration of their owner, and she resolved that, cost what it would, the homage paid to her to-night, as the partner of the Intendant, should become hers by right on his hearthstone as the first lady in New France.
Angélique threw back her veil that all might see her, that the women might envy and the men admire her, as she leaned confidingly on the arm of Bigot, looking up in his face with that wonderful smile of hers which had brought so many men to ruin at her feet, and talking with such enchantment as no woman could talk but Angélique des Meloises.
Well understanding that her only road to success was to completely fascinate the Intendant, she bent herself to the task with such power of witchery and such simulation of real passion, that Bigot, wary and experienced gladiator as he was in the arena of love, was more than once brought to the brink of a proposal for her hand.
She watched every movement of his features, at these critical moments when he seemed just falling into the snares so artfully set for him. When she caught his eyes glowing with passionate admiration, she shyly affected to withdraw hers from his gaze, turning on him at times flashes of her dark eyes which electrified every nerve of his sensuous nature. She felt the pressure of his hand, the changed and softened inflections of his voice, she knew the words of her fate were trembling on his lips, and yet they did not come! The shadow of that pale hand at Beaumanoir, weak and delicate as it was, seemed to lay itself upon his lips when about to speak to her, and snatch away the words which Angélique, trembling with anticipation, was ready to barter away body and soul to hear spoken.
In a shady passage through a thick greenery where the lights were dimmer and no one was near, she allowed his arm for a moment to encircle her yielding form, and she knew by his quick breath that the words were moulded in his thoughts, and were on the point to rush forth in a torrent of speech. Still they came not, and Bigot again, to her unutterable disgust, shied off like a full-blooded horse which starts suddenly away from some object by the wayside and throws his rider headlong on the ground. So again were dashed the ardent expectations of Angélique.
She listened to the gallant and gay speeches of Bigot, which seemed to flutter like birds round her, but never lit on the ground where she had spread her net like a crafty fowler as she was, until she went almost mad with suppressed anger and passionate excitement. But she kept on replying with badinage light as his own, and with laughter so soft and silvery that it seemed a gentle dew from Heaven, instead of the drift and flying foam of the storm that was raging in her bosom.
She read and re-read glimpses of his hidden thoughts that went and came like faces in a dream, and she saw in her imagination the dark, pleading eyes and pale face of the lady of Beaumanoir. It came now like a revelation, confirming a thousand suspicions that Bigot loved that pale, sad face too well ever to marry Angélique des Meloises while its possessor lived at Beaumanoir,--or while she lived at all!
And it came to that! In this walk with Bigot round the glorious garden, with God's flowers shedding fragrance around them; with God's stars shining overhead above all the glitter and illusion of the thousand lamps, Angélique repeated to herself the terrific words, “Bigot loves that pale, sad face too well ever to marry me while its possessor lives at Beaumanoir--or while she lives at all!”
The thought haunted her! It would not leave her! She leaned heavily upon his arm as she swept like a queen of Cyprus through the flower-bordered walks, brushing the roses and lilies with her proud train, and treading, with as dainty a foot as ever bewitched human eye, the white paths that led back to the grand terrace of the Palace.
Her fevered imagination played tricks in keeping with her fear: more than once she fancied she saw the shadowy form of a beautiful woman walking on the other side of Bigot next his heart! It was the form of Caroline bearing a child in one arm, and claiming, by that supreme appeal to a man's heart, the first place in his affections.
The figure sometimes vanished, sometimes reappeared in the same place, and once and the last time assumed the figure and look of Our Lady of St. Foye, triumphant after a thousand sufferings, and still ever bearing the face and look of the lady of Beaumanoir.
Emerging at last from the dim avenue into the full light, where a fountain sent up showers of sparkling crystals, the figure vanished, and Angélique sat down on a quaintly-carved seat under a mountain-ash, very tired, and profoundly vexed at all things and with everybody.
A servant in gorgeous livery brought a message from the ballroom to the Intendant.
He was summoned for a dance, but he would not leave Angélique, he said. But Angélique begged for a short rest: it was so pleasant in the garden. She would remain by the fountain. She liked its sparkling and splashing, it refreshed her; the Intendant could come for her in half an hour; she wanted to be alone; she felt in a hard, unamiable mood, she said, and he only made her worse by stopping with her when others wanted him, and he wanted others!
The Intendant protested, in terms of the warmest gallantry, that he would not leave her; but seeing Angélique really desired at the present moment to be alone, and reflecting that he was himself sacrificing too much for the sake of one goddess, while a hundred others were adorned and waiting for his offerings, he promised in half an hour to return for her to this spot by the fountain, and proceeded towards the Palace.
Angélique sat watching the play and sparkle of the fountain, which she compared to her own vain exertions to fascinate the Intendant, and thought that her efforts had been just as brilliant, and just as futile!
She was sadly perplexed. There was a depth in Bigot's character which she could not fathom, a bottomless abyss into which she was falling and could not save herself. Whichever way she turned the eidolon of Caroline met her as a bar to all further progress in her design upon the Intendant.
The dim half-vision of Caroline which she had seen in the pleached walk, she knew was only the shadow and projection of her own thoughts, a brooding fancy which she had unconsciously conjured up into the form of her hated rival. The addition of the child was the creation of the deep and jealous imaginings which had often crossed her mind. She thought of that yet unborn pledge of a once mutual affection as the secret spell by which Caroline, pale and feeble as she was, still held the heart of the Intendant in some sort of allegiance.
“It is that vile, weak thing!” said she bitterly and angrily to herself, “which is stronger than I. It is by that she excites his pity, and pity draws after it the renewal of his love. If the hope of what is not yet be so potent with Bigot, what will not the reality prove ere long? The annihilation of all my brilliant anticipations! I have drawn a blank in life's lottery, by the rejection of Le Gardeur for his sake! It is the hand of that shadowy babe which plucks away the words of proposal from the lips of Bigot, which gives his love to its vile mother, and leaves to me the mere ashes of his passion, words which mean nothing, which will never mean anything but insult to Angélique des Meloises, so long as that woman lives to claim the hand which but for her would be mine!”
Dark fancies fluttered across the mind of Angélique during the absence of the Intendant. They came like a flight of birds of evil omen, ravens, choughs, and owls, the embodiments of wicked thoughts. But such thoughts suited her mood, and she neither chid nor banished them, but let them light and brood, and hatch fresh mischief in her soul.
She looked up to see who was laughing so merrily while she was so angry and so sad, and beheld the Intendant jesting and toying with a cluster of laughing girls who had caught him at the turn of the broad stair of the terrace. They kept him there in utter oblivion of Angélique! Not that she cared for his presence at that moment, or felt angry, as she would have done at a neglect of Le Gardeur, but it was one proof among a thousand others that, gallant and gay as he was among the throng of fair guests who were flattering and tempting him on every side, not one of them, herself included, could feel sure she had made an impression lasting longer than the present moment upon the heart of the Intendant.
But Bigot had neither forgotten Angélique nor himself. His wily spirit was contriving how best to give an impetus to his intrigue with her without committing himself to any promise of marriage. He resolved to bring this beautiful but exacting girl wholly under his power. He comprehended fully that Angélique was prepared to accept his hand at any moment, nay, almost demanded it; but the price of marriage was what Bigot would not, dared not pay, and as a true courtier of the period he believed thoroughly in his ability to beguile any woman he chose, and cheat her of the price she set upon her love.
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{
"id": "2735"
}
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31
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THE BALL AT THE INTENDANT'S PALACE.
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The bevy of fair girls still surrounded Bigot on the terrace stair. Some of them stood leaning in graceful pose upon the balusters. The wily girls knew his artistic tastes, and their pretty feet patted time to the music, while they responded with ready glee to the gossiping of the gay Intendant.
Amid their idle badinage Bigot inserted an artful inquiry for suggestion, not for information, whether it was true that his friend Le Gardeur de Repentigny, now at the Manor House of Tilly, had become affianced to his cousin, Héloise de Lotbinière? There was a start of surprise and great curiosity at once manifested among the ladies, some of whom protested that it could not be true, for they knew better in what direction Le Gardeur's inclinations pointed. Others, more compassionate or more spiteful, with a touch of envy, said they hoped it was true, for he had been “jilted by a young lady in the city!” Whom they “all knew!” added one sparkling demoiselle, giving herself a twitch and throwing a side glance which mimicked so perfectly the manner of the lady hinted at, that all knew in a moment she meant no other than Angélique des Meloises. They all laughed merrily at the conceit, and agreed that Le Gardeur de Repentigny would only serve the proud flirt right by marrying Héloise, and showing the world how little he cared for Angélique.
“Or how much!” suggested an experienced and lively widow, Madame La Touche. “I think his marrying Héloise de Lotbinière will only prove the desperate condition of his feelings. He will marry her, not because he loves her, but to spite Angélique.”
The Intendant had reckoned securely on the success of his ruse: the words were scarcely spoken before a couple of close friends of Angélique found her out, and poured into her ears an exaggerated story of the coming marriage of Le Gardeur with Héloise de Lotbinière.
Angélique believed them because it seemed the natural consequence of her own infidelity.
Her friends, who were watching her with all a woman's curiosity and acuteness, were secretly pleased to see that their news had cut her to the quick. They were not misled by the affected indifference and gay laughter which veiled the resentment which was plainly visible in her agitated bosom.
Her two friends left her to report back to their companions, with many exaggerations and much pursing of pretty lips, how Angélique had received their communication. They flattered themselves they had had the pleasure of first breaking the bad tidings to her, but they were mistaken! Angélique's far-reaching curiosity had touched Tilly with its antennae, and she had already learned of the visit of Héloise de Lotbinière, an old school companion of her own, to the Manor House of Tilly.
She had scented danger afar off from that visit. She knew that Héloise worshipped Le Gardeur, and now that Angélique had cast him off, what more natural than that he should fall at last into her snares--so Angélique scornfully termed the beauty and amiable character of her rival. She was angry without reason, and she knew it; but that made her still more angry, and with still less reason.
“Bigot!” said she, impetuously, as the Intendant rejoined her when the half-hour had elapsed, “you asked me a question in the Castle of St. Louis, leaning on the high gallery which overlooks the cliffs! Do you remember it?”
“I do: one does not forget easily what one asks of a beautiful woman, and still less the reply she makes to us,” replied he, looking at her sharply, for he guessed her drift.
“Yet you seem to have forgotten both the question and the reply, Bigot. Shall I repeat them?” said she, with an air of affected languor.
“Needless, Angélique! and to prove to you the strength of my memory, which is but another name for the strength of my admiration, I will repeat it: I asked you that night--it was a glorious night, the bright moon shone full in our faces as we looked over the shining river, but your eyes eclipsed all the splendor of the heavens--I asked you to give me your love; I asked for it then, Angélique! I ask for it now.”
Angélique was pleased with the flattery, even while she knew how hollow and conventional a thing it was.
“You said all that before, Bigot!” replied she, “and you added a foolish speech, which I confess pleased me that night better than now. You said that in me you had found the fair haven of your desires, where your bark, long tossing in cross seas, and beating against adverse winds, would cast anchor and be at rest. The phrase sounded poetical if enigmatical, but it pleased me somehow; what did it mean, Bigot? I have puzzled over it many times since--pray tell me!”
Angélique turned her eyes like two blazing stars full upon him as if to search for every trace of hidden thought that lurked in his countenance.
“I meant what I said, Angélique: that in you I had found the pearl of price which I would rather call mine than wear a king's crown.”
“You explain one enigma by another. The pearl of price lay there before you and you picked it up! It had been the pride of its former owner, but you found it ere it was lost. What did you with it, Bigot?”
The Intendant knew as well as she the drift of the angry tide, which was again setting in full upon him, but he doubted not his ability to escape. His real contempt for women was the lifeboat he trusted in, which had carried himself and fortunes out of a hundred storms and tempests of feminine wrath.
“I wore the precious pearl next my heart, as any gallant gentleman should do,” replied he blandly; “I would have worn it inside my heart could I have shut it up there.”
Bigot smiled in complacent self-approval at his own speech. Not so Angélique! She was irritated by his general reference to the duty of a gallant gentleman to the sex and not to his own special duty as the admirer of herself.
Angélique was like an angry pantheress at this moment. The darts of jealousy just planted by her two friends tore her side, and she felt reckless both as to what she said and what she did. With a burst of passion not rare in women like her, she turned her wrath full upon him as the nearest object. She struck Bigot with her clenched hand upon the breast, exclaiming with wild vehemence,-- “You lie! François Bigot, you never wore me next your heart, although you said so! You wear the lady of Beaumanoir next your heart. You have opened your heart to her after pledging it to me! If I was the pearl of price, you have adorned her with it--my abasement is her glory!” Angélique's tall, straight figure stood up, magnified with fury as she uttered this.
The Intendant stepped back in surprise at the sudden attack. Had the blow fallen upon his face, such is human nature, Bigot would have regarded it as an unpardonable insult, but falling upon his breast, he burst out in a loud laugh as he caught hold of her quivering hand, which she plucked passionately away from him.
The eyes of Angélique looked dangerous and full of mischief, but Bigot was not afraid or offended. In truth, her jealousy flattered him, applying it wholly to himself. He was, moreover, a connoisseur in female temper: he liked to see the storm of jealous rage, to watch the rising of its black clouds, to witness the lightning and the thunder, the gusts and whirlwinds of passion, followed by the rain of angry tears, when the tears were on his account. He thought he had never seen so beautiful a fury as Angélique was at that moment.
Her pointed epithet, “You lie!” which would have been death for a man to utter, made no dint on the polished armor of Bigot, although he inly resolved that she should pay a woman's penalty for it.
He had heard that word from other pretty lips before, but it left no mark upon a conscience that was one stain, upon a life that was one fraud. Still his bold spirit rather liked this bold utterance from an angry woman, when it was in his power by a word to change her rage into the tender cooing of a dove.
Bigot was by nature a hunter of women, and preferred the excitement of a hard chase, when the deer turns at bay and its capture gave him a trophy to be proud of, to the dull conquest of a tame and easy virtue, such as were most of those which had fallen in his way.
“Angélique!” said he, “this is perfect madness; what means this burst of anger? Do you doubt the sincerity of my love for you?”
“I do, Bigot! I doubt it, and I deny it. So long as you keep a mistress concealed at Beaumanoir, your pledge to me is false and your love an insult.”
“You are too impetuous and too imperious, Angélique! I have promised you she shall be removed from Beaumanoir, and she shall--” “Whither, and when?”
“To the city, and in a few days: she can live there in quiet seclusion. I cannot be cruel to her, Angélique.”
“But you can be cruel to me, Bigot, and will be, unless you exercise the power which I know is placed in your hands by the King himself.”
“What is that? to confiscate her lands and goods if she had any?”
“No, to confiscate her person! Issue a lettre de cachet and send her over sea to the Bastile.”
Bigot was irritated at this suggestion, and his irritation was narrowly watched by Angélique.
“I would rather go to the Bastile myself!” exclaimed he; “besides, the King alone issues lettres de cachet: it is a royal prerogative, only to be used in matters of State.”
“And matters of love, Bigot, which are matters of State in France! Pshaw! as if I did not know that the King delegates his authority, and gives lettres de cachet in blank to his trusted courtiers, and even to the ladies of his Court. Did not the Marquise de Pompadour send Mademoiselle Vaubernier to the Bastile for only smiling upon the King? It is a small thing I ask of you, Bigot, to test your fidelity,--you cannot refuse me, come!” added she, with a wondrous transformation of look and manner from storm and gloom to warmth and sunshine.
“I cannot and will not do it. Hark you, Angélique, I dare not do it! Powerful as I may seem, the family of that lady is too potent to risk the experiment upon. I would fain oblige you in this matter, but it would be the height of madness to do so.”
“Well, then, Bigot, do this, if you will not do that! Place her in the Convent of the Ursulines: it will suit her and me both,--no better place in the world to tame an unruly spirit. She is one of the pious souls who will be at home there, with plenty of prayers and penances, and plenty of sins to pray for every day.”
“But I cannot force her to enter the Convent, Angélique. She will think herself not good enough to go there; besides, the nuns themselves would have scruples to receive her.”
“Not if YOU request her admission of Mère de la Nativité: the Lady Superior will refuse no application of yours, Bigot.”
“Won't she! but she will! The Mère de la Nativité considers me a sad reprobate, and has already, when I visited her parlor, read me a couple of sharpest homilies on my evil ways, as she called them. The venerable Mère de la Nativité will not carry coals, I assure you, Angélique.”
“As if I did not know her!” she replied impatiently. “Why, she screens with all her authority that wild nephew of hers, the Sieur Varin! Nothing irritates her like hearing a bad report of him, and although she knows all that is said of him to be true as her breviary, she will not admit it. The soeurs converses in the laundry were put on bread and water with prayers for a week, only for repeating some gossip they had heard concerning him.”
“Ay! that is because the venerable Mère Superior is touchy on the point of family,--but I am not her nephew, voilà la différance!” as the song says.
“Well! but you are her nephew's master and patron,” replied Angélique, “and the good Mère will strain many points to oblige the Intendant of New France for sake of the Sieur Varin. You do not know her as I do, Bigot.”
“What do you advise, Angélique?” asked he, curious to see what was working in her brain.
“That if you will not issue a lettre de cachet, you shall place the lady of Beaumanoir in the hands of the Mère de la Nativité with instructions to receive her into the community after the shortest probation.”
“Very good, Angélique! But if I do not know the Mère Superior, you do not know the lady of Beaumanoir. There are reasons why the nuns would not and could not receive her at all,--even were she willing to go, as I think she would be. But I will provide her a home suited to her station in the city; only you must promise to speak to me no more respecting her.”
“I will promise no such thing, Bigot!” said Angélique, firing up again at the failure of her crafty plan for the disposal of Caroline, “to have her in the city will be worse than to have her at Beaumanoir.”
“Are you afraid of the poor girl, Angélique,--you, with your surpassing beauty, grace, and power over all who approach you? She cannot touch you.”
“She has touched me, and to the quick too, already,” she replied, coloring with passion. “You love that girl, François Bigot! I am never deceived in men. You love her too well to give her up, and still you make love to me. What am I to think?”
“Think that you women are able to upset any man's reason, and make fools of us all to your own purposes.” Bigot saw the uselessness of argument; but she would not drop the topic.
“So you say, and so I have found it with others,” replied she, “but not with you, Bigot. But I shall have been made the fool of, unless I carry my point in regard to this lady.”
“Well, trust to me, Angélique. Hark you! there are reasons of State connected with her. Her father has powerful friends at Court, and I must act warily. Give me your hand; we will be friends. I will carry out your wishes to the farthest possible stretch of my power. I can say no more.”
Angélique gave him her hand. She saw she could not carry her point with the Intendant, and her fertile brain was now scheming another way to accomplish her ends. She had already undergone a revulsion of feeling, and repented having carried her resentment so far,--not that she felt it less, but she was cunning and artful, although her temper sometimes overturned her craft, and made wreck of her schemes.
“I am sorry I was so angry, Bigot, as to strike you with this feeble hand.” Angélique smiled as she extended her dainty fingers, which, delicate as they were, had the strength and elasticity of steel.
“Not so feeble either, Angélique!” replied he, laughing; “few men could plant a better blow: you hit me on the heart fairly, Angélique.”
He seized her hand and lifted it to his lips. Had Queen Dido possessed that hand she would have held fast Aeneas himself when he ran away from his engagements.
Angélique pressed the Intendant's hand with a grasp that left every vein bloodless. “As I hold fast to you, Bigot, and hold you to your engagements, thank God that you are not a woman! If you were, I think I should kill you. But as you are a man, I forgive, and take your promise of amendment. It is what foolish women always do!”
The sound of the music and the measured tread of feet in the lively dances were now plainly heard in the pauses of their conversation.
They rose, and entered the ballroom. The music ceased, and recommenced a new strain for the Intendant and his fair partner, and for a time Angélique forgot her wrath in the delirious excitement of the dance.
But in the dance her exuberance of spirits overflowed like a fountain of intoxicating wine. She cared not for things past or future in the ecstatic joy of the present.
Her voluptuous beauty, lissomeness, and grace of movement enthralled all eyes with admiration, as she danced with the Intendant, who was himself no mean votary of Terpsichore. A lock of her long golden hair broke loose and streamed in wanton disorder over her shoulders; but she heeded it not,--carried away by the spirit of the dance, and the triumph of present possession of the courtly Intendant. Her dainty feet flashed under her flying robe and scarcely seemed to touch the floor as they kept time to the swift throbbings of the music.
The Intendant gazed with rapture on his beautiful partner, as she leaned upon his arm in the pauses of the dance, and thought more than once that the world would be well lost for sake of such a woman. It was but a passing fancy, however; the serious mood passed away, and he was weary, long before Angélique, of the excitement and breathless heat of a wild Polish dance, recently first heard of in French society. He led her to a seat, and left her in the centre of a swarm of admirers, and passed into an alcove to cool and rest himself.
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{
"id": "2735"
}
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32
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“ON WITH THE DANCE.”
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Bigot, a voluptuary in every sense, craved a change of pleasure. He was never satisfied long with one, however pungent. He felt it as a relief when Angélique went off like a laughing sprite upon the arm of De Pean. “I am glad to get rid of the women sometimes, and feel like a man,” he said to Cadet, who sat drinking and telling stories with hilarious laughter to two or three boon companions, and indulging in the coarsest jests and broadest scandal about the ladies at the ball, as they passed by the alcove where they were seated.
The eager persistence of Angélique, in her demand for a lettre de cachet to banish the unfortunate Caroline, had wearied and somewhat disgusted Bigot.
“I would cut the throat of any man in the world for the sake of her bright eyes,” said he to himself, as she gave him a parting salute with her handkerchief; “but she must not ask me to hurt that poor foolish girl at Beaumanoir. No, by St. Picot! she is hurt enough already, and I will not have Angélique tormenting her! What merciless creatures women are to one another, Cadet!” said he, aloud.
Cadet looked up with red, inflamed eyes at the remark of Bigot. He cared nothing for women himself, and never hesitated to show his contempt for the whole sex.
“Merciless creatures, do you call them, Bigot! the claws of all the cats in Caen could not match the finger-nails of a jealous woman--still less her biting tongue.”
Angélique des Meloises swept past the two in a storm of music, as if in defiance of their sage criticisms. Her hand rested on the shoulder of the Chevalier de Pean. She had an object which made her endure it, and her dissimulation was perfect. Her eyes transfixed his with their dazzling look. Her lips were wreathed in smiles; she talked continually as she danced, and with an inconsistency which did not seem strange in her, was lamenting the absence from the ball of Le Gardeur de Repentigny.
“Chevalier,” said she, in reply to some gallantry of her partner, “most women take pride in making sacrifices of themselves; I prefer to sacrifice my admirers. I like a man, not in the measure of what I do for him, but what he will do for me. Is not that a candid avowal, Chevalier? You like frankness, you know.”
Frankness and the Chevalier de Pean were unknown quantities together; but he was desperately smitten, and would bear any amount of snubbing from Angélique.
“You have something in your mind you wish me to do,” replied he, eagerly. “I would poison my grandmother, if you asked me, for the reward you could give me.”
“Yes, I have something in my mind, Chevalier, but not concerning your grandmother. Tell me why you allowed Le Gardeur de Repentigny to leave the city?”
“I did not allow him to leave the city,” said he, twitching his ugly features, for he disliked the interest she expressed in Le Gardeur. “I would fain have kept him here if I could. The Intendant, too, had desperate need of him. It was his sister and Colonel Philibert who spirited him away from us.”
“Well, a ball in Quebec is not worth twisting a curl for in the absence of Le Gardeur de Repentigny!” replied she. “You shall promise me to bring him back to the city, Chevalier, or I will dance with you no more.”
Angélique laughed so gaily as she said this that a stranger would have interpreted her words as all jest.
“She means it, nevertheless,” thought the Chevalier. “I will promise my best endeavor, Mademoiselle,” said he, setting hard his teeth, with a grimace of dissatisfaction which did not escape the eye of Angélique; “moreover, the Intendant desires his return on affairs of the Grand Company, and has sent more than one message to him already, to urge his return.”
“A fig for the Grand Company! Remember, it is I desire his return; and it is my command, not the Intendant's, which you are bound, as a gallant gentleman, to obey.” Angélique would have no divided allegiance, and the man who claimed her favors must give himself up, body and soul, without thought of redemption.
She felt very reckless and very wilful at this moment. The laughter on her lips was the ebullition of a hot and angry heart, not the play of a joyous, happy spirit. Bigot's refusal of a lettre de cachet had stung her pride to the quick, and excited a feeling of resentment which found its expression in the wish for the return of Le Gardeur.
“Why do you desire the return of Le Gardeur?” asked De Pean, hesitatingly. Angélique was often too frank by half, and questioners got from her more than they liked to hear.
“Because he was my first admirer, and I never forget a true friend, Chevalier,” replied she, with an undertone of fond regret in her voice.
“But he will not be your last admirer,” replied De Pean, with what he considered a seductive leer, which made her laugh at him. “In the kingdom of love, as in the kingdom of heaven, the last shall be first and the first last. May I be the last, Mademoiselle?”
“You will certainly be the last, De Pean; I promise that.” Angélique laughed provokingly. She saw the eye of the Intendant watching her. She began to think he remained longer in the society of Cadet than was due to herself.
“Thanks, Mademoiselle,” said De Pean, hardly knowing whether her laugh was affirmative or negative; “but I envy Le Gardeur his precedence.”
Angélique's love for Le Gardeur was the only key which ever unlocked her real feelings. When the fox praised the raven's voice and prevailed on her to sing, he did not more surely make her drop the envied morsel out of her mouth than did Angélique drop the mystification she had worn so coquettishly before De Pean.
“Tell me, De Pean,” said she, “is it true or not that Le Gardeur de Repentigny is consoling himself among the woods of Tilly with a fair cousin of his, Héloise de Lotbinière?”
De Pean had his revenge, and he took it. “It is true; and no wonder,” said he. “They say Héloise is, without exception, the sweetest girl in New France, if not one of the handsomest.”
“Without exception!” echoed she, scornfully. “The women will not believe that, at any rate, Chevalier. I do not believe it, for one.” And she laughed in the consciousness of beauty. “Do you believe it?”
“No, that were impossible,” replied he, “while Angélique des Meloises chooses to contest the palm of beauty.”
“I contest no palm with her, Chevalier; but I give you this rosebud for your gallant speech. But tell me, what does Le Gardeur think of this wonderful beauty? Is there any talk of marriage?”
“There is, of course, much talk of an alliance.” De Pean lied, and the truth had been better for him.
Angélique started as if stung by a wasp. The dance ceased for her, and she hastened to a seat. “De Pean,” said she, “you promised to bring Le Gardeur forthwith back to the city; will you do it?”
“I will bring him back, dead or alive, if you desire it; but I must have time. That uncompromising Colonel Philibert is with him. His sister, too, clings to him like a good angel to the skirt of a sinner. Since you desire it,”--De Pean spoke it with bitterness,--“Le Gardeur shall come back, but I doubt if it will be for his benefit or yours, Mademoiselle.”
“What do you mean, De Pean?” asked she, abruptly, her dark eyes alight with eager curiosity, not unmingled with apprehension. “Why do you doubt it will not be for his benefit or mine? Who is to harm him?”
“Nay, he will only harm himself, Angélique. And, by St. Picot! he will have ample scope for doing it in this city. He has no other enemy but himself.” De Pean felt that she was making an ox of him to draw the plough of her scheming.
“Are you sure of that, De Pean?” demanded she, sharply.
“Quite sure. Are not all the associates of the Grand Company his fastest friends? Not one of them will hurt him, I am sure.”
“Chevalier de Pean!” said she, noticing the slight shrug he gave when he said this, “you say Le Gardeur has no enemy but himself; if so, I hope to save him from himself, nothing more. Therefore I want him back to the city.”
De Pean glanced towards Bigot. “Pardon me, Mademoiselle. Did the Intendant never speak to you of Le Gardeur's abrupt departure?” asked he.
“Never! He has spoken to you, though. What did he say?” asked she, with eager curiosity.
“He said that you might have detained him had you wished, and he blamed you for his departure.”
De Pean had a suspicion that Angélique had really been instrumental in withdrawing Le Gardeur from the clutches of himself and associates; but in this he erred. Angélique loved Le Gardeur, at least for her own sake if not for his, and would have preferred he should risk all the dangers of the city to avoid what she deemed the still greater dangers of the country,--and the greatest of these, in her opinion, was the fair face of Héloise de Lotbinière. While, from motives of ambition, Angélique refused to marry him herself, she could not bear the thought of another getting the man whom she had rejected.
De Pean was fairly puzzled by her caprices: he could not fathom, but he dared not oppose them.
At this moment Bigot, who had waited for the conclusion of a game of cards, rejoined the group where she sat.
Angélique drew in her robe and made room for him beside her, and was presently laughing and talking as free from care, apparently, as an oriole warbling on a summer spray. De Pean courteously withdrew, leaving her alone with the Intendant.
Bigot was charmed for the moment into oblivion of the lady who sat in her secluded chamber at Beaumanoir. He forgot his late quarrel with Angélique in admiration of her beauty. The pleasure he took in her presence shed a livelier glow of light across his features. She observed it, and a renewed hope of triumph lifted her into still higher flights of gaiety.
“Angélique,” said he, offering his arm to conduct her to the gorgeous buffet, which stood loaded with golden dishes of fruit, vases of flowers, and the choicest confectionery, with wine fit for a feast of Cyprus, “you are happy to-night, are you not? But perfect bliss is only obtained by a judicious mixture of earth and heaven: pledge me gaily now in this golden wine, Angélique, and ask me what favor you will.”
“And you will grant it?” asked she, turning her eyes upon him eagerly.
“Like the king in the fairy tale, even to my daughter and half of my kingdom,” replied he, gaily.
“Thanks for half the kingdom, Chevalier,” laughed she, “but I would prefer the father to the daughter.” Angélique gave him a look of ineffable meaning. “I do not desire a king to-night, however. Grant me the lettre de cachet, and then--” “And then what, Angélique?” He ventured to take her hand, which seemed to tempt the approach of his.
“You shall have your reward. I ask you for a lettre de cachet, that is all.” She suffered her hand to remain in his.
“I cannot,” he replied sharply to her urgent repetition. “Ask her banishment from Beaumanoir, her life if you like, but a lettre de cachet to send her to the Bastile I cannot and will not give!”
“But I ask it, nevertheless!” replied the wilful, passionate girl. “There is no merit in your love if it fears risk or brooks denial! You ask me to make sacrifices, and will not lift your finger to remove that stumbling-block out of my way! A fig for such love, Chevalier Bigot! If I were a man, there is nothing in earth, heaven, or hell I would not do for the woman I loved!”
Angélique fixed her blazing eyes full upon him, but magnetic as was their fire, they drew no satisfying reply. “Who in heaven's name is this lady of Beaumanoir of whom you are so careful or so afraid?”
“I cannot tell you, Angélique,” said he, quite irritated. “She may be a runaway nun, or the wife of the man in the iron mask, or--” “Or any other fiction you please to tell me in the stead of truth, and which proves your love to be the greatest fiction of all!”
“Do not be so angry, Angélique,” said he, soothingly, seeing the need of calming down this impetuous spirit, which he was driving beyond all bounds. But he had carelessly dropped a word which she picked up eagerly and treasured in her bosom. “Her life! He said he would give me her life! Did he mean it?” thought she, absorbed in this new idea.
Angélique had clutched the word with a feeling of terrible import. It was not the first time the thought had flashed its lurid light across her mind. It had seemed of comparatively light import when it was only the suggestion of her own wild resentment. It seemed a word of terrible power heard from the lips of Bigot, yet Angélique knew well he did not in the least seriously mean what he said.
“It is but his deceit and flattery,” she said to herself, “an idle phrase to cozen a woman. I will not ask him to explain it, I shall interpret it in my own way! Bigot has said words he understood not himself; it is for me to give them form and meaning.”
She grew quiet under these reflections, and bent her head in seeming acquiescence to the Intendant's decision. The calmness was apparent only.
“You are a true woman, Angélique,” said he, “but no politician: you have never heard thunder at Versailles. Would that I dared to grant your request. I offer you my homage and all else I have to give you to half my kingdom.”
Angélique's eyes flashed fire. “It is a fairy tale after all!” exclaimed she; “you will not grant the lettre de cachet?”
“As I told you before, I dare not grant that, Angélique; anything else--” “You dare not! You, the boldest Intendant ever sent to New France, and say you dare not! A man who is worth the name dare do anything in the world for a woman if he loves her, and for such a man a true woman will kiss the ground he walks on, and die at his feet if need be!” Angélique's thoughts reverted for a moment to Le Gardeur, not to Bigot, as she said this, and thought how he would do it for her sake if she asked him.
“My God, Angélique, you drive this matter hard, but I like you better so than when you are in your silkiest humor.”
“Bigot, it were better you had granted my request.” Angélique clenched her fingers hard together, and a cruel expression lit her eyes for a moment. It was like the glance of a lynx seeking a hidden treasure in the ground: it penetrated the thick walls of Beaumanoir! She suppressed her anger, however, lest Bigot should guess the dark imaginings and half-formed resolution which brooded in her mind.
With her inimitable power of transformation she put on her air of gaiety again and exclaimed,--“Pshaw! let it go, Bigot. I am really no politician, as you say; I am only a woman almost stifled with the heat and closeness of this horrid ballroom. Thank God, day is dawning in the great eastern window yonder; the dancers are beginning to depart! My brother is waiting for me, I see, so I must leave you, Chevalier.”
“Do not depart just now, Angélique! Wait until breakfast, which will be prepared for the latest guests.”
“Thanks, Chevalier,” said she, “I cannot wait. It has been a gay and delightful ball--to them who enjoyed it.”
“Among whom you were one, I hope,” replied Bigot.
“Yes, I only wanted one thing to be perfectly happy, and that I could not get, so I must console myself,” said she, with an air of mock resignation.
Bigot looked at her and laughed, but he would not ask what it was she lacked. He did not want a scene, and feared to excite her wrath by mention again of the lettre de cachet.
“Let me accompany you to the carriage, Angélique,” said he, handing her cloak and assisting her to put it on.
“Willingly, Chevalier,” replied she coquettishly, “but the Chevalier de Pean will accompany me to the door of the dressing-room. I promised him.” She had not, but she beckoned with her finger to him. She had a last injunction for De Pean which she cared not that the Intendant should hear.
De Pean was reconciled by this manoevre; he came, and Angélique and he tripped off together. “Mind, De Pean, what I asked you about Le Gardeur!” said she in an emphatic whisper.
“I will not forget,” replied he, with a twinge of jealousy. “Le Gardeur shall come back in a few days or De Pean has lost his influence and cunning.”
Angélique gave him a sharp glance of approval, but made no further remark. A crowd of voluble ladies were all telling over the incidents of the ball, as exciting as any incidents of flood and field, while they arranged themselves for departure.
The ball was fast thinning out. The fair daughters of Quebec, with disordered hair and drooping wreaths, loose sandals, and dresses looped and pinned to hide chance rents or other accidents of a long night's dancing, were retiring to their rooms, or issuing from them hooded and mantled, attended by obsequious cavaliers to accompany them home.
The musicians, tired out and half asleep, drew their bows slowly across their violins; the very music was steeped in weariness. The lamps grew dim in the rays of morning, which struggled through the high windows, while, mingling with the last strains of good-night and bon répos, came a noise of wheels and the loud shouts of valets and coachmen out in the fresh air, who crowded round the doors of the Palace to convey home the gay revellers who had that night graced the splendid halls of the Intendant.
Bigot stood at the door bowing farewell and thanks to the fair company when the tall, queenly figure of Angélique came down leaning on the arm of the Chevalier de Pean. Bigot tendered her his arm, which she at once accepted, and he accompanied her to her carriage.
She bowed graciously to the Intendant and De Pean, on her departure, but no sooner had she driven off, than, throwing herself back in her carriage, heedless of the presence of her brother, who accompanied her home, she sank into a silent train of thoughts from which she was roused with a start when the carriage drew up sharply at the door of their own home.
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{
"id": "2735"
}
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33
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LA CORRIVEAU.
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Angélique scarcely noticed her brother, except to bid him good-night when she left him in the vestibule of the mansion. Gathering her gay robes in her jewelled hand, she darted up the broad stairs to her own apartment, the same in which she had received Le Gardeur on that memorable night in which she crossed the Rubicon of her fate.
There was a fixedness in her look and a recklessness in her step that showed anger and determination. It struck Lizette with a sort of awe, so that, for once, she did not dare to accost her young mistress with her usual freedom. The maid opened the door and closed it again without offering a word, waiting in the anteroom until a summons should come from her mistress.
Lizette observed that she had thrown herself into a fauteuil, after hastily casting off her mantle, which lay at her feet. Her long hair hung loose over her shoulders as it parted from all its combs and fastenings. She held her hands clasped hard across her forehead, and stared with fixed eyes upon the fire which burned low on the hearth, flickering in the depths of the antique fireplace, and occasionally sending a flash through the room which lit up the pictures on the wall, seeming to give them life and movement, as if they, too, would gladly have tempted Angélique to better thoughts. But she noticed them not, and would not at that moment have endured to look at them.
Angélique had forbidden the lamps to be lighted: it suited her mood to sit in the half-obscure room, and in truth her thoughts were hard and cruel, fit only to be brooded over in darkness and alone. She clenched her hands, and raising them above her head, muttered an oath between her teeth, exclaiming,-- “Par Dieu! It must be done! It must be done!” She stopped suddenly when she had said that. “What must be done?” asked she sharply of herself, and laughed a mocking laugh. “He gave me her life! He did not mean it! No! The Intendant was treating me like a petted child. He offered me her life while he refused me a lettre de cachet! The gift was only upon his false lips, not in his heart! But Bigot shall keep that promise in spite of himself. There is no other way,--none!”
This was a new world Angélique suddenly found herself in. A world of guilty thoughts and unresisted temptations, a chaotic world where black, unscalable rocks, like a circle of the Inferno, hemmed her in on every side, while devils whispered in her ears the words which gave shape and substance to her secret wishes for the death of her “rival,” as she regarded the poor sick girl at Beaumanoir.
How was she to accomplish it? To one unpractised in actual deeds of wickedness, it was a question not easy to be answered, and a thousand frightful forms of evil, stalking shapes of death came and went before her imagination, and she clutched first at one, then at another of the dire suggestions that came in crowds that overwhelmed her power of choice.
In despair to find an answer to the question, “What must be done?” she rose suddenly and rang the bell. The door opened, and the smiling face and clear eye of Lizette looked in. It was Angélique's last chance, but it was lost. It was not Lizette she had rung for. Her resolution was taken.
“My dear mistress!” exclaimed Lizette, “I feared you had fallen asleep. It is almost day! May I now assist you to undress for bed?” Voluble Lizette did not always wait to be first spoken to by her mistress.
“No, Lizette, I was not asleep; I do not want to undress; I have much to do. I have writing to do before I retire; send Fanchon Dodier here.” Angélique had a forecast that it was necessary to deceive Lizette, who, without a word, but in no serene humor, went to summon Fanchon to wait on her mistress.
Fanchon presently came in with a sort of triumph glittering in her black eye. She had noticed the ill humor of Lizette, but had not the slightest idea why she had been summoned to wait on Angélique instead of her own maid. She esteemed it quite an honor, however.
“Fanchon Dodier!” said she, “I have lost my jewels at the ball; I cannot rest until I find them; you are quicker-witted than Lizette: tell me what to do to find them, and I will give you a dress fit for a lady.”
Angélique with innate craft knew that her question would bring forth the hoped-for reply.
Fanchon's eyes dilated with pleasure at such a mark of confidence. “Yes, my Lady,” replied she, “if I had lost my jewels I should know what to do. But ladies who can read and write and who have the wisest gentlemen to give them counsel do not need to seek advice where poor habitan girls go when in trouble and perplexity.”
“And where is that, Fanchon? Where would you go if in trouble and perplexity?”
“My Lady, if I had lost all my jewels,”--Fanchon's keen eye noticed that Angélique had lost none of hers, but she made no remark on it,--“if I had lost all mine, I should go see my aunt Josephte Dodier. She is the wisest woman in all St. Valier; if she cannot tell you all you wish to know, nobody can.”
“What! Dame Josephte Dodier, whom they call La Corriveau? Is she your aunt?”
Angélique knew very well she was. But it was her cue to pretend ignorance in order to impose on Fanchon.
“Yes, ill-natured people call her La Corriveau, but she is my aunt, nevertheless. She is married to my uncle Louis Dodier, but is a lady, by right of her mother, who came from France, and was once familiar with all the great dames of the Court. It was a great secret why her mother left France and came to St. Valier; but I never knew what it was. People used to shake their heads and cross themselves when speaking of her, as they do now when speaking of Aunt Josephte, whom they call La Corriveau; but they tremble when she looks at them with her black, evil eye, as they call it. She is a terrible woman, is Aunt Josephte! but oh, Mademoiselle, she can tell you things past, present, and to come! If she rails at the world, it is because she knows every wicked thing that is done in it, and the world rails at her in return; but people are afraid of her all the same.”
“But is it not wicked? Is it not forbidden by the Church to consult a woman like her, a sorcière?” Angélique took a sort of perverse merit to herself for arguing against her own resolution.
“Yes, my Lady! but although forbidden by the Church, the girls all consult her, nevertheless, in their losses and crosses; and many of the men, too, for she does know what is to happen, and how to do things, does Aunt Josephte. If the clergy cannot tell a poor girl about her sweetheart, and how to keep him in hand, why should she not go and consult La Corriveau, who can?”
“Fanchon, I would not care to consult your aunt. People would laugh at my consulting La Corriveau, like a simple habitan girl; what would the world say?”
“But the world need not know, my Lady. Aunt Josephte knows secrets, they say, that would ruin, burn, and hang half the ladies of Paris. She learned those terrible secrets from her mother, but she keeps them safe in those close lips of hers. Not the faintest whisper of one of them has ever been heard by her nearest neighbor. Indeed, she has no gossips, and makes no friends, and wants none. Aunt Josephte is a safe confidante, my Lady, if you wish to consult her.”
“I have heard she is clever, supernatural, terrible, this aunt of yours! But I could not go to St. Valier for advice and help; I could not conceal my movements like a plain habitan girl.”
“No, my Lady,” continued Fanchon, “it is not fitting that you should go to Aunt Josephte. I will bring Aunt Josephte here to you. She will be charmed to come to the city and serve a lady like you.”
“Well,--no! it is not well, but ill! but I want to recover my jewels, so go for your aunt, and bring her back with you. And mind, Fanchon!” said Angélique, lifting a warning finger, “if you utter one word of your errand to man or beast, or to the very trees of the wayside, I will cut out your tongue, Fanchon Dodier!”
Fanchon trembled and grew pale at the fierce look of her mistress. “I will go, my Lady, and I will keep silent as a fish!” faltered the maid. “Shall I go immediately?”
“Immediately if you will! It is almost day, and you have far to go. I will send old Gujon the butler to order an Indian canoe for you. I will not have Canadian boatmen to row you to St. Valier: they would talk you out of all your errand before you were half-way there. You shall go to St. Valier by water, and return with La Corriveau by land. Do you understand? Bring her in to-night, and not before midnight. I will leave the door ajar for you to enter without noise; you will show her at once to my apartment, Fanchon! Be wary, and do not delay, and say not a word to mortal!”
“I will not, my Lady. Not a mouse shall hear us come in!” replied Fanchon, quite proud now of the secret understanding between herself and her mistress.
“And again mind that loose tongue of yours! Remember, Fanchon, I will cut it out as sure as you live if you betray me.”
“Yes, my Lady!” Fanchon's tongue felt somewhat paralyzed under the threat of Angélique, and she bit it painfully as if to remind it of its duty.
“You may go now,” said Angélique. “Here is money for you. Give this piece of gold to La Corriveau as an earnest that I want her. The canotiers of the St. Lawrence will also require double fare for bringing La Corriveau over the ferry.”
“No, they rarely venture to charge her anything at all, my Lady,” replied Fanchon; “to be sure it is not for love, but they are afraid of her. And yet Antoine La Chance, the boatman, says she is equal to a Bishop for stirring up piety; and more Ave Marias are repeated when she is in his boat, than are said by the whole parish on Sunday.”
“I ought to say my Ave Marias, too!” replied Angélique, as Fanchon left the apartment, “but my mouth is parched and burns up the words of prayer like a furnace; but that is nothing to the fire in my heart! That girl, Fanchon Dodier, is not to be trusted, but I have no other messenger to send for La Corriveau. I must be wary with her, too, and make her suggest the thing I would have done. My Lady of Beaumanoir!” she apostrophized in a hard monotone, “your fate does not depend on the Intendant, as you fondly imagine. Better had he issued the lettre de cachet than for you to fall into the hands of La Corriveau!”
Daylight now shot into the windows, and the bright rays of the rising sun streamed full in the face of Angélique. She saw herself reflected in the large Venetian mirror. Her countenance looked pale, stern, and fixed as marble. The fire in her eyes startled her with its unearthly glow. She trembled and turned away from her mirror, and crept to her couch like a guilty thing, with a feeling as if she was old, haggard, and doomed to shame for the sake of this Intendant, who cared not for her, or he would not have driven her to such desperate and wicked courses as never fell to the lot of a woman before.
“C'est sa faute! C'est sa faute!” exclaimed she, clasping her hands passionately together. “If she dies, it is his fault, not mine! I prayed him to banish her, and he would not! C'est sa faute! C'est sa faute!” Repeating these words Angélique fell into a feverish slumber, broken by frightful dreams which lasted far on into the day.
The long reign of Louis XIV., full of glories and misfortunes for France, was marked towards its close by a portentous sign indicative of corrupt manners and a falling state. Among these, the crimes of secret poisoning suddenly attained a magnitude which filled the whole nation with terror and alarm.
Antonio Exili, an Italian, like many other alchemists of that period, had spent years in search of the philosopher's stone and the elixir of life. His vain experiments to transmute the baser metals into gold reduced him to poverty and want. His quest after these secrets had led him to study deeply the nature and composition of poisons and their antidotes. He had visited the great universities and other schools of the continent, finishing his scientific studies under a famous German chemist named Glaser. But the terrible secret of the agua tofana and of the poudre de succession, Exili learned from Beatrice Spara, a Sicilian, with whom he had a liaison, one of those inscrutable beings of the gentle sex whose lust for pleasure or power is only equalled by the atrocities they are willing to perpetrate upon all who stand in the way of their desires or their ambition.
To Beatrice Spara, the secret of this subtle preparation had come down like an evil inheritance from the ancient Candidas and Saganas of imperial Rome. In the proud palaces of the Borgias, of the Orsinis, the Scaligers, the Borroméos, the art of poisoning was preserved among the last resorts of Machiavellian statecraft; and not only in palaces, but in streets of Italian cities, in solitary towers and dark recesses of the Apennines, were still to be found the lost children of science, skilful compounders of poisons, at once fatal and subtle in their operation,--poisons which left not the least trace of their presence in the bodies of their victims, but put on the appearance of other and more natural causes of death.
Exili, to escape the vengeance of Beatrice Spara, to whom he had proved a faithless lover, fled from Naples, and brought his deadly knowledge to Paris, where he soon found congenial spirits to work with him in preparing the deadly poudre de succession, and the colorless drops of the aqua tofana.
With all his crafty caution, Exili fell at last under suspicion of the police for tampering in these forbidden arts. He was arrested, and thrown into the Bastile, where he became the occupant of the same cell with Gaudin de St. Croix, a young nobleman of the Court, the lover of the Marchioness de Brinvilliers, for an intrigue with whom the Count had been imprisoned. St. Croix learned from Exili, in the Bastile, the secret of the poudre de succession.
The two men were at last liberated for want of proof of the charges against them. St. Croix set up a laboratory in his own house, and at once proceeded to experiment upon the terrible secrets learned from Exili, and which he revealed to his fair, frail mistress, who, mad to make herself his wife, saw in these a means to remove every obstacle out of the way. She poisoned her husband, her father, her brother, and at last, carried away by a mania for murder, administered on all sides the fatal poudre de succession, which brought death to house, palace, and hospital, and filled the capital, nay, the whole kingdom, with suspicion and terror.
This fatal poison history describes as either a light and almost impalpable powder, tasteless, colorless, and inodorous, or a liquid clear as a dewdrop, when in the form of the aqua tofana. It was capable of causing death either instantaneously or by slow and lingering decline at the end of a definite number of days, weeks, or even months, as was desired. Death was not less sure because deferred, and it could be made to assume the appearance of dumb paralysis, wasting atrophy, or burning fever, at the discretion of the compounder of the fatal poison.
The ordinary effect of the aqua tofana was immediate death. The poudre de succession was more slow in killing. It produced in its pure form a burning heat, like that of a fiery furnace in the chest, the flames of which, as they consumed the patient, darted out of his eyes, the only part of the body which seemed to be alive, while the rest was little more than a dead corpse.
Upon the introduction of this terrible poison into France, Death, like an invisible spirit of evil, glided silently about the kingdom, creeping into the closest family circles, seizing everywhere on its helpless victims. The nearest and dearest relationships of life were no longer the safe guardians of the domestic hearth. The man who to-day appeared in the glow of health dropped to-morrow and died the next day. No skill of the physician was able to save him, or to detect the true cause of his death, attributing it usually to the false appearances of disease which it was made to assume.
The victims of the poudre de succession were counted by thousands. The possession of wealth, a lucrative office, a fair young wife, or a coveted husband, were sufficient reasons for sudden death to cut off the holder of these envied blessings. A terrible mistrust pervaded all classes of society. The husband trembled before his wife, the wife before her husband, father and son, brother and sister,--kindred and friends, of all degrees, looked askance and with suspicious eyes upon one another.
In Paris the terror lasted long. Society was for a while broken up by cruel suspicions. The meat upon the table remained uneaten, the wine undrank, men and women procured their own provisions in the market, and cooked and ate them in their own apartments. Yet was every precaution in vain. The fatal dust scattered upon the pillow, or a bouquet sprinkled with the aqua tofana, looking bright and innocent as God's dew upon the flowers, transmitted death without a warning of danger. Nay, to crown all summit of wickedness, the bread in the hospitals of the sick, the meagre tables of the convent, the consecrated host administered by the priest, and the sacramental wine which he drank himself, all in turn were poisoned, polluted, damned, by the unseen presence of the manna of St. Nicholas, as the populace mockingly called the poudre de succession.
The Court took the alarm when a gilded vial of the aqua tofana was found one day upon the table of the Duchesse de la Vallière, having been placed there by the hand of some secret rival, in order to cast suspicion upon the unhappy Louise, and hasten her fall, already approaching.
The star of Montespan was rising bright in the east, and that of La Vallière was setting in clouds and darkness in the west. But the King never distrusted for a moment the truth of La Vallière, the only woman who ever loved him for his own sake, and he knew it even while he allowed her to be supplanted by another infinitely less worthy--one whose hour of triumph came when she saw the broken-hearted Louise throw aside the velvet and brocade of the Court and put on the sackcloth of the barefooted and repentant Carmelite.
The King burned with indignation at the insult offered to his mistress, and was still more alarmed to find the new mysterious death creeping into the corridors of his palace. He hastily constituted the terrible Chambre Ardente, a court of supreme criminal jurisdiction, and commissioned it to search out, try, and burn, without appeal, all poisoners and secret assassins in the kingdom.
La Regnie, a man of Rhadamanthean justice, as hard of heart as he was subtle and suspicious, was long baffled, and to his unutterable rage, set at naught by the indefatigable poisoners who kept all France awake on its pillows.
History records how Gaudin de St. Croix, the disciple of Exili, while working in his secret laboratory at the sublimation of the deadly poison, accidentally dropped the mask of glass which protected his face. He inhaled the noxious fumes and fell dead by the side of his crucibles. This event gave Desgrais, captain of the police of Paris, a clue to the horrors which had so long baffled his pursuit.
The correspondence of St. Croix was seized. His connection with the Marchioness de Brinvilliers and his relations with Exili were discovered. Exili was thrown a second time into the Bastile. The Marchioness was arrested, and put upon her trial before the Chambre Ardente, where, as recorded in the narrative of her confessor, Pirol, her ravishing beauty of feature, blue eyes, snow-white skin, and gentle demeanor won a strong sympathy from the fickle populace of Paris, in whose eyes her charms of person and manner pleaded hard to extenuate her unparalleled crimes.
But no power of beauty or fascination of look could move the stern La Regnie from his judgment. She was pronounced guilty of the death of her husband, and sentenced first to be tortured and then beheaded and her body burnt on the Place de Grève, a sentence which was carried out to the letter. The ashes of the fairest and most wicked dame of the Court of Lous XIV. were scattered to the four corners of the city which had been the scene of her unparalleled crimes. The arch-poisoner Exili was also tried, and condemned to be burnt. The tumbril that bore him to execution was stopped on its way by the furious rabble, and he was torn in pieces by them.
For a short time the kingdom breathed freely in fancied security; but soon the epidemic of sudden as well as lingering deaths from poison broke out again on all sides. The fatal tree of the knowledge of evil, seemingly cut down with Exili and St. Croix, had sprouted afresh, like a upas that could not be destroyed.
The poisoners became more numerous than ever. Following the track of St. Croix and La Brinvilliers, they carried on the war against humanity without relaxation. Chief of these was a reputed witch and fortune-teller named La Voisin, who had studied the infernal secret under Exili and borne a daughter to the false Italian.
With La Voisin were associated two priests, Le Sage and Le Vigoureux, who lived with her, and assisted her in her necromantic exhibitions, which were visited, believed in, and richly rewarded by some of the foremost people of the Court. These necromantic exhibitions were in reality a cover to darker crimes.
It was long the popular belief in France, that Cardinal Bonzy got from La Voisin the means of ridding himself of sundry persons who stood in the way of his ecclesiastical preferment, or to whom he had to pay pensions in his quality of Archbishop of Narbonne. The Duchesse de Bouillon and the Countess of Soissons, mother of the famous Prince Eugene, were also accused of trafficking with that terrible woman, and were banished from the kingdom in consequence, while a royal duke, François de Montmorency, was also suspected of dealings with La Voisin.
The Chambre Ardente struck right and left. Desgrais, chief of the police, by a crafty ruse, penetrated into the secret circle of La Voisin, and she, with a crowd of associates, perished in the fires of the Place de Grève. She left an ill-starred daughter, Marie Exili, to the blank charity of the streets of Paris, and the possession of many of the frightful secrets of her mother and of her terrible father.
Marie Exili clung to Paris. She grew up beautiful and profligate; she coined her rare Italian charms, first into gold and velvet, then into silver and brocade, and at last into copper and rags. When her charms faded entirely, she began to practise the forbidden arts of her mother and father, but without their boldness or long impunity.
She was soon suspected, but receiving timely warning of her danger, from a high patroness at Court, Marie fled to New France in the disguise of a paysanne, one of a cargo of unmarried women sent out to the colony on matrimonial venture, as the custom then was, to furnish wives for the colonists. Her sole possession was an antique cabinet with its contents, the only remnant saved from the fortune of her father, Exili.
Marie Exili landed in New France, cursing the Old World which she had left behind, and bringing as bitter a hatred of the New, which received her without a shadow of suspicion that under her modest peasant's garb was concealed the daughter and inheritrix of the black arts of Antonio Exili and of the sorceress La Voisin.
Marie Exili kept her secret well. She played the ingénue to perfection. Her straight figure and black eyes having drawn a second glance from the Sieur Corriveau, a rich habitan of St. Valier, who was looking for a servant among the crowd of paysannes who had just arrived from France, he could not escape from the power of their fascination.
He took Marie Exili home with him, and installed her in his household, where his wife soon died of some inexplicable disease which baffled the knowledge of both the doctor and the curate, the two wisest men in the parish. The Sieur Corriveau ended his widowhood by marrying Marie Exili, and soon died himself, leaving his whole fortune and one daughter, the image of her mother, to Marie.
Marie Exili, ever in dread of the perquisitions of Desgrais, kept very quiet in her secluded home on the St. Lawrence, guarding her secret with a life-long apprehension, and but occasionally and in the darkest ways practising her deadly skill. She found some compensation and relief for her suppressed passions in the clinging sympathy of her daughter, Marie Josephte dit La Corriveau, who worshipped all that was evil in her mother, and in spite of an occasional reluctance, springing from some maternal instinct, drew from her every secret of her life. She made herself mistress of the whole formula of poisoning as taught by her grandfather Exili, and of the arts of sorcery practised by her wicked grandmother, La Voisin.
As La Corriveau listened to the tale of the burning of her grandmother on the Place de Grève, her own soul seemed bathed in the flames which rose from the faggots, and which to her perverted reason appeared as the fires of cruel injustice, calling for revenge upon the whole race of the oppressors of her family, as she regarded the punishers of their crimes.
With such a parentage, and such dark secrets brooding in her bosom, Marie Josephte, or, as she was commonly called, La Corriveau, had nothing in common with the simple peasantry among whom she lived.
Years passed over her, youth fled, and La Corriveau still sat in her house, eating her heart out, silent and solitary. After the death of her mother, some whispers of hidden treasures known only to herself, a rumor which she had cunningly set afloat, excited the cupidity of Louis Dodier, a simple habitan of St. Valier, and drew him into a marriage with her.
It was a barren union. No child followed, with God's grace in its little hands, to create a mother's feelings and soften the callous heart of La Corriveau. She cursed her lot that it was so, and her dry bosom became an arid spot of desert, tenanted by satyrs and dragons, by every evil passion of a woman without conscience and void of love.
But La Corriveau had inherited the sharp intellect and Italian dissimulation of Antonio Exili: she was astute enough to throw a veil of hypocrisy over the evil eyes which shot like a glance of death from under the thick black eyebrows.
Her craft was equal to her malice. An occasional deed of alms, done not for charity's sake, but for ostentation; an adroit deal of cards, or a horoscope cast to flatter a foolish girl; a word of sympathy, hollow as a water bubble, but colored with iridescent prettiness, averted suspicion from the darker traits of her character.
If she was hated, she was also feared by her neighbors, and although the sign of the cross was made upon the chair whereon she had sat in a neighbor's house, her visits were not unwelcome, and in the manor-house, as in the cabin of the woodman, La Corriveau was received, consulted, rewarded, and oftener thanked than cursed, by her witless dupes.
There was something sublime in the satanic pride with which she carried with her the terrible secrets of her race, which in her own mind made her the superior of every one around her, and whom she regarded as living only by her permission or forbearance.
For human love other than as a degraded menial, to make men the slaves of her mercenary schemes, La Corriveau cared nothing. She never felt it, never inspired it. She looked down upon all her sex as the filth of creation and, like herself, incapable of a chaste feeling or a pure thought. Every better instinct of her nature had gone out like the flame of a lamp whose oil is exhausted; love of money remained as dregs at the bottom of her heart. A deep grudge against mankind, and a secret pleasure in the misfortunes of others, especially of her own sex, were her ruling passions.
Her mother, Marie Exili, had died in her bed, warning her daughter not to dabble in the forbidden arts which she had taught her, but to cling to her husband and live an honest life as the only means of dying a more hopeful death than her ancestors.
La Corriveau heard much, but heeded little. The blood of Antonio Exili and of La Voisin beat too vigorously in her veins to be tamed down by the feeble whispers of a dying woman who had been weak enough to give way at last. The death of her mother left La Corriveau free to follow her own will. The Italian subtlety of her race made her secret and cautious. She had few personal affronts to avenge, and few temptations in the simple community where she lived to practise more than the ordinary arts of a rural fortune-teller, keeping in impenetrable shadow the darker side of her character as a born sorceress and poisoner.
Fanchon Dodier, in obedience to the order of her mistress, started early in the day to bear the message entrusted to her for La Corriveau. She did not cross the river and take the king's highway, the rough though well-travelled road on the south shore which led to St. Valier. Angélique was crafty enough amid her impulsiveness to see that it were better for Fanchon to go down by water and return by land: it lessened observation, and might be important one day to baffle inquiry. La Corriveau would serve her for money, but for money also she might betray her. Angélique resolved to secure her silence by making her the perpetrator of whatever scheme of wickedness she might devise against the unsuspecting lady of Beaumanoir. As for Fanchon, she need know nothing more than Angélique told her as to the object of her mission to her terrible aunt.
In pursuance of this design, Angélique had already sent for a couple of Indian canoemen to embark Fanchon at the quay of the Friponne and convey her to St. Valier.
Half-civilized and wholly-demoralized red men were always to be found on the beach of Stadacona, as they still called the Batture of the St. Charles, lounging about in blankets, smoking, playing dice, or drinking pints or quarts,--as fortune favored them, or a passenger wanted conveyance in their bark canoes, which they managed with a dexterity unsurpassed by any boatman that ever put oar or paddle in water, salt or fresh.
These rough fellows were safe and trusty in their profession. Fanchon knew them slightly, and felt no fear whatever in seating herself upon the bear skin which carpeted the bottom of their canoe.
They pushed off at once from the shore, with scarcely a word of reply to her voluble directions and gesticulations as they went speeding their canoe down the stream. The turning tide bore them lightly on its bosom, and they chanted a wild, monotonous refrain as their paddles flashed and dipped alternately in stream and sunshine; “Ah! ah! Tenaouich tenaga! Tenaouich tenaga, ouich ka!”
“They are singing about me, no doubt,” said Fanchon to herself. “I do not care what people say, they cannot be Christians who speak such a heathenish jargon as that: it is enough to sink the canoe; but I will repeat my paternosters and my Ave Marias, seeing they will not converse with me, and I will pray good St. Anne to give me a safe passage to St. Valier.” In which pious occupation, as the boatmen continued their savage song without paying her any attention, Fanchon, with many interruptions of worldly thoughts, spent the rest of the time she was in the Indian canoe.
Down past the green hills of the south shore the boatmen steadily plied their paddles, and kept singing their wild Indian chant. The wooded slopes of Orleans basked in sunshine as they overlooked the broad channel through which the canoe sped, and long before meridian the little bark was turned in to shore and pulled up on the beach of St. Valier.
Fanchon leaped out without assistance, wetting a foot in so doing, which somewhat discomposed the good humor she had shown during the voyage. Her Indian boatmen offered her no help, considering that women were made to serve men and help themselves, and not to be waited upon by them.
“Not that I wanted to touch one of their savage hands,” muttered Fanchon, “but they might have offered one assistance! Look there,” continued she, pulling aside her skirt and showing a very trim foot wet up to the ankle; “they ought to know the difference between their red squaws and the white girls of the city. If they are not worth politeness, WE are. But Indians are only fit to kill Christians or be killed by them; and you might as well courtesy to a bear in the briers as to an Indian anywhere.”
The boatmen looked at her foot with supreme indifference, and taking out their pipes, seated themselves on the edge of their canoe, and began to smoke.
“You may return to the city,” said she, addressing them sharply; “I pray to the bon Dieu to strike you white;--it is vain to look for manners from an Indian! I shall remain in St. Valier, and not return with you.”
“Marry me, be my squaw, Ania?” replied one of the boatmen, with a grim smile; “the bon Dieu will strike out papooses white, and teach them manners like palefaces.”
“Ugh! not for all the King's money. What! marry a red Indian, and carry his pack like Fifine Perotte? I would die first! You are bold indeed, Paul La Crosse, to mention such a thing to me. Go back to the city! I would not trust myself again in your canoe. It required courage to do so at all, but Mademoiselle selected you for my boatmen, not I. I wonder she did so, when the brothers Ballou, and the prettiest fellows in town, were idle on the Batture.”
“Ania is niece to the old medicine-woman in the stone wigwam at St. Valier; going to see her, eh?” asked the other boatman, with a slight display of curiosity.
“Yes, I am going to visit my aunt Dodier; why should I not? She has crocks of gold buried in the house, I can tell you that, Pierre Ceinture!”
“Going to get some from La Corriveau, eh? crocks of gold, eh?” said Paul La Crosse.
“La Corriveau has medicines, too! get some, eh?” asked Pierre Ceinture.
“I am going neither for gold nor medicines, but to see my aunt, if it concerns you to know, Pierre Ceinture! which it does not!”
“Mademoiselle des Meloises pay her to go, eh? not going back ever, eh?” asked the other Indian.
“Mind your own affairs, Paul La Crosse, and I will mind mine! Mademoiselle des Meloises paid you to bring me to St. Valier, not to ask me impertinences. That is enough for you! Here is your fare; now you can return to the Sault au Matelot, and drink yourselves blind with the money!”
“Very good, that!” replied the Indian. “I like to drink myself blind, will do it to-night! Like to see me, eh? Better that than go see La Corriveau! The habitans say she talks with the Devil, and makes the sickness settle like a fog upon the wigwams of the red men. They say she can make palefaces die by looking at them! But Indians are too hard to kill with a look! Fire-water and gun and tomahawk, and fever in the wigwams, only make the Indians die.”
“Good that something can make you die, for your ill manners! look at my stocking!” replied Fanchon, with warmth. “If I tell La Corriveau what you say of her there will be trouble in your wigwam, Pierre Ceinture!”
“Do not do that, Ania!” replied the Indian, crossing himself earnestly; “do not tell La Corriveau, or she will make an image of wax and call it Pierre Ceinture, and she will melt it away before a slow fire, and as it melts my flesh and bones will melt away, too! Do not tell her, Fanchon Dodier!” The Indian had picked up this piece of superstition from the white habitans, and, like them, thoroughly believed in the supernatural powers of La Corriveau.
“Well, leave me! get back to the city, and tell Mademoiselle I arrived safe at St. Valier,” replied Fanchon, turning to leave them.
The Indians were somewhat taken down by the airs of Fanchon, and they stood in awe of the far-reaching power of her aunt, from the spell of whose witchcraft they firmly believed no hiding-place, even in the deepest woods, could protect them. Merely nodding a farewell to Fanchon, the Indians silently pushed their canoe into the stream, and, embarking, returned to the city by the way they came.
A fine breezy upland lay before Fanchon Dodier. Cultivated fields of corn, and meadows ran down to the shore. A row of white cottages, forming a loosely connected street, clustered into something like a village at the point where the parish church stood, at the intersection of two or three roads, one of which, a narrow green track, but little worn by the carts of the habitans, led to the stone house of La Corriveau, the chimney of which was just visible as you lost sight of the village spire.
In a deep hollow, out of sight of the village church, almost out of hearing of its little bell, stood the house of La Corriveau, a square, heavy structure of stone, inconvenient and gloomy, with narrow windows and an uninviting door. The pine forest touched it on one side, a brawling stream twisted itself like a live snake half round it on the other. A plot of green grass, ill kept and deformed, with noxious weeds, dock, fennel, thistle, and foul stramonium, was surrounded by a rough wall of loose stones, forming the lawn, such as it was, where, under a tree, seated in an armchair, was a solitary woman, whom Fanchon recognized as her aunt, Marie Josephte Dodier, surnamed La Corriveau.
La Corriveau, in feature and person, took after her grand-sire Exili. She was tall and straight, of a swarthy complexion, black-haired, and intensely black-eyed. She was not uncomely of feature, nay, had been handsome, nor was her look at first sight forbidding, especially if she did not turn upon you those small basilisk eyes of hers, full of fire and glare as the eyes of a rattlesnake. But truly those thin, cruel lips of hers never smiled spontaneously, or affected to smile upon you unless she had an object to gain by assuming a disguise as foreign to her as light to an angel of darkness.
La Corriveau was dressed in a robe of soft brown stuff, shaped with a degree of taste and style beyond the garb of her class. Neatness in dress was the one virtue she had inherited from her mother. Her feet were small and well-shod, like a lady's, as the envious neighbors used to say. She never in her life would wear the sabots of the peasant women, nor go barefoot, as many of them did, about the house. La Corriveau was vain of her feet, which would have made her fortune, as she thought with bitterness, anywhere but in St. Valier.
She sat musing in her chair, not noticing the presence of her niece, who stood for a moment looking and hesitating before accosting her. Her countenance bore, when she was alone, an expression of malignity which made Fanchon shudder. A quick, unconscious twitching of the fingers accompanied her thoughts, as if this weird woman was playing a game of mora with the evil genius that waited on her. Her grandsire Exili had the same nervous twitching of his fingers, and the vulgar accused him of playing at mora with the Devil, who ever accompanied him, they believed.
The lips of La Corriveau moved in unison with her thoughts. She was giving expression to her habitual contempt for her sex as she crooned over, in a sufficiently audible voice to reach the ear of Fanchon, a hateful song of Jean Le Meung on women: “'Toutes vous êtes, serez ou futes, De fait ou de volonté putes!'”
“It is not nice to say that, Aunt Marie!” exclaimed Fanchon, coming forward and embracing La Corriveau, who gave a start on seeing her niece so unexpectedly before her. “It is not nice, and it is not true!”
“But it is true, Fanchon Dodier! if it be not nice. There is nothing nice to be said of our sex, except by foolish men! Women know one another better! But,” continued she, scrutinizing her niece with her keen black eyes, which seemed to pierce her through and through, “what ill wind or Satan's errand has brought you to St. Valier to-day, Fanchon?”
“No ill wind, nor ill errand either, I hope, aunt. I come by command of my mistress to ask you to go to the city: she is biting her nails off with impatience to see you on some business.”
“And who is your mistress, who dares to ask La Corriveau to go to the city at her bidding?”
“Do not be angry, aunt,” replied Fanchon, soothingly. “It was I counselled her to send for you, and I offered to fetch you. My mistress is a high lady, who expects to be still higher,--Mademoiselle des Meloises!
“Mademoiselle Angélique des Meloises,--one hears enough of her! a high lady indeed! who will be low enough at last! A minx as vain as she is pretty, who would marry all the men in New France, and kill all the women, if she could have her way! What in the name of the Sabbat does she want with La Corriveau?”
“She did not call you names, aunt, and please do not say such things of her, for you will frighten me away before I tell my errand. Mademoiselle Angélique sent this piece of gold as earnest-money to prove that she wants your counsel and advice in an important matter.”
Fanchon untied the corner of her handkerchief, and took from it a broad shining louis d'or. She placed it in the hand of La Corriveau, whose long fingers clutched it like the talons of a harpy. Of all the evil passions of this woman, the greed for money was the most ravenous.
“It is long since I got a piece of gold like that to cross my hand with, Fanchon!” said she, looking at it admiringly and spitting on it for good luck.
“There are plenty more where it came from, aunt,” replied Fanchon. “Mademoiselle could fill your apron with gold every day of the week if she would: she is to marry the Intendant!”
“Marry the Intendant! ah, indeed! that is why she sends for me so urgently! I see! Marry the Intendant! She will bestow a pot of gold on La Corriveau to accomplish that match!”
“Maybe she would, aunt; I would, myself. But it is not that she wishes to consult you about just now. She lost her jewels at the ball, and wants your help to find them.”
“Lost her jewels, eh? Did she say you were to tell me that she had lost her jewels, Fanchon?”
“Yes, aunt, that is what she wants to consult you about,” replied Fanchon, with simplicity. But the keen perception of La Corriveau saw that a second purpose lay behind it.
“A likely tale!” muttered she, “that so rich a lady would send for La Corriveau from St. Valier to find a few jewels! But it will do. I will go with you to the city: I cannot refuse an invitation like that. Gold fetches any woman, Fanchon. It fetches me always. It will fetch you, too, some day, if you are lucky enough to give it the chance.”
“I wish it would fetch me now, aunt; but poor girls who live by service and wages have small chance to be sent for in that way! We are glad to get the empty hand without the money. Men are so scarce with this cruel war, that they might easily have a wife to each finger, were it allowed by the law. I heard Dame Tremblay say--and I thought her very right--the Church does not half consider our condition and necessities.”
“Dame Tremblay! the Charming Josephine of Lake Beauport! She who would have been a witch, and could not: Satan would not have her!” exclaimed La Corriveau, scornfully. “Is she still housekeeper and bedmaker at Beaumanoir?”
Fanchon was honest enough to feel rather indignant at this speech. “Don't speak so of her, aunt; she is not bad. Although I ran away from her, and took service with Mademoiselle des Meloises, I will not speak ill of her.”
“Why did you run away from Beaumanoir?” asked La Corriveau.
Fanchon reflected a moment upon the mystery of the lady of Beaumanoir, and something checked her tongue, as if it were not safe to tell all she knew to her aunt, who would, moreover, be sure to find out from Angélique herself as much as her mistress wished her to know.
“I did not like Dame Tremblay, aunt,” replied she; “I preferred to live with Mademoiselle Angélique. She is a lady, a beauty, who dresses to surpass any picture in the book of modes from Paris, which I often looked at on her dressing-table. She allowed me to imitate them, or wear her cast-off dresses, which were better than any other ladies' new ones. I have one of them on. Look, aunt!” Fanchon spread out very complacently the skirt of a pretty blue robe she wore.
La Corriveau nodded her head in a sort of silent approval, and remarked,--“She is free-handed enough! She gives what costs her nothing, and takes all she can get, and is, after all, a trollop, like the rest of us, Fanchon, who would be very good if there were neither men nor money nor fine clothes in the world, to tempt poor silly women.”
“You do say such nasty things, aunt!” exclaimed Fanchon, flashing with indignation. “I will hear no more! I am going into the house to see dear old Uncle Dodier, who has been looking through the window at me for ten minutes past, and dared not come out to speak to me. You are too hard on poor old Uncle Dodier, aunt,” said Fanchon, boldly. “If you cannot be kind to him, why did you marry him?”
“Why, I wanted a husband, and he wanted my money, that was all; and I got my bargain, and his too, Fanchon!” and the woman laughed savagely.
“I thought people married to be happy, aunt,” replied the girl, persistently.
“Happy! such folly. Satan yokes people together to bring more sinners into the world, and supply fresh fuel for his fires.”
“My mistress thinks there is no happiness like a good match,” remarked Fanchon; “and I think so, too, aunt. I shall never wait the second time of asking, I assure you, aunt.”
“You are a fool, Fanchon,” said La Corriveau; “but your mistress deserves to wear the ring of Cleopatra, and to become the mother of witches and harlots for all time. Why did she really send for me?”
The girl crossed herself, and exclaimed, “God forbid, aunt! my mistress is not like that!”
La Corriveau spat at the mention of the sacred name. “But it is in her, Fanchon. It is in all of us! If she is not so already, she will be. But go into the house and see your foolish uncle, while I go prepare for my visit. We will set out at once, Fanchon, for business like that of Angélique des Meloises cannot wait.”
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{
"id": "2735"
}
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34
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WEIRD SISTERS.
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Fanchon walked into the house to see her uncle Dodier. When she was gone, the countenance of La Corriveau put on a dark and terrible expression. Her black eyes looked downwards, seeming to penetrate the very earth, and to reflect in their glittering orbits the fires of the underworld.
She stood for a few moments, buried in deep thought, with her arms tightly folded across her breast. Her fingers moved nervously, as they kept time with the quick motions of her foot, which beat the ground.
“It is for death, and no lost jewels, that girl sends for me!” muttered La Corriveau through her teeth, which flashed white and cruel between her thin lips. “She has a rival in her love for the Intendant, and she will lovingly, by my help, feed her with the manna of St. Nicholas! Angélique des Meloises has boldness, craft, and falseness for twenty women, and can keep secrets like a nun. She is rich and ambitious, and would poison half the world rather than miss the thing she sets her mind on. She is a girl after my own heart, and worth the risk I run with her. Her riches would be endless should she succeed in her designs; and with her in my power, nothing she has would henceforth be her own,--but mine! mine! Besides,” added La Corriveau, her thoughts flashing back to the fate which had overtaken her progenitors, Exili and La Voisin, “I may need help myself, some day, to plead with the Intendant on my own account,--who knows?”
A strange thrill ran through the veins of La Corriveau, but she instantly threw it off. “I know what she wants,” added she. “I will take it with me. I am safe in trusting her with the secret of Beatrice Spara. That girl is worthy of it as Brinvilliers herself.”
La Corriveau entered her own apartment. She locked the door behind her, drew a bunch of keys from her bosom, and turned towards a cabinet of singular shape and Italian workmanship which stood in a corner of the apartment. It was an antique piece of furniture, made of some dark oriental wood, carved over with fantastic figures from Etruscan designs by the cunning hand of an old Italian workman, who knew well how to make secret drawers and invisible concealments for things dangerous and forbidden.
It had once belonged to Antonio Exili, who had caused it to be made, ostensibly for the safe-keeping of his cabalistic formulas and alchemic preparations, when searching for the philosopher's stone and the elixir of life, really for the concealment of the subtle drugs out of which his alembics distilled the aqua tofana and his crucibles prepared the poudre de succession.
In the most secret place of all were deposited, ready for use, a few vials of the crystal liquid, every single drop of which contained the life of a man, and which, administered in due proportion of time and measure, killed and left no sign, numbering its victim's days, hours, and minutes, exactly according to the will and malignity of his destroyer.
La Corriveau took out the vials, and placed them carefully in a casket of ebony not larger than a woman's hand. In it was a number of small flaskets, each filled with pills like grains of mustard-seed, the essence and quintessence of various poisons, that put on the appearance of natural diseases, and which, mixed in due proportion with the aqua tofana, covered the foulest murders with the lawful ensigns of the angel of death.
In that box of ebony was the sublimated dust of deadly nightshade, which kindles the red fires of fever and rots the roots of the tongue. There was the fetid powder of stramonium, that grips the lungs like an asthma; and quinia, that shakes its victims like the cold hand of the miasma of the Pontine marshes. The essence of poppies, ten times sublimated, a few grains of which bring on the stupor of apoplexy; and the sardonic plant, that kills its victim with the frightful laughter of madness on his countenance.
The knowledge of these and many more cursed herbs, once known to Medea in the Colchian land, and transplanted to Greece and Rome with the enchantments of their use, had been handed, by a long succession of sorcerers and poisoners, down to Exili and Beatrice Spara, until they came into the possession of La Corriveau, the legitimate inheritrix of this lore of hell.
Before closing the cabinet, La Corriveau opened one more secret drawer, and took out, with a hesitating hand, as if uncertain whether to do so or no, a glittering stiletto, sharp and cruel to see. She felt the point of it mechanically with her thumb; and, as if fascinated by the touch, placed it under her robe. “I may have need of it,” muttered she, “either to save myself OR to make sure of my work on another. Beatrice Spara was the daughter of a Sicilian bravo, and she liked this poignard better than even the poisoned chalice.”
La Corriveau rose up now, well satisfied with her foresight and preparation. She placed the ebony casket carefully in her bosom, cherishing it like an only child, as she walked out of the room with her quiet, tiger-like tread. Her look into the future was pleasant to her at this moment. There was the prospect of an ample reward for her trouble and risk, and the anticipated pleasure of practising her skill upon one whose position she regarded as similar to that of the great dames of the Court, whom Exili and La Voisin had poisoned during the high carnival of death, in the days of Louis XIV.
She was now ready, and waited impatiently to depart.
The goodman Dodier brought the calèche to the door. It was a substantial, two-wheeled vehicle, with a curious arrangement of springs, made out of the elastic wood of the hickory. The horse, a stout Norman pony, well harnessed, sleek and glossy, was lightly held by the hand of the goodman, who patted it kindly as an old friend; and the pony, in some sort, after an equine fashion, returned the affection of its master.
La Corriveau, with an agility hardly to be expected from her years, seated herself beside Fanchon in the calèche, and giving her willing horse a sharp cut with the lash for spite, not for need,--goodman Dodier said, only to anger him,--they set off at a rapid pace, and were soon out of sight at the turn of the dark pine-woods, on their way to the city of Quebec.
Angélique des Meloises had remained all day in her house, counting the hours as they flew by, laden with the fate of her unsuspecting rival at Beaumanoir.
Night had now closed in; the lamps were lit, the fire again burned red upon the hearth. Her door was inexorably shut against all visitors. Lizette had been sent away until the morrow; Angélique sat alone and expectant of the arrival of La Corriveau.
The gay dress in which she had outshone all her sex at the ball on the previous night lay still in a heap upon the floor, where last night she had thrown it aside, like the robe of innocence which once invested her. Her face was beautiful, but cruel, and in its expression terrible as Medea's brooding over her vengeance sworn against Creusa for her sin with Jason. She sat in a careless dishabille, with one white arm partly bare. Her long golden locks flowed loosely down her back and touched the floor, as she sat on her chair and watched and waited for the coming footsteps of La Corriveau. Her lips were compressed with a terrible resolution; her eyes glanced red as they alternately reflected the glow of the fire within them and of the fire without. Her hands were clasped nervously together, with a grip like iron, and lay in her lap, while her dainty foot marked the rhythm of the tragical thoughts that swept like a song of doom through her soul.
The few compunctious feelings which struggled up into her mind were instantly overborne by the passionate reflection that the lady of Beaumanoir must die! “I must, or she must--one or other! We cannot both live and marry this man!” exclaimed she, passionately. “Has it come to this: which of us shall be the wife, which the mistress? By God, I would kill him too, if I thought he hesitated in his choice; but he shall soon have no choice but one! Her death be on her own head and on Bigot's--not on mine!”
And the wretched girl strove to throw the guilt of the sin she premeditated upon her victim, upon the Intendant, upon fate, and, with a last subterfuge to hide the enormity of it from her own eyes, upon La Corriveau, whom she would lead on to suggest the crime and commit it! --a course which Angélique tried to believe would be more venial than if it were suggested by herself! less heinous in her own eyes, and less wicked in the sight of God.
“Why did that mysterious woman go to Beaumanoir and place herself in the path of Angélique des Meloises?” exclaimed she angrily. “Why did Bigot reject my earnest prayer, for it was earnest, for a lettre de cachet to send her unharmed away out of New France?”
Then Angélique sat and listened without moving for a long time. The clock ticked loud and warningly. There was a sighing of the wind about the windows, as if it sought admittance to reason and remonstrate with her. A cricket sang his monotonous song on the hearth. In the wainscot of the room a deathwatch ticked its doleful omen. The dog in the courtyard howled plaintively as the hour of midnight sounded upon the Convent bell, close by. The bell had scarcely ceased ere she was startled by a slight creaking like the opening of a door, followed by a whispering and the rustle of a woman's garments, as of one approaching with cautious steps up the stair. A thrill of expectation, not unmingled with fear, shot through the breast of Angélique. She sprang up, exclaiming to herself, “She is come, and all the demons that wait on murder come with her into my chamber!” A knock followed on the door. Angélique, very agitated in spite of her fierce efforts to appear calm, bade them come in.
Fanchon opened the door, and, with a courtesy to her mistress, ushered in La Corriveau, who walked straight into the room and stood face to face with Angélique.
The eyes of the two women instantly met in a searching glance that took in the whole look, bearing, dress, and almost the very thoughts of each other. In that one glance each knew and understood the other, and could trust each other in evil, if not in good.
And there was trust between them. The evil spirits that possessed each of their hearts shook hands together, and a silent league was sworn to in their souls before a word was spoken.
And yet how unlike to human eye were these two women! --how like in God's eye, that sees the heart and reads the Spirit, of what manner it is! Angélique, radiant in the bloom of youth and beauty, her golden hair floating about her like a cloud of glory round a daughter of the sun, with her womanly perfections which made the world seem brighter for such a revelation of completeness in every external charm; La Corriveau, stern, dark, angular, her fine-cut features crossed with thin lines of cruelty and cunning, no mercy in her eyes, still less on her lips, and none at all in her heart, cold to every humane feeling, and warming only to wickedness and avarice: still these women recognized each other as kindred spirits, crafty and void of conscience in the accomplishment of their ends.
Had fate exchanged the outward circumstances of their lives, each might have been the other easily and naturally. The proud beauty had nothing in her heart better than La Corriveau, and the witch of St. Valier, if born in luxury and endowed with beauty and wealth, would have rivalled Angélique in seductiveness, and hardly fallen below her in ambition and power.
La Corriveau saluted Angélique, who made a sign to Fanchon to retire. The girl obeyed somewhat reluctantly. She had hoped to be present at the interview between her aunt and her mistress, for her curiosity was greatly excited, and she now suspected there was more in this visit than she had been told.
Angélique invited La Corriveau to remove her cloak and broad hat. Seating her in her own luxurious chair, she sat down beside her, and began the conversation with the usual platitudes and commonplaces of the time, dwelling longer upon them than need was, as if she hesitated or feared to bring up the real subject of this midnight conference.
“My Lady is fair to look on. All women will admit that; all men swear to it!” said La Corriveau, in a harsh voice that grated ominously, like the door of hell which she was opening with this commencement of her business.
Angélique replied only with a smile. A compliment from La Corriveau even was not wasted upon her; but just now she was on the brink of an abyss of explanation, looking down into the dark pit, resolved, yet hesitating to make the plunge.
“No witch or witchery but your own charms is needed, Mademoiselle,” continued La Corriveau, falling into the tone of flattery she often used towards her dupes, “to make what fortune you will in this world; what pearl ever fished out of the sea could add a grace to this wondrous hair of yours? Permit me to touch it, Mademoiselle!”
La Corriveau took hold of a thick tress, and held it up to the light of the lamp, where it shone like gold. Angélique shrank back as from the touch of fire. She withdrew her hair with a jerk from the hand of La Corriveau. A shudder passed through her from head to foot. It was the last parting effort of her good genius to save her.
“Do not touch it!” said she quickly; “I have set my life and soul on a desperate venture, but my hair--I have devoted it to our Lady of St. Foye; it is hers, not mine! Do not touch it, Dame Dodier.”
Angélique was thinking of a vow she had once made before the shrine of the little church of Lorette. “My hair is the one thing belonging to me that I will keep pure,” continued she; “so do not be angry with me,” she added, apologetically.
“I am not angry,” replied La Corriveau, with a sneer. “I am used to strange humors in people who ask my aid; they always fall out with themselves before they fall in with La Corriveau.”
“Do you know why I have sent for you at this hour, good Dame Dodier?” asked Angélique, abruptly.
“Call me La Corriveau; I am not good Dame Dodier. Mine is an ill name, and I like it best, and so should you, Mademoiselle, for the business you sent me for is not what people who say their prayers call good. It was to find your lost jewels that Fanchon Dodier summoned me to your abode, was it not?” La Corriveau uttered this with a suppressed smile of incredulity.
“Ah! I bade Fanchon tell you that in order to deceive her, not you! But you know better, La Corriveau! It was not for the sake of paltry jewels I desired you to come to the city to see me at this hour of midnight.”
“I conjectured as much!” replied La Corriveau, with a sardonic smile which showed her small teeth, white, even, and cruel as those of a wildcat. “The jewel you have lost is the heart of your lover, and you thought La Corriveau had a charm to win it back; was not that it, Mademoiselle?”
Angélique sat upright, gazing boldly into the eyes of her visitor. “Yes, it was that and more than that I summoned you for. Can you not guess? You are wise, La Corriveau, you know a woman's desire better than she dare avow it to herself!”
“Ah!” replied La Corriveau, returning her scrutiny with the eyes of a basilisk; a green light flashed out of their dark depths. “You have a lover, and you have a rival, too! A woman more potent than yourself, in spite of your beauty and your fascinations, has caught the eye and entangled the affections of the man you love, and you ask my counsel how to win him back and how to triumph over your rival. Is it not for that you have summoned La Corriveau?”
“Yes, it is that, and still more than that!” replied Angélique, clenching her hands hard together, and gazing earnestly at the fire with a look of merciless triumph at what she saw there reflected from her own thoughts distinctly as if she looked at her own face in a mirror.
“It is all that, and still more than that,--cannot you guess yet why I have summoned you here?” continued Angélique, rising and laying her left hand firmly upon the shoulder of La Corriveau, as she bent her head and whispered with terrible distinctness in her ear.
La Corriveau heard her whisper and looked up eagerly. “Yes, I know now, Mademoiselle,--you would kill your rival! There is death in your eye, in your voice, in your heart, but not in your hand! You would kill the woman who robs you of your lover, and you have sent for La Corriveau to help you in the good work! It is a good work in the eyes of a woman to kill her rival! but why should I do that to please you? What do I care for your lover, Angélique des Meloises?”
Angélique was startled to hear from the lips of another, words which gave free expression to her own secret thoughts. A denial was on her lips, but the lie remained unspoken. She trembled before La Corriveau, but her resolution was unchanged.
“It was not only to please me, but to profit yourself that I sent for you!” Angélique replied eagerly, like one trying to outstrip her conscience and prevent it from overtaking her sin. “Hark you! you love gold, La Corriveau! I will give you all you crave in return for your help,--for help me you shall! you will never repent of it if you do; you will never cease to regret it if you do not! I will make you rich, La Corrivean! or else, by God! do you hear? I swear it! I will have you burnt for a witch, and your ashes strewn all over St. Valier!”
La Corriveau spat contemptuously upon the floor at the holy name. “You are a fool, Angélique des Meloises, to speak thus to me! Do you know who and what I am? You are a poor butterfly to flutter your gay wings against La Corriveau; but still I like your spirit! women like you are rare. The blood of Exili could not have spoken bolder than you do; you want the life of a woman who has kindled the hell-fire of jealousy in your heart, and you want me to tell you how to get your revenge!”
“I do want you to do it, La Corriveau, and your reward shall be great!” answered Angélique with a burst of impatience. She could beat about the bush no longer.
“To kill a woman or a man were of itself a pleasure even without the profit,” replied La Corriveau, doggedly. “But why should I run myself into danger for you, Mademoiselle des Meloises? Have you gold enough to balance the risk?”
Angélique had now fairly overleaped all barriers of reserve. “I will give you more than your eyes ever beheld, if you will serve me in this matter, Dame Dodier!”
“Perhaps so, but I am getting old and trust neither man nor woman. Give a pledge of your good faith, before you speak one word farther to me on this business, Mademoiselle des Meloises.” La Corriveau held out her double hands significantly.
“A pledge? that is gold you want!” replied Angélique. “Yes, La Corriveau; I will bind you to me with chains of gold; you shall have it uncounted, as I get it,--gold enough to make you the richest woman in St. Valier, the richest peasant-woman in New France.”
“I am no peasant-woman,” replied La Corriveau, with a touch of pride, “I come of a race ancient and terrible as the Roman Caesars! But pshaw! what have you to do with that? Give me the pledge of your good faith and I will help you.”
Angélique rose instantly, and, opening the drawer of an escritoire, took out a long silken purse filled with louis d'or, which peeped and glittered through the interstices of the net-work. She gave it with the air of one who cared nothing for money.
La Corriveau extended both hands eagerly, clutching as with the claws of a harpy. She pressed the purse to her thin bloodless lips, and touched with the ends of her bony fingers the edges of the bright coin visible through the silken net.
“This is indeed a rare earnest-penny!” exclaimed La Corriveau. “I will do your whole bidding, Mademoiselle; only I must do it in my own way. I have guessed aright the nature of your trouble and the remedy you seek. But I cannot guess the name of your false lover, nor that of the woman whose doom is sealed from this hour.”
“I will not tell you the name of my lover,” replied Angélique. She was reluctant to mention the name of Bigot as her lover. The idea was hateful to her. “The name of the woman I cannot tell you, even if I would,” added she.
“How, Mademoiselle? you put the death-mark upon one you do not know?”
“I do not know her name. Nevertheless, La Corriveau, that gold, and ten times as much, are yours, if you relieve me of the torment of knowing that the secret chamber of Beaumanoir contains a woman whose life is death to all my hopes, and disappointment to all my plans.”
The mention of Beaumanoir startled La Corriveau.
“The lady of Beaumanoir!” she exclaimed, “whom the Abenaquis brought in from Acadia? I saw that lady in the woods of St. Valier, when I was gathering mandrakes one summer day. She asked me for some water in God's name. I cursed her silently, but I gave her milk. I had no water. She thanked me. Oh, how she thanked me! nobody ever before thanked La Corriveau so sweetly as she did! I, even I, bade her a good journey, when she started on afresh with her Indian guides, after asking me the distance and direction of Beaumanoir.”
This unexpected touch of sympathy surprised and revolted Angélique a little.
“You know her then! That is rare fortune, La Corriveau,” said she; “she will remember you, you will have less difficulty in gaining access to her and winning her confidence.”
La Corriveau clapped her hands, laughing a strange laugh, that sounded as if it came from a deep well.
“Know her? That is all I know; she thanked me sweetly. I said so, did I not? but I cursed her in my heart when she was gone. I saw she was both beautiful and good,--two things I hate.”
“Do you call her beautiful? I care not whether she be good, that will avail nothing with him; but is she beautiful, La Corriveau? Is she fairer than I, think you?”
La Corriveau looked at Angélique intently and laughed. “Fairer than you? Listen! It was as if I had seen a vision. She was very beautiful, and very sad. I could wish it were another than she, for oh, she spoke to me the sweetest I was ever spoken to since I came into the world.”
Angélique ground her teeth with anger. “What did you do, La Corriveau? Did you not wish her dead? Did you think the Intendant or any man could not help loving her to the rejection of any other woman in the world? What did you do?”
“Do? I went on picking my mandrakes in the forest, and waited for you to send for La Corriveau. You desire to punish the Intendant for his treachery in forsaking you for one more beautiful and better!”
It was but a bold guess of La Corriveau, but she had divined the truth. The Intendant Bigot was the man who was playing false with Angélique.
Her words filled up the measure of Angélique's jealous hate, and confirmed her terrible resolution. Jealousy is never so omnipotent as when its rank suspicions are fed and watered by the tales of others.
“There can be but one life between her and me!” replied the vehement girl; “Angélique des Meloises would die a thousand deaths rather than live to feed on the crumbs of any man's love while another woman feasts at his table. I sent for you, La Corriveau, to take my gold and kill that woman!”
“Kill that woman! It is easily said, Mademoiselle; but I will not forsake you, were she the Madonna herself! I hate her for her goodness, as you hate her for her beauty. Lay another purse by the side of this, and in thrice three days there shall be weeping in the Château of Beaumanoir, and no one shall know who has killed the cuckquean of the Chevalier Intendant!”
Angélique sprang up with a cry of exultation, like a pantheress seizing her prey. She clasped La Corriveau in her arms and kissed her dark, withered cheek, exclaiming, “Yes, that is her name! His cuckquean she is; his wife she is not and never shall be! --Thanks, a million golden thanks, La Corriveau, if you fulfil your prophecy! In thrice three days from this hour, was it not that you said?”
“Understand me!” said La Corriveau, “I serve you for your money, not for your liking! but I have my own joy in making my hand felt in a world which I hate and which hates me!” La Corriveau held out her hands as if the ends of her fingers were trickling poison. “Death drops on whomsoever I send it,” said she, “so secretly and so subtly that the very spirits of air cannot detect the trace of the aqua tofana.”
Angélique listened with amaze, yet trembled with eagerness to hear more. “What! La Corriveau, have you the secret of the aqua tofana, which the world believes was burnt with its possessors two generations ago, on the Place de Grève?”
“Such secrets never die,” replied the poisoner; “they are too precious! Few men, still fewer women, are there who would not listen at the door of hell to learn them. The king in his palace, the lady in her tapestried chamber, the nun in her cell, the very beggar on the street, would stand on a pavement of fire to read the tablets which record the secret of the aqua tofana. Let me see your hand,” added she abruptly, speaking to Angélique.
Angélique held out her hand; La Corriveau seized it. She looked intently upon the slender fingers and oval palm. “There is evil enough in these long, sharp spatulae of yours,” said she, “to ruin the world. You are worthy to be the inheritrix of all I know. These fingers would pick fruit off the forbidden tree for men to eat and die! The tempter only is needed, and he is never far off! Angélique des Meloises, I may one day teach you the grand secret; meantime I will show you that I possess it.”
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{
"id": "2735"
}
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35
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“FLASKETS OF DRUGS, FULL TO THEIR WICKED LIPS.”
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La Corriveau took the ebony casket from her bosom and laid it solemnly on the table. “Do not cross yourself,” she exclaimed angrily as she saw Angélique mechanically make the sacred sign. “There can come no blessings here. There is death enough in that casket to kill every man and woman in New France.”
Angélique fastened her gaze upon the casket as if she would have drawn out the secret of its contents by the very magnetism of her eyes. She laid her hand upon it caressingly, yet tremblingly--eager, yet fearful, to see its contents.
“Open it!” cried La Corriveau, “press the spring, and you will see such a casket of jewels as queens might envy. It was the wedding-gift of Beatrice Spara, and once belonged to the house of Borgia--Lucrezia Borgia had it from her terrible father; and he, from the prince of demons!”
Angélique pressed the little spring,--the lid flew open, and there flashed from it a light which for the moment dazzled her eyes with its brilliancy. She thrust the casket from her in alarm, and retreated a few steps, imagining she smelt the odor of some deadly perfume.
“I dare not approach it,” said she. “Its glittering terrifies me; its odor sickens me.”
“Tush! it is your weak imagination!” replied La Corriveau; “your sickly conscience frightens you! You will need to cast off both to rid Beaumanoir of the presence of your rival! The aqua tofana in the hands of a coward is a gift as fatal to its possessor as to its victim.”
Angélique with a strong effort tried to master her fear, but could not. She would not again handle the casket.
La Corriveau looked at her as if suspecting this display of weakness. She then drew the casket to herself and took out a vial, gilt and chased with strange symbols. It was not larger than the little finger of a delicate girl. Its contents glittered like a diamond in the sunshine.
La Corriveau shook it up, and immediately the liquid was filled with a million sparks of fire. It was the aqua tofana undiluted by mercy, instantaneous in its effect, and not medicable by any antidote. Once administered, there was no more hope for its victim than for the souls of the damned who have received the final judgment. One drop of that bright water upon the tongue of a Titan would blast him like Jove's thunderbolt, would shrivel him up to a black, unsightly cinder!
This was the poison of anger and revenge that would not wait for time, and braved the world's justice. With that vial La Borgia killed her guests at the fatal banquet in her palace, and Beatrice Spara in her fury destroyed the fair Milanese who had stolen from her the heart of Antonio Exili.
This terrible water was rarely used alone by the poisoners; but it formed the basis of a hundred slower potions which ambition, fear, avarice, or hypocrisy mingled with the element of time, and colored with the various hues and aspects of natural disease.
Angélique sat down and leaned towards La Corriveau, supporting her chin on the palms of her hands as she bent eagerly over the table, drinking in every word as the hot sand of the desert drinks in the water poured upon it. “What is that?” said she, pointing to a vial as white as milk and seemingly as harmless.
“That,” replied La Corriveau, “is the milk of mercy. It brings on painless consumption and decay. It eats the life out of a man while the moon empties and fills once or twice. His friends say he dies of quick decline, and so he does! ha! ha! --when his enemy wills it! The strong man becomes a skeleton, and blooming maidens sink into their graves blighted and bloodless, with white lips and hearts that cease gradually to beat, men know not why. Neither saint nor sacrament can arrest the doom of the milk of mercy.”
“This vial,” continued she, lifting up another from the casket and replacing the first, licking her thin lips with profound satisfaction as she did so,--“this contains the acrid venom that grips the heart like the claws of a tiger, and the man drops down dead at the time appointed. Fools say he died of the visitation of God. The visitation of God!” repeated she in an accent of scorn, and the foul witch spat as she pronounced the sacred name. “Leo in his sign ripens the deadly nuts of the East, which kill when God will not kill. He who has this vial for a possession is the lord of life.” She replaced it tenderly. It was a favorite vial of La Corriveau.
“This one,” continued she, taking up another, “strikes with the dead palsy; and this kindles the slow, inextinguishable fires of typhus. Here is one that dissolves all the juices of the body, and the blood of a man's veins runs into a lake of dropsy. This,” taking up a green vial, “contains the quintessence of mandrakes distilled in the alembic when Scorpio rules the hour. Whoever takes this liquid”--La Corriveau shook it up lovingly--“dies of torments incurable as the foul disease of lust which it simulates and provokes.”
There was one vial which contained a black liquid like oil. “It is a relic of the past,” said she, “an heir-loom from the Untori, the ointers of Milan. With that oil they spread death through the doomed city, anointing its doors and thresholds with the plague until the people died.”
The terrible tale of the anointers of Milan has, since the days of La Corriveau, been written in choice Italian by Manzoni, in whose wonderful book he that will may read it.
“This vial,” continued the witch, “contains innumerable griefs, that wait upon the pillows of rejected and heartbroken lovers, and the wisest physician is mocked with lying appearances of disease that defy his skill and make a fool of his wisdom.”
“Oh, say no more!” exclaimed Angélique, shocked and terrified. However inordinate in her desires, she was dainty in her ways. “It is like a Sabbat of witches to hear you talk, La Corriveau!” cried she, “I will have none of those foul things which you propose. My rival shall die like a lady! I will not feast like a vampire on her dead body, nor shall you. You have other vials in the casket of better hue and flavor. What is this?” continued Angélique, taking out a rose-tinted and curiously-twisted bottle sealed on the top with the mystic pentagon. “This looks prettier, and may be not less sure than the milk of mercy in its effect. What is it?”
“Ha! ha!” laughed the woman with her weirdest laugh. “Your wisdom is but folly, Angélique des Meloises! You would kill, and still spare your enemy! That was the smelling-bottle of La Brinvilliers, who took it with her to the great ball at the Hôtel de Ville, where she secretly sprinkled a few drops of it upon the handkerchief of the fair Louise Gauthier, who, the moment she put it to her nostrils, fell dead upon the floor. She died and gave no sign, and no man knew how or why! But she was the rival of Brinvilliers for the love of Gaudin de St. Croix, and in that she resembles the lady of Beaumanoir, as you do La Brinvilliers!”
“And she got her reward! I would have done the same thing for the same reason! What more have you to relate of this most precious vial of your casket?” asked Angélique.
“That its virtue is unimpaired. Three drops sprinkled upon a bouquet of flowers, and its odor breathed by man or woman, causes a sudden swoon from which there is no awakening more in this world. People feel no pain, but die smiling as if angels had kissed away their breath. Is it not a precious toy, Mademoiselle?”
“Oh, blessed vial!” exclaimed Angélique, pressing it to her lips, “thou art my good angel to kiss away the breath of the lady of Beaumanoir! She shall sleep on roses, La Corriveau, and you shall make her bed!”
“It is a sweet death, befitting one who dies for love, or is killed by the jealousy of a dainty rival,” replied the witch; “but I like best those draughts which are most bitter and not less sure.”
“The lady of Beaumanoir will not be harder to kill than Louise Gauthier,” replied Angélique, watching the glitter of the vial in the lamplight. “She is unknown even to the servants of the Château; nor will the Intendant himself dare to make public either her life or death in his house.”
“Are you sure, Mademoiselle, that the Intendant will not dare to make public the death of that woman in the Château?” asked La Corriveau, with intense eagerness; that consideration was an important link of the chain which she was forging.
“Sure? yes, I am sure by a hundred tokens!” said Angélique, with an air of triumph. “He dare not even banish her for my sake, lest the secret of her concealment at Beaumanoir become known. We can safely risk his displeasure, even should he suspect that I have cut the knot he knew not how to untie.”
“You are a bold girl!” exclaimed La Corriveau, looking on her admiringly, “you are worthy to wear the crown of Cleopatra, the queen of all the gypsies and enchantresses. I shall have less fear now to do your bidding, for you have a stronger spirit than mine to support you.”
“'Tis well, La Corriveau! Let this vial of Brinvilliers bring me the good fortune I crave, and I will fill your lap with gold. If the lady of Beaumanoir shall find death in a bouquet of flowers, let them be roses!”
“But how and where to find roses? they have ceased blooming,” said La Corriveau, hating Angélique's sentiment, and glad to find an objection to it.
“Not for her, La Corriveau; fate is kinder than you think!” Angélique threw back a rich curtain and disclosed a recess filled with pots of blooming roses and flowers of various hues. “The roses are blooming here which will form the bouquet of Beaumanoir.”
“You are of rare ingenuity, Mademoiselle,” replied La Corriveau, admiringly. “If Satan prompts you not, it is because he can teach you nothing either in love or stratagem.”
“Love!” replied Angélique quickly, “do not name that! No! I have sacrificed all love, or I should not be taking counsel of La Corriveau!”
Angélique's thoughts flashed back upon Le Gardeur for one regretful moment. “No, it is not love,” continued she, “but the duplicity of a man before whom I have lowered my pride. It is the vengeance I have vowed upon a woman for whose sake I am trifled with! It is that prompts me to this deed! But no matter, shut up the casket, La Corriveau; we will talk now of how and when this thing is to be done.”
The witch shut up her infernal casket of ebony, leaving the vial of Brinvilliers shining like a ruby in the lamplight upon the polished table.
The two women sat down, their foreheads almost touching together, with their eyes flashing in lurid sympathy as they eagerly discussed the position of things in the Château. The apartments of Caroline, the hours of rest and activity, were all well known to Angélique, who had adroitly fished out every fact from the unsuspecting Fanchon Dodier, as had also La Corriveau.
It was known to Angélique that the Intendant would be absent from the city for some days, in consequence of the news from France. The unfortunate Caroline would be deprived of the protection of his vigilant eye.
The two women sat long arranging and planning their diabolical scheme. There was no smile upon the cheek of Angélique now. Her dimples, which drove men mad, had disappeared. Her lips, made to distil words sweeter than honey of Hybla, were now drawn together in hard lines like La Corriveau's,--they were cruel and untouched by a single trace of mercy.
The hours struck unheeded on the clock in the room, as it ticked louder and louder like a conscious monitor beside them. Its slow finger had marked each wicked thought, and recorded for all time each murderous word as it passed their cruel lips.
La Corriveau held the casket in her lap with an air of satisfaction, and sat with eyes fixed on Angélique, who was now silent.
“Water the roses well, Mademoiselle,” said she; “in three days I shall be here for a bouquet, and in less than thrice three days I promise you there shall be a dirge sung for the lady of Beaumanoir.”
“Only let it be done soon and surely,” replied Angélique,--her very tone grew harsh,--“but talk no more of it; your voice sounds like a cry from a dark gallery that leads to hell. Would it were done! I could then shut up the memory of it in a tomb of silence, forever, forever, and wash my hands of a deed done by you, not me!”
“A deed done by you, not me!” She repeated the words, as if repeating them made them true. She would shut up the memory of her crime forever; she reflected not that the guilt is in the evil intent, and the sin the same before God even if the deed be never done.
Angélique was already an eager sophist. She knew better than the wretched creature whom she had bribed with money, how intensely wicked was the thing she was tempting her to do; but her jealousy maddened her, and her ambition could not let her halt in her course.
There was one thought which still tormented her “What would the Intendant think? What would he say should he suspect her of the murder of Caroline?” She feared his scrutinizing investigation; but, trusting in her power, she risked his suspicions, nay, remembering his words, made him in her own mind an accessory in the murder.
If she remembered Le Gardeur de Repentigny at all at this moment, it was only to strangle the thought of him. She shied like a horse on the brink of a precipice when the thought of Le Gardeur intruded itself. Rising suddenly, she bade La Corriveau be gone about her business, lest she should be tempted to change her mind.
La Corriveau laughed at the last struggle of dying conscience, and bade Angélique go to bed. It was two hours past midnight, and she would bid Fanchon let her depart to the house of an old crone in the city who would give her a bed and a blessing in the devil's name.
Angélique, weary and agitated, bade her be gone in the devil's name, if she preferred a curse to a blessing. The witch, with a mocking laugh, rose and took her departure for the night.
Fanchon, weary of waiting, had fallen asleep. She roused herself, offering to accompany her aunt in hopes of learning something of her interview with her mistress. All she got was a whisper that the jewels were found. La Corriveau passed out into the darkness, and plodded her way to the house of her friend, where she resolved to stay until she accomplished the secret and cruel deed she had undertaken to perform.
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{
"id": "2735"
}
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36
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THE BROAD, BLACK GATEWAY OF A LIE.
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The Count de la Galissonière was seated in his cabinet a week after the arrival of La Corriveau on her fatal errand. It was a plain, comfortable apartment he sat in, hung with arras, and adorned with maps and pictures. It was there he held his daily sittings for the ordinary despatch of business with a few such councillors as the occasion required to be present.
The table was loaded with letters, memorandums, and bundles of papers tied up in official style. Despatches of royal ministers, bearing the broad seal of France. Reports from officers of posts far and near in New France lay mingled together with silvery strips of the inner bark of the birch, painted with hieroglyphics, giving accounts of war parties on the eastern frontier and in the far west, signed by the totems of Indian chiefs in alliance with France. There was a newly-arrived parcel of letters from the bold, enterprising Sieur de Verendrye, who was exploring the distant waters of the Saskatchewan and the land of the Blackfeet, and many a missive from missionaries, giving account of wild regions which remain yet almost a terra incognita to the government which rules over them.
At the Governor's elbow sat his friend Bishop Pontbriand with a secretary immersed in papers. In front of him was the Intendant with Varin, Penisault, and D'Estèbe. On one side of the table, La Corne St. Luc was examining some Indian despatches with Rigaud de Vaudreuil; Claude Beauharnais and the venerable Abbé Piquet overlooking with deep interest the rude pictorial despatches in the hands of La Corne. Two gentlemen of the law, in furred gowns and bands, stood waiting at one end of the room, with books under their arms and budgets of papers in their hands ready to argue before the Council some knotty point of controversy arising out of the concession of certain fiefs and jurisdictions granted under the feudal laws of the Colony.
The Intendant, although personally at variance with several of the gentlemen sitting at the council table, did not let that fact be visible on his countenance, nor allow it to interfere with the despatch of public business.
The Intendant was gay and easy to-day, as was his wont, wholly unsuspecting the foul treason that was plotting by the woman he admired against the woman he loved. His opinions were sometimes loftily expressed, but always courteously as well as firmly.
Bigot never drooped a feather in face of his enemies, public or private, but laughed and jested with all at table in the exuberance of a spirit which cared for no one, and only reined itself in when it was politic to flatter his patrons and patronesses at Versailles.
The business of the Council had begun. The mass of papers which lay at the left hand of the Governor were opened and read seriatim by his secretary, and debated, referred, decided upon, or judgment postponed, as the case seemed best to the Council.
The Count was a man of method and despatch, clear-headed and singularly free from prejudice, ambiguity, or hesitation. He was honest and frank in council, as he was gallant on the quarter-deck. The Intendant was not a whit behind him in point of ability and knowledge of the political affairs of the colony, and surpassed him in influence at the court of Louis XV., but less frank, for he had much to conceal, and kept authority in his own hands as far as he was able.
Disliking each other profoundly from the total divergence of their characters, opinions, and habits, the Governor and Intendant still met courteously at the council-table, and not without a certain respect for the rare talents which each recognized in the other.
Many of the papers lying before them were on subjects relating to the internal administration of the Colony,--petitions of the people suffering from the exactions of the commissaries of the army, remonstrances against the late decrees of the Intendant, and arrêts of the high court of justice confirming the right of the Grand Company to exercise certain new monopolies of trade.
The discussions were earnest, and sometimes warm, on these important questions. La Corne St. Luc assailed the new regulations of the Intendant in no measured terms of denunciation, in which he was supported by Rigaud de Vaudreuil and the Chevalier de Beauharnais. But Bigot, without condescending to the trouble of defending the ordinances on any sound principle of public policy, which he knew to be useless and impossible with the clever men sitting at the table, contented himself with a cold smile at the honest warmth of La Corne St. Luc, and simply bade his secretary read the orders and despatches from Versailles, in the name of the royal ministers, and approved of by the King himself in a Lit de Justice which had justified every act done by him in favor of the Grand Company.
The Governor, trammelled on all sides by the powers conferred upon the Intendant, felt unable to exercise the authority he needed to vindicate the cause of right and justice in the colony. His own instructions confirmed the pretensions of the Intendant, and of the Grand Company. The utmost he could do in behalf of the true interests of the people and of the King, as opposed to the herd of greedy courtiers and selfish beauties who surrounded him, was to soften the deadening blows they dealt upon the trade and resources of the Colony.
A decree authorizing the issue of an unlimited quantity of paper bills, the predecessors of the assignats of the mother country, was strongly advocated by Bigot, who supported his views with a degree of financial sophistry which showed that he had effectively mastered the science of delusion and fraud of which Law had been the great teacher in France, and the Mississippi scheme, the prototype of the Grand Company, the great exemplar.
La Corne St. Luc opposed the measure forcibly. “He wanted no paper lies,” he said, “to cheat the husbandman of his corn and the laborer of his hire. If the gold and silver had all to be sent to France to pamper the luxuries of a swarm of idlers at the Court, they could buy and sell as they had done in the early days of the Colony, with beaver skins for livres, and muskrat skins for sous. These paper bills,” continued he, “had been tried on a small scale by the Intendant Hoquart, and on a small scale had robbed and impoverished the Colony. If this new Mississippi scheme propounded by new Laws,”--and here La Corne glanced boldly at the Intendant,--“is to be enforced on the scale proposed, there will not be left in the Colony one piece of silver to rub against another. It will totally beggar New France, and may in the end bankrupt the royal treasury of France itself if called on to redeem them.”
The discussion rolled on for an hour. The Count listened in silent approbation to the arguments of the gentlemen opposing the measure, but he had received private imperative instructions from the King to aid the Intendant in the issue of the new paper money. The Count reluctantly sanctioned a decree which filled New France with worthless assignats, the non-redemption of which completed the misery of the Colony and aided materially in its final subjugation by the English.
The pile of papers upon the table gradually diminished as they were opened and disposed of. The Council itself was getting weary of a long sitting, and showed an evident wish for its adjournment. The gentlemen of the law did not get a hearing of their case that day, but were well content to have it postponed, because a postponement meant new fees and increased costs for their clients. The lawyers of Old France, whom LaFontaine depicts in his lively fable as swallowing the oyster and handing to each litigant an empty shell, did not differ in any essential point from their brothers of the long robe in New France, and differed nothing at all in the length of their bills and the sharpness of their practice.
The breaking up of the Council was deferred by the Secretary opening a package sealed with the royal seal, and which contained other sealed papers marked SPECIAL for His Excellency the Governor. The Secretary handed them to the Count, who read over the contents with deep interest and a changing countenance. He laid them down and took them up again, perused them a second time, and passed them over to the Intendant, who read them with a start of surprise and a sudden frown on his dark eyebrows. But he instantly suppressed it, biting his nether lip, however, with anger which he could not wholly conceal.
He pushed the papers back to the Count with a nonchalant air, as of a man who had quite made up his mind about them, saying in a careless manner,-- “The commands of Madame la Marquise de Pompadour shall be complied with,” said he. “I will order strict search to be made for the missing demoiselle, who, I suspect, will be found in some camp or fort, sharing the couch of some lively fellow who has won favor in her bright eyes.”
Bigot saw danger in these despatches, and in the look of the Governor, who would be sure to exercise the utmost diligence in carrying out the commands of the court in this matter.
Bigot for a few moments seemed lost in reflection. He looked round the table, and, seeing many eyes fixed upon him, spoke boldly, almost with a tone of defiance.
“Pray explain to the councillors the nature of this despatch, your Excellency!” said he to the Count. “What it contains is not surprising to any one who knows the fickle sex, and no gentleman can avoid feeling for the noble Baron de St. Castin!”
“And for his daughter, too, Chevalier!” replied the Governor. “It is only through their virtues that such women are lost. But it is the strangest tale I have heard in New France!”
The gentlemen seated at the table looked at the Governor in some surprise. La Corne St. Luc, hearing the name of the Baron de St. Castin, exclaimed, “What, in God's name, your Excellency,--what is there in that despatch affecting my old friend and companion in arms, the Baron de St. Castin?”
“I had better explain,” replied the Count; “it is no secret in France, and will not long be a secret here.
“This letter, gentlemen,” continued he, addressing the councillors, and holding it open in his hand, “is a pathetic appeal from the Baron de St. Castin, whom you all know, urging me by every consideration of friendship, honor, and public duty, to aid in finding his daughter, Caroline de St. Castin, who has been abducted from her home in Acadia, and who, after a long and vain search for her by her father in France, where it was thought she might have gone, has been traced to this Colony, where it is said she is living concealed under some strange alias or low disguise.
“The other despatch,” continued the Governor, “is from the Marquise de Pompadour, affirming the same thing, and commanding the most rigorous search to be made for Mademoiselle de St. Castin. In language hardly official, the Marquise threatens to make stockfish, that is her phrase, of whosoever has had a hand in either the abduction or the concealment of the missing lady.”
The attention of every gentleman at the table was roused by the words of the Count. But La Corne St. Luc could not repress his feelings. He sprang up, striking the table with the palm of his hand until it sounded like the shot of a petronel.
“By St. Christopher the Strong!” exclaimed he, “I would cheerfully have lost a limb rather than heard such a tale told by my dear old friend and comrade, about that angelic child of his, whom I have carried in my arms like a lamb of God many and many a time!
“You know, gentlemen, what befell her!” The old soldier looked as if he could annihilate the Intendant with the lightning of his eyes. “I affirm and will maintain that no saint in heaven was holier in her purity than she was in her fall! Chevalier Bigot, it is for you to answer these despatches! This is your work! If Caroline de St. Castin be lost, you know where to find her!”
Bigot started up in a rage mingled with fear, not of La Corne St. Luc, but lest the secret of Caroline's concealment at Beaumanoir should become known. The furious letter of La Pompadour repressed the prompting of his audacious spirit to acknowledge the deed openly and defy the consequences, as he would have done at any less price than the loss of the favor of his powerful and jealous patroness.
The broad, black gateway of a lie stood open to receive him, and angry as he was at the words of St. Luc, Bigot took refuge in it--and lied.
“Chevalier La Corne!” said he, with a tremendous effort at self-control, “I do not affect to misunderstand your words, and in time and place will make you account for them! but I will say, for the contentment of His Excellency and of the other gentlemen at the council-table, that whatever in times past have been my relations with the daughter of the Baron de St. Castin, and I do not deny having shown her many courtesies, her abduction was not my work, and if she be lost, I do not know where to find her!”
“Upon your word as a gentleman,” interrogated the Governor, “will you declare you know not where she is to be found?”
“Upon my word as a gentleman!” The Intendant's face was suffused with passion. “You have no right to ask that! Neither shall you, Count de La Galissonière! But I will myself answer the despatch of Madame la Marquise de Pompadour! I know no more, perhaps less, than yourself or the Chevalier La Corne St. Luc, where to look for the daughter of the Baron de St. Castin; and I proclaim here that I am ready to cross swords with the first gentleman who shall dare breathe a syllable of doubt against the word of François Bigot!”
Varin and Penisault exchanged a rapid glance, partly of doubt, partly of surprise. They knew well, for Bigot had not concealed from his intimate associates the fact that a strange lady, whose name they had not heard, was living in the secret chambers of the Château of Beaumanoir. Bigot never told any who she was or whence she came. Whatever suspicion they might entertain in their own minds, they were too wary to express it. On the contrary, Varin, ever more ready with a lie than Bigot, confirmed with a loud oath the statement of the Intendant.
La Corne St. Luc looked like a baffled lion as Rigaud de Vaudreuil, with the familiarity of an old friend, laid his hand over his mouth, and would not let him speak. Rigaud feared the coming challenge, and whispered audibly in the ear of St. Luc,-- “Count a hundred before you speak, La Corne! The Intendant is to be taken on his word just at present, like any other gentleman! Fight for fact, not for fancy! Be prudent, La Corne! we know nothing to the contrary of what Bigot swears to!”
“But I doubt much to the contrary, Rigaud!” replied La Corne, with accent of scorn and incredulity.
The old soldier chafed hard under the bit, but his suspicions were not facts. He felt that he had no solid grounds upon which to accuse the Intendant in the special matter referred to in the letters. He was, moreover, although hot in temperament, soon master of himself, and used to the hardest discipline of self-control.
“I was, perhaps, over hasty, Rigaud!” replied La Corne St. Luc, recovering his composure; “but when I think of Bigot in the past, how can I but mistrust him in the present? However, be the girl above ground or under ground, I will, par Dieu, not leave a stone unturned in New France until I find the lost child of my old friend! La Corne St. Luc pledges himself to that, and he never broke his word!”
He spoke the last words audibly, and looked hard at the Intendant. Bigot cursed him twenty times over between his teeth, for he knew La Corne's indomitable energy and sagacity, that was never at fault in finding or forcing a way to whatever he was in search of. It would not be long before he would discover the presence of a strange lady at Beaumanoir, thought Bigot, and just as certain would he be to find out that she was the lost daughter of the Baron de St. Castin.
The good Bishop rose up when the dispute waxed warmest between the Intendant and La Corne St. Luc. His heart was eager to allay the strife; but his shrewd knowledge of human nature, and manifold experience of human quarrels, taught him that between two such men the intercession of a priest would not, at that moment, be of any avail. Their own notions of honor and self-respect would alone be able to restrain them from rushing into unseemly excesses of language and act; so the good Bishop stood with folded arms looking on, and silently praying for an opportunity to remind them of the seventh holy beatitude, “Beati pacifici!”
Bigot felt acutely the difficulty of the position he had been placed in by the act of La Pompadour, in sending her despatch to the Governor instead of to himself. “Why had she done that?” said he savagely to himself. “Had she suspected him?”
Bigot could not but conclude that La Pompadour suspected him in this matter. He saw clearly that she would not trust the search after this girl to him, because she knew that Caroline de St. Castin had formerly drawn aside his heart, and that he would have married her but for the interference of the royal mistress. Whatever might have been done before in the way of sending Caroline back to Acadia, it could not be done now, after he had boldly lied before the Governor and the honorable Council.
One thing seemed absolutely necessary, however. The presence of Caroline at Beaumanoir must be kept secret at all hazards, until--until,--and even Bigot, for once, was ashamed of the thoughts which rushed into his mind,--until he could send her far into the wilderness, among savage tribes, to remain there until the search for her was over and the affair forgotten.
This was his first thought. But to send her away into the wilderness was not easy. A matter which in France would excite the gossip and curiosity of a league or two of neighborhood would be carried on the tongues of Indians and voyageurs in the wilds of North America for thousands of miles. To send her away without discovery seemed difficult. To retain her at Beaumanoir in face of the search which he knew would be made by the Governor and the indomitable La Corne St. Luc, was impossible. The quandary oppressed him. He saw no escape from the dilemma; but, to the credit of Bigot be it said, that not for a moment did he entertain a thought of doing injury to the hapless Caroline, or of taking advantage of her lonely condition to add to her distress, merely to save himself.
He fell into a train of sober reflections unusual to him at any time, and scarcely paid any attention to the discussion of affairs at the council-table for the rest of the sitting. He rose hastily at last, despairing to find any outlet of escape from the difficulties which surrounded him in this unlucky affair.
With His Excellency's consent, he said, they would do no more business that day. He was tired, and would rise. Dinner was ready at the Palace, where he had some wine of the golden plant of Ay-Ay, which he would match against the best in the Castle of St. Louis, if His Excellency and the other gentlemen would honor him with their company.
The Council, out of respect to the Intendant, rose at once. The despatches were shoved back to the secretaries, and for the present forgotten in a buzz of lively conversation, in which no man shone to greater advantage than Bigot.
“It is but a fast-day, your Reverence,” said he, accosting the Abbé Piquot, “but if you will come and say grace over my graceless table, I will take it kindly of you. You owe me a visit, you know, and I owe you thanks for the way in which you looked reproof, without speaking it, upon my dispute with the Chevalier La Corne. It was better than words, and showed that you know the world we live in as well as the world you teach us to live for hereafter.”
The Abbé was charmed with the affability of Bigot, and nourishing some hope of enlisting him heartily in behalf of his favorite scheme of Indian policy, left the Castle in his company. The Intendant also invited the Procureur du Roi and the other gentlemen of the law, who found it both politic, profitable, and pleasant to dine at the bountiful and splendid table of the Palace.
The Governor, with three or four most intimate friends, the Bishop, La Corne St. Luc, Rigaud de Vaudreuil, and the Chevalier de Beauharnais, remained in the room, conversing earnestly together on the affair of Caroline de St. Castin, which awoke in all of them a feeling of deepest pity for the young lady, and of sympathy for the distress of her father. They were lost in conjectures as to the quarter in which a search for her might be successful.
“There is not a fort, camp, house, or wigwam, there is not a hole or hollow tree in New France where that poor broken-hearted girl may have taken refuge, or been hid by her seducer, but I will find her out,” exclaimed La Corne St. Luc. “Poor girl! poor hapless girl! How can I blame her? Like Magdalene, if she sinned much, it was because she loved much, and cursed be either man or woman who will cast a stone at her!”
“La Corne,” replied the Governor, “the spirit of chivalry will not wholly pass away while you remain to teach by your example the duty of brave men to fair women. Stay and dine with me, and we will consider this matter thoroughly! Nay, I will not have an excuse to-day. My old friend, Peter Kalm, will dine with us too; he is a philosopher as perfectly as you are a soldier! So stay, and we will have something better than tobacco-smoke to our wine to-day!”
“The tobacco-smoke is not bad either, your Excellency!” replied La Corne, who was an inveterate smoker. “I like your Swedish friend. He cracks nuts of wisdom with such a grave air that I feel like a boy sitting at his feet, glad to pick up a kernel now and then. My practical philosophy is sometimes at fault, to be sure, in trying to fit his theories but I feel that I ought to believe many things which I do not understand.”
The Count took his arm familiarly, and, followed by the other gentlemen, proceeded to the dining-hall, where his table was spread in a style which, if less luxurious than the Intendant's, left nothing to be desired by guests who were content with plenty of good cheer, admirable cooking, adroit service, and perfect hospitality.
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{
"id": "2735"
}
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37
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ARRIVAL OF PIERRE PHILIBERT.
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Dinner at the table of the Count de la Galissonière was not a dull affair of mere eating and drinking. The conversation and sprightliness of the host fed the minds of his guests as generously as his bread strengthened their hearts, or his wine, in the Psalmist's words, made their faces to shine. Men were they, every one of them possessed of a sound mind in a sound body; and both were well feasted at this hospitable table.
The dishes were despatched in a leisurely and orderly manner, as became men who knew the value of both soul and body, and sacrificed neither to the other. When the cloth was drawn, and the wine-flasks glittered ruby and golden upon the polished board, the old butler came in, bearing upon a tray a large silver box of tobacco, with pipes and stoppers and a wax candle burning, ready to light them, as then the fashion was in companies composed exclusively of gentlemen. He placed the materials for smoking upon the table as reverently as a priest places his biretta upon the altar,--for the old butler did himself dearly love the Indian weed, and delighted to smell the perfume of it as it rose in clouds over his master's table.
“This is a bachelors' banquet, gentlemen,” said the Governor, filling a pipe to the brim. “We will take fair advantage of the absence of ladies to-day, and offer incense to the good Manitou who first gave tobacco for the solace of mankind.”
The gentlemen were all, as it chanced, honest smokers. Each one took a pipe from the stand and followed the Governor's example, except Peter Kalm, who, more philosophically, carried his pipe with him--a huge meerschaum, clouded like a sunset on the Baltic. He filled it deliberately with tobacco, pressed it down with his finger and thumb, and leaning back in his easy chair after lighting it, began to blow such a cloud as the portly Burgomaster of Stockholm might have envied on a grand council night in the old Raadhus of the city of the Goths.
They were a goodly group of men, whose frank, loyal eyes looked openly at each other across the hospitable table. None of them but had travelled farther than Ulysses, and, like him, had seen strange cities and observed many minds of men, and was as deeply read in the book of human experience as ever the crafty king of Ithaca.
The event of the afternoon--the reading of the royal despatches--had somewhat dashed the spirits of the councillors, for they saw clearly the drift of events which was sweeping New France out of the lap of her mother country, unless her policy were totally changed and the hour of need brought forth a man capable of saving France herself and her faithful and imperilled colonies.
“Hark!” exclaimed the Bishop, lifting his hand, “the Angelus is ringing from tower and belfry, and thousands of knees are bending with the simplicity of little children in prayer, without one thought of theology or philosophy. Every prayer rising from a sincere heart, asking pardon for the past and grace for the future, is heard by our Father in heaven; think you not it is so, Herr Kalm?”
The sad foreboding of colonists like La Corne St. Luc did not prevent the desperate struggle that was made for the preservation of French dominion in the next war. Like brave and loyal men, they did their duty to God and their country, preferring death and ruin in a lost cause to surrendering the flag which was the symbol of their native land. The spirit, if not the words, of the old English loyalist was in them: “For loyalty is still the same, Whether it win or lose the game; True as the dial to the sun, Although it be not shone upon.”
New France, after gathering a harvest of glory such as America had never seen reaped before, fell at last, through the neglect of her mother country. But she dragged down the nation in her fall, and France would now give the apple of her eye for the recovery, never to be, of “the acres of snow” which La Pompadour so scornfully abandoned to the English.
These considerations lay in the lap of the future, however; they troubled not the present time and company. The glasses were again replenished with wine or watered, as the case might be, for the Count de la Galissonière and Herr Kalm kept Horatian time and measure, drinking only three cups to the Graces, while La Corne St. Luc and Rigaud de Vaudreuil drank nine full cups to the Muses, fearing not the enemy that steals away men's brains. Their heads were helmeted with triple brass, and impenetrable to the heaviest blows of the thyrsus of Bacchus. They drank with impunity, as if garlanded with parsley, and while commending the Bishop, who would drink naught save pure water, they rallied gaily Claude Beauharnais, who would not drink at all.
In the midst of a cheerful concert of merriment, the door of the cabinet opened, and the servant in waiting announced the entrance of Colonel Philibert.
All rose to welcome him. Pierre looked anxious and somewhat discomposed, but the warm grasp of the hands of so many true friends made him glad for the moment.
“Why, Pierre!” exclaimed the Count, “I hope no ill wind has blown you to the city so unexpectedly! You are heartily welcome, however, and we will call every wind good that blows our friends back to us again.”
“It is a cursed wind that blows me back to-day,” replied Philibert, sitting down with an air of disquiet.
“Why, what is the matter, Pierre?” asked the Count. “My honored Lady de Tilly and her lovely niece, are they well?”
“Well, your Excellency, but sorely troubled. The devil has tempted Le Gardeur again, and he has fallen. He is back to the city, wild as a savage and beyond all control.”
“Good God! it will break his sister's heart,” said the Governor, sympathizingly. “That girl would give her life for her brother. I feel for her; I feel for you, too, Pierre.” Philibert felt the tight clasp of the Governor's hand as he said this. He understood well its meaning. “And not less do I pity the unhappy youth who is the cause of such grief to his friends,” continued he.
“Yes, your Excellency, Le Gardeur is to be pitied, as well as blamed. He has been tried and tempted beyond human strength.”
La Corne St. Luc had risen, and was pacing the floor with impatient strides. “Pierre Philibert!” exclaimed he, “where is the poor lad? He must be sought for and saved yet. What demons have assailed him now? Was it the serpent of strong drink, that bites men mad, or the legion of fiends that rattle the dice-box in their ears? Or was it the last temptation, which never fails when all else has been tried in vain--a woman?”
“It was all three combined. The Chevalier de Pean visited Tilly on business of the Intendant--in reality, I suspect, to open a communication with Le Gardeur, for he brought him a message from a lady you wot of, which drove him wild with excitement. A hundred men could not have restrained Le Gardeur after that. He became infatuated with De Pean, and drank and gambled all night and all day with him at the village inn, threatening annihilation to all who interfered with him. Today he suddenly left Tilly, and has come with De Pean to the city.”
“De Pean!” exclaimed La Corne, “the spotted snake! A fit tool for the Intendant's lies and villainy! I am convinced he went not on his own errand to Tilly. Bigot is at the bottom of this foul conspiracy to ruin the noblest lad in the Colony.”
“It may be,” replied Philibert, “but the Intendant alone would have had no power to lure him back. It was the message of that artful siren which has drawn Le Gardeur de Repentigny again into the whirlpool of destruction.”
“Aye, but Bigot set her on him, like a retriever, to bring back the game!” replied La Corne, fully convinced of the truth of his opinion.
“It may be,” answered Philibert; “but my impression is that she has influenced the Intendant, rather than he her, in this matter.”
The Bishop listened with warm interest to the account of Philibert. He looked a gentle reproof, but did not utter it, at La Corne St. Luc and Philibert, for their outspoken denunciation of the Intendant. He knew--none knew better--how deserved it was; but his ecclesiastical rank placed him at the apex of all parties in the Colony, and taught him prudence in expressing or hearing opinions of the King's representatives in the Colony.
“But what have you done, Pierre Philibert,” asked the Bishop, “since your arrival? Have you seen Le Gardeur?”
“No, my Lord; I followed him and the Chevalier to the city. They have gone to the Palace, whither I went and got admittance to the cabinet of the Intendant. He received me in his politest and blandest manner. I asked an interview with Le Gardeur. Bigot told me that my friend unfortunately at that moment was unfit to be seen, and had refused himself to all his city friends. I partly believed him, for I heard the voice of Le Gardeur in a distant room, amid a babble of tongues and the rattle of dice. I sent him a card with a few kind words, and received it back with an insult--deep and damning--scrawled upon it. It was not written, however, in the hand of Le Gardeur, although signed by his name. Read that, your Excellency,” said he, throwing a card to the Count. “I will not repeat the foul expressions it contains. Tell Pierre Philibert what he should do to save his honor and save his friend. Poor, wild, infatuated Le Gardeur never wrote that--never! They have made him sign his name to he knew not what.”
“And, by St. Martin!” exclaimed La Corne, who looked at the card, “some of them shall bite dust for that! As for Le Gardeur, poor boy, overlook his fault--pity him, forgive him. He is not so much to blame, Pierre, as those plundering thieves of the Friponne, who shall find that La Corne St. Luc's sword is longer by half an ell than is good for some of their stomachs!”
“Forbear, dear friends,” said the Bishop; “it is not the way of Christians to talk thus.”
“But it is the way of gentlemen!” replied La Corne, impatiently, “and I always hold that a true gentleman is a true Christian. But you do your duty, my Lord Bishop, in reproving us, and I honor you for it, although I may not promise obedience. David fought a duel with Goliath, and was honored by God and man for it, was he not?”
“But he fought it not in his own quarrel, La Corne,” replied the Bishop gently; “Goliath had defied the armies of the living God, and David fought for his king, not for himself.”
“Confiteor! my Lord Bishop, but the logic of the heart is often truer than the logic of the head, and the sword has no raison d'être, except in purging the world of scoundrels.”
“I will go home now; I will see your Excellency again on this matter,” said Pierre, rising to depart.
“Do, Pierre! my utmost services are at your command,” said the Governor, as the guests all rose too. It was very late.
The hour of departure had arrived; the company all rose, and courteously bidding their host good-night, proceeded to their several homes, leaving him alone with his friend Kalm.
They two at once passed into a little museum of minerals, plants, birds, and animals, where they sat down, eager as two boy-students. The world, its battles, and its politics were utterly forgotten, as they conversed far into the night and examined, with the delight of new discoverers, the beauty and variety of nature's forms that exist in the New World.
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{
"id": "2735"
}
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38
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A WILD NIGHT INDOORS AND OUT.
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The Chevalier de Pean had been but too successful in his errand of mischief to the Manor House of Tilly.
A few days had sufficed for this accomplished ambassador of Bigot to tempt Le Gardeur to his ruin, and to triumph in his fall.
Upon his arrival at the Seigniory, De Pean had chosen to take up his quarters at the village inn, in preference to accepting the proffered hospitality of the Lady de Tilly, whom, however, he had frequently to see, having been craftily commissioned by Bigot with the settlement of some important matters of business relating to her Seigniory, as a pretext to visit the Manor House and linger in the village long enough to renew his old familiarity with Le Gardeur.
The visits of De Pean to the Manor House were politely but not cordially received. It was only by reason of the business he came upon that he was received at all. Nevertheless he paid his court to the ladies of the Manor, as a gentleman anxious to remove their prejudices and win their good opinion.
He once, and but once, essayed to approach Amélie with gallantry, a hair-breadth only beyond the rigid boundary-line of ordinary politeness, when he received a repulse so quick, so unspoken and invisible, that he could not tell in what it consisted, yet he felt it like a sudden paralysis of his powers of pleasing. He cared not again to encounter the quick glance of contempt and aversion which for an instant flashed in the eyes of Amélie when she caught the drift of his untimely admiration.
A woman is never so Rhadamanthean in her justice, and so quick in her execution of it, as when she is proud and happy in her love for another man: she is then indignant at every suggestion implying any doubt of the strength, purity, and absoluteness of her devotion.
De Pean ground his teeth in silent wrath at this quiet but unequivocal repulse, and vowed a bitter vow that Amélie should ere long repent in sackcloth and ashes for the wound inflicted upon his vanity and still more upon his cupidity.
One of the day-dreams of his fancy was broken, never to return. The immense fortune and high rank of the young Chatelaine de Repentigny had excited the cupidity of De Pean for some time, and although the voluptuous beauty of Angélique fastened his eyes, he would willingly have sacrificed her for the reversion of the lordships of Tilly and Repentigny.
De Pean's soul was too small to bear with equanimity the annihilation of his cherished hopes. As he looked down upon his white hands, his delicate feet, and irreproachable dress and manner, he seemed not to comprehend that a true woman like Amélie cares nothing for these things in comparison with a manly nature that seeks a woman for her own sake by love, and in love, and not by the accessories of wealth and position. For such a one she would go barefoot if need were, while golden slippers would not tempt her to walk with the other.
Amélie's beau-ideal of manhood was embodied in Pierre Philibert, and the greatest king in Christendom would have wooed in vain at her feet, much less an empty pretender like the Chevalier de Pean.
“I would not have treated any gentleman so rudely,” said Amélie in confidence to Héloise de Lotbinière when they had retired to the privacy of their bedchamber. “No woman is justified in showing scorn of any man's love, if it be honest and true; but the Chevalier de Pean is false to the heart's core, and his presumption woke such an aversion in my heart, that I fear my eyes showed less than ordinary politeness to his unexpected advances.”
“You were too gentle, not too harsh, Amélie,” replied Héloise, with her arm round her friend. “Had I been the object of his hateful addresses, I should have repaid him in his own false coin: I would have led him on to the brink of the precipice of a confession and an offer, and then I would have dropped him as one drops a stone into the deep pool of the Chaudière.”
“You were always more bold than I, Héloise; I could not do that for the world,” replied Amélie. “I would not willingly offend even the Chevalier de Pean. Moreover, I fear him, and I need not tell you why, darling. That man possesses a power over my dear brother that makes me tremble, and in my anxiety for Le Gardeur I may have lingered, as I did yesterday, too long in the parlor when in company with the Chevalier de Pean, who, mistaking my motive, may have supposed that I hated not his presence so much as I truly did!”
“Amélie, your fears are my own!” exclaimed Héloise, pressing Amélie to her side. “I must, I will tell you. O loved sister of mine,--let me call you so! --to you alone I dare acknowledge my hopeless love for Le Gardeur, and my deep and abiding interest in his welfare.”
“Nay, do not say hopeless, Héloise!” replied Amélie, kissing her fondly. “Le Gardeur is not insensible to your beauty and goodness. He is too like myself not to love you.”
“Alas, Amélie! I know it is all in vain. I have neither beauty nor other attractions in his eyes. He left me yesterday to converse with the Chevalier de Pean on the subject of Angélique des Meloises, and I saw, by the agitation of his manner, the flush upon his cheek, and the eagerness of his questioning, that he cared more for Angélique, notwithstanding her reported engagement with the Intendant, than he did for a thousand Héloises de Lotbinière!”
The poor girl, overpowered by the recollection, hid her face upon the shoulder of Amélie, and sobbed as if her very heart were breaking,--as in truth it was.
Amélie, so happy and secure in her own affection, comforted Héloise with her tears and caresses, but it was only by picturing in her imagination her own state, should she be so hapless as to lose the love of Pierre Philibert, that she could realize the depth of misery and abandonment which filled the bosom of her fair companion.
She was, moreover, struck to the heart by the words of Héloise regarding the eagerness of her brother to get word of Angélique. “The Chevalier de Pean might have brought a message, perhaps a love-token from Angélique to Le Gardeur to draw him back to the city,” thought she. If so, she felt instinctively that all their efforts to redeem him would be in vain, and that neither sister's love nor Pierre's remonstrances would avail to prevent his return. He was the slave of the lamp and Angélique its possessor.
“Heaven forbid, Héloise!” she said faintly; “Le Gardeur is lost if he return to the city now! Twice lost--lost as a gentleman, lost as the lover of a woman who cares for him only as a pastime and as a foil to her ambitious designs upon the Intendant! Poor Le Gardeur! what happiness might not be his in the love of a woman noble-minded as himself! What happiness were he yours, O darling Héloise!” She kissed her pallid cheeks, wet with tears, which lay by hers on the same pillow, and both remained silently brooding over the thoughts which spring from love and sorrow.
“Happiness can never be mine, Amélie,” said Héloise, after a lapse of several minutes. “I have long feared it, now I know it. Le Gardeur loves Angélique; he is wholly hers, and not one little corner of his heart is left for poor Héloise to nestle in! I did not ask much, Amélie, but I have not retained the little interest I believed was once mine! He has thrown the whole treasure of his life at her feet. After playing with it, she will spurn it for a more ambitious alliance! Oh, Amélie!” exclaimed she with vivacity, “I could be wicked! Heaven forgive me! I could be cruel and without pity to save Le Gardeur from the wiles of such a woman!”
The night was a stormy one; the east wind, which had lain in a dead lull through the early hours of the evening, rose in all its strength at the turn of the tide. It came bounding like the distant thud of a cannon. It roared and rattled against the windows and casements of the Manor House, sounding a deep bass in the long chimneys and howling like souls in torment amid the distant woods.
The rain swept down in torrents, as if the windows of heaven were opened to wash away the world's defilements. The stout walls of the Manor House were immovable as rocks, but the wind and the rain and the noise of the storm struck an awe into the two girls. They crept closer together in their bed; they dared not separate for the night. The storm seemed too much the reflex of the agitation of their own minds, and they lay clasped in each other's arms, mingling their tears and prayers for Le Gardeur until the gray dawn looked over the eastern hill and they slept.
The Chevalier de Pean was faithful to the mission upon which he had been despatched to Tilly. He disliked intensely the return of Le Gardeur to renew his old ties with Angélique. But it was his fate, his cursed crook, he called it, ever to be overborne by some woman or other, and he resolved that Le Gardeur should pay for it with his money, and be so flooded by wine and debauchery that Angélique herself would repent that she had ever invited his return.
That she would not marry Le Gardeur was plain enough to De Pean, who knew her ambitious views regarding the Intendant; and that the Intendant would not marry her was equally a certainty to him, although it did not prevent De Pean's entertaining an intense jealousy of Bigot.
Despite discouraging prospects, he found a consolation in the reflection that, failing his own vain efforts to please Amélie de Repentigny for sake of her wealth, the woman he most loved for sake of her beauty and spirit would yet drop like a golden fleece into his arms, either through spite at her false lover or through love of himself. De Pean cared little which, for it was the person, not the inclination of Angélique, that carried away captive the admiration of the Chevalier de Pean.
The better to accomplish his crafty design of abducting Le Gardeur, De Pean had taken up his lodging at the village inn. He knew that in the polite hospitalities of the Manor House he could find few opportunities to work upon the susceptible nature of Le Gardeur; that too many loving eyes would there watch over his safety, and that he was himself suspected, and his presence only tolerated on account of the business which had ostensibly brought him there. At the inn he would be free to work out his schemes, sure of success if by any means and on any pretence he could draw Le Gardeur thither and rouse into life and fury the sleeping serpents of his old propensities,--the love of gaming, the love of wine, and the love of Angélique.
Could Le Gardeur be persuaded to drink a full measure to the bright eyes of Angélique des Meloises, and could he, when the fire was kindled, be tempted once more to take in hand the box more fatal than that of Pandora and place fortune on the turn of a die, De Pean knew well that no power on earth could stop the conflagration of every good resolution and every virtuous principle in his mind. Neither aunt nor sister nor friends could withhold him then! He would return to the city, where the Grand Company had a use to make of him which he would never understand until it was too late for aught but repentance.
De Pean pondered long upon a few words he had one day heard drop from the lips of Bigot, which meant more, much more, than they seemed to imply, and they flitted long through his memory like bats in a room seeking an outlet into the night, ominous of some deed of darkness.
De Pean imagined that he had found a way to revenge himself on Le Gardeur and Amélie--each for thwarting him in a scheme of love or fortune. He brooded long and malignantly how to hatch the plot which he fancied was his own, but which had really been conceived in the deeper brain of Bigot, whose few seemingly harmless words had dropped into the ear of De Pean, casually as it were, but which Bigot knew would take root and grow in the congenial soul of his secretary and one day bring forth terrible fruit.
The next day was wet and autumnal, with a sweeping east wind which blew raw and gustily over the dark grass and drooping trees that edged the muddy lane of the village of Tilly.
At the few houses in the village everything was quiet, except at the old-fashioned inn, with its low, covered gallery and swinging sign of the Tilly Arms.
There, flitting round the door, or occasionally peering through the windows of the tap-room, with pipes in their mouths and perchance a tankard in their hands, were seen the elders of the village, boatmen, and habitans, making use, or good excuse, of a rainy day for a social gathering in the dry, snug chimney-corner of the Tilly Arms.
In the warmest corner of all, his face aglow with firelight and good liquor, sat Master Pothier dit Robin, with his gown tucked up to his waist as he toasted his legs and old gamashes in the genial warmth of a bright fire.
He leaned back his head and twirled his thumbs for a few minutes without speaking or listening to the babble around him, which had now turned upon the war and the latest sweep of the royal commissaries for corn and cattle. “Did you say, Jean La Marche,” said he, “that Le Gardeur de Repentigny was playing dice and drinking hot wine with the Chevalier de Pean and two big dogs of the Friponne?”
“I did.” Jean spoke with a choking sensation. “Our young Seigneur has broken out again wilder than ever, and is neither to hold nor bind any longer!”
“Ay!” replied Master Pothier reflectively, “the best bond I could draw would not bind him more than a spider's thread! They are stiff-necked as bulls, these De Repentignys, and will bear no yoke but what they put on of themselves! Poor lad! Do they know at the Manor House that he is here drinking and dicing with the Chevalier de Pean?”
“No! Else all the rain in heaven would not have prevented his being looked after by Mademoiselle Amélie and my Lady,” answered Jean. “His friend, Pierre Philibert, who is now a great officer of the King, went last night to Batiscan, on some matter of the army, as his groom told me. Had he been here, Le Gardeur would not have spent the day at the Tilly Arms, as we poor habitans do when it is washing-day at home.”
“Pierre Philibert!” Master Pothier rubbed his hands at this reminder, “I remember him, Jean! A hero like St. Denis! It was he who walked into the Château of the Intendant and brought off young De Repentigny as a cat does her kitten.”
“What, in his mouth, Master Pothier?”
“None of your quips, Jean; keep cool!” Master Pothier's own face grew red. “Never ring the coin that is a gift, and do not stretch my comparisons like your own wit to a bare thread. If I had said in his mouth, what then? It was by word of mouth, I warrant you, that he carried him away from Beaumanoir. Pity he is not here to take him away from the Tilly Arms!”
The sound of voices, the rattle and clash of the dice-box in the distant parlor, reached his ear amidst the laughter and gabble of the common room. The night was a hard one in the little inn.
In proportion as the common room of the inn grew quiet by the departure of its guests, the parlor occupied by the gentlemen became more noisy and distinct in its confusion. The song, the laugh, the jest, and jingle of glasses mingled with the perpetual rattle of dice or the thumps which accompanied the play of successful cards.
Paul Gaillard, the host, a timid little fellow not used to such high imperious guests, only ventured to look into the parlor when summoned for more wine. He was a born censitaire of the house of Tilly, and felt shame and pity as he beheld the dishevelled figure of his young Seigneur shaking the dice-box and defying one and all to another cast for love, liquor, or whole handfuls of uncounted coin.
Paul Gaillard had ventured once to whisper something to Le Gardeur about sending his calèche to the Manor House, hoping that his youthful master would consent to be driven home. But his proposal was met by a wild laugh from Le Gardeur and a good-humored expulsion from the room.
He dared not again interfere, but contented himself with waiting until break of day to send a message to the Lady de Tilly informing her of the sad plight of his young master.
De Pean, with a great object in view, had summoned Le Mercier and Emeric de Lantagnac from the city,--potent topers and hard players,--to assist him in his desperate game for the soul, body, and fortune of Le Gardeur de Repentigny.
They came willingly. The Intendant had laughingly wished them bon voyage and a speedy return with his friend Le Gardeur, giving them no other intimation of his wishes; nor could they surmise that he had any other object in view than the pleasure of again meeting a pleasant companion of his table and a sharer of their pleasures.
De Pean had no difficulty in enticing Le Gardeur down to the village inn, where he had arranged that he should meet, by mere accident, as it were, his old city friends.
The bold, generous nature of Le Gardeur, who neither suspected nor feared any evil, greeted them with warmth. They were jovial fellows, he knew, who would be affronted if he refused to drink a cup of wine with them. They talked of the gossip of the city, its coteries and pleasant scandals, and of the beauty and splendor of the queen of society--Angélique des Meloises.
Le Gardeur, with a painful sense of his last interview with Angélique, and never for a moment forgetting her reiterated words, “I love you, Le Gardeur, but I will not marry you,” kept silent whenever she was named, but talked with an air of cheerfulness on every other topic.
His one glass of wine was soon followed by another. He was pressed with such cordiality that he could not refuse. The fire was rekindled, at first with a faint glow upon his cheek and a sparkle in his eye; but the table soon overflowed with wine, mirth, and laughter. He drank without reflection, and soon spoke with warmth and looseness from all restraint.
De Pean, resolved to excite Le Gardeur to the utmost, would not cease alluding to Angélique. He recurred again and again to the splendor of her charms and the fascination of her ways. He watched the effect of his speech upon the countenance of Le Gardeur, keenly observant of every expression of interest excited by the mention of her.
“We will drink to her bright eyes,” exclaimed De Pean, filling his glass until it ran over, “first in beauty and worthy to be first in place in New France--yea, or Old France either! and he is a heathen who will not drink this toast!”
“Le Gardeur will not drink it! Neither would I, in his place,” replied Emeric de Lantagnac, too drunk now to mind what he said. “I would drink to the bright eyes of no woman who had played me the trick Angélique has played upon Le Gardeur!”
“What trick has she played upon me?” repeated Le Gardeur, with a touch of anger.
“Why, she has jilted you, and now flies at higher game, and nothing but a prince of the blood will satisfy her!”
“Does she say that, or do you invent it?” Le Gardeur was almost choking with angry feelings. Emeric cared little what he said, drunk or sober. He replied gravely,-- “Oh, all the women in the city say she said it! But you know, Le Gardeur, women will lie of one another faster than a man can count a hundred by tens.”
De Pean, while enjoying the vexation of Le Gardeur, feared that the banter of Emeric might have an ill effect on his scheme. “I do not believe it, Le Gardeur;” said he, “Angélique is too true a woman to say what she means to every jealous rival. The women hope she has jilted you. That counts one more chance for them, you know! Is not that feminine arithmetic, Le Mercier?” asked he.
“It is at the Friponne,” replied Le Mercier, laughing. “But the man who becomes debtor to Angélique des Meloises will never, if I know her, be discharged out of her books, even if he pay his debt.”
“Ay, they say she never lets a lover go, or a friend either,” replied De Pean. “I have proof to convince Le Gardeur that Angélique has not jilted him. Emeric reports women's tattle, nothing more.”
Le Gardeur was thoroughly roused. “Par Dieu!” exclaimed he, “my affairs are well talked over in the city, I think! Who gave man or woman the right to talk of me thus?”
“No one gave them the right. But the women claim it indefeasibly from Eve, who commenced talking of Adam's affairs with Satan the first time her man's back was turned.”
“Pshaw! Angélique des Meloises is as sensible as she is beautiful: she never said that! No, par Dieu! she never said to a man or woman that she had jilted me, or gave reason for others to say so!”
Le Gardeur in his vexation poured out with nervous hand a large glass of pure brandy and drank it down. It had an instant effect. His forehead flushed, and his eyes dilated with fresh fire. “She never said that!” repeated he fiercely. “I would swear it on my mother's head, she never did! and would kill any man who would dare affirm it of her!”
“Right! the way to win a woman is never to give her up,” answered De Pean. “Hark you, Le Gardeur, all the city knows that she favored you more than any of the rest of her legion of admirers. Why are you moping away your time here at Tilly when you ought to be running down your game in the city?”
“My Atalanta is too fleet of foot for me, De Pean,” replied Le Gardeur. “I have given up the chase. I have not the luck of Hippomanes.”
“That is, she is too fast!” said De Pean mockingly. “But have you thrown a golden apple at her feet to stop your runaway nymph?”
“I have thrown myself at her feet, De Pean! and in vain,” said Le Gardeur, gulping down another cup of brandy.
De Pean watched the effect of the deep potations which Le Gardeur now poured down to quench the rising fires kindled in his breast. “Come here, Le Gardeur,” said he; “I have a message for you which I would not deliver before, lest you might be angry.”
De Pean led him into a recess of the room. “You are wanted in the city,” whispered he. “Angélique sent this little note by me. She put it in my hand as I was embarking for Tilly, and blushed redder than a rose as she did so. I promised to deliver it safely to you.”
It was a note quaintly folded in a style Le Gardeur recognized well, inviting him to return to the city. Its language was a mixture of light persiflage and tantalizing coquetry,--she was dying of the dullness of the city! The late ball at the Palace had been a failure, lacking the presence of Le Gardeur! Her house was forlorn without the visits of her dear friend, and she wanted his trusty counsel in an affair of the last importance to her welfare and happiness!
“That girl loves you, and you may have her for the asking!” continued De Pean, as Le Gardeur sat crumpling the letter up in his hand. De Pean watched his countenance with the eye of a basilisk.
“Do you think so?” asked Le Gardeur eagerly. “But no, I have no more faith in woman; she does not mean it!”
“But if she does mean it, would you go, Le Gardeur?”
“Would I go?” replied he, excitedly. “Yes, I would go to the lowest pit in hell for her! But why are you taunting me, De Pean!”
“I taunt you? Read her note again! She wants your trusty counsel in an affair of the last importance to her welfare and happiness. You know what is the affair of last importance to a woman! Will you refuse her now, Le Gardeur?”
“No, par Dieu! I can refuse her nothing; no, not if she asked me for my head, although I know it is but mockery.”
“Never mind! Then you will return with us to the city? We start at daybreak.”
“Yes, I will go with you, De Pean; you have made me drunk, and I am willing to stay drunk till I leave Amélie and my aunt and Héloise, up at the Manor House. Pierre Philibert, he will be angry that I leave him, but he can follow, and they can all follow! I hate myself for it, De Pean! But Angélique des Meloises is to me more than creature or Creator. It is a sin to love a woman as I love her, De Pean!”
De Pean fairly writhed before the spirit he evoked. He was not so sure of his game but that it might yet be lost. He knew Angélique's passionate impulses, and he thought that no woman could resist such devotion as that of Le Gardeur.
He kept down his feelings, however. He saw that Le Gardeur was ripe for ruin. They returned to the table and drank still more freely. Dice and cards were resumed; fresh challenges were thrown out; Emeric and Le Mercier were already deep in a game; money was pushed to and fro. The contagion fastened like a plague upon Le Gardeur, who sat down at the table, drew forth a full purse, and pulling up every anchor of restraint, set sail on the flood-tide of drinking and gaming which lasted without ceasing until break of day.
De Pean never for a moment lost sight of his scheme for the abduction of Le Gardeur. He got ready for departure, and with a drunken rush and a broken song the four gallants, with unwashed faces and disordered clothes, staggered into their canoe and with a shout bade the boatmen start.
The hardy canotiers were ready for departure. They headed their long canoes down the flowing river, dashed their paddles into the water just silvered with the rays of the rising sun, and shot down stream towards the city of Quebec.
De Pean, elate with his success, did not let the gaiety of the party flag for a moment during their return. They drank, sang, and talked balderdash and indecencies in a way to bring a look of disgust upon the cheeks of the rough boatmen.
Much less sober than when they left Tilly, the riotous party reached the capital. The canotiers with rapid strokes of the paddle passed the high cliffs and guarded walls, and made for the quay of the Friponne, De Pean forcing silence upon his companions as they passed the Sault au Matelot, where a crowd of idle boatmen hailed them with volleys of raillery, which only ceased when the canoe was near enough for them to see whom it contained. They were instantly silent. The rigorous search made by order of the Intendant after the late rioters, and the summary punishment inflicted upon all who had been convicted, had inspired a careful avoidance of offence toward Bigot and the high officers of his staff.
De Pean landed quietly, few caring to turn their heads too often towards him. Le Gardeur, wholly under his control, staggered out of the canoe, and, taking his arm, was dragged rather than led up to the Palace, where Bigot greeted the party with loud welcome. Apartments were assigned to Le Gardeur, as to a most honored guest in the Palace. Le Gardeur de Repentigny was finally and wholly in the power of the Intendant.
Bigot looked triumphant, and congratulated De Pean on the success of his mission. “We will keep him now!” said he. “Le Gardeur must never draw a sober breath again until we have done with him!”
De Pean looked knowingly at Bigot; “I understand,” said he; “Emeric and Le Mercier will drink him blind, and Cadet, Varin, and the rest of us will rattle the dice like hail. We must pluck the pigeon to his last feather before he will feel desperate enough to play your game, Chevalier.”
“As you like, De Pean, about that,” replied Bigot; “only mind that he does not leave the Palace. His friends will run after him. That accursed Philibert will be here; on your life, do not let him see him! Hark you! When he comes, make Le Gardeur affront him by some offensive reply to his inquiry. You can do it.”
De Pean took the hint, and acted upon it by forging that infamous card in the name of Le Gardeur, and sending it as his reply to Pierre Philibert.
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{
"id": "2735"
}
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39
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MÈRE MALHEUR.
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La Corriveau, eager to commence her work of wickedness, took up her abode at the house of her ancient friend, Mère Malheur, whither she went on the night of her first interview with Angélique.
It was a small house, built of uncut stones, with rough stone steps and lintels, a peaked roof, and low overhanging eaves, hiding itself under the shadow of the cliff, so closely that it seemed to form a part of the rock itself.
Its sole inmate, an old crone who had reached the last degree of woman's ugliness and woman's heartlessness,--Mère Malheur--sold fair winds to superstitious sailors and good luck to hunters and voyageurs. She was not a little suspected of dabbling in other forbidden things. Half believing in her own impostures, she regarded La Corriveau with a feeling akin to worship, who in return for this devotion imparted to her a few secrets of minor importance in her diabolic arts.
La Corriveau was ever a welcome guest at the house of Mère Malheur, who feasted her lavishly, and served her obsequiously, but did not press with undue curiosity to learn her business in the city. The two women understood one another well enough not to pry too closely into each other's secrets.
On this occasion La Corriveau was more than usually reserved, and while Mère Malheur eagerly detailed to her all the doings and undoings that had happened in her circle of acquaintance, she got little information in return. She shrewdly concluded that La Corriveau had business on hand which would not bear to be spoken of.
“When you need my help, ask for it without scruple, Dame Dodier,” said the old crone. “I see you have something on hand that may need my aid. I would go into the fire to serve you, although I would not burn my finger for any other woman in the world, and you know it.”
“Yes, I know it, Mère Malheur,” La Corriveau spoke with an air of superiority, “and you say rightly: I have something on hand which I cannot accomplish alone, and I need your help, although I cannot tell you yet how or against whom.”
“Is it a woman or a man? I will only ask that question, Dame Dodier,” said the crone, turning upon her a pair of green, inquisitive eyes.
“It is a woman, and so of course you will help me. Our sex for the bottom of all mischief, Mère Malheur! I do not know what women are made for except to plague one another for the sake of worthless men!”
The old crone laughed a hideous laugh, and playfully pushed her long fingers into the ribs of La Corriveau. “Made for! quotha! men's temptation, to be sure, and the beginning of all mischief!”
“Pretty temptations you and I are, Mère Malheur!” replied La Corriveau, with a scornful laugh.
“Well, we were pretty temptations once! I will never give up that! You must own, Dame Dodier, we were both pretty temptations once!”
“Pshaw! I wish I had been a man, for my part,” replied La Corriveau, impetuously. “It was a spiteful cross of fate to make me a woman!”
“But, Dame Dodier, I like to be a woman, I do. A man cannot be half as wicked as a woman, especially if she be young and pretty,” said the old woman, laughing till the tears ran out of her bleared eyes.
“Nay, that is true, Mère Malheur; the fairest women in the world are ever the worst! fair and false! fair and false! they are always so. Not one better than another. Satan's mark is upon all of us!” La Corriveau looked an incarnation of Hecate as she uttered this calumny upon her sex.
“Ay, I have his mark on my knee, Dame Dodier,” replied the crone. “See here! It was pricked once in the high court of Arras, but the fool judge decided that it was a mole, and not a witch-mark! I escaped a red gown that time, however. I laughed at his stupidity, and bewitched him for it in earnest. I was young and pretty then! He died in a year, and Satan sat on his grave in the shape of a black cat until his friends set a cross over it. I like to be a woman, I do, it is so easy to be wicked, and so nice! I always tell the girls that, and they give me twice as much as if I had told them to be good and nice, as they call it! Pshaw! Nice! If only men knew us as we really are!”
“Well, I do not like women, Mère Malheur,” replied La Corriveau; “they sneer at you and me and call us witch and sorceress, and they will lie, steal, kill, and do worse themselves for the sake of one man to-day, and cast him off for sake of another to-morrow! Wise Solomon found only one good woman in a thousand; the wisest man now finds not one in a worldful! It were better all of us were dead, Mère Malheur; but pour me out a glass of wine, for I am tired of tramping in the dark to the house of that gay lady I told you of.”
Mère Malheur poured out a glass of choice Beaume from a dame-jeanne which she had received from a roguish sailor, who had stolen it from his ship.
“But you have not told me who she is, Dame Dodier,” replied Mère Malheur, refilling the glass of La Corriveau.
“Nor will I yet. She is fit to be your mistress and mine, whoever she is; but I shall not go again to see her.”
And La Corriveau did not again visit the house of Angélique. She had received from her precise information respecting the movements of the Intendant. He had gone to the Trois Rivières on urgent affairs, and might be absent for a week.
Angélique had received from Varin, in reply to her eager question for news, a short, falsified account of the proceedings in the Council relative to Caroline and of Bigot's indignant denial of all knowledge of her.
Varin, as a member of the Council, dared not reveal the truth, but would give his familiars half-hints, or tell to others elaborate lies, when pressed for information. He did not, in this case, even hint at the fact that a search was to be made for Caroline. Had he done so, Angélique would herself have given secret information to the Governor to order the search of Beaumanoir, and thus got her rival out of the way without trouble, risk, or crime.
But it was not to be. The little word that would have set her active spirit on fire to aid in the search for Caroline was not spoken, and her thoughts remained immovably fixed upon her death.
But if Angélique had been misled by Varin as to what had passed at the Council, Mère Malheur, through her intercourse with a servant of Varin, had learned the truth. An eavesdropping groom had overheard his master and the Intendant conversing on the letters of the Baron and La Pompadour. The man told his sweetheart, who, coming with some stolen sweetmeats to Mère Malheur, told her, who in turn was not long in imparting what she had heard to La Corriveau.
La Corriveau did not fail to see that, should Angélique discover that her rival was to be searched for, and taken to France if found, she would at once change her mind, and Caroline would be got rid of without need of her interference. But La Corriveau had got her hand in the dish. She was not one to lose her promised reward or miss the chance of so cursed a deed by any untimely avowal of what she knew.
So Angélique was doomed to remain in ignorance until too late. She became the dupe of her own passions and the dupe of La Corriveau, who carefully concealed from her a secret so important.
Bigot's denial in the Council weighed nothing with her. She felt certain that the lady was no other than Caroline de St. Castin. Angélique was acute enough to perceive that Bigot's bold assertion that he knew nothing of her bound him in a chain of obligation never to confess afterwards aught to the contrary. She eagerly persuaded herself that he would not regret to hear that Caroline had died by some sudden and, to appearance, natural death, and thus relieved him of a danger, and her of an obstacle to her marriage.
Without making a full confidant of Mère Malheur, La Corriveau resolved to make use of her in carrying out her diabolical scheme. Mère Malheur had once been a servant at Beaumanoir. She knew the house, and in her heyday of youth and levity had often smuggled herself in and out by the subterranean passage which connected the solitary watchtower with the vaults of the Château. Mère Malheur knew Dame Tremblay, who, as the Charming Josephine, had often consulted her upon the perplexities of a heart divided among too many lovers.
The memory of that fragrant period of her life was the freshest and pleasantest of all Dame Tremblay's experience. It was like the odor of new-mown hay, telling of early summer and frolics in the green fields. She liked nothing better than to talk it all over in her snug room with Mère Malheur, as they sat opposite one another at her little table, each with a cup of tea in her hand, well laced with brandy, which was a favorite weakness of them both.
Dame Tremblay was, in private, neither nice nor squeamish as to the nature of her gossip. She and the old fortune-teller, when out of sight of the rest of the servants, had always a dish of the choicest scandal fresh from the city.
La Corriveau resolved to send Mère Malheur to Beaumanoir, under the pretence of paying a visit to Dame Tremblay, in order to open a way of communication between herself and Caroline. She had learned enough during her brief interview with Caroline in the forest of St. Valier, and from what she now heard respecting the Baron de St. Castin, to convince her that this was no other than his missing daughter.
“If Caroline could only be induced to admit La Corriveau into her secret chamber and take her into her confidence, the rest--all the rest,” muttered the hag to herself, with terrible emphasis, “would be easy, and my reward sure. But that reward shall be measured in my own bushel, not in yours, Mademoiselle des Meloises, when the deed is done!”
La Corriveau knew the power such a secret would enable her to exercise over Angélique. She already regarded the half of her reputed riches as her own. “Neither she nor the Intendant will ever dare neglect me after that!” said she. “When once Angélique shall be linked in with me by a secret compact of blood, the fortune of La Corriveau is made. If the death of this girl be the elixir of life to you, it shall be the touchstone of fortune forever to La Corriveau!”
Mère Malheur was next day despatched on a visit to her old gossip, Dame Tremblay. She had been well tutored on every point, what to say and how to demean herself. She bore a letter to Caroline, written in the Italian hand of La Corriveau, who had learned to write well from her mother, Marie Exili.
The mere possession of the art of writing was a rarity in those days in the class among whom she lived. La Corriveau's ability to write at all was a circumstance as remarkable to her illiterate neighbors as the possession of the black art which they ascribed to her, and not without a strong suspicion that it had the same origin.
Mère Malheur, in anticipation of a cup of tea and brandy with Dame Tremblay, had dressed herself with some appearance of smartness in a clean striped gown of linsey. A peaked Artois hat surmounted a broad-frilled cap, which left visible some tresses of coarse gray hair and a pair of silver ear-rings, which dangled with every motion of her head. Her shoes displayed broad buckles of brass, and her short petticoat showed a pair of stout ankles enclosed in red clocked stockings. She carried a crutched stick in her hand, by help of which she proceeded vigorously on her journey.
Starting in the morning, she trudged out of the city towards the ferry of Jean Le Nocher, who carefully crossed himself and his boat too as he took Mère Malheur on board. He wafted her over in a hurry, as something to be got rid of as quickly as possible.
Mère Malheur tramped on, like a heavy gnome, through the fallen and flying leaves of the woods of Beaumanoir, caring nothing for the golden, hazy sky, the soft, balmy air, or the varicolored leaves--scarlet, yellow, and brown, of every shade and tinge--that hung upon the autumnal trees.
A frosty night or two had ushered in the summer of St. Martin, as it was called by the habitans,--the Indian summer,--that brief time of glory and enchantment which visits us like a gaudy herald to announce the approach of the Winter King. It is Nature's last rejoicing in the sunshine and the open air, like the splendor and gaiety of a maiden devoted to the cloister, who for a few weeks is allowed to flutter like a bird of paradise amid the pleasures and gaieties of the world, and then comes the end. Her locks of pride are shorn off; she veils her beauty, and kneels a nun on the cold stones of her passionless cell, out of which, even with repentance, there comes no deliverance.
Mère Malheur's arrival at Beaumanoir was speedily known to all the servants of the Château. She did not often visit them, but when she did there was a hurried recital of an Ave or two to avert any harm, followed by a patronizing welcome and a rummage for small coins to cross her hand withal in return for her solutions of the grave questions of love, jealousy, money, and marriage, which fermented secretly or openly in the bosoms of all of them. They were but human beings, food for imposture, and preyed on by deceivers. The visit of Mère Malheur was an event of interest in both kitchen and laundry of the Château.
Dame Tremblay had the first claim, however, upon this singular visitor. She met her at the back door of the Château, and with a face beaming with smiles, and dropping all dignity, exclaimed,-- “Mère Malheur, upon my life! Welcome, you wicked old soul! you surely knew I wanted to see you! come in and rest! you must be tired, unless you came on a broom! ha! ha! come to my room and never mind anybody!”
This last remark was made for the benefit of the servants who stood peeping at every door and corner, not daring to speak to the old woman in the presence of the housekeeper, but knowing that their time would come, they had patience.
The housekeeper, giving them a severe look, proceeded to her own snug apartment, followed by the crone, whom she seated in her easiest chair and proceeded to refresh with a glass of cognac, which was swallowed with much relish and wiping of lips, accompanied by a little artificial cough. Dame Tremblay kept a carafe of it in her room to raise the temperature of her low spirits and vapors to summer heat, not that she drank, far from it, but she liked to sip a little for her stomach's sake.
“It is only a thimbleful I take now and then,” she said. “When I was the Charming Josephine I used to kiss the cups I presented to the young gallants, and I took no more than a fly! but they always drank bumpers from the cup I kissed!” The old dame looked grave as she shook her head and remarked, “But we cannot be always young and handsome, can we, Mère Malheur?”
“No, dame, but we can be jolly and fat, and that is what we are! You don't quaff life by thimblefuls, and you only want a stout offer to show the world that you can trip as briskly to church yet as any girl in New France!”
The humor of the old crone convulsed Dame Tremblay with laughter, as if some invisible fingers were tickling her wildly under the armpits.
She composed herself at last, and drawing her chair close to that of Mère Malheur, looked her inquiringly in the face and asked, “What is the news?”
Dame Tremblay was endowed with more than the ordinary curiosity of her sex. She knew more news of city and country than any one else, and she dispensed it as freely as she gathered. She never let her stock of gossip run low, and never allowed man or woman to come to speak with her without pumping them dry of all they knew. A secret in anybody's possession set her wild to possess it, and she gave no rest to her inordinate curiosity until she had fished it out of even the muddiest waters.
The mystery that hung around Caroline was a source of perpetual irritation to the nerves of Dame Tremblay. She had tried as far as she dared by hint and suggestion to draw from the lady some reference to her name and family, but in vain. Caroline would avow nothing, and Dame Tremblay, completely baffled by a failure of ordinary means to find out the secret, bethought herself of her old resource in case of perplexity, Mère Malheur.
For several days she had been brooding over this mode of satisfying her curiosity, when the unexpected visit of Mère Malheur set aside all further hesitation about disobeying the Intendant's orders not to inquire or allow any other person to make inquisition respecting Caroline.
“Mère Malheur, you feel comfortable now!” said she. “That glass of cognac has given you a color like a peony!”
“Yes, I am very comfortable now, dame! your cognac is heavenly: it warms without burning. That glass is the best news I have to tell of to-day!”
“Nay, but there is always something stirring in the city; somebody born, married, or dead; somebody courted, won, lost, or undone; somebody's name up, somebody's reputation down! Tell me all you know, Mère Malheur! and then I will tell you something that will make you glad you came to Beaumanoir to-day. Take another sip of cognac and begin!”
“Ay, dame, that is indeed a temptation!” She took two deep sips, and holding her glass in her hand, began with loose tongue to relate the current gossip of the city, which was already known to Dame Tremblay; but an ill-natured version of it from the lips of her visitor seemed to give it a fresh seasoning and a relish which it had not previously possessed.
“Now, Mère Malheur! I have a secret to tell you,” said Dame Tremblay, in a low, confidential tone, “a dead secret, mind you, which you had better be burnt than reveal. There is a lady, a real lady if I ever saw one, living in the Château here in the greatest privacy. I and the Intendant only see her. She is beautiful and full of sorrow as the picture of the blessed Madonna. What she is, I may guess; but who she is, I cannot conjecture, and would give my little finger to know!”
“Tut, dame!” replied Mère Malheur, with a touch of confidence, “I will not believe any woman could keep a secret from you! But this is news, indeed, you tell me! A lady in concealment here, and you say you cannot find her out, Dame Tremblay!”
“In truth, I cannot; I have tried every artifice, but she passes all my wit and skill. If she were a man, I would have drawn her very teeth out with less difficulty than I have tried to extract the name of this lady. When I was the Charming Josephine of Lake Beauport, I could wind men like a thread around which finger I liked; but this is a tangled knot which drives me to despair to unravel it.”
“What do you know about her, dame? Tell me all you suspect!” said Mère Malheur.
“Truly,” replied the dame, without the least asperity, “I suspect the poor thing, like the rest of us, is no better than she should be; and the Intendant knows it, and Mademoiselle des Meloises knows it too; and, to judge by her constant prayers and penitence, she knows it herself but too well, and will not say it to me!”
“Ay, dame! but this is great news you tell me!” replied Mère Malheur, eagerly clutching at the opportunity thus offered for the desired interview. “But what help do you expect from me in the matter?”
Mère Malheur looked very expectant at her friend, who continued, “I want you to see that lady under promise of secrecy, mark you! --and look at her hands, and tell me who and what she is.”
Dame Tremblay had an unlimited faith in the superstitions of her age.
“I will do all you wish, dame, but you must allow me to see her alone,” replied the crone, who felt she was thus opening the door to La Corriveau.
“To be sure I will,--that is, if she will consent to be seen, for she has in some things a spirit of her own! I am afraid to push her too closely! The mystery of her is taking the flesh off my bones, and I can only get sleep by taking strong possets, Mère Malheur! Feel my elbow! Feel my knee! I have not had so sharp an elbow or knee since Goodman Tremblay died! And he said I had the sharpest elbow and knee in the city! But I had to punch him sometimes to keep him in order! But set that horrid cap straight, Mère Malheur, while I go ask her if she would like to have her fortune told. She is not a woman if she would not like to know her fortune, for she is in despair, I think, with all the world; and when a woman is in despair, as I know by my own experience, she will jump at any chance for spite, if not for love, as I did when I took the Sieur Tremblay by your advice, Mère Malheur!”
Dame Tremblay left the old crone making hideous faces in a mirror. She rubbed her cheeks and mouth with the corner of her apron as she proceeded to the door of Caroline's apartment. She knocked gently, and a low, soft voice bade her enter.
Caroline was seated on a chair by the window, knitting her sad thoughts into a piece of work which she occasionally lifted from her lap with a sudden start, as something broke the train of her reflections.
She was weighing over and over in her thoughts, like gold in a scale, by grains and pennyweights, a few kind words lately spoken to her by Bigot when he ran in to bid her adieu before departing on his journey to Trois Rivières. They seemed a treasure inexhaustible as she kept on repeating them to herself. The pressure of his hand had been warmer, the tone of his voice softer, the glance of his eye more kind, and he looked pityingly, she thought, upon her wan face when he left her in the gallery, and with a cheery voice and a kiss bade her take care of her health and win back the lost roses of Acadia.
These words passed through her mind with unceasing repetition, and a white border of light was visible on the edge of the dark cloud which hung over her. “The roses of Acadia will never bloom again,” thought she sadly. “I have watered them with salt tears too long, and all in vain. O Bigot, I fear it is too late, too late!” Still, his last look and last words reflected a faint ray of hope and joy upon her pallid countenance.
Dame Tremblay entered the apartment, and while busying herself on pretence of setting it in order, talked in her garrulous way of the little incidents of daily life in the Château, and finished by a mention, as if it were casual, of the arrival of the wise woman of the city, who knew everything, who could interpret dreams, and tell, by looking in a glass or in your hand, things past, present, and to come.
“A wonderful woman,” Dame Tremblay said, “a perilous woman too, not safe to deal with; but for all that, every one runs after her, and she has a good or bad word for every person who consults her. For my part,” continued the dame, “she foretold my marriage with the Goodman Tremblay long before it happened, and she also foretold his death to the very month it happened. So I have reason to believe in her as well as to be thankful!”
Caroline listened attentively to the dame's remarks. She was not superstitious, but yet not above the beliefs of her age, while the Indian strain in her lineage and her familiarity with the traditions of the Abenaquis inclined her to yield more than ordinary respect to dreams.
Caroline had dreamed of riding on a coal-black horse, seated behind the veiled figure of a man whose face she could not see, who carried her like the wind away to the ends of the earth, and there shut her up in a mountain for ages and ages, until a bright angel cleft the rock, and, clasping her in his arms, bore her up to light and liberty in the presence of the Redeemer and of all the host of heaven.
This dream lay heavy on her mind. For the veiled figure she knew was one she loved, but who had no honest love for her. Her mind had been brooding over the dream all day, and the announcement by Dame Tremblay of the presence in the Château of one who was able to interpret dreams seemed a stroke of fortune, if not an act of Providence.
She roused herself up, and with more animation than Dame Tremblay had yet seen in her countenance, requested her to send up the visitor, that she might ask her a question.
Mère Malheur was quickly summoned to the apartment of Caroline, where Dame Tremblay left them alone.
The repulsive look of the old crone sent a shock through the fine, nervous organization of the young girl. She requested Mère Malheur to be seated, however, and in her gentle manner questioned her about the dream.
Mère Malheur was an adept in such things, and knew well how to humor human nature, and lead it to put its own interpretations upon its own visions and desires while giving all the credit of it to herself.
Mère Malheur therefore interpreted the dream according to Caroline's secret wishes. This inspired a sort of confidence, and Mère Malheur seized the opportunity to deliver the letter from La Corriveau.
“My Lady,” said she, looking carefully round the room to note if the door was shut and no one was present, “I can tell you more than the interpretation of your dream. I can tell who you are and why you are here!”
Caroline started with a frightened look, and stared in the face of Mère Malheur. She faltered out at length,--“You know who I am and why I am here? Impossible! I never saw you before.”
“No, my Lady, you never saw me before, but I will convince you that I know you. You are the daughter of the Baron de St. Castin! Is it not so?” The old crone looked frightfully knowing as she uttered these words.
“Mother of mercies! what shall I do?” ejaculated the alarmed girl. “Who are you to say that?”
“I am but a messenger, my Lady. Listen! I am sent here to give you secretly this letter from a friend who knows you better than I, and who above all things desires an interview with you, as she has things of the deepest import to communicate.”
“A letter! Oh, what mystery is all this? A letter for me! Is it from the Intendant?”
“No, my Lady, it is from a woman.” Caroline blushed and trembled as she took it from the old crone.
A woman! It flashed upon the mind of Caroline that the letter was important. She opened it with trembling fingers, anticipating she knew not what direful tidings when her eyes ran over the clear handwriting.
La Corriveau had written to the effect that she was an unknown friend, desirous of serving her in a moment of peril. The Baron de St. Castin had traced her to New France, and had procured from the King instructions to the Governor to search for her everywhere and to send her to France. Other things of great import, the writer said, she had also to communicate, if Caroline would grant her a private interview in the Château.
There was a passage leading from the old deserted watch-tower to the vaulted chamber, continued the letter, and the writer would without further notice come on the following night to Beaumanoir, and knock at the arched door of her chamber about the hour of midnight, when, if Caroline pleased to admit her, she would gladly inform her of very important matters relating to herself, to the Intendant, and to the Baron de St. Castin, who was on his way out to the Colony to conduct in person the search after his lost daughter.
The letter concluded with the information that the Intendant had gone to Trois Rivières, whence he might not return for a week, and that during his absence the Governor would probably order a search for her to be made at Beaumanoir.
Caroline held the letter convulsively in her hand as she gathered its purport rather than read it. Her face changed color, from a deep flush of shame to the palest hue of fear, when she comprehended its meaning and understood that her father was on his way to New France to find out her hiding-place.
“What shall I do! Oh, what shall I do!” exclaimed she, wringing her hands for very anguish, regardless of the presence of Mère Malheur, who stood observing her with eyes glittering with curiosity, but void of every mark of womanly sympathy or feeling.
“My father, my loving father!” continued Caroline, “my deeply-injured father coming here with anger in his face to drag me from my concealment! I shall drop dead at his feet for very shame. Oh, that I were buried alive with mountains piled over me to hide me from my father! What shall I do? Whither shall I go? Bigot, Bigot, why have you forsaken me?”
Mère Malheur continued eyeing her with cold curiosity, but was ready at the first moment to second the promptings of the evil spirit contained in the letter.
“Mademoiselle,” said she, “there is but one way to escape from the search to be made by your father and the Governor,--take counsel of her who sends you that friendly letter. She can offer you a safe hiding-place until the storm blows over. Will you see her, my Lady?”
“See her! I, who dare see no one! Who is she that sends me such strange news? Is it truth? Do you know her?” continued she, looking fixedly at Mère Malheur, as if in hope of reading on her countenance some contradiction of the matter contained in the letter.
“I think it is all true, my Lady,” replied she, with mock humility; “I am but a poor messenger, however, and speak not myself of things I do not know, but she who sends me will tell you all.”
“Does the Intendant know her?”
“I think he told her to watch over your safety during his absence. She is old and your friend; will you see her?” replied Mère Malheur, who saw the point was gained.
“Oh, yes, yes! tell her to come. Beseech her not to fail to come, or I shall go mad. O woman, you too are old and experienced and ought to know,--can she help me in this strait, think you?” exclaimed Caroline, clasping her hands in a gesture of entreaty.
“No one is more able to help you,” said the crone; “she can counsel you what to do, and if need be find means to conceal you from the search that will be made for you.”
“Haste, then, and bid her come to-morrow night! Why not tonight?” Caroline was all nervous impatience. “I will wait her coming in the vaulted chamber; I will watch for her as one in the valley of death watches for the angel of deliverance. Bid her come, and at midnight to-morrow she shall find the door of the secret chamber open to admit her.”
The eagerness of the ill-fated girl to see La Corriveau outran every calculation of Mère Malheur. It was in vain and useless for her to speak further on the subject; Caroline would say no more. Her thoughts ran violently in the direction suggested by the artful letter. She would see La Corriveau to-morrow night, and would make no more avowals to Mère Malheur, she said to herself.
Seeing no more was to be got out of her, the crone bade her a formal farewell, looking at her curiously as she did so, and wondering in her mind if she should ever see her again. For the old creature had a shrewd suspicion that La Corriveau had not told her all her intentions with respect to this singular girl.
Caroline returned her salute, still holding the letter in her hand. She sat down to peruse it again, and observed not Mère Malheur's equivocal glance as she turned her eyes for the last time upon the innocent girl, doomed to receive the midnight visit from La Corriveau.
“There is death in the pot!” the crone muttered as she went out,--“La Corriveau comes not here on her own errand either! That girl is too beautiful to live, and to some one her death is worth gold! It will go hard, but La Corriveau shall share with me the reward of the work of tomorrow night!”
In the long gallery she encountered Dame Tremblay “ready to eat her up,” as she told La Corriveau afterwards, in the eagerness of her curiosity to learn the result of her interview with Caroline.
Mère Malheur was wary, and accustomed to fence with words. It was necessary to tell a long tale of circumstances to Dame Tremblay, but not necessary nor desirable to tell the truth. The old crone therefore, as soon as she had seated herself in the easy chair of the housekeeper and refreshed herself by twice accepting the dame's pressing invitation to tea and cognac, related with uplifted hands and shaking head a narrative of bold lies regarding what had really passed during her interview with Caroline.
“But who is she, Mère Malheur? Did she tell you her name? Did she show you her palm?”
“Both, dame, both! She is a girl of Ville Marie who has run away from her parents for love of the gallant Intendant, and is in hiding from them. They wanted to put her into the Convent to cure her of love. The Convent always cures love, dame, beyond the power of philtres to revive it!” and the old crone laughed inwardly to herself, as if she doubted her own saying.
Eager to return to La Corriveau with the account of her successful interview with Caroline, she bade Dame Tremblay a hasty but formal farewell, and with her crutched stick in her hand trudged stoutly back to the city.
Mère Malheur, while the sun was yet high, reached her cottage under the rock, where La Corriveau was eagerly expecting her at the window. The moment she entered, the masculine voice of La Corriveau was heard asking loudly,-- “Have you seen her, Mère Malheur? Did you give her the letter? Never mind your hat! tell me before you take it off!” The old crone was tugging at the strings, and La Corriveau came to help her.
“Yes! she took your letter,” replied she, impatiently. “She took my story like spring water. Go at the stroke of twelve to-morrow night and she will let you in, Dame Dodier; but will she let you out again, eh?” The crone stood with her hat in her hand, and looked with a wicked glance at La Corriveau.
“If she will let me in, I shall let myself out, Mère Malheur,” replied Corriveau in a low tone. “But why do you ask that?”
“Because I read mischief in your eye and see it twitching in your thumb, and you do not ask me to share your secret! Is it so bad as that, Dame Dodier?”
“Pshaw! you are sharing it! wait and you will see your share of it! But tell me, Mère Malheur, how does she look, this mysterious lady of the Château?” La Corriveau sat down, and placed her long, thin hand on the arm of the old crone.
“Like one doomed to die, because she is too good to live. Sorrow is a bad pasture for a young creature like her to feed on, Dame Dodier!” was the answer, but it did not change a muscle on the face of La Corriveau.
“Ay! but there are worse pastures than sorrow for young creatures like her, and she has found one of them,” she replied, coldly.
“Well! as we make our bed so must we lie on it, Dame Dodier,--that is what I always tell the silly young things who come to me asking their fortunes; and the proverb pleases them. They always think the bridal bed must be soft and well made, at any rate.”
“They are fools! better make their death-bed than their bridal bed! But I must see this piece of perfection of yours to-morrow night, dame! The Intendant returns in two days, and he might remove her. Did she tell you about him?”
“No! Bigot is a devil more powerful than the one we serve, dame. I fear him!”
“Tut! I fear neither devil nor man. It was to be at the hour of twelve! Did you not say at the hour of twelve, Mère Malheur?”
“Yes! go in by the vaulted passage and knock at the secret door. She will admit you. But what will you do with her, Dame Dodier? Is she doomed? Could you not be gentle with her, dame?”
There was a fall in the voice of Mère Malheur,--an intonation partly due to fear of consequences, partly to a fibre of pity which--dry and disused--something in the look of Caroline had stirred like a dead leaf quivering in the wind.
“Tut! has she melted your old dry heart to pity, Mère Malheur! Ha, ha! who would have thought that! and yet I remember she made a soft fool of me for a minute in the wood of St. Valier!” La Corriveau spoke in a hard tone, as if in reproving Mère Malheur she was also reproving herself.
“She is unlike any other woman I ever saw,” replied the crone, ashamed of her unwonted sympathy. “The devil is clean out of her as he is out of a church.”
“You are a fool, Mère Malheur! Out of a church, quotha!” and La Corriveau laughed a loud laugh; “why I go to church myself, and whisper my prayers backwards to keep on terms with the devil, who stands nodding behind the altar to every one of my petitions,--that is more than some people get in return for their prayers,” added she.
“I pray backwards in church too, dame, but I could never get sight of him there, as you do: something always blinds me!” and the two old sinners laughed together at the thought of the devil's litanies they recited in the church.
“But how to get to Beaumanoir? I shall have to walk, as you did, Mère Malheur. It is a vile road, and I must take the byway through the forest. It were worth my life to be seen on this visit,” said La Corriveau, conning on her fingers the difficulties of the by-path, which she was well acquainted with, however.
“There is a moon after nine, by which hour you can reach the wood of Beaumanoir,” observed the crone. “Are you sure you know the way, Dame Dodier?”
“As well as the way into my gown! I know an Indian canotier who will ferry me across to Beauport, and say nothing. I dare not allow that prying knave, Jean Le Nocher, or his sharp wife, to mark my movements.”
“Well thought of, Dame Dodier; you are of a craft and subtlety to cheat Satan himself at a game of hide and seek!” The crone looked with genuine admiration, almost worship, at La Corriveau as she said this; “but I doubt he will find both of us at last, dame, when we have got into our last corner.”
“Well, vogue la galère!” exclaimed La Corriveau, starting up. “Let it go as it will! I shall walk to Beaumanoir, and I shall fancy I wear golden garters and silver slippers to make the way easy and pleasant. But you must be hungry, Mère, with your long tramp. I have a supper prepared for you, so come and eat in the devil's name, or I shall be tempted to say grace in nomine Domini, and choke you.”
The two women went to a small table and sat down to a plentiful meal of such things as formed the dainties of persons of their rank of life. Upon the table stood the dish of sweetmeats which the thievish maidservant had brought to Mère Malheur with the groom's story of the conversation between Bigot and Varin, a story which, could Angélique have got hold of it, would have stopped at once her frightful plot to kill the unhappy Caroline.
“I were a fool to tell her that story of the groom's,” muttered La Corriveau to herself, “and spoil the fairest experiment of the aqua tofana ever made, and ruin my own fortune too! I know a trick worth two of that,” and she laughed inwardly to herself a laugh which was repeated in hell and made merry the ghosts of Beatrice Spara, Exili, and La Voisin.
All next day La Corriveau kept closely to the house, but she found means to communicate to Angélique her intention to visit Beaumanoir that night.
The news was grateful, yet strangely moving to Angélique; she trembled and turned pale, not for truth, but for doubt and dread of possible failure or discovery.
She sent by an unknown hand to the house of Mère Malheur a little basket containing a bouquet of roses so beautiful and fragrant that they might have been plucked in the garden of Eden.
La Corriveau carried the basket into an inner chamber, a small room, the window of which never saw the sun, but opened against the close, overhanging rock, which was so near that it might be touched by the hand. The dark, damp wall of the cliff shed a gloomy obscurity in the room even at midday.
The small black eyes of La Corriveau glittered like poniards as she opened the basket, and taking out the bouquet, found attached to it by a ribbon a silken purse containing a number of glittering pieces of gold. She pressed the coins to her cheek, and even put them between her lips to taste their sweetness, for money she loved beyond all things. The passion of her soul was avarice; her wickedness took its direction from the love of money, and scrupled at no iniquity for the sake of it.
She placed the purse carefully in her bosom, and took up the roses, regarding them with a strange look of admiration as she muttered, “They are beautiful and they are sweet! men would call them innocent! they are like her who sent them, fair without as yet; like her who is to receive them, fair within.” She stood reflecting for a few moments, and exclaimed as she laid the bouquet upon the table,-- “Angélique des Meloises, you send your gold and your roses to me because you believe me to be a worse demon than yourself, but you are worthy to be crowned tonight with these roses as queen of hell and mistress of all the witches that ever met in Grand Sabbat at the palace of Galienne, where Satan sits on a throne of gold!”
La Corriveau looked out of the window and saw a corner of the rock lit up with the last ray of the setting sun. She knew it was time to prepare for her journey. She loosened her long black and gray elfin locks, and let them fall dishevelled over her shoulders. Her thin, cruel lips were drawn to a rigid line, and her eyes were filled with red fire as she drew the casket of ebony out of her bosom and opened it with a reverential touch, as a devotee would touch a shrine of relics. She took out a small, gilded vial of antique shape, containing a clear, bright liquid, which, as she shook it up, seemed filled with a million sparks of fire.
Before drawing the glass stopper of the vial, La Corriveau folded a handkerchief carefully over her mouth and nostrils, to avoid inhaling the volatile essence of its poisonous contents. Then, holding the bouquet with one hand at arm's length, she sprinkled the glowing roses with the transparent liquid from the vial which she held in the other hand, repeating, in a low, harsh tone, the formula of an ancient incantation, which was one of the secrets imparted to Antonio Exili by the terrible Beatrice Spara.
La Corriveau repeated by rote, as she had learned from her mother, the ill-omened words, hardly knowing their meaning, beyond that they were something very potent, and very wicked, which had been handed down through generations of poisoners and witches from the times of heathen Rome: “'Hecaten voco! Voco Tisiphonem! Spargens avernales aquas, Te morti devoveo, te diris ago!”'
The terrible drops of the aqua tofana glittered like dew on the glowing flowers, taking away in a moment all their fragrance, while leaving all their beauty unimpaired. The poison sank into the very hearts of the roses, whence it breathed death from every petal and every leaf, leaving them fair as she who had sent them, but fatal to the approach of lip or nostril, fit emblems of her unpitying hate and remorseless jealousy.
La Corriveau wrapped the bouquet in a medicated paper of silver tissue, which prevented the escape of the volatile death, and replacing the roses carefully in the basket, prepared for her departure to Beaumanoir.
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{
"id": "2735"
}
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40
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QUOTH THE RAVEN, “NEVERMORE!”
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It was the eve of St. Michael. A quiet autumnal night brooded over the forest of Beaumanoir. The moon, in her wane, had risen late, and struggled feebly among the broken clouds that were gathering slowly in the east, indicative of a storm. She shed a dim light through the glades and thickets, just enough to discover a path where the dark figure of a woman made her way swiftly and cautiously towards the Château of the Intendant.
She was dressed in the ordinary costume of a peasant-woman, and carried a small basket on her arm, which, had she opened it, would have been found to contain a candle and a bouquet of fresh roses carefully covered with a paper of silver tissue,--nothing more. An honest peasant-woman would have had a rosary in her basket, but this was no honest-peasant woman, and she had none.
The forest was very still,--it was steeped in quietness. The rustling of the dry leaves under the feet of the woman was all she heard, except when the low sighing of the wind, the sharp bark of a fox, or the shriek of an owl, broke the silence for a moment, and all was again still.
The woman looked watchfully around as she glided onwards. The path was known to her, but not so familiarly as to prevent the necessity of stopping every few minutes to look about her and make sure she was right.
It was long since she had travelled that way, and she was looking for a landmark--a gray stone that stood somewhere not far from where she was, and near which she knew that there was a footpath that led, not directly to the Château, but to the old deserted watch-tower of Beaumanoir.
That stone marked a spot not to be forgotten by her, for it was the memorial of a deed of wickedness now only remembered by herself and by God. La Corriveau cared nothing for the recollection. It was not terrible to her, and God made no sign; but in his great book of account, of which the life of every man and woman forms a page, it was written down and remembered.
On the secret tablets of our memory, which is the book of our life, every thought, word, and deed, good or evil, is written down indelibly and forever; and the invisible pen goes on writing day after day, hour after hour, minute after minute, every thought, even the idlest, every fancy the most evanescent: nothing is left out of our book of life which will be our record in judgment! When that book is opened and no secrets are hid, what son or daughter of Adam is there who will not need to say, “God be merciful?”
La Corriveau came suddenly upon the gray stone. It startled her, for its rude contour, standing up in the pale moonlight, put on the appearance of a woman. She thought she was discovered, and she heard a noise; but another glance reassured her. She recognized the stone, and the noise she had heard was only the scurrying of a hare among the dry leaves.
The habitans held this spot to be haunted by the wailing spirit of a woman in a gray robe, who had been poisoned by a jealous lover. La Corriveau gave him sweatmeats of the manna of St. Nicholas, which the woman ate from his hand, and fell dead at his feet in this trysting-place, where they met for the last time. The man fled to the forest, haunted by a remorseful conscience, and died a retributive death: he fell sick, and was devoured by wolves. La Corriveau alone of mortals held the terrible secret.
La Corriveau gave a low laugh as she saw the pale outline of the woman resolve itself into the gray stone. “The dead come not again!” muttered she, “and if they do she will soon have a companion to share her midnight walks round the Château!” La Corriveau had no conscience; she knew not remorse, and would probably have felt no great fear had that pale spirit really appeared at that moment, to tax her with wicked complicity in her murder.
The clock of the Château struck twelve. Its reverberations sounded far into the night as La Corriveau emerged stealthily out of the forest, crouching on the shady side of the high garden hedges, until she reached the old watch-tower, which stood like a dead sentinel at his post on the flank of the Château.
There was an open doorway, on each side of which lay a heap of fallen stones. This was the entrance into a square room, dark and yawning as a cavern. It was traversed by one streak of moonshine, which struggled through a grated window set in the thick wall.
La Corriveau stood for a few moments looking intently into the gloomy ruin; then, casting a sharp glance behind her, she entered. Tired with her long walk through the forest, she flung herself upon a stone seat to rest, and to collect her thoughts for the execution of her terrible mission.
The dogs of the Château barked vehemently, as if the very air bore some ominous taint; but La Corriveau knew she was safe: they were shut up in the courtyard, and could not trace her to the tower. A harsh voice or two and the sound of whips presently silenced the barking dogs, and all was still again.
She had got into the tower unseen and unheard. “They say there is an eye that sees everything,” muttered she, “and an ear that hears our very thoughts. If God sees and hears, he does nothing to prevent me from accomplishing my end; and he will not interfere to-night! No, not for all the prayers she may utter, which will not be many more! God if there be one--lets La Corriveau live, and will let the lady of Beaumanoir die!”
There was a winding stair of stone, narrow and tortuous, in one corner of the tower. It led upwards to the roof and downwards to a deep vault which was arched and groined. Its heavy, rough columns supported the tower above, and divided the vaults beneath. These vaults had formerly served as magazines for provisions and stores for the use of the occupants of the Château upon occasions when they had to retire for safety from a sudden irruption of Iroquois.
La Corriveau, after a short rest, got up with a quick, impatient movement. She went over to an arched doorway upon which her eyes had been fixed for several minutes. “The way is down there,” she muttered; “now for a light!”
She found the entrance to the stair open; she passed in, closing the door behind her so that the glimmer might not be seen by any chance stroller, and struck a light. The reputation which the tower had of being haunted made the servants very shy of entering it, even in the day-time; and the man was considered bold indeed who came near it after dark.
With her candle in her hand, La Corriveau descended slowly into the gloomy vault. It was a large cavern of stone, a very habitation of darkness, which seemed to swallow up the feeble light she carried. It was divided into three portions, separated by rough columns.
A spring of water trickled in and trickled out of a great stone trough, ever full and overflowing with a soft, tinkling sound, like a clepsydra measuring the movements of eternity. The cool, fresh, living water diffused throughout the vaults an even, mild temperature the year round. The gardeners of the Château took advantage of this, and used the vault as a favorite storeroom for their crops of fruit and vegetables for winter use in the Château.
La Corriveau went resolutely forward, as one who knew what she sought and where to find it, and presently stood in front of a recess containing a wooden panel similar to that in the Château, and movable in the same manner. She considered it for some moments, muttering to herself as she held aloft the candle to inspect it closely and find the spring by which it was moved.
La Corriveau had been carefully instructed by Mère Malheur in every point regarding the mechanism of this door. She had no difficulty in finding the secret of its working. A slight touch sufficed when the right place was known. She pressed it hard with her hand; the panel swung open, and behind it gaped a dark, narrow passage leading to the secret chamber of Caroline.
She entered without hesitation, knowing whither it led. It was damp and stifling. Her candle burned dimmer and dimmer in the impure air of the long shut-up passage. There were, however, no other obstacles in her way. The passage was unincumbered; but the low arch, scarcely over her own height, seemed to press down upon her as she passed along, as if to prevent her progress. The fearless, wicked heart bore her up,--nothing worse than herself could meet her; and she felt neither fear at what lay before her nor remorse at what was behind.
The distance to be traversed was not far, although it seemed to her impatience to be interminable. Mère Malheur, with her light heels, could once run through it in a minute, to a tryst in the old tower. La Corriveau was thrice that time in groping her way along it before she came to a heavy, iron-ribbed door set in a deep arch, which marked the end of the passage.
That black, forbidding door was the dividing of light from darkness, of good from evil, of innocence from guilt. On one side of it, in a chamber of light, sat a fair girl, confiding, generous, and deceived only through her excess of every virtue; on the other, wickedness, fell and artful, was approaching with stealthy footsteps through an unseen way, and stood with hand upraised to knock, but incapable of entering in unless that unsuspecting girl removed the bar.
As the hour of midnight approached, one sound after another died away in the Château. Caroline, who had sat counting the hours and watching the spectral moon as it flickered among the drifting clouds, withdrew from the window with a trembling step, like one going to her doom.
She descended to the secret chamber, where she had appointed to meet her strange visitor and hear from strange lips the story that would be told her.
She attired herself with care, as a woman will in every extremity of life. Her dark raven hair was simply arranged, and fell in thick masses over her neck and shoulders. She put on a robe of soft, snow-white texture, and by an impulse she yielded to, but could not explain, bound her waist with a black sash, like a strain of mourning in a song of innocence. She wore no ornaments save a ring, the love-gift of Bigot, which she never parted with, but wore with a morbid anticipation that its promises would one day be fulfilled. She clung to it as a talisman that would yet conjure away her sorrows; and it did! but alas! in a way little anticipated by the constant girl! A blast from hell was at hand to sweep away her young life, and with it all her earthly troubles.
She took up a guitar mechanically, as it were, and as her fingers wandered over the strings, a bar or two of the strain, sad as the sigh of a broken heart, suggested an old ditty she had loved formerly, when her heart was full of sunshine and happiness, when her fancy used to indulge in the luxury of melancholic musings, as every happy, sensitive, and imaginative girl will do as a counterpoise to her high-wrought feelings.
In a low voice, sweet and plaintive as the breathings of an Aeolian harp, Caroline sang her Minne-song:-- “'A linnet sat upon a thorn At evening chime. Its sweet refrain fell like the rain Of summer-time. Of summer-time when roses bloomed, And bright above A rainbow spanned my fairy-land Of hope and love! Of hope and love! O linnet, cease Thy mocking theme! I ne'er picked up the golden cup In all my dream! In all my dream I missed the prize Should have been mine; And dreams won't die! though fain would I, And make no sign!'”
The lamps burned brightly, shedding a cheerful light upon the landscapes and figures woven into the tapestry behind which was concealed the black door that was to admit La Corriveau.
It was oppressively still. Caroline listened with mouth and ears for some sound of approaching footsteps until her heart beat like the swift stroke of a hammer, as it sent the blood throbbing through her temples with a rush that almost overpowered her.
She was alone, and lonely beyond expression. Down in these thick foundations no sound penetrated to break the terrible monotony of the silence around her, except the dull, solemn voice of the bell striking the hour of midnight.
Caroline had passed a sleepless night after the visit of Mère Malheur, sometimes tossing on her solitary couch, Sometimes starting up in terror. She rose and threw herself despairingly upon her knees, calling on Christ to pardon her, and on the Mother of Mercies to plead for her, sinner that she was, whose hour of shame and punishment had come!
The mysterious letter brought by Mère Malheur, announcing that her place of concealment was to be searched by the Governor, excited her liveliest apprehensions. But that faded into nothingness in comparison with the absolute terror that seized her at the thoughts of the speedy arrival of her father in the Colony.
Caroline, overwhelmed with a sense of shame and contrition, pictured to herself in darkest colors the anger of her father at the dishonor she had brought upon his unsullied name.
She sat down, she rose up, she walked her solitary chamber, and knelt passionately on the floor, covering her face with her hands, crying to the Madonna for pity and protection.
Poor self-accuser! The hardest and most merciless wretch who ever threw stones at a woman was pitiful in comparison with Caroline's inexorable condemnation of herself.
Yet her fear was not on her own account. She could have kissed her father's hand and submitted humbly to death itself, if he chose to inflict it; but she trembled most at the thought of a meeting between the fiery Baron and the haughty Intendant. One or the other, or both of them, she felt instinctively, must die, should the Baron discover that Bigot had been the cause of the ruin of his idolized child. She trembled for both, and prayed God that she might die in their stead and the secret of her shame never be known to her fond father.
A dull sound, like footsteps shuffling in the dark passage behind the arras, struck her ear; she knew her strange visitant was come. She started up, clasping her hands hard together as she listened, wondering who and what like she might be. She suspected no harm,--for who could desire to harm her who had never injured a living being? Yet there she stood on the one side of that black door of doom, while the calamity of her life stood on the other side like a tigress ready to spring through.
A low knock, twice repeated on the thick door behind the arras, drew her at once to her feet. She trembled violently as she lifted up the tapestry; something rushed through her mind telling her not to do it. Happy had it been for her never to have opened that fatal door!
She hesitated for a moment, but the thought of her father and the impending search of the Château flashed suddenly upon her mind. The visitant, whoever she might be, professed to be a friend, and could, she thought, have no motive to harm her.
Caroline, with a sudden impulse, pushed aside the fastening of the door, and uttering the words, “Dieu! protège moi!” stood face to face with La Corriveau.
The bright lamp shone full on the tall figure of the strange visitor, and Caroline, whose fears had anticipated some uncouth sight of terror, was surprised to see only a woman dressed in the simple garb of a peasant, with a little basket on her arm, enter quietly through the secret door.
The eyes of La Corriveau glared for a moment with fiendish curiosity upon the young girl who stood before her like one of God's angels. She measured her from head to foot, noted every fold of her white robe, every flexure of her graceful form, and drank in the whole beauty and innocence of her aspect with a feeling of innate spite at aught so fair and good. On her thin, cruel lips there played a smile as the secret thought hovered over them in an unspoken whisper,--“She will make a pretty corpse! Brinvilliers and La Voisin never mingled drink for a fairer victim than I will crown with roses to-night!”
Caroline retreated a few steps, frightened and trembling, as she encountered the glittering eyes and sinister smile of La Corriveau. The woman observed it, and instantly changed her mien to one more natural and sympathetic; for she comprehended fully the need of disarming suspicion and of winning the confidence of her victim to enable her more surely to destroy her.
Caroline, reassured by a second glance at her visitor, thought she had been mistaken in her first impression. The peasant's dress, the harmless basket, the quiet manner assumed by La Corriveau as she stood in a respectful attitude as if waiting to be spoken to, banished all fears from the mind of Caroline, and left her only curious to know the issue of this mysterious visit.
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{
"id": "2735"
}
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41
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A DEED WITHOUT A NAME.
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Caroline, profoundly agitated, rested her hands on the back of a chair for support, and regarded La Corriveau for some moments without speaking. She tried to frame a question of some introductory kind, but could not. But the pent-up feelings came out at last in a gush straight from the heart.
“Did you write this?” said she, falteringly, to La Corriveau, and holding out the letter so mysteriously placed in her hand by Mère Malheur. “Oh, tell me, is it true?”
La Corriveau did not reply except by a sign of assent, and standing upright waited for further question.
Caroline looked at her again wonderingly. That a simple peasant-woman could have indited such a letter, or could have known aught respecting her father, seemed incredible.
“In heaven's name, tell me who and what you are!” exclaimed she. “I never saw you before!”
“You have seen me before!” replied La Corriveau quietly.
Caroline looked at her amazedly, but did not recognize her. La Corriveau continued, “Your father is the Baron de St. Castin, and you, lady, would rather die than endure that he should find you in the Château of Beaumanoir. Ask me not how I know these things; you will not deny their truth; as for myself, I pretend not to be other than I seem.”
“Your dress is that of a peasant-woman, but your language is not the language of one. You are a lady in disguise visiting me in this strange fashion!” said Caroline, puzzled more than ever. Her thoughts at this instant reverted to the Intendant. “Why do you come here in this secret manner?” asked she.
“I do not appear other than I am,” replied La Corriveau evasively, “and I come in this secret manner because I could get access to you in no other way.”
“You said that I had seen you before; I have no knowledge or recollection of it,” remarked Caroline, looking fixedly at her.
“Yes, you saw me once in the wood of St. Valier. Do you remember the peasant-woman who was gathering mandrakes when you passed with your Indian guides, and who gave you milk to refresh you on the way?”
This seemed like a revelation to Caroline; she remembered the incident and the woman. La Corriveau had carefully put on the same dress she had worn that day.
“I do recollect!” replied Caroline, as a feeling of confidence welled up like a living spring within her. She offered La Corriveau her hand. “I thank you gratefully,” said she; “you were indeed kind to me that day in the forest, and I am sure you must mean kindly by me now.”
La Corriveau took the offered hand, but did not press it. She could not for the life of her, for she had not heart to return the pressure of a human hand. She saw her advantage, however, and kept it through the rest of the brief interview.
“I mean you kindly, lady,” replied she, softening her harsh voice as much as she could to a tone of sympathy, “and I come to help you out of your trouble.”
For a moment that cruel smile played on her thin lips again, but she instantly repressed it. “I am only a peasant-woman,” repeated she again, “but I bring you a little gift in my basket to show my good-will.” She put her hand in her basket, but did not withdraw it at the moment, as Caroline, thinking little of gifts but only of her father, exclaimed,-- “I am sure you mean well, but you have more important things to tell me of than a gift. Your letter spoke of my father. What, in God's name, have you to tell me of my father?”
La Corriveau withdrew her hand from the basket and replied, “He is on his way to New France in search of you. He knows you are here, lady.”
“In Beaumanoir? Oh, it cannot be! No one knows I am here!” exclaimed Caroline, clasping her hands in an impulse of alarm.
“Yes, more than you suppose, lady, else how did I know? Your father comes with the King's letters to take you hence and return with you to Acadia or to France.” La Corriveau placed her hand in her basket, but withdrew it again. It was not yet time.
“God help me, then!” exclaimed Caroline, shrinking with terror. “But the Intendant; what said you of the Intendant?”
“He is ordered de par le Roi to give you up to your father, and he will do so if you be not taken away sooner by the Governor.”
Caroline was nigh fainting at these words. “Sooner! how sooner?” asked she, faintly.
“The Governor has received orders from the King to search Beaumanoir from roof to foundation-stone, and he may come to-morrow, lady, and find you here.”
The words of La Corriveau struck like sharp arrows into the soul of the hapless girl.
“God help me, then!” exclaimed she, clasping her hands in agony. “Oh, that I were dead and buried where only my Judge could find me at the last day, for I have no hope, no claim upon man's mercy! The world will stone me, dead or living, and alas! I deserve my fate. It is not hard to die, but it is hard to bear the shame which will not die with me!”
She cast her eyes despairingly upward as she uttered this, and did not see the bitter smile return to the lips of La Corriveau, who stood upright, cold and immovable before her, with fingers twitching nervously, like the claws of a fury, in her little basket, while she whispered to herself, “Is it time, is it time?” but she took not out the bouquet yet.
Caroline came still nearer, with a sudden change of thought, and clutching the dress of La Corriveau, cried out, “O woman, is this all true? How can you know all this to be true of me, and you a stranger?”
“I know it of a certainty, and I am come to help you. I may not tell you by whom I know it; perhaps the Intendant himself has sent me,” replied La Corriveau, with a sudden prompting of the spirit of evil who stood beside her. “The Intendant will hide you from this search, if there be a sure place of concealment in New France.”
The reply sent a ray of hope across the mind of the agonized girl. She bounded with a sense of deliverance. It seemed so natural that Bigot, so deeply concerned in her concealment, should have sent this peasant woman to take her away, that she could not reflect at the moment how unlikely it was, nor could she, in her excitement, read the lie upon the cold face of La Corriveau.
She seized the explanation with the grasp of despair, as a sailor seizes the one plank which the waves have washed within his reach, when all else has sunk in the seas around him.
“Bigot sent you?” exclaimed Caroline, raising her hands, while her pale face was suddenly suffused with a flush of joy. “Bigot sent you to conduct me hence to a sure place of concealment? Oh, blessed messenger! I believe you now.” Her excited imagination outflew even the inventions of La Corriveau. “Bigot has heard of my peril, and sent you here at midnight to take me away to your forest home until this search be over. Is it not so? François Bigot did not forget me in my danger, even while he was away!”
“Yes, lady, the Intendant sent me to conduct you to St. Valier, to hide you there in a sure retreat until the search be over,” replied La Corriveau, calmly eyeing her from head to foot.
“It is like him! He is not unkind when left to himself. It is so like the François Bigot I once knew! But tell me, woman, what said he further? Did you see him, did you hear him? Tell me all he said to you.”
“I saw him, lady, and heard him,” replied La Corriveau, taking the bouquet in her fingers, “but he said little more than I have told you. The Intendant is a stern man, and gives few words save commands to those of my condition. But he bade me convey to you a token of his love; you would know its meaning, he said. I have it safe, lady, in this basket,--shall I give it to you?”
“A token of his love, of François Bigot's love to me! Are you a woman and could delay giving it so long? Why gave you it not at first? I should not have doubted you then. Oh, give it to me, and be blessed as the welcomest messenger that ever came to Beaumanoir!”
La Corriveau held her hand a moment more in the basket. Her dark features turned a shade paler, although not a nerve quivered as she plucked out a parcel carefully wrapped in silver tissue. She slipped off the cover, and held at arm's length towards the eager, expectant girl, the fatal bouquet of roses, beautiful to see as the fairest that ever filled the lap of Flora.
Caroline clasped it with both hands, exclaiming in a voice of exultation, while every feature radiated with joy, “It is the gift of God, and the return of François's love! All will yet be well!”
She pressed the glowing flowers to her lips with passionate kisses, breathed once or twice their mortal poison, and suddenly throwing back her head with her dark eyes fixed on vacancy, but holding the fatal bouquet fast in her hands, fell dead at the feet of La Corriveau.
A weird laugh, terrible and unsuppressed, rang around the walls of the secret chamber, where the lamps burned bright as ever; but the glowing pictures of the tapestry never changed a feature. Was it not strange that even those painted men should not have cried out at the sight of so pitiless a murder?
Caroline lay amid them all, the flush of joy still on her cheek, the smile not yet vanished from her lips. A pity for all the world, could it have seen her; but in that lonely chamber no eye pitied her.
But now a more cruel thing supervened. The sight of Caroline's lifeless form, instead of pity or remorse, roused all the innate furies that belonged to the execrable race of La Corriveau. The blood of generations of poisoners and assassins boiled and rioted in her veins. The spirits of Beatrice Spara and of La Voisin inspired her with new fury. She was at this moment like a pantheress that has brought down her prey and stands over it to rend it in pieces.
Caroline lay dead, dead beyond all doubt, never to be resuscitated, except in the resurrection of the just. La Corriveau bent over her and felt her heart; it was still. No sign of breath flickered on lip or nostril.
The poisoner knew she was dead, but something still woke her suspicions, as with a new thought she drew back and looked again at the beauteous form before her. Suddenly, as if to make assurance doubly sure, she plucked the sharp Italian stiletto from her bosom, and with a firm, heavy hand plunged it twice into the body of the lifeless girl. “If there be life there,” she said, “it too shall die! La Corriveau leaves no work of hers half done!”
A faint trickle of blood in red threads ran down the snow-white vestment, and that was all! The heart had forever ceased to beat, and the blood to circulate. The golden bowl was broken and the silver cord of life loosed forever, and yet this last indignity would have recalled the soul of Caroline, could she have been conscious of it. But all was well with her now; not in the sense of the last joyous syllables she spoke in life, but in a higher, holier sense, as when God interprets our words, and not men, all was well with her now.
The gaunt, iron-visaged woman knelt down upon her knees, gazing with unshrinking eyes upon the face of her victim, as if curiously marking the effect of a successful experiment of the aqua tofana.
It was the first time she had ever dared to administer that subtle poison in the fashion of La Borgia.
“The aqua tofana does its work like a charm!” muttered she. “That vial was compounded by Beatrice Spara, and is worthy of her skill and more sure than her stiletto! I was frantic to use that weapon, for no purpose than to redden my hands with the work of a low bravo!”
A few drops of blood were on the hand of La Corriveau. She wiped them impatiently upon the garment of Caroline, where it left the impress of her fingers upon the snowy muslin. No pity for her pallid victim, who lay with open eyes looking dumbly upon her, no remorse for her act touched the stony heart of La Corriveau.
The clock of the Château struck one. The solitary stroke of the bell reverberated like an accusing voice through the house, but failed to awaken one sleeper to a discovery of the black tragedy that had just taken place under its roof.
That sound had often struck sadly upon the ear of Caroline, as she prolonged her vigil of prayer through the still watches of the night. Her ear was dull enough now to all earthly sound! But the toll of the bell reached the ear of La Corriveau, rousing her to the need of immediately effecting her escape, now that her task was done.
She sprang up and looked narrowly around the chamber. She marked with envious malignity the luxury and magnificence of its adornments. Upon a chair lay her own letter sent to Caroline by the hands of Mère Malheur. La Corriveau snatched it up. It was what she sought. She tore it in pieces and threw the fragments from her; but with a sudden thought, as if not daring to leave even the fragments upon the floor, she gathered them up hastily and put them in her basket with the bouquet of roses, which she wrested from the dead fingers of Caroline in order to carry it away and scatter the fatal flowers in the forest.
She pulled open the drawers of the escritoire to search for money, but finding none, was too wary to carry off aught else. The temptation lay sore upon her to carry away the ring from the finger of Caroline. She drew it off the pale wasted finger, but a cautious consideration restrained her. She put it on again, and would not take it.
“It would only lead to discovery!” muttered she. “I must take nothing but myself and what belongs to me away from Beaumanoir, and the sooner the better!”
La Corriveau, with her basket again upon her arm, turned to give one last look of fiendish satisfaction at the corpse, which lay like a dead angel slain in God's battle. The bright lamps were glaring full upon her still beautiful but sightless eyes, which, wide open, looked, even in death, reproachfully yet forgivingly upon their murderess.
Something startled La Corriveau in that look. She turned hastily away, and, relighting her candle, passed through the dark archway of the secret door, forgetting to close it after her, and retraced her steps along the stone passage until she came to the watch-tower, where she dashed out her light.
Creeping around the tower in the dim moonlight, she listened long and anxiously at door and window to discover if all was still about the Château. Not a sound was heard but the water of the little brook gurgling in its pebbly bed, which seemed to be all that was awake on this night of death.
La Corriveau emerged cautiously from the tower. She crept like a guilty thing under the shadow of the hedge, and got away unperceived by the same road she had come. She glided like a dark spectre through the forest of Beaumanoir, and returned to the city to tell Angélique des Meloises that the arms of the Intendant were now empty and ready to clasp her as his bride; that her rival was dead, and she had put herself under bonds forever to La Corriveau as the price of innocent blood.
La Corriveau reached the city in the gray of the morning; a thick fog lay like a winding-sheet upon the face of nature. The broad river, the lofty rocks, every object, great and small, was hidden from view.
To the intense satisfaction of La Corriveau, the fog concealed her return to the house of Mère Malheur, whence, after a brief repose, and with a command to the old crone to ask no questions yet, she sallied forth again to carry to Angélique the welcome news that her rival was dead.
No one observed La Corriveau as she passed, in her peasant dress, through the misty streets, which did not admit of an object being discerned ten paces off.
Angélique was up. She had not gone to bed that night, and sat feverishly on the watch, expecting the arrival of La Corriveau.
She had counted the minutes of the silent hours of the night as they passed by her in a terrible panorama. She pictured to her imagination the successive scenes of the tragedy which was being accomplished at Beaumanoir.
The hour of midnight culminated over her head, and looking out of her window at the black, distant hills, in the recesses of which she knew lay the Château, her agitation grew intense. She knew at that hour La Corriveau must be in the presence of her victim. Would she kill her? Was she about it now? The thought fastened on Angélique like a wild beast, and would not let go. She thought of the Intendant, and was filled with hope; she thought of the crime of murder and shrunk now that it was being done.
It was in this mood she waited and watched for the return of her bloody messenger. She heard the cautious foot on the stone steps. She knew by a sure instinct whose it was, and rushed down to admit her.
They met at the door, and without a word spoken, one eager glance of Angélique at the dark face of La Corriveau drank in the whole fatal story. Caroline de St. Castin was dead! Her rival in the love of the Intendant was beyond all power of rivalry now! The lofty doors of ambitious hope stood open--what! to admit the queen of beauty and of society? No! but a murderess, who would be forever haunted with the fear of justice! It seemed at this moment as if the lights had all gone out in the palaces and royal halls where her imagination had so long run riot, and she saw only dark shadows, and heard inarticulate sounds of strange voices babbling in her ear. It was the unspoken words of her own troubled thoughts and the terrors newly awakened in her soul!
Angélique seized the hand of La Corriveau, not without a shudder. She drew her hastily up to her chamber and thrust her into a chair. Placing both hands upon the shoulders of La Corriveau, she looked wildly in her face, exclaiming in a half exultant, half piteous tone, “Is it done? Is it really done? I read it in your eyes! I know you have done the deed! Oh, La Corriveau!”
The grim countenance of the woman relaxed into a half smile of scorn and surprise at the unexpected weakness which she instantly noted in Angélique's manner.
“Yes, it is done!” replied she, coldly, “and it is well done! But, by the manna of St. Nicholas!” exclaimed she, starting from the chair and drawing her gaunt figure up to its full height, while her black eyes shot daggers, “you look, Mademoiselle, as if you repented its being done. Do you?”
“Yes! No! No, not now!” replied Angélique, touched as with a hot iron. “I will not repent now it is done! that were folly, needless, dangerous, now it is done! But is she dead? Did you wait to see if she were really dead? People look dead sometimes and are not! Tell me truly, and conceal nothing!”
“La Corriveau does not her work by halves, Mademoiselle, neither do you; only you talk of repentance after it is done, I do not! That is all the difference! Be satisfied; the lady of Beaumanoir is dead! I made doubly sure of that, and deserve a double reward from you!”
“Reward! You shall have all you crave! But what a secret between you and me!” Angélique looked at La Corriveau as if this thought now struck her for the first time. She was in this woman's power. She shivered from head to foot. “Your reward for this night's work is here,” faltered she, placing her hand over a small box. She did not touch it, it seemed as if it would burn her. It was heavy with pieces of gold. “They are uncounted,” continued she. “Take it, it is all yours!”
La Corriveau snatched the box off the table and held it to her bosom. Angélique continued, in a monotonous tone, as one conning a lesson by rote,--“Use it prudently. Do not seem to the world to be suddenly rich: it might be inquired into. I have thought of everything during the past night, and I remember I had to tell you that when I gave you the gold. Use it prudently! Something else, too, I was to tell you, but I think not of it at this moment.”
“Thanks, and no thanks, Mademoiselle!” replied La Corriveau, in a hard tone. “Thanks for the reward so fully earned. No thanks for your faint heart that robs me of my well-earned meed of applause for a work done so artistically and perfectly that La Brinvilliers, or La Borgia herself, might envy me, a humble paysanne of St. Valier!”
La Corriveau looked proudly up as she said this, for she felt herself to be anything but a humble paysanne. She nourished a secret pride in her heart over the perfect success of her devilish skill in poisoning.
“I give you whatever praise you desire,” replied Angélique, mechanically. “But you have not told me how it was done. Sit down again,” continued she, with a touch of her imperative manner, “and tell me all and every incident of what you have done.”
“You will not like to hear it. Better be content with the knowledge that your rival was a dangerous and a beautiful one.” Angélique looked up at this. “Better be content to know that she is dead, without asking any more.”
“No, you shall tell me everything. I cannot rest unless I know all!”
“Nor after you do know all will you rest!” replied La Corriveau slightingly, for she despised the evident trepidation of Angélique.
“No matter! you shall tell me. I am calm now.” Angélique made a great effort to appear calm while she listened to the tale of tragedy in which she had played so deep a part.
La Corriveau, observing that the gust of passion was blown over, sat down in the chair opposite Angélique, and placing one hand on the knee of her listener, as if to hold her fast, began the terrible recital.
She gave Angélique a graphic, minute, and not untrue account of all she had done at Beaumanoir, dwelling with fierce unction on the marvellous and sudden effects of the aqua tofana, not sparing one detail of the beauty and innocent looks of her victim; and repeating, with a mocking laugh, the deceit she had practised upon her with regard to the bouquet as a gift from the Intendant.
Angélique listened to the terrible tale, drinking it in with eyes, mouth, and ears. Her countenance changed to a mask of ugliness, wonderful in one by nature so fair to see. Cloud followed cloud over her face and eyes as the dread recital went on, and her imagination accompanied it with vivid pictures of every phase of the diabolical crime.
When La Corriveau described the presentation of the bouquet as a gift of Bigot, and the deadly sudden effect which followed its joyous acceptance, the thoughts of Caroline in her white robe, stricken as by a thunderbolt, shook Angélique with terrible emotion. But when La Corriveau, coldly and with a bitter spite at her softness, described with a sudden gesticulation and eyes piercing her through and through, the strokes of the poniard upon the lifeless body of her victim, Angélique sprang up, clasped her hands together, and, with a cry of woe, fell senseless upon the floor.
“She is useless now,” said La Corriveau, rising and spurning Angélique with her foot. “I deemed she had courage to equal her wickedness. She is but a woman after all,--doomed to be the slave of some man through life, while aspiring to command all men! It is not of such flesh that La Corriveau is made!”
La Corriveau stood a few moments, reflecting what was best to be done.
All things considered, she decided to leave Angélique to come to of herself, while she made the best of her way back to the house of Mère Malheur, with the intention, which she carried out, of returning to St. Valier with her infamous reward that very day.
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{
"id": "2735"
}
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42
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“LET'S TALK OF GRAVES AND WORMS AND EPITAPHS.”
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About the hour that La Corriveau emerged from the gloomy woods of Beauport, on her return to the city, the night of the murder of Caroline, two horsemen were battering at full speed on the highway that led to Charlebourg. Their dark figures were irrecognizable in the dim moonlight. They rode fast and silent, like men having important business before them, which demanded haste; business which both fully understood and cared not now to talk about.
And so it was. Bigot and Cadet, after the exchange of a few words about the hour of midnight, suddenly left the wine, the dice, and the gay company at the Palace, and mounting their horses, rode, unattended by groom or valet, in the direction of Beaumanoir.
Bigot, under the mask of gaiety and indifference, had felt no little alarm at the tenor of the royal despatch, and at the letter of the Marquise de Pompadour concerning Caroline de St. Castin.
The proximate arrival of Caroline's father in the Colony was a circumstance ominous of trouble. The Baron was no trifler, and would as soon choke a prince as a beggar, to revenge an insult to his personal honor or the honor of his house.
Bigot cared little for that, however. The Intendant was no coward, and could brazen a thing out with any man alive. But there was one thing which he knew he could not brazen out or fight out, or do anything but miserably fail in, should it come to the question. He had boldly and wilfully lied at the Governor's council-table--sitting as the King's councillor among gentlemen of honor--when he declared that he knew not the hiding-place of Caroline de St. Castin. It would cover him with eternal disgrace, as a gentleman, to be detected in such a flagrant falsehood. It would ruin him as a courtier in the favor of the great Marquise should she discover that, in spite of his denials of the fact, he had harbored and concealed the missing lady in his own château.
Bigot was sorely perplexed over this turn of affairs. He uttered a thousand curses upon all concerned in it, excepting upon Caroline herself, for although vexed at her coming to him at all, he could not find it in his heart to curse her. But cursing or blessing availed nothing now. Time was pressing, and he must act.
That Caroline would be sought after in every nook and corner of the land, he knew full well, from the character of La Corne St. Luc and of her father. His own château would not be spared in the general search, and he doubted if the secret chamber would remain a secret from the keen eyes of these men. He surmised that others knew of its existence besides himself: old servitors, and women who had passed in and out of it in times gone by. Dame Tremblay, who did know of it, was not to be trusted in a great temptation. She was in heart the Charming Josephine still, and could be bribed or seduced by any one who bid high enough for her.
Bigot had no trust whatever in human nature. He felt he had no guarantee against a discovery, farther than interest or fear barred the door against inquiry. He could not rely for a moment upon the inviolability of his own house. La Corne St. Luc would demand to search, and he, bound by his declarations of non-complicity in the abduction of Caroline, could offer no reason for refusal without arousing instant suspicion; and La Corne was too sagacious not to fasten upon the remotest trace of Caroline and follow it up to a complete discovery.
She could not, therefore, remain longer in the Château--this was absolute; and he must, at whatever cost and whatever risk, remove her to a fresh place of concealment, until the storm blew over, or some other means of escape from the present difficulty offered themselves in the chapter of accidents.
In accordance with this design, Bigot, under pretence of business, had gone off the very next day after the meeting of the Governor's Council, in the direction of the Three Rivers, to arrange with a band of Montagnais, whom he could rely upon, for the reception of Caroline, in the disguise of an Indian girl, with instructions to remove their wigwams immediately and take her off with them to the wild, remote valley of the St. Maurice.
The old Indian chief, eager to oblige the Intendant, had assented willingly to his proposal, promising the gentlest treatment of the lady, and a silent tongue concerning her.
Bigot was impressive in his commands upon these points, and the chief pledged his faith upon them, delighted beyond measure by the promise of an ample supply of powder, blankets, and provisions for his tribe, while the Intendant added an abundance of all such delicacies as could be forwarded, for the use and comfort of the lady.
To carry out this scheme without observation, Bigot needed the help of a trusty friend, one whom he could thoroughly rely upon, to convey Caroline secretly away from Beaumanoir, and place her in the keeping of the Montagnais, as well as to see to the further execution of his wishes for her concealment and good treatment.
Bigot had many friends,--men living on his bounty, who ought only to have been too happy to obey his slightest wishes,--friends bound to him by disgraceful secrets, and common interests, and pleasures. But he could trust none of them with the secret of Caroline de St. Castin.
He felt a new and unwonted delicacy in regard to her. Her name was dear to him, her fame even was becoming dearer. To his own surprise it troubled him now as it had never troubled him before. He would not have her name defiled in the mouths of such men as drank his wine daily and nightly, and disputed the existence of any virtue in woman.
Bigot ground his teeth as he muttered to himself that they might make a mock of whatever other women they pleased. He himself could out-do them all in coarse ribaldry of the sex, but they should not make a mock and flash obscene jests at the mention of Caroline de St. Castin! They should never learn her name. He could not trust one of them with the secret of her removal. And yet some one of them must perforce be entrusted with it!
He conned over the names of his associates one by one, and one by one condemned them all as unworthy of confidence in a matter where treachery might possibly be made more profitable than fidelity. Bigot was false himself to the heart's core, and believed in no man's truth.
He was an acute judge of men. He read their motives, their bad ones especially, with the accuracy of a Mephistopheles, and with the same cold contempt for every trace of virtue.
Varin was a cunning knave, he said, ambitious of the support of the Church; communing with his aunt, the Superior of the Ursulines, whom he deceived, and who was not without hope of himself one day rising to be Intendant. He would place no such secret in the keeping of Varin!
Penisault was a sordid dog. He would cheat the Montagnais of his gifts, and so discontent them with their charge. He had neither courage nor spirit for an adventure. He was in his right place superintending the counters of the Friponne. He despised Penisault, while glad to use him in the basest offices of the Grand Company.
Le Mercier was a pickthank, angling after the favor of La Pompadour,--a pretentious knave, as hollow as one of his own mortars. He suspected him of being a spy of hers upon himself. Le Mercier would be only too glad to send La Pompadour red-hot information of such an important secret as that of Caroline, and she would reward it as good service to the King and to herself.
Deschenaux was incapable of keeping a secret of any kind when he got drunk, or in a passion, which was every day. His rapacity reached to the very altar. He would rob a church, and was one who would rather take by force than favor. He would strike a Montagnais who would ask for a blanket more than he had cheated him with. He would not trust Deschenaux.
De Pean, the quiet fox, was wanted to look after that desperate gallant, Le Gardeur de Repentigny, who was still in the Palace, and must be kept there by all the seductions of wine, dice, and women, until we have done with him. De Pean was the meanest spirit of them all. “He would kiss my foot in the morning and sell me at night for a handful of silver,” said Bigot. Villains, every one of them, who would not scruple to advance their own interests with La Pompadour by his betrayal in telling her such a secret as that of Caroline's.
De Repentigny had honor and truth in him, and could be entirely trusted if he promised to serve a friend. But Bigot dared not name to him a matter of this kind. He would spurn it, drunk as he was. He was still in all his instincts a gentleman and a soldier. He could only be used by Bigot through an abuse of his noblest qualities. He dared not broach such a scheme to Le Gardeur de Repentigny!
Among his associates there was but one who, in spite of his brutal manners and coarse speech, perhaps because of these, Bigot would trust as a friend, to help him in a serious emergency like the present.
Cadet, the Commissary General of New France, was faithful to Bigot as a fierce bull-dog to his master. Cadet was no hypocrite, nay, he may have appeared to be worse than in reality he was. He was bold and outspoken, rapacious of other men's goods, and as prodigal of his own. Clever withal, fearless, and fit for any bold enterprise. He ever allowed himself to be guided by the superior intellect of Bigot, whom he regarded as the prince of good fellows, and swore by him, profanely enough, on all occasions, as the shrewdest head and the quickest hand to turn over money in New France.
Bigot could trust Cadet. He had only to whisper a few words in his ear to see him jump up from the table where he was playing cards, dash his stakes with a sweep of his hand into the lap of his antagonist, a gift or a forfeit, he cared not which, for not finishing the game. In three minutes Cadet was booted, with his heavy riding-whip in his hand ready to mount his horse and accompany Bigot “to Beaumanoir or to hell,” he said, “if he wanted to go there.”
In the short space of time, while the grooms saddled their horses, Bigot drew Cadet aside and explained to him the situation of his affairs, informing him, in a few words, who the lady was who lived in such retirement in the Château, and of his denial of the fact before the Council and Governor. He told him of the letters of the King and of La Pompadour respecting Caroline, and of the necessity of removing her at once far out of reach before the actual search for her was begun.
Cadet's cynical eyes flashed in genuine sympathy with Bigot, and he laid his heavy hand upon his shoulder and uttered a frank exclamation of admiration at his ruse to cheat La Pompadour and La Galissonière both.
“By St. Picot!” said he, “I would rather go without dinner for a month than you should not have asked me, Bigot, to help you out of this scrape. What if you did lie to that fly-catching beggar at the Castle of St. Louis, who has not conscience to take a dishonest stiver from a cheating Albany Dutchman! Where was the harm in it? Better lie to him than tell the truth to La Pompadour about that girl! Egad! Madame Fish would serve you as the Iroquois served my fat clerk at Chouagen--make roast meat of you--if she knew it! Such a pother about a girl! Damn the women, always, I say, Bigot! A man is never out of hot water when he has to do with them!”
Striking Bigot's hand hard with his own, he promised; wet or dry, through flood or fire, to ride with him to Beaumanoir, and take the girl, or lady,--he begged the Intendant's pardon,--and by such ways as he alone knew he would, in two days, place her safely among the Montagnais, and order them at once, without an hour's delay, to pull up stakes and remove their wigwams to the tuque of the St. Maurice, where Satan himself could not find her. And the girl might remain there for seven years without ever being heard tell of by any white person in the Colony.
Bigot and Cadet rode rapidly forward until they came to the dark forest, where the faint outline of road, barely visible, would have perplexed Bigot to have kept it alone in the night. But Cadet was born in Charlebourg; he knew every path, glade, and dingle in the forest of Beaumanoir, and rode on without drawing bridle.
Bigot, in his fiery eagerness, had hitherto ridden foremost. Cadet now led the way, dashing under the boughs of the great trees that overhung the road. The tramp of their horses woke the echoes of the woods. But they were not long in reaching the park of Beaumanoir.
They saw before them the tall chimney-stacks and the high roofs and the white walls of the Château, looking spectral enough in the wan moonlight,--ghostly, silent, and ominous. One light only was visible in the porter's lodge; all else was dark, cold, and sepulchral.
The watchful old porter at the gate was instantly on foot to see who came at that hour, and was surprised enough at sight of his master and the Sieur Cadet, without retinue or even a groom to accompany them.
They dismounted and tied their horses outside the gate. “Run to the Château, Marcele, without making the least noise,” said Bigot. “Call none of the servants, but rap gently at the door of Dame Tremblay. Bid her rise instantly, without waking any one. Say the Intendant desires to see her. I expect guests from the city.”
The porter returned with the information that Dame Tremblay had got up and was ready to receive his Excellency.
Bidding old Marcele take care of the horses, they walked across the lawn to the Château, at the door of which stood Dame Tremblay, hastily dressed, courtesying and trembling at this sudden summons to receive the Intendant and Sieur Cadet.
“Good night, dame!” said Bigot, in a low tone, “conduct us instantly to the grand gallery.”
“Oh, your Excellency!” replied the dame, courtesying, “I am your humble servant at all times, day and night, as it is my duty and my pleasure to serve my master!”
“Well, then!” returned Bigot, impatiently, “let us go in and make no noise.”
The three, Dame Tremblay leading the way with a candle in each hand, passed up the broad stair and into the gallery communicating with the apartments of Caroline. The dame set her candles on the table and stood with her hands across her apron in a submissive attitude, waiting the orders of her master.
“Dame!” said he, “I think you are a faithful servant. I have trusted you with much. Can I trust you with a greater matter still?”
“Oh, your Excellency! I would die to serve so noble and generous a master! It is a servant's duty!”
“Few servants think so, nor do I! But you have been faithful to your charge respecting this poor lady within, have you not, dame?” Bigot looked as if his eyes searched her very vitals.
“O Lord! O Lord!” thought the dame, turning pale. “He has heard about the visit of that cursed Mère Malheur, and he has come to hang me up for it in the gallery!” She stammered out in reply, “Oh, yes! I have been faithful to my charge about the lady, your Excellency! I have not failed wilfully or negligently in any one point, I assure you! I have been at once careful and kind to her, as you bade me to be, your Excellency. Indeed, I could not be otherwise to a live angel in the house like her!”
“So I believe, dame!” said Bigot, in a tone of approval that quite lifted her heart. This spontaneous praise of Caroline touched him somewhat. “You have done well! Now can you keep another secret, dame?”
“A secret! and entrusted to me by your Excellency!” replied she, in a voice of wonder at such a question. “The marble statue in the grotto is not closer than I am, your Excellency. I was always too fond of a secret ever to part with it! When I was the Charming Josephine of Lake Beauport I never told, even in confession, who they were who--” “Tut! I will trust you, dame, better than I would have trusted the Charming Josephine! If all tales be true, you were a gay girl, dame, and a handsome one in those days, I have heard!” added the Intendant, with well-planned flattery.
A smile and a look of intelligence between the dame and Bigot followed this sally, while Cadet had much to do to keep in one of the hearty horse-laughs he used to indulge in, and which would have roused the whole Château.
The flattery of the Intendant quite captivated the dame. “I will go through fire and water to serve your Excellency, if you want me,” said she. “What shall I do to oblige your Excellency?”
“Well, dame, you must know then that the Sieur Cadet and I have come to remove that dear lady from the Château to another place, where it is needful for her to go for the present time; and if you are questioned about her, mind you are to say she never was here, and you know nothing of her!”
“I will not only say it,” replied the dame with promptness, “I will swear it until I am black in the face if you command me, your Excellency! Poor, dear lady! may I not ask where she is going?”
“No, she will be all right! I will tell you in due time. It is needful for people to change sometimes, you know, dame! You comprehend that! You had to manage matters discreetly when you were the Charming Josephine. I dare say you had to change, too, sometimes! Every woman has an intrigue once, at least, in her lifetime, and wants a change. But this lady is not clever like the Charming Josephine, therefore we have to be clever for her!”
The dame laughed prudently yet knowingly at this, while Bigot continued, “Now you understand all! Go to her chamber, dame. Present our compliments with our regrets for disturbing her at this hour. Tell her that the Intendant and the Sieur Cadet desire to see her on important business.”
Dame Tremblay, with a broad smile all over her countenance at her master's jocular allusions to the Charming Josephine, left at once to carry her message to the chamber of Caroline.
She passed out, while the two gentlemen waited in the gallery, Bigot anxious but not doubtful of his influence to persuade the gentle girl to leave the Château, Cadet coolly resolved that she must go, whether she liked it or no. He would banish every woman in New France to the tuque of the St. Maurice had he the power, in order to rid himself and Bigot of the eternal mischief and trouble of them!
Neither Bigot nor Cadet spoke for some minutes after the departure of the dame. They listened to her footsteps as the sound of them died away in the distant rooms, where one door opened after another as she passed on to the secret chamber.
“She is now at the door of Caroline!” thought Bigot, as his imagination followed Dame Tremblay on her errand. “She is now speaking to her. I know Caroline will make no delay to admit us.” Cadet on his side was very quiet and careless of aught save to take the girl and get her safely away before daybreak.
A few moments of heavy silence and expectation passed over them. The howl of a distant watch-dog was heard, and all was again still. The low, monotonous ticking of the great clock at the head of the gallery made the silence still more oppressive. It seemed to be measuring off eternity, not time.
The hour, the circumstance, the brooding stillness, waited for a cry of murder to ring through the Château, waking its sleepers and bidding them come and see the fearful tragedy that lay in the secret chamber.
But no cry came. Fortunately for Bigot it did not! The discovery of Caroline de St. Castin under such circumstances would have closed his career in New France, and ruined him forever in the favor of the Court.
Dame Tremblay returned to her master and Cadet with the information “that the lady was not in her bedchamber, but had gone down, as was her wont, in the still hours of the night, to pray in her oratory in the secret chamber, where she wished never to be disturbed.
“Well, dame,” replied Bigot, “you may retire to your own room. I will go down to the secret chamber myself. These vigils are killing her, poor girl! If your lady should be missing in the morning, remember, dame, that you make no remark of it; she is going away to-night with me and the Sieur Cadet and will return soon again; so be discreet and keep your tongue well between your teeth, which, I am glad to observe,” remarked he with a smile, “are still sound and white as ivory.”
Bigot wished by such flattery to secure her fidelity, and he fully succeeded. The compliment to her teeth was more agreeable than would have been a purse of money. It caught the dame with a hook there was no escape from.
Dame Tremblay courtesied very low, and smiled very broadly to show her really good teeth, of which she was extravagantly vain. She assured the Intendant of her perfect discretion and obedience to all his commands.
“Trust to me, your Excellency,” said she with a profound courtesy. “I never deceived a gentleman yet, except the Sieur Tremblay, and he, good man, was none! When I was the Charming Josephine, and all the gay gallants of the city used to flatter and spoil me, I never deceived one of them, never! I knew that all is vanity in this world, but my eyes and teeth were considered very fine in those days, your Excellency.”
“And are yet, dame. Zounds! Lake Beauport has had nothing to equal them since you retired from business as a beauty. But mind my orders, dame! keep quiet and you will please me. Good-night, dame!”
“Good-night, your Excellency! Good-night, your Honor!” replied she, flushed with gratified vanity. She left Bigot vowing to herself that he was the finest gentleman and the best judge of a woman in New France! The Sieur Cadet she could not like. He never looked pleasant on a woman, as a gentleman ought to do!
The dame left them to themselves, and went off trippingly in high spirits to her own chamber, where she instantly ran to the mirror to look at her teeth, and made faces in the glass like a foolish girl in her teens.
Bigot, out of a feeling of delicacy not usual with him, bid Cadet wait in the anteroom while he went forward to the secret chamber of Caroline. “The sudden presence of a stranger might alarm her,” he said.
He descended the stair and knocked softly at the door, calling in a low tone, “Caroline! Caroline!” No answer came. He wondered at that, for her quick ear used always to catch the first sound of his footsteps while yet afar off.
He knocked louder, and called again her name. Alas! he might have called forever! That voice would never make her heart flutter again or her eyes brighten at his footstep, that sounded sweeter than any music as she waited and watched for him, always ready to meet him at the door.
Bigot anticipated something wrong, and with a hasty hand pushed open the door of the secret chamber and went in. A blaze of light filled his eyes. A white form lay upon the floor. He saw it and he saw nothing else! She lay there with her unclosed eyes looking as the dead only look at the living. One hand was pressed to her bosom, the other was stretched out, holding the broken stem and a few green leaves of the fatal bouquet which La Corriveau had not wholly plucked from her grasp.
Bigot stood for a moment stricken dumb and transfixed with horror, then sprang forward and knelt over her with a cry of agony. He thought she might have fallen in a swoon. He touched her pale forehead, her lips, her hands. He felt her heart, it did not beat; he lifted her head to his bosom, it fell like the flower of a lily broken on its stem, and he knew she was dead. He saw the red streaks of blood on her snowy robe, and he knew she was murdered.
A long cry like the wail of a man in torture burst from him. It woke more than one sleeper in the distant chambers of the Château, making them start upon their pillows to listen for another cry, but none came. Bigot was a man of iron; he retained self-possession enough to recollect the danger of rousing the house.
He smothered his cries in suffocating sobs, but they reached the ear of Cadet, who, foreboding some terrible catastrophe, rushed into the room where the secret door stood open. The light glared up the stair. He ran down and saw the Intendant on his knees, holding in his arms the half raised form of a woman which he kissed and called by name like a man distraught with grief and despair.
Cadet's coarse and immovable nature stood him in good stead at this moment. He saw at a glance what had happened. The girl they had come to bear away was dead! How? He knew not; but the Intendant must not be suffered to make an alarm. There was danger of discovery on all sides now, and the necessity of concealment was a thousand times greater than ever. There was no time to question, but instant help was needed. In amaze at the spectacle before him, Cadet instantly flew to the assistance of the Intendant.
He approached Bigot without speaking a word, although his great eyes expressed a look of sympathy never seen there before. He disengaged the dead form of Caroline tenderly from the embrace of Bigot, and laid it gently upon the floor, and lifting Bigot up in his stout arms, whispered hoarsely in his ear, “Keep still, Bigot! keep still! not one word! make no alarm! This is a dreadful business, but we must go to another room to consider calmly, calmly, mind, what it means and what is to be done.”
“Oh, Cadet! Cadet!” moaned the Intendant, still resting on his shoulder, “she is dead! dead! when I just wanted her to live! I have been hard with women, but if there was one I loved it was she who lies dead before me! Who, who has done this bloody deed to me?”
“Who has done it to her, you mean! You are not killed yet, old friend, but will live to revenge this horrid business!” answered Cadet with rough sympathy.
“I would give my life to restore hers!” replied Bigot despairingly. “Oh, Cadet, you never knew what was in my heart about this girl, and how I had resolved to make her reparation for the evil I had done her!”
“Well, I can guess what was in your heart, Bigot. Come, old friend, you are getting more calm, you can walk now. Let us go upstairs to consider what is to be done about it. Damn the women! They are man's torment whether alive or dead!”
Bigot was too much absorbed in his own tumultuous feelings to notice Cadet's remark. He allowed himself to be led without resistance to another room, out of sight of the murdered girl, in whose presence Cadet knew calm council was impossible.
Cadet seated Bigot on a couch and, sitting beside him, bade him be a man and not a fool. He tried to rouse Bigot by irritating him, thinking, in his coarse way, that that was better than to be maudlin over him, as he considered it, with vain expressions of sympathy.
“I would not give way so,” said he, “for all the women in and out of Paradise! and you are a man, Bigot! Remember you have brought me here, and you have to take me safely back again, out of this den of murder.”
“Yes, Cadet,” replied Bigot, rousing himself up at the sharp tone of his friend. “I must think of your safety; I care little for my own at this moment. Think for me.”
“Well, then, I will think for you, and I think this, Bigot, that if the Governor finds out this assassination, done in your house, and that you and I have been here at this hour of night with the murdered girl, by God! he will say we have alone done it, and the world will believe it! So rouse up, I for one do not want to be taxed with the murder of a woman, and still less to be hung innocently for the death of one. I would not risk my little finger for all the women alive, let alone my neck for a dead one!”
The suggestion was like a sharp probe in his flesh. It touched Bigot to the quick. He started up on his feet. “You are right, Cadet, it only wants that accusation to make me go mad! But my head is not my own yet! I can think of nothing but her lying there, dead in her loveliness and in her love! Tell me what to do, and I will do it.”
“Ay, now you talk reasonably. Now you are coming to yourself, Bigot. We came to remove her alive from here, did we not? We must now remove her dead. She cannot remain where she is at the risk of certain discovery to-morrow.”
“No, the secret chamber would not hide such a secret as that,” replied Bigot, recovering his self-possession. “But how to remove her? We cannot carry her forth without discovery.” Bigot's practical intellect was waking up to the danger of leaving the murdered girl in the Château.
Cadet rose and paced the room with rapid strides, rubbing his forehead, and twitching his mustache violently. “I will tell you what we have got to do, Bigot! Par Dieu! we must bury her where she is, down there in the vaulted chamber.”
“What, bury her?” Bigot looked at him with intense surprise.
“Yes, we must bury her in that very chamber, Bigot. We must cover up somebody's damnable work to avert suspicion from ourselves! A pretty task for you and me, Bigot! Par Dieu! I could laugh like a horse, if I were not afraid of being overheard.”
“But who is to dig a grave for her? surely not you or I,” replied Bigot with a look of dismay.
“Yes, gentlemen as we are, you and I must do it, Bigot. Zounds! I learned to dig and delve when I was a stripling at Charlebourg, and in the trenches at Louisbourg, and I have not yet forgotten the knack of it! But where to get spades, Bigot; you are master here and ought to know.”
“I, how should I know? It is terrible, Cadet, to bury her as if we had murdered her! Is there no other way?”
“None. We are in a cahot and must get our cariole out of it as best we can! I see plainly we two shall be taxed with this murder, Bigot, if we let it be discovered! Besides, utter ruin awaits you from La Pompadour if she finds out you ever had this girl at Beaumanoir in keeping. Come! time for parley is past; where shall we find spades? We must to work, Bigot!”
A sudden thought lighted up the eyes of the Intendant, who saw the force of Cadet's suggestion, strange and repulsive as it was. “I think I know,” said he; “the gardeners keep their tools in the old tower, and we can get there by the secret passage and return.”
“Bravo!” exclaimed Cadet, encouragingly, “come, show the way, and we will get the tools in a trice! I always heard there was a private way underground to the old tower. It never stood its master in better stead than now; perhaps never worse if it has let in the murderer of this poor girl of yours.”
Bigot rose up, very faint and weak; Cadet took his arm to support him, and bidding him be firm and not give way again at sight of her dead body, led him back to the chamber of death. “Let us first look around a moment,” said he, “to find, if possible, some trace of the hellish assassins.”
The lamps burned brightly, shedding a glare of light over every object in the secret chamber.
Cadet looked narrowly round, but found little trace of the murderers. The drawers of the escritoire stood open, with their contents in great disorder, a circumstance which at once suggested robbers. Cadet pointed it out to Bigot with the question: “Kept she much money, Bigot?”
“None that I know of. She asked for none, poor girl! I gave her none, though I would have given her the King's treasury had she wished for it.”
“But she might have had money when she came, Bigot,” continued Cadet, not doubting but robbery had been the motive for the murder.
“It may be, I never questioned her,” replied Bigot; “she never spoke of money; alas! all the money in the world was as dross in her estimation. Other things than money occupied her pure thoughts.”
“Well, it looks like robbers: they have ransacked the drawers and carried off all she had, were it much or little,” remarked Cadet, still continuing his search.
“But why kill her? Oh, Cadet, why kill the gentle girl, who would have given every jewel in her possession for the bare asking?”
“Nay, I cannot guess,” said Cadet. “It looks like robbers, but the mystery is beyond my wit to explain. What are you doing, Bigot?”
Bigot had knelt down by the side of Caroline; he lifted her hand first to his lips, then towards Cadet, to show him the stalk of a rose from which the flower had been broken, and which she held with a grip so hard that it could not be loosened from her dead fingers.
The two men looked long and earnestly at it, but failed to make a conjecture even why the flower had been plucked from that broken stalk and carried away, for it was not to be seen in the room.
The fragment of a letter lay under a chair. It was a part of that which La Corriveau had torn up and missed to gather up again with the rest. Cadet picked it up and thrust it into his pocket.
The blood streaks upon her white robe and the visible stabs of a fine poniard riveted their attention. That that was the cause of her death they doubted not, but the mute eloquence of her wounds spoke only to the heat. It gave no explanation to the intellect. The whole tragedy seemed wrapped in inexplicable mystery.
“They have covered their track up well!” remarked Cadet. “Hey! but what have we here?” Bigot started up at the exclamation. The door of the secret passage stood open. La Corriveau had not closed it after her when making her escape. “Here is where the assassins have found entrance and exit! Egad! More people know the secret of your Château than you think, Bigot!”
They sprang forward, and each seizing a lamp, the two men rushed into the narrow passage. It was dark and still as the catacombs. No trace of anything to the purpose could they perceive in the vaulted subterranean way to the turret.
They speedily came to the other end; the secret door there stood open also. They ascended the stairs in the tower, but could see no trace of the murderers. “It is useless to search further for them at this time,” remarked Cadet, “perhaps not safe at any time, but I would give my best horse to lay hands on the assassins at this moment.”
Gardeners' tools lay around the room. “Here,” exclaimed Cadet, “is what is equally germane to the matter, and we have no time to lose.”
He seized a couple of spades and a bar of iron, and bidding Bigot go before him with the lights, they returned to the chamber of death.
“Now for work! This sad business must be done well, and done quickly!” exclaimed Cadet. “You shall see that I have not forgotten how to dig, Bigot!”
Cadet threw off his coat, and setting to work, pulled up the thick carpet from one side of the chamber. The floor was covered with broad, smooth flags, one of which he attacked with the iron bar, raised the flagstone and turned it over; another easily followed, and very soon a space in the dry brown earth was exposed, large enough to make a grave.
Bigot looked at him in a sort of dream. “I cannot do it, Cadet! I cannot dig her grave!” and he threw down the spade which he had taken feebly in his hand.
“No matter, Bigot! I will do it! Indeed, you would only be in my way. Sit down while I dig, old friend. Par Dieu! this is nice work for the Commissary General of New France, with the Royal Intendant overseeing him!”
Bigot sat down and looked forlornly on while Cadet with the arms of a Hercules dug and dug, throwing out the earth without stopping for the space of a quarter of an hour, until he had made a grave large and deep enough to contain the body of the hapless girl.
“That will do!” cried he, leaping out of the pit. “Our funeral arrangements must be of the briefest, Bigot! So come help me to shroud this poor girl.”
Cadet found a sheet of linen and some fine blankets upon a couch in the secret chamber. He spread them out upon the floor, and motioned to Bigot without speaking. The two men lifted Caroline tenderly and reverently upon the sheet. They gazed at her for a minute in solemn silence, before shrouding her fair face and slender form in their last winding-sheet. Bigot was overpowered with his feelings, yet strove to master them, as he gulped down the rising in his throat which at times almost strangled him.
Cadet, eager to get his painful task over, took from the slender finger of Caroline a ring, a love-gift of Bigot, and from her neck a golden locket containing his portrait and a lock of his hair. A rosary hung at her waist; this Cadet also detached, as a precious relic to be given to the Intendant by and by. There was one thread of silk woven into the coarse hempen nature of Cadet.
Bigot stooped down and gave her pale lips and eyes, which he had tenderly closed, a last despairing kiss, before veiling her face with the winding-sheet as she lay, white as a snow-drift, and as cold. They wrapped her softly in the blankets, and without a word spoken, lowered the still, lissom body into its rude grave.
The awful silence was only broken by the spasmodic sobs of Bigot as he leaned over the grave to look his last upon the form of the fair girl whom he had betrayed and brought to this untimely end. “Mea culpa! Mea maxima culpa!” said he, beating his breast. “Oh, Cadet, we are burying her like a dog! I cannot, I cannot do it!”
The Intendant's feelings overcame him again, and he rushed from the chamber, while Cadet, glad of his absence for a few moments, hastily filled up the grave and, replacing with much care the stone slabs over it, swept the debris into the passage and spread the carpet again smoothly over the floor. Every trace of the dreadful deed was obliterated in the chamber of murder.
Cadet, acutely thinking of everything at this supreme moment, would leave no ground of suspicion for Dame Tremblay when she came in the morning to visit the chamber. She should think that her lady had gone away with her master as mysteriously as she had come, and no further inquiry would be made after her. In this Cadet was right.
It was necessary for Cadet and Bigot now to depart by the secret passage to the tower. The deep-toned bell of the château struck three.
“We must now be gone, Bigot, and instantly,” exclaimed Cadet. “Our night work is done! Let us see what day will bring forth! You must see to it to-morrow, Bigot, that no man or woman alive ever again enter this accursed chamber of death!”
Cadet fastened the secret door of the stair, and gathering up his spades and bar of iron, left the chamber with Bigot, who was passive as a child in his hands. The Intendant turned round and gave one last sorrowful look at the now darkened room as they left it. Cadet and he made their way back to the tower. They sallied out into the open air, which blew fresh and reviving upon their fevered faces after escaping from the stifling atmosphere below.
They proceeded at once towards their horses and mounted them, but Bigot felt deadly faint and halted under a tree while Cadet rode back to the porter's lodge and roused up old Marcele to give him some brandy, if he had any, “as of course he had,” said Cadet. Brandy was a gate-porter's inside livery, the lining of his laced coat which he always wore. Cadet assumed a levity which he did not really feel.
Marcele fortunately could oblige the Sieur Cadet. “He did line his livery a little, but lightly, as his Honor would see!” said he, bringing out a bottle of cognac and a drinking-cup.
“It is to keep us from catching cold!” continued Cadet in his peculiar way. “Is it good?” He placed the bottle to his lips and tasted it.
Marcele assured him it was good as gold.
“Right!” said Cadet, throwing Marcele a louis d'or. “I will take the bottle to the Intendant to keep him from catching cold too! Mind, Marcele, you keep your tongue still, or else--!” Cadet held up his whip, and bidding the porter “good-night!” rejoined Bigot.
Cadet had a crafty design in this proceeding. He wanted not to tell Marcele that a lady was accompanying them; also not to let him perceive that they left Beaumanoir without one. He feared that the old porter and Dame Tremblay might possibly compare notes together, and the housekeeper discover that Caroline had not left Beaumanoir with the Intendant.
Bigot sat faint and listless in his saddle when Cadet poured out a large cupful of brandy and offered it to him. He drank it eagerly. Cadet then filled and gulped down a large cupful himself, then gave another to the Intendant, and poured another and another for himself until, he said, he “began to feel warm and comfortable, and got the damnable taste of grave-digging out of his mouth!”
The heavy draught which Cadet forced the Intendant to take relieved him somewhat, but he groaned inwardly and would not speak. Cadet respected his mood, only bidding him ride fast. They spurred their horses, and rode swiftly, unobserved by any one, until they entered the gates of the Palace of the Intendant.
The arrival of the Intendant or the Sieur Cadet at the Palace at any untimely hour of the night excited no remark whatever, for it was the rule, rather than the exception with them both.
Dame Tremblay was not surprised next morning to find the chamber empty and the lady gone.
She shook her head sadly. “He is a wild gallant, is my master! No wilder ever came to Lake Beauport when I was the Charming Josephine and all the world ran after me. But I can keep a secret, and I will! This secret I must keep at any rate, by the Intendant's order, and I would rather die than be railed at by that fierce Sieur Cadet! I will keep the Intendant's secret safe as my teeth, which he praised so handsomely and so justly!”
The fact that Caroline never returned to the Château, and that the search for her was so long and so vainly carried on by La Corne St. Luc and the Baron de St. Castin, caused the dame to suspect at last that some foul play had been perpetrated, but she dared not speak openly.
The old woman's suspicions grew with age into certainties, when at last she chanced to talk with her old fellow servant, Marcele, the gatekeeper, and learned from him that Bigot and Cadet had left the Château alone on that fatal night. Dame Tremblay was more perplexed than ever. She talked, she knew not what, but her talk passed into the traditions of the habitans.
It became the popular belief that a beautiful woman, the mistress of the powerful Intendant Bigot, had been murdered and buried in the Château of Beaumanoir.
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{
"id": "2735"
}
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43
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SILK GLOVES OVER BLOODY HANDS.
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It was long before Angélique came to herself from the swoon in which she had been left lying on the floor by La Corriveau. Fortunately for her it was without discovery. None of the servants happened to come to her room during its continuance, else a weakness so strange to her usual hardihood would have become the city's talk before night, and set all its idle tongues conjecturing or inventing a reason for it. It would have reached the ears of Bigot, as every spray of gossip did, and set him thinking, too, more savagely than he was yet doing, as to the causes and occasions of the murder of Caroline.
All the way back to the Palace, Bigot had scarcely spoken a word to Cadet. His mind was in a tumult of the wildest conjectures, and his thoughts ran to and fro like hounds in a thick brake darting in every direction to find the scent of the game they were in search of. When they reached the Palace, Bigot, without speaking to any one, passed through the anterooms to his own apartment, and threw himself, dressed and booted as he was, upon a couch, where he lay like a man stricken down by a mace from some unseen hand.
Cadet had coarser ways of relieving himself from the late unusual strain upon his rough feelings. He went down to the billiard-room, and joining recklessly in the game that was still kept up by De Pean, Le Gardeur, and a number of wild associates, strove to drown all recollections of the past night at Beaumanoir by drinking and gambling with more than usual violence until far on in the day.
Bigot neither slept nor wished to sleep. The image of the murdered girl lying in her rude grave was ever before him, with a vividness so terrible that it seemed he could never sleep again. His thoughts ran round and round like a mill-wheel, without advancing a step towards a solution of the mystery of her death.
He summoned up his recollections of every man and woman he knew in the Colony, and asked himself regarding each one, the question, “Is it he who has done this? Is it she who has prompted it? And who could have had a motive, and who not, to perpetrate such a bloody deed?”
One image came again and again before his mind's eye as he reviewed the list of his friends and enemies. The figure of Angélique appeared and reappeared, intruding itself between every third or fourth personage which his memory called up, until his thoughts fixed upon her with the maddening inquiry, “Could Angélique des Meloises have been guilty of this terrible deed?”
He remembered her passionate denunciation of the lady of Beaumanoir, her fierce demand for her banishment by a lettre de cachet. He knew her ambition and recklessness, but still, versed as he was in all the ways of wickedness, and knowing the inexorable bitterness of envy, and the cruelty of jealousy in the female breast,--at least in such women as he had for the most part had experience of,--Bigot could hardly admit the thought that one so fair as Angélique, one who held him in a golden net of fascination, and to whom he had been more than once on the point of yielding, could have committed so great a crime.
He struggled with his thoughts like a man amid tossing waves, groping about in the dark for a plank to float upon, but could find none. Still, in spite of himself, in spite of his violent asseverations that “it was IMPOSSIBLE;” in spite of Cadet's plausible theory of robbers,--which Bigot at first seized upon as the likeliest explanation of the mystery,--the thought of Angélique ever returned back upon him like a fresh accusation.
He could not accuse her yet, though something told him he might have to do so at last. He grew angry at the ever-recurring thought of her, and turning his face to the wall, like a man trying to shut out the light, resolved to force disbelief in her guilt until clearer testimony than his own suspicions should convict her of the death of Caroline. And yet in his secret soul he dreaded a discovery that might turn out as he feared. But he pushed the black thoughts aside; he would wait and watch for what he feared to find.
The fact of Caroline's concealment at Beaumanoir, and her murder at the very moment when the search was about to be made for her, placed Bigot in the cruelest dilemma. Whatever his suspicions might be, he dared not, by word or sign, avow any knowledge of Caroline's presence, still less of her mysterious murder, in his Château. Her grave had been dug; she had been secretly buried out of human sight, and he was under bonds as for his very life never to let the dreadful mystery be discovered.
So Bigot lay on his couch, for once a weak and frightened man, registering vain vows of vengeance against persons unknown, vows which he knew at the moment were empty as bubbles, because he dared not move hand or foot in the matter to carry them out, or make open accusation against any one of the foul crime. What thoughts came to Bigot's subtle mind were best known to himself, but something was suggested by the mocking devil who was never far from him, and he caught and held fast the wicked suggestion with a bitter laugh. He then grew suddenly still and said to himself, “I will sleep on it!” and pillowing his head quietly, not in sleep, but in thoughts deeper than sleep, he lay till day.
Angélique, who had never in her life swooned before, felt, when she awoke, like one returning to life from death. She opened her eyes wondering where she was, and half remembering the things she had heard as things she had seen, looked anxiously around the room for La Corriveau. She rose up with a start when she saw she was gone, for Angélique recollected suddenly that La Corriveau now held the terrible secret which concerned her life and peace for evermore.
The thing she had so long wished for, and prayed for, was at last done! Her rival was out of the way! But she also felt that if the murder was discovered her own life was forfeit to the law, and the secret was in the keeping of the vilest of women.
A mountain, not of remorse, but of apprehension, overwhelmed her for a time. But Angélique's mind was too intensely selfish, hard, and superficial, to give way to the remorse of a deeper nature.
She was angry at her own cowardice, but she feared the suspicions of Bigot. There was ever something in his dark nature which she could not fathom, and deep and crafty as she knew herself to be, she feared that he was more deep and more crafty than herself.
What if he should discover her hand in this bloody business? The thought drove her frantic, until she fancied she repented of the deed.
Had it brought a certainty, this crime, then--why, then--she had found a compensation for the risk she was running, for the pain she was enduring, which she tried to believe was regret and pity for her victim. Her anxiety redoubled when it occurred to her that Bigot, remembering her passionate appeals to him for the removal of Caroline, might suspect her of the murder as the one alone having a palpable interest in it.
“But Bigot shall never believe it even if he suspect it!” exclaimed she at last, shaking off her fears. “I have made fools of many men for my pleasure, I can surely blind one for my safety; and, after all, whose fault is it but Bigot's? He would not grant me the lettre de cachet nor keep his promise for her removal. He even gave me her life! But he lied; he did not mean it. He loved her too well, and meant to deceive me and marry her, and I have deceived him and shall marry him, that is all!” and Angélique laughed a hysterical laugh, such as Dives in his torments may sometimes give way to.
“La Corriveau has betrayed her trust in one terrible point,” continued she, “she promised a death so easy that all men would say the lady of Beaumanoir died of heartbreak only, or by God's visitation! A natural death! The foul witch has used her stiletto and made a murder of that which, without it, had been none! Bigot will know it, must know it even if he dare not reveal it! for how in the name of all the saints is it to be concealed?
“But, my God! this will never do!” continued she, starting up, “I look like very guilt!” She stared fiercely in the mirror at her hollow eyes, pale cheeks, and white lips. She scarcely recognized herself. Her bloom and brightness had vanished for the time.
“What if I have inhaled some of the poisoned odor of those cursed roses?” thought she, shuddering at the supposition; but she reassured herself that it could not be. “Still, my looks condemn me! The pale face of that dead girl is looking at me out of mine! Bigot, if he sees me, will not fail to read the secret in my looks.”
She glanced at the clock: the morning was far advanced towards noon; visitors might soon arrive, Bigot himself might come, she dare not deny herself to him. She would deny herself to no one to-day! She would go everywhere and see everybody, and show the world, if talk of it should arise, that she was wholly innocent of that girl's blood.
She would wear her brightest looks, her gayest robe, her hat and feathers, the newest from Paris. She would ride out into the city,--go to the Cathedral,--show herself to all her friends, and make every one say or think that Angélique des Meloises had not a care or trouble in the world.
She rang for Fanchon, impatient to commence her toilet, for when dressed she knew that she would feel like herself once more, cool and defiant. The touch of her armor of fashionable attire would restore her confidence in herself, and enable her to brave down any suspicion in the mind of the Intendant,--at any rate it was her only resource, and Angélique was not one to give up even a lost battle, let alone one half gained through the death of her rival.
Fanchon came in haste at the summons of her mistress. She had long waited to hear the bell, and began to fear she was sick or in one of those wild moods which had come over her occasionally since the night of her last interview with Le Gardeur.
The girl started at sight of the pale face and paler lips of her mistress. She uttered an exclamation of surprise, but Angélique, anticipating all questions, told her she was unwell, but would dress and take a ride out in the fresh air and sunshine to recruit.
“But had you not better see the physician, my Lady? --you do look so pale to-day, you are really not well!”
“No, but I will ride out;” and she added in her old way, “perhaps, Fanchon, I may meet some one who will be better company than the physician. Qui sait?” And she laughed with an appearance of gaiety which she was far from feeling, and which only half imposed on the quick-witted maid who waited upon her.
“Where is your aunt, Fanchon? When did you see Dame Dodier?” asked she, really anxious to learn what had become of La Corriveau.
“She returned home this morning, my Lady! I had not seen her for days before, but supposed she had already gone back to St. Valier,--but Aunt Dodier is a strange woman, and tells no one her business.”
“She has, perhaps, other lost jewels to look after besides mine,” replied Angélique mechanically, yet feeling easier upon learning the departure of La Corriveau.
“Perhaps so, my Lady. I am glad she is gone home. I shall never wish to see her again.”
“Why?” asked Angélique, sharply, wondering if Fanchon had conjectured anything of her aunt's business.
“They say she has dealings with that horrid Mère Malheur, and I believe it,” replied Fanchon, with a shrug of disgust.
“Ah! do you think Mère Malheur knows her business or any of your aunt's secrets, Fanchon?” asked Angélique, thoroughly roused.
“I think she does, my Lady,--you cannot live in a chimney with another without both getting black alike, and Mère Malheur is a black witch as sure as my aunt is a white one,” was Fanchon's reply.
“What said your aunt on leaving?” asked her mistress.
“I did not see her leave, my Lady; I only learned from Ambroise Gariepy that she had crossed the river this morning to return to St. Valier.”
“And who is Ambroise Gariepy, Fanchon? You have a wide circle of acquaintance for a young girl, I think!” Angélique knew the dangers of gossiping too well not to fear Fanchon's imprudences.
“Yes, my Lady,” replied Fanchon with affected simplicity, “Ambroise Gariepy keeps the Lion Vert and the ferry upon the south shore; he brings me news and sometimes a little present from the pack of the Basque pedlers,--he brought me this comb, my Lady!” Fanchon turned her head to show her mistress a superb comb in her thick black hair, and in her delight of talking of Ambroise Gariepy, the little inn of the ferry, and the cross that leaned like a failing memory over the grave of his former wife, Fanchon quite forgot to ease her mind further on the subject of La Corriveau, nor did Angélique resume the dangerous topic.
Fanchon's easy, shallow way of talking of her lover touched a sympathetic chord in the breast of her mistress. Grand passions were grand follies in Angélique's estimation, which she was less capable of appreciating than even her maid; but flirtation and coquetry, skin-deep only, she could understand, and relished beyond all other enjoyments. It was just now like medicine to her racking thoughts to listen to Fanchon's shallow gossip.
She had done what she had done, she reflected, and it could not be undone! why should she give way to regret, and lose the prize for which she had staked so heavily? She would not do it! No, par Dieu! She had thrown Le Gardeur to the fishes for the sake of the Intendant, and had done that other deed! She shied off from the thought of it as from an uncouth thing in the dark, and began to feel shame of her weakness at having fainted at the tale of La Corriveau.
The light talk of Fanchon while dressing the long golden hair of her mistress and assisting her to put on a new riding-dress and the plumed hat fresh from Paris, which she had not yet displayed in public, did much to restore her equanimity.
Her face had, however, not recovered from its strange pallor. Her eager maid, anxious for the looks of her mistress, insisted on a little rouge, which Angélique's natural bloom had never before needed. She submitted, for she intended to look her best to-day, she said. “Who knows whom I shall fall in with?”
“That is right, my Lady,” exclaimed Fanchon admiringly, “no one could be dressed perfectly as you are and be sick! I pity the gentleman you meet to-day, that is all! There is murder in your eye, my Lady!”
Poor Fanchon believed she was only complimenting her mistress, and at other times her remark would only have called forth a joyous laugh; now the word seemed like a sharp knife: it cut, and Angélique did not laugh. She pushed her maid forcibly away from her, and was on the point of breaking out into some violent exclamation when, recalled by the amazed look of Fanchon, she turned the subject adroitly, and asked, “Where is my brother?”
“Gone with the Chevalier de Pean to the Palace, my Lady!” replied Fanchon, trembling all over, and wondering how she had angered her mistress.
“How know you that, Fanchon?” asked Angélique, recovering her usual careless tone.
“I overheard them speaking together, my Lady. The Chevalier de Pean said that the Intendant was sick, and would see no one this morning.”
“Yes, what then?” Angélique was struck with a sudden consciousness of danger in the wind. “Are you sure they said the Intendant was sick?” asked she.
“Yes, my Lady! and the Chevalier de Pean said that he was less sick than mad, and out of humor to a degree he had never seen him before!”
“Did they give a reason for it? that is, for the Intendant's sickness or madness?” Angélique's eyes were fixed keenly upon her maid, to draw out a full confession.
“None, my Lady, only the Chevalier des Meloises said he supposed it was the news from France which sat so ill on his stomach.”
“And what then, Fanchon? you are so long of answering!” Angélique stamped her foot with impatience.
Fanchon looked up at the reproof so little merited, and replied quickly, “The Chevalier de Pean said it must be that, for he knew of nothing else. The gentlemen then went out and I heard no more.”
Angélique was relieved by this turn of conversation. She felt certain that if Bigot discovered the murder he would not fail to reveal it to the Chevalier de Pean, who was understood to be the depository of all his secrets. She began to cheer up under the belief that Bigot would never dare accuse any one of a deed which would be the means of proclaiming his own falseness and duplicity towards the King and the Marquise de Pompadour.
“I have only to deny all knowledge of it,” said she to herself, “swear to it if need be, and Bigot will not dare to go farther in the matter. Then will come my time to turn the tables upon him in a way he little expects! Pshaw!” continued she, glancing at her gay hat in the mirror, and with her own dainty fingers setting the feather more airily to her liking. “Bigot is bound fast enough to me now that she is gone! and when he discovers that I hold his secret he will not dare meddle with mine.”
Angélique, measurably reassured and hopeful of success in her desperate venture, descended the steps of her mansion, and, gathering up her robes daintily, mounted her horse, which had long been chafing in the hands of her groom waiting for his mistress.
She bade the man remain at home until her return, and dashed off down the Rue St. Louis, drawing after her a hundred eyes of admiration and envy.
She would ride down to the Place d'Armes, she thought, where she knew that before she had skirted the length of the Castle wall half a dozen gallants would greet her with offers of escort, and drop any business they had in hand for the sake of a gallop by her side.
She had scarcely passed the Monastery of the Recollets when she was espied by the Sieur La Force, who, too, was as quickly discovered by her, as he loitered at the corner of the Rue St. Ann, to catch sight of any fair piece of mischief that might be abroad that day from her classes in the Convent of the Ursulines.
“Angélique is as fair a prize as any of them,” thought La Force, as he saluted her with Parisian politeness, and with a request to be her escort in her ride through the city.
“My horse is at hand, and I shall esteem it such an honor,” said La Force, smiling, “and such a profit too,” added he; “my credit is low in a certain quarter, you know where!” and he laughingly pointed towards the Convent. “I desire to make HER jealous, for she has made me madly so, and no one can aid in an enterprise of that kind better than yourself, Mademoiselle des Meloises!”
“Or more willingly, Sieur La Force!” replied she, laughing. “But you overrate my powers, I fear.”
“Oh, by no means,” replied La Force; “there is not a lady in Quebec but feels in her heart that Angélique des Meloises can steal away her lover when and where she will. She has only to look at him across the street, and presto, change! he is gone from her as if by magic. But will you really help me, Mademoiselle?”
“Most willingly, Sieur La Force,--for your profit if not for your honor! I am just in the humor for tormenting somebody this morning; so get your horse and let us be off!”
Before La Force had mounted his horse, a number of gaily-dressed young ladies came in sight, in full sail down the Rue St. Ann, like a fleet of rakish little yachts, bearing down upon Angélique and her companion.
“Shall we wait for them, La Force?” asked she. “They are from the Convent!”
“Yes, and SHE is there too! The news will be all over the city in an hour that I am riding with you!” exclaimed La Force in a tone of intense satisfaction.
Five girls just verging on womanhood, perfect in manner and appearance--as the Ursulines knew well how to train the young olive-plants of the Colony,--walked on demurely enough, looking apparently straight forward, but casting side glances from under their veils which raked the Sieur La Force and Angélique with a searching fire that nothing could withstand, La Force said; but which Angélique remarked was simply “impudence, such as could only be found in Convent girls!”
They came nearer. Angélique might have supposed they were going to pass by them had she not known too well their sly ways. The foremost of the five, Louise Roy, whose glorious hair was the boast of the city, suddenly threw back her veil, and disclosing a charming face, dimpled with smiles and with a thousand mischiefs lurking in her bright gray eyes, sprang towards Angélique, while her companions--all Louises of the famous class of that name--also threw up their veils, and stood saluting Angélique and La Force with infinite merriment.
Louise Roy, quizzing La Force through a coquettish eyeglass which she wore on a ribbon round her pretty neck, as if she had never seen him before, motioned to him in a queenly way as she raised her dainty foot, giving him a severe look, or what tried to be such but was in truth an absurd failure.
He instantly comprehended her command, for such it was, and held out his hand, upon which she stepped lightly, and sprang up to Angélique, embracing and kissing her with such cordiality that, if it were not real, the acting was perfect. At the same time Louise Roy made her understand that she was not the only one who could avail herself of the gallant attentions of the Sieur La Force.
In truth Louise Roy was somewhat piqued at the Sieur La Force, and to punish him made herself as heavy as her slight figure would admit of. She stood perched up as long as she could, and actually enjoyed the tremor which she felt plainly enough in his hand as he continued to support her, and was quite disposed to test how long he could or would hold her up, while she conversed in whispers with Angélique.
“Angélique!” said she. “They say in the Convent that you are to marry the Intendant. Your old mistress, Mère St. Louis, is crazy with delight. She says she always predicted you would make a great match.”
“Or none at all, as Mère St. Helene used to say of me; but they know everything in the Convent, do they not?” Angélique pinched the arm of Louise, as much as to say, “Of course it is true.” “But who told you that, Louise?” asked she.
“Oh, every bird that flies! But tell me one thing more. They say the Intendant is a Bluebeard, who has had wives without number,--nobody knows how many or what became of them, so of course he kills them. Is that true?”
Angélique shrank a little, and little as it was the movement was noticed by Louise. “If nobody knows what became of them, how should I know, Louise?” replied she. “He does not look like a Bluebeard, does he?”
“So says Mère St. Joseph, who came from the Convent at Bordeaux, you know, for she never tires telling us. She declares that the Chevalier Bigot was never married at all, and she ought to know that surely, as well as she knows her beads, for coming from the same city as the Intendant, and knowing his family as she does--” “Well, Louise,” interrupted Angélique impatiently, “but do you not see the Sieur La Force is getting tired of holding you up so long with his hand? For heaven's sake, get down!”
“I want to punish him for going with you, and not waiting for me,” was the cool whisper of Louise. “But you will ask me, Angélique, to the wedding, will you not? If you do not,” continued she, “I shall die!” and delaying her descent as long as possible, she commenced a new topic concerning the hat worn by Angélique.
“Mischief that you are, get down! The Sieur La Force is my cavalier for the day, and you shall not impose on his gallantry that way! He is ready to drop,” whispered Angélique.
“One word more, Angélique.” Louise was delighted to feel the hand of La Force tremble more and more under her foot.
“No, not a word! Get down!”
“Kiss me then, and good-by, cross thing that you are! Do not keep him all day, or all the class besides myself will be jealous,” replied Louise, not offering to get down.
Angélique had no mind to allow her cavalier to be made a horse-block of for anybody but herself. She jerked the bridle, and making her horse suddenly pirouette, compelled Louise to jump down. The mischievous little fairy turned her bright laughing eyes full upon La Force and thanked him for his great courtesy, and with a significant gesture--as much as to say he was at liberty now to escort Angélique, having done penance for the same--rejoined her expectant companions, who had laughed heartily at her manoeuvre.
“She paints!” was Louise's emphatic whisper to her companions, loud enough to be heard by La Force, for whom the remark was partly intended. “She paints! and I saw in her eyes that she has not slept all night! She is in love! and I do believe it is true she is to marry the Intendant!”
This was delicious news to the class of Louises, who laughed out like a chime of silver bells as they mischievously bade La Force and Angélique bon voyage, and passed down the Place d'Armes in search of fresh adventures to fill their budgets of fun--budgets which, on their return to the Convent, they would open under the very noses of the good nuns (who were not so blind as they seemed, however), and regale all their companions with a spicy treat, in response to the universal question ever put to all who had been out in the city, “What is the news?”
La Force, compliant as wax to every caprice of Angélique, was secretly fuming at the trick played upon him by the Mischief of the Convent,--as he called Louise Roy,--for which he resolved to be revenged, even if he had to marry her. He and Angélique rode down the busy streets, receiving salutations on every hand. In the great square of the market-place Angélique pulled up in front of the Cathedral.
Why she stopped there would have puzzled herself to explain. It was not to worship, not to repent of her heinous sin: she neither repented nor desired to repent. But it seemed pleasant to play at repentance and put on imaginary sackcloth.
Angélique's brief contact with the fresh, sunny nature of Louise Roy had sensibly raised her spirits. It lifted the cloud from her brow, and made her feel more like her former self. The story, told half in jest by Louise, that she was to marry the Intendant, flattered her vanity and raised her hopes to the utmost. She liked the city to talk of her in connection with the Intendant.
The image of Beaumanoir grew fainter and fainter as she knelt down upon the floor, not to ask pardon for her sin, but to pray for immunity for herself and the speedy realization of the great object of her ambition and her crime!
The pealing of the organ, rising and falling in waves of harmony, the chanting of choristers, and the voice of the celebrant during the service in honor of St. Michael and all the angels, touched her sensuous nature, but failed to touch her conscience.
A crowd of worshippers were kneeling upon the floor of the Cathedral, unobstructed in those days by seats and pews, except on one side, where rose the stately bancs of the Governor and the Intendant, on either side of which stood a sentry with ported arms, and overhead upon the wall blazed the royal escutcheons of France.
Angélique, whose eyes roved incessantly about the church, turned them often towards the gorgeous banc of the Intendant, and the thought intruded itself to the exclusion of her prayers, “When shall I sit there, with all these proud ladies forgetting their devotions through envy of my good fortune?”
Bigot did not appear in his place at church to-day. He was too profoundly agitated and sick, and lay on his bed till evening, revolving in his astute mind schemes of vengeance possible and impossible, to be carried out should his suspicions of Angélique become certainties of knowledge and fact. His own safety was at stake. The thought that he had been outwitted by the beautiful, designing, heartless girl, the reflection that he dare not turn to the right hand nor to the left to inquire into this horrid assassination, which, if discovered, would be laid wholly to his own charge, drove him to the verge of distraction.
The Governor and his friend Peter Kalm occupied the royal banc. Lutheran as he was, Peter Kalm was too philosophical and perhaps too faithful a follower of Christ to consider religion as a matter of mere opinion or of form rather than of humble dependence upon God, the Father of all, with faith in Christ and the conscientious striving to love God and his neighbor.
A short distance from Angélique, two ladies in long black robes, and evidently of rank, were kneeling with downcast faces, and hands clasped over their bosoms, in a devout attitude of prayer and supplication.
Angélique's keen eye, which nothing escaped, needed not a second glance to recognize the unmistakable grace of Amélie de Repentigny and the nobility of the Lady de Tilly.
She started at sight of these relatives of Le Gardeur's, but did not wonder at their presence, for she already knew that they had returned to the city immediately after the abduction of Le Gardeur by the Chevalier de Pean.
Startled, frightened, and despairing, with aching hearts but unimpaired love, Amélie and the Lady de Tilly had followed Le Gardeur and reoccupied their stately house in the city, resolved to leave no means untried, no friends unsolicited, no prayers unuttered to rescue him from the gulf of perdition into which he had again so madly plunged.
Within an hour after her return, Amélie, accompanied by Pierre Philibert, had gone to the Palace to seek an interview with her brother. They were rudely denied. “He was playing a game of piquet for the championship of the Palace with the Chevalier de Pean, and could not come if St. Peter, let alone Pierre Philibert, stood at the gate knocking!”
This reply had passed through the impure lips of the Sieur de Lantagnac before it reached Amélie and Pierre. They did not believe it came from their brother. They left the Palace with heavy hearts, after long and vainly seeking an interview, Philibert resolving to appeal to the Intendant himself and call him to account at the sword's point, if need be, for the evident plot in the Palace to detain Le Gardeur from his friends.
Amélie, dreading some such resolution on the part of Pierre, went back next day alone to the Palace to try once more to see Le Gardeur.
She was agitated and in tears at the fate of her brother. She was anxious over the evident danger which Pierre seemed to court, for his sake and--she would not hide the truth from herself--for her own sake too; and yet she would not forbid him. She felt her own noble blood stirred within her to the point that she wished herself a man to be able to walk sword in hand into the Palace and confront the herd of revellers who she believed had plotted the ruin of her brother.
She was proud of Pierre, while she trembled at the resolution which she read in his countenance of demanding as a soldier, and not as a suppliant, the restoration of Le Gardeur to his family.
Amélie's second visit to the Palace had been as fruitless as her first. She was denied admittance, with the profoundest regrets on the part of De Pean, who met her at the door and strove to exculpate himself from the accusation of having persuaded Le Gardeur to depart from Tilly, and of keeping him in the Palace against the prayers of his friends.
De Pean remembered his presumption as well as his rejection by Amélie at Tilly, and while his tongue ran smooth as oil in polite regrets that Le Gardeur had resolved not to see his sister to-day, her evident distress filled him with joy, which he rolled under his tongue as the most delicate morsel of revenge he had ever tasted.
Bowing with well-affected politeness, De Pean attended her to her carriage, and having seen her depart in tears, returned laughing into the Palace, remarking, as he mimicked the weeping countenance of Amélie, that “the Honnêtes Gens had learned it was a serious matter to come to the burial of the virtues of a young gentleman like Le Gardeur de Repentigny.”
On her return home Amélie threw herself on the neck of her aunt, repeating in broken accents, “My poor Le Gardeur! my brother! He refuses to see me, aunt! He is lost and ruined in that den of all iniquity and falsehood!”
“Be composed, Amélie,” replied the Lady de Tilly; “I know it is hard to bear, but perhaps Le Gardeur did not send that message to you. The men about him are capable of deceiving you to an extent you have no conception of,--you who know so little of the world's baseness.”
“O aunt, it is true! He sent me this dreadful thing; I took it, for it bears the handwriting of my brother.”
She held in her hand a card, one of a pack. It was the death-card of superstitious lookers into futurity. Had he selected it because it bore that reputation, or was it by chance?
On the back of it he had written, or scrawled in a trembling hand, yet plainly, the words: “Return home, Amélie. I will not see you. I have lost the game of life and won the card you see. Return home, dear sister, and forget your unworthy and ruined brother, Le Gardeur.”
Lady de Tilly took the card, and read and re-read it, trying to find a meaning it did not contain, and trying not to find the sad meaning it did contain.
She comforted Amélie as best she could, while needing strength herself to bear the bitter cross laid upon them both, in the sudden blighting of that noble life of which they had been so proud.
She took Amélie in her arms, mingling her own tears with hers, and bidding her not despair. “A sister's love,” said she, “never forgets, never wearies, never despairs.” They had friends too powerful to be withstood, even by Bigot, and the Intendant would be compelled to loosen his hold upon Le Gardeur. She would rely upon the inherent nobleness of the nature of Le Gardeur himself to wash itself pure of all stain, could they only withdraw him from the seductions of the Palace. “We will win him from them by counter charms, Amélie, and it will be seen that virtue is stronger than vice to conquer at last the heart of Le Gardeur.”
“Alas, aunt!” replied the poor girl, her eyes suffused with tears, “neither friend nor foe will avail to turn him from the way he has resolved to go. He is desperate, and rushes with open eyes upon his ruin. We know the reason of it all. There is but one who could have saved Le Gardeur if she would. She is utterly unworthy of my brother, but I feel now it were better Le Gardeur had married even her than that he should be utterly lost to himself and us all. I will see Angélique des Meloises myself. It was her summons brought him back to the city. She alone can withdraw him from the vile companionship of Bigot and his associates at the Palace.”
Angélique had been duly informed of the return of Amélie to the city, and of her fruitless visits to the Palace to see her brother.
It was no pleasure, but a source of angry disappointment to Angélique that Le Gardeur, in despair of making her his wife, refused to devote himself to her as her lover. He was running wild to destruction, instead of letting her win the husband she aspired to, and retain at the same time the gallant she loved and was not willing to forego.
She had seen him at the first sober moment after his return from Tilly, in obedience to her summons. She had permitted him to pour out again his passion at her feet. She had yielded to his kisses when he claimed her heart and hand, and had not refused to own the mutual flame that covered her cheek with a blush at her own falseness. But driven to the wall by his impetuosity, she had at last killed his reviving hopes by her repetition of the fatal words, “I love you, Le Gardeur, but I will not marry you!”
Angélique was seized with a sudden impulse to withdraw from the presence of Amélie in the Cathedral before being discovered by her. She was half afraid that her former school companion would speak to her on the subject of Le Gardeur. She could not brazen it out with Amélie, who knew her too well, and if she could, she would gladly avoid the angry flash of those dark, pure eyes.
The organ was pealing the last notes of the Doxology, and the voices of the choristers seemed to reëcho from the depths of eternity the words, “in saecula saeculorum,” when Angélique rose up suddenly to leave the church.
Her irreverent haste caused those about her to turn their heads at the slight confusion she made, Amélie among the rest, who recognized at once the countenance of Angélique, somewhat flushed and irritated, as she strove vainly, with the help of La Force, to get out of the throng of kneeling people who covered the broad floor of the Cathedral.
Amélie deemed it a fortunate chance to meet Angélique so opportunely--just when her desire to do so was strongest. She caught her eye, and made her a quick sign to stay, and approaching her, seized her hands in her old, affectionate way.
“Wait a few moments, Angélique,” said she, “until the people depart. I want to speak to you alone. I am so fortunate to find you here.”
“I will see you outside, Amélie. The Sieur La Force is with me, and cannot stay.” Angélique dreaded an interview with Amélie.
“No, I will speak to you here. It will be better here in God's temple than elsewhere. The Sieur La Force will wait for you if you ask him; or shall I ask him?” A faint smile accompanied these words of Amélie, which she partly addressed to La Force.
La Force, to Angélique's chagrin, understanding that Amélie desired him to wait for Angélique outside, at once offered to do so.
“Or perhaps,” continued Amélie, offering her hand, “the Sieur La Force, whom I am glad to see, will have the politeness to accompany the Lady de Tilly, while I speak to Mademoiselle des Meloises?”
La Force was all compliance. “He was quite at the service of the ladies,” he said politely, “and would esteem it an honor to accompany the noble Lady de Tilly.”
The Lady de Tilly at once saw through the design of her niece. She acceded to the arrangement, and left the Cathedral in company with the Sieur La Force, whom she knew as the son of an old and valued friend.
He accompanied her home, while Amélie, holding fast to the arm of Angélique until the church was empty of all but a few scattered devotees and penitents, led her into a side chapel, separated from the body of the church by a screen of carved work of oak, wherein stood a small altar and a reliquary with a picture of St. Paul.
The seclusion of this place commended itself to the feelings of Amélie. She made Angélique kneel down by her side before the altar. After breathing a short, silent prayer for help and guidance, she seized her companion by both hands and besought her “in God's name to tell her what she had done to Le Gardeur, who was ruining himself, both soul and body.”
Angélique, hardy as she was, could ill bear the searching gaze of those pure eyes. She quailed under them for a moment, afraid that the question might have some reference to Beaumanoir, but reassured by the words of Amélie, that her interview had relation to Le Gardeur only, she replied: “I have done nothing to make Le Gardeur ruin himself, soul or body, Amélie. Nor do I believe he is doing so. Our old convent notions are too narrow to take out with us into the world. You judge Le Gardeur too rigidly, Amélie.”
“Would that were my fault, Angélique!” replied she earnestly, “but my heart tells me he is lost unless those who led him astray remit him again into the path of virtue whence they seduced him.”
Angélique winced, for she took the allusion to herself, although in the mind of Amélie it referred more to the Intendant. “Le Gardeur is no weakling to be led astray,” replied she. “He is a strong man, to lead others, not to be led, as I know better than even his sister.”
Amélie looked up inquiringly, but Angélique did not pursue the thought nor explain the meaning of her words.
“Le Gardeur,” continued Angélique, “is not worse, nay, with all his faults, is far better than most young gallants, who have the laudable ambition to make a figure in the world, such as women admire. One cannot hope to find men saints, and we women to be such sinners. Saints would be dull companions. I prefer mere men, Amélie!”
“For shame, Angélique! to say such things before the sacred shrine,” exclaimed Amélie, indignantly stopping her. “What wonder that men are wicked, when women tempt them to be so! Le Gardeur was like none of the gallants you compare him with! He loved virtue and hated vice, and above all things he despised the companionship of such men as now detain him at the Palace. You first took him from me, Angélique! I ask you now to give him back to me. Give me back my brother, Angélique des Meloises!” Amélie grasped her by the arm in the earnestness of her appeal.
“I took him from you?” exclaimed Angélique hotly. “It is untrue! Forgive my saying so, Amélie! I took him no more than did Héloise de Lotbinière or Cecile Tourangeau! Will you hear the truth? He fell in love with me, and I had not the heart to repulse him,--nay, I could not, for I will confess to you, Amélie, as I often avowed to you in the Convent, I loved Le Gardeur the best of all my admirers! And by this blessed shrine,” continued she, laying her hand upon it, “I do still! If he be, as some say he is, going too fast for his own good or yours or mine, I regret it with my whole heart; I regret it as you do! Can I say more?”
Angélique was sincere in this. Her words sounded honest, and she spoke with a real warmth in her bosom, such as she had not felt in a long time.
Her words impressed Amélie favorably.
“I think you speak truly, Angélique,” replied she, “when you say you regret Le Gardeur's relapse into the evil ways of the Palace. No one that ever knew my noble brother could do other than regret it. But oh, Angélique, why, with all your influence over him did you not prevent it? Why do you not rescue him now? A word from you would have been of more avail than the pleading of all the world beside!”
“Amélie, you try me hard,” said Angélique, uneasily, conscious of the truth of Amélie's words, “but I can bear much for the sake of Le Gardeur! Be assured that I have no power to influence his conduct in the way of amendment, except upon impossible conditions! I have tried, and my efforts have been vain as your own!”
“Conditions!” replied Amélie, “what conditions? --but I need not ask you! He told me in his hour of agony of your inexplicable dealing with him, and yet not so inexplicable now! Why did you profess to love my brother, leading him on and on to an offer of his hand, and then cruelly reject him, adding one more to the list of your heartless triumphs? Le Gardeur de Repentigny was too good for such a fate from any woman, Angélique!” Amélie's eyes swam in tears of indignation as she said this.
“He was too good for me!” said Angélique, dropping her eyes. “I will acknowledge that, if it will do you any good, Amélie! But can you not believe that there was a sacrifice on my part, as well as on his or yours?”
“I judge not between you, Angélique! or between the many chances wasted on you; but I say this Angélique des Meloises, you wickedly stole the heart of the noblest brother in New France, to trample it under your feet!”
“'Fore God, I did not, Amélie!” she replied indignantly. “I loved and do love Le Gardeur de Repentigny, but I never plighted my troth to him, I never deceived him! I told him I loved him, but I could not marry him! And by this sacred cross,” said she, placing her hands upon it, “it is true! I never trampled upon the heart of Le Gardeur; I could kiss his hands, his feet, with true affection as ever loving woman gave to man; but my duty, my troth, my fate, were in the hands of another!”
Angélique felt a degree of pleasure in the confession to Amélie of her love for her brother. It was the next thing to confessing it to himself, which had been once the joy of her life, but it changed not one jot her determination to wed only the Intendant, unless--yes, her busy mind had to-day called up a thousand possible and impossible contingencies that might spring up out of the unexpected use of the stiletto by Corriveau. What if the Intendant, suspecting her complicity in the murder of Caroline, should refuse to marry her? Were it not well in that desperate case to have Le Gardeur to fall back upon?
Amélie watched nervously the changing countenance of Angélique. She knew it was a beautiful mask covering impenetrable deceit, and that no principle of right kept her from wrong when wrong was either pleasant or profitable.
The conviction came upon Amélie like a flash of inspiration that she was wrong in seeking to save Le Gardeur by seconding his wild offer of marriage to Angélique. A union with this false and capricious woman would only make his ruin more complete and his latter end worse than the first. She would not urge it, she thought.
“Angélique,” said she, “if you love Le Gardeur, you will not refuse your help to rescue him from the Palace. You cannot wish to see him degraded as a gentleman because he has been rejected by you as a lover.”
“Who says I wish to see him degraded as a gentleman? and I did not reject him as a lover! not finally--that is, I did not wholly mean it. When I sent to invite his return from Tilly it was out of friendship,--love, if you will, Amélie, but from no desire that he should plunge into fresh dissipation.”
“I believe you, Angélique! You could not, if you had the heart of a woman loving him ever so little, desire to see him fall into the clutches of men who, with the wine-cup in one hand and the dice-box in the other, will never rest until they ruin him, body, soul, and estate.”
“Before God, I never desired it, and to prove it, I have cursed De Pean to his face, and erased Lantagnac from my list of friends, for coming to show me the money he had won from Le Gardeur while intoxicated. Lantagnac brought me a set of pearls which he had purchased out of his winnings. I threw them into the fire and would have thrown him after them, had I been a man! 'fore God, I would, Amélie! I may have wounded Le Gardeur, but no other man or woman shall injure him with my consent.”
Angélique spoke this in a tone of sincerity that touched somewhat the heart of Amélie, although the aberrations and inconsistencies of this strange girl perplexed her to the utmost to understand what she really felt.
“I think I may trust you, Angélique, to help me to rescue him from association with the Palace?” said Amélie, gently, almost submissively, as if she half feared a refusal.
“I desire nothing more,” replied Angélique. “You have little faith in me, I see that,”--Angélique wiped her eyes, in which a shade of moisture could be seen,--“but I am sincere in my friendship for Le Gardeur. The Virgin be my witness, I never wished his injury, even when I injured him most. He sought me in marriage, and I was bound to another.”
“You are to marry the Intendant, they say. I do not wonder, and yet I do wonder, at your refusing my brother, even for him.”
“Marry the Intendant! Yes, it is what fools and some wise people say. I never said it myself, Amélie.”
“But you mean it, nevertheless; and for no other would you have thrown over Le Gardeur de Repentigny.”
“I did not throw him over,” she answered, indignantly. “But why dispute? I cannot, Amélie, say more, even to you! I am distraught with cares and anxieties, and know not which way to turn.”
“Turn here, where I turn in my troubles, Angélique!” replied Amélie, moving closer to the altar. “Let us pray for Le Gardeur.” Angélique obeyed mechanically, and the two girls prayed silently for a few moments, but how differently in spirit and feeling! The one prayed for her brother,--the other tried to pray, but it was more for herself, for safety in her crime and success in her deep-laid scheming. A prayer for Le Gardeur mingled with Angélique's devotions, giving them a color of virtue. Her desire for his welfare was sincere enough, and she thought it disinterested of herself to pray for him.
Suddenly Angélique started up as if stung by a wasp. “I must take leave of you, my Amélie,” said she; “I am glad I met you here. I trust you understand me now, and will rely on my being as a sister to Le Gardeur, to do what I can to restore him perfect to you and the good Lady de Tilly.”
Amélie was touched. She embraced Angélique and kissed her; yet so cold and impassive she felt her to be, a shiver ran through her as she did so. It was as if she had touched the dead, and she long afterwards thought of it. There was a mystery in this strange girl that Amélie could not fathom nor guess the meaning of. They left the Cathedral together. It was now quite empty, save of a lingering penitent or two kneeling at the shrines. Angélique and Amélie parted at the door, the one eastward, the other westward, and, carried away by the divergent currents of their lives, they never met again.
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{
"id": "2735"
}
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44
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THE INTENDANT'S DILEMMA.
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“Did I not know for a certainty that she was present till midnight at the party given by Madame de Grandmaison, I should suspect her, by God!” exclaimed the Intendant, as he paced up and down his private room in the Palace, angry and perplexed to the uttermost over the mysterious assassination at Beaumanoir. “What think you, Cadet?”
“I think that proves an alibi,” replied Cadet, stretching himself lazily in an armchair and smoking with half-shut eyes. There was a cynical, mocking tone in his voice which seemed to imply that although it proved an alibi, it did not prove innocence to the satisfaction of the Sieur Cadet.
“You think more than you say, Cadet. Out with it! Let me hear the worst of your suspicions. I fancy they chime with mine,” said the Intendant, in quick reply.
“As the bells of the Cathedral with the bells of the Recollets,” drawled out Cadet. “I think she did it, Bigot, and you think the same; but I should not like to be called upon to prove it, nor you either,--not for the sake of the pretty witch, but for your own.”
“I could prove nothing, Cadet. She was the gayest and most light-hearted of all the company last night at Madame de Grandmaison's. I have made the most particular inquiries of Varin and Deschenaux. They needed no asking, but burst out at once into praise and admiration of her gaiety and wit. It is certain she was not at Beaumanoir.”
“You often boasted you knew women better than I, and I yielded the point in regard to Angélique,” replied Cadet, refilling his pipe. “I did not profess to fathom the depths of that girl, but I thought you knew her. Egad! she has been too clever for you, Bigot! She has aimed to be the Lady Intendant, and is in a fair way to succeed! That girl has the spirit of a war-horse; she would carry any man round the world. I wish she would carry me. I would rule Versailles in six weeks, with that woman, Bigot!”
“The same thought has occurred to me, Cadet, and I might have been entrapped by it had not this cursed affair happened. La Pompadour is a simpleton beside Angélique des Meloises! My difficulty is to believe her so mad as to have ventured on this bold deed.”
“'Tis not the boldness, only the uselessness of it, would stop Angélique!” answered Cadet, shutting one eye with an air of lazy comfort.
“But the deceitfulness of it, Cadet! A girl like her could not be so gay last night with such a bloody purpose on her soul. Could she, think you?”
“Couldn't she? Tut! Deceit is every woman's nature! Her wardrobe is not complete unless it contains as many lies for her occasions as ribbons for her adornment!”
“You believe she did it then? What makes you think so, Cadet?” asked Bigot eagerly, drawing near his companion.
“Why, she and you are the only persons on earth who had an interest in that girl's death. She to get a dangerous rival out of the way,--you to hide her from the search-warrants sent out by La Pompadour. You did not do it, I know: ergo, she did! Can any logic be plainer? That is the reason I think so, Bigot.”
“But how has it been accomplished, Cadet? Have you any theory? SHE can not have done it with her own hand.”
“Why, there is only one way that I can see. We know she did not do the murder herself, therefore she has done it by the hand of another. Here is proof of a confederate, Bigot,--I picked this up in the secret chamber.” Cadet drew out of his pocket the fragment of the letter torn in pieces by La Corriveau. “Is this the handwriting of Angélique?” asked he.
Bigot seized the scrap of paper, read it, turned it over and scrutinized it, striving to find resemblances between the writing and that of every one known to him. His scrutiny was in vain.
“This writing is not Angélique's,” said he. “It is utterly unknown to me. It is a woman's hand, but certainly not the hand of any woman of my acquaintance, and I have letters and billets from almost every lady in Quebec. It is proof of a confederate, however, for listen, Cadet! It arranges for an interview with Caroline, poor girl! It was thus she was betrayed to her death. It is torn, but enough remains to make the sense clear,--listen: 'At the arched door about midnight--if she pleased to admit her she would learn important matters concerning herself--the Intendant and the Baron de St. Castin--speedily arrive in the Colony.' That throws light upon the mystery, Cadet! A woman was to have an interview with Caroline at midnight! Good God, Cadet! not two hours before we arrived! And we deferred starting in order that we might rook the Signeur de Port Neuf! Too late! too late! Oh cursed word that ever seals our fate when we propose a good deed!” and Bigot felt himself a man injured and neglected by Providence.
“'Important matters relating to herself,'” repeated Bigot, reading again the scrap of writing. “'The Intendant and the Baron de St. Castin--speedily to arrive in the Colony.' No one knew but the sworn Councillors of the Governor that the Baron de St. Castin was coming out to the Colony. A woman has done the deed, and she has been informed of secrets spoken in Council by some Councillor present on that day at the Castle. Who was he? and who was she?” questioned Bigot, excitedly.
“The argument runs like water down hill, Bigot! but, par Dieu! I would not have believed that New France contained two women of such mettle as the one to contrive, the other to execute, a masterpiece of devilment like that!”
“Since we find another hand in the dish, it may not have been Angélique after all,” remarked Bigot. “It is hard to believe one so fair and free-spoken guilty of so dark and damnable a crime.” Bigot would evidently be glad to find himself in error touching his suspicions.
“Fairest without is often foulest within, Bigot,” answered Cadet, doggedly. “Open speech in a woman is often an open trap to catch fools! Angélique des Meloises is free-spoken and open-handed enough to deceive a conclave of cardinals; but she has the lightest heels in the city. Would you not like to see her dance a ballet de triomphe on the broad flagstone I laid over the grave of that poor girl? If you would, you have only to marry her, and she will give a ball in the secret chamber!”
“Be still, Cadet! I could take you by the throat for suggesting it! But I will make her prove herself innocent!” exclaimed Bigot, angry at the cool persistence of Cadet.
“I hope you will not try it to-day, Bigot.” Cadet spoke gravely now. “Let the dead sleep, and let all sleeping dogs and bitches lie still. Zounds! we are in greater danger than she is! you cannot stir in this matter without putting yourself in her power. Angélique has got hold of the secret of Caroline and of the Baron de St. Castin; what if she clear herself by accusing you? The King would put you in the Bastile for the magnificent lie you told the Governor, and La Pompadour would send you to the Place de Grève when the Baron de St. Castin returned with the bones of his daughter, dug up in your Château!”
“It is a cursed dilemma!” Bigot fairly writhed with perplexity. “Dark as the bottomless pit, turn which way we will. Angélique knows too much, that is clear; it were a charity, if it were a safe thing, to kill her too, Cadet!”
“Not to be thought of, Bigot; she is too much in every man's eye, and cannot be stowed away in a secret corner like her poor victim. A dead silence on every point of this cursed business is our only policy, our only safety.” Cadet had plenty of common sense in the rough, and Bigot was able to appreciate it.
The Intendant strode up and down the room, clenching his hands in a fury. “If I were sure! sure! she did it, I would kill her, by God! such a damnable cruel deed as this would justify any measure of vengeance!” exclaimed he, savagely.
“Pshaw! not when it would all rebound upon yourself. Besides, if you want vengeance, take a man's revenge upon a woman; you can do that! It will be better than killing her, much more pleasant, and quite as effectual.”
Bigot looked as Cadet said this and laughed: “You would send her to the Parc aux cerfs, eh, Cadet? Par Dieu! she would sit on the throne in six months!”
“No, I do not mean the Parc aux cerfs, but the Château of Beaumanoir. But you are in too ill humor to joke to-day, Bigot.” Cadet resumed his pipe with an air of nonchalance.
“I never was in a worse humor in my life, Cadet! I feel that I have a padlock upon every one of my five senses; and I cannot move hand or foot in this business.”
“Right, Bigot, do not move hand or foot, eye or tongue, in it. I tell you the slightest whisper of Caroline's life or death in your house, reaching the ears of Philibert or La Corne St. Luc, will bring them to Beaumanoir with warrants to search for her. They will pick the Château to pieces stone by stone. They will drag Caroline out of her grave, and the whole country will swear you murdered her, and that I helped you, and with appearances so strong against us that the mothers who bore us would not believe in our innocence! Damn the women! The burying of that girl was the best deed I did for one of the sex in my life, but it will be the worst if you breath one word of it to Angélique des Meloises, or to any other person living. I am not ready to lose my head yet, Bigot, for the sake of any woman, or even for you!”
The Intendant was staggered by the vehemence of Cadet, and impressed by the force of his remarks. It was hard to sit down quietly and condone such a crime, but he saw clearly the danger of pushing inquiry in any direction without turning suspicion upon himself. He boiled with indignation. He fumed and swore worse than his wont when angry, but Cadet looked on quietly, smoking his pipe, waiting for the storm to calm down.
“You were never in a woman's clutches so tight before, Bigot,” continued Cadet. “If you let La Pompadour suspect one hair of your head in this matter, she will spin a cart-rope out of it that will drag you to the Place de Grève.”
“Reason tells me that what you say is true, Cadet,” replied Bigot, gloomily.
“To be sure; but is not Angélique a clever witch to bind François Bigot neck and heels in that way, after fairly outwitting and running him down?”
Cadet's cool comments drove Bigot beside himself. “I will not stand it; by St. Maur! she shall pay for all this! I, who have caught women all my life, to be caught by one thus! she shall pay for it!”
“Well, make her pay for it by marrying her!” replied Cadet. “Par Dieu! I am mistaken if you have not got to marry her in the end! I would marry her myself, if you do not, only I should be afraid to sleep nights! I might be put under the floor before morning if she liked another man better!”
Cadet gave way to a feeling of hilarity at this idea, shaking his sides so long and heartily that Bigot caught the infection, and joined in with a burst of sardonic laughter.
Bigot's laughter was soon over. He sat down at the table again, and, being now calm, considered the whole matter over, point by point, with Cadet, who, though coarse and unprincipled, was a shrewd counsellor in difficulties.
It was determined between the two men that nothing whatever should be said of the assassination. Bigot should continue his gallantries to Angélique, and avoid all show of suspicion in that quarter. He should tell her of the disappearance of Caroline, who had gone away mysteriously as she came, but profess absolute ignorance as to her fate.
Angélique would be equally cautious in alluding to the murder; she would pretend to accept all his statements as absolute fact. Her tongue, if not her thoughts, would be sealed up in perpetual silence on that bloody topic. Bigot must feed her with hopes of marriage, and if necessary set a day for it, far enough off to cover all the time to be taken up in the search after Caroline.
“I will never marry her, Cadet!” exclaimed Bigot, “but will make her regret all her life she did not marry me!”
“Take care, Bigot! It is dangerous playing with fire. You don't half know Angélique.”
“I mean she shall pull the chestnuts out of the fire for me with her pretty fingers, until she burn them,” remarked Bigot, gruffly.
“I would not trust her too far! In all seriousness, you have but the choice of two things, Bigot: marry her or send her to the Convent.”
“I would not do the one, and I could not do the other, Cadet,” was Bigot's prompt reply to this suggestion.
“Tut! Mère Migeon de la Nativité will respect your lettre de cachet, and provide a close, comfortable cell for this pretty penitent in the Ursulines,” said Cadet.
“Not she! Mère Migeon gave me one of her parlor-lectures once, and I care not for another. Egad, Cadet! she made me the nearest of being ashamed of François Bigot of any one I ever listened to! Could you have seen her, with her veil thrown back, her pale face still paler with indignation, her black eyes looking still blacker beneath the white fillet upon her forehead, and then her tongue, Cadet! Well, I withdrew my proposal and felt myself rather cheapened in the presence of Mère Migeon.”
“Ay, I hear she is a clipper when she gets a sinner by the hair! What was the proposal you made to her, Bigot?” asked Cadet, smiling as if he knew.
“Oh, it was not worth a livre to make such a row about! I only proposed to send a truant damsel to the Convent to repent of MY faults, that was all! But I could never dispose of Angélique in that way,” continued the Intendant, with a shrug.
“Egad! she will fool any man faster than he can make a fool of her! But I would try Mère Migeon, notwithstanding,” replied Cadet. “She is the only one to break in this wild filly and nail her tongue fast to her prayers!”
“It is useless trying. They know Angélique too well. She would turn the Convent out of the windows in the time of a neuvaine. They are all really afraid of her,” replied Bigot.
“Then you must marry her, or do worse, Bigot. I see nothing else for it,” was Cadet's reply.
“Well, I will do worse, if worse can be; for marry her I will not!” said Bigot, stamping his foot upon the floor.
“It is understood, then, Bigot, not a word, a hint, a look is to be given to Angélique regarding your suspicions of her complicity in this murder?”
“Yes, it is understood. The secret is like the devil's tontine,--he catches the last possessor of it.”
“I expect to be the last, then, if I keep in your company, Bigot,” remarked Cadet.
Cadet having settled this point to his mind, reclined back in his easy chair and smoked on in silence, while the Intendant kept walking the floor anxiously, because he saw farther than his companion the shadows of coming events.
Sometimes he stopped impatiently at the window, beating a tattoo with his nails on the polished casement as he gazed out upon the beautiful parterres of autumnal flowers, beginning to shed their petals around the gardens of the Palace. He looked at them without seeing them. All that caught his eye was a bare rose-bush, from which he remembered he had plucked some white roses which he had sent to Caroline to adorn her oratory; and he thought of her face, more pale and delicate than any rose of Provence that ever bloomed. His thoughts ran violently in two parallel streams side by side, neither of them disappearing for a moment amid the crowd of other affairs that pressed upon his attention,--the murder of Caroline and the perquisition that was to be made for her in all quarters of the Colony. His own safety was too deeply involved in any discovery that might be made respecting her to allow him to drop the subject out of his thought for a moment.
By imposing absolute silence upon himself in the presence of Angélique, touching the death of Caroline, he might impose a like silence upon her whom he could not acquit of the suspicion of having prompted the murder. But the certainty that there was a confederate in the deed--a woman, too, judging by the fragment of writing picked up by Cadet--tormented him with endless conjectures.
Still, he felt, for the present, secure from any discovery on that side; but how to escape from the sharp inquisition of two men like La Corne St. Luc and Pierre Philibert? And who knew how far the secret of Beaumanoir was a secret any longer? It was known to two women, at any rate; and no woman, in Bigot's estimation of the sex, would long keep a secret which concerned another and not herself.
“Our greatest danger, Cadet, lies there!” continued the Intendant, stopping in his walk and turning suddenly to his friend. “La Corne St. Luc and Pierre Philibert are commissioned by the Governor to search for that girl. They will not leave a stone unturned, a corner unransacked in New France. They will find out through the Hurons and my own servants that a woman has been concealed in Beaumanoir. They will suspect, if they do not discover who she was. They will not find her on earth,--they will look for her under the earth. And, by St. Maur! it makes me quake to think of it, Cadet, for the discovery will be utter ruin! They may at last dig up her murdered remains in my own Château! As you said, the Bastile and the Place de Grève would be my portion, and ruin yours and that of all our associates.”
Cadet held up his pipe as if appealing to Heaven. “It is a cursed reward for our charitable night's work, Bigot,” said he. “Better you had never lied about the girl. We could have brazened it out or fought it out with the Baron de St. Castin or any man in France! That lie will convict us if found out!”
“Pshaw! the lie was a necessity,” answered Bigot, impatiently. “But who could have dreamed of its leading us such a dance as it has done! Par Dieu! I have not often lied except to women, and such lies do not count! But I had better have stuck to truth in this matter, Cadet. I acknowledge that now.”
“Especially with La Pompadour! She is a woman. It is dangerous to lie to her,--at least about other women.”
“Well, Cadet, it is useless blessing the Pope or banning the Devil! We are in for it, and we must meet La Corne St. Luc and Pierre Philibert as warily as we can. I have been thinking of making safe ground for us to stand upon, as the trappers do on the great prairies, by kindling a fire in front to escape from the fire in the rear!”
“What is that, Bigot? I could fire the Château rather than be tracked out by La Corne and Philibert,” said Cadet, sitting upright in his chair.
“What, burn the Château!” answered Bigot. “You are mad, Cadet! No; but it were well to kindle such a smoke about the eyes of La Corne and Philibert that they will need to rub them to ease their own pain instead of looking for poor Caroline.”
“How, Bigot? Will you challenge and fight them? That will not avert suspicion, but increase it,” remarked Cadet.
“Well, you will see! A man will need as many eyes as Argus to discover our hands in this business.”
Cadet started, without conjecturing what the Intendant contemplated. “You will kill the bird that tells tales on us, Bigot,--is that it?” added he.
“I mean to kill two birds with one stone, Cadet! Hark you; I will tell you a scheme that will put a stop to these perquisitions by La Corne and Philibert--the only two men I fear in the Colony--and at the same time deliver me from the everlasting bark and bite of the Golden Dog!”
Bigot led Cadet to the window, and poured in his ear the burning passions which were fermenting in his own breast. He propounded a scheme of deliverance for himself and of crafty vengeance upon the Philiberts which would turn the thoughts of every one away from the Château of Beaumanoir and the missing Caroline into a new stream of public and private troubles, amid the confusion of which he would escape, and his present dangers be overlooked and forgotten in a great catastrophe that might upset the Colony, but at any rate it would free Bigot from his embarrassments and perhaps inaugurate a new reign of public plunder and the suppression of the whole party of the Honnêtes Gens.
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{
"id": "2735"
}
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45
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“I WILL FEED FAT THE ANCIENT GRUDGE I BEAR HIM.”
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The Treaty of Aix La Chapelle, so long tossed about on the waves of war, was finally signed in the beginning of October. A swift-sailing goelette of Dieppe brought the tidings to New France, and in the early nights of November, from Quebec to Montreal. Bonfires on every headland blazed over the broad river; churches were decorated with evergreens, and Te Deums sung in gratitude for the return of peace and security to the Colony.
New France came out of the struggle scathed and scorched as by fire, but unshorn of territory or territorial rights; and the glad colonists forgot and forgave the terrible sacrifices they had made in the universal joy that their country, their religion, language, and laws were still safe under the Crown of France, with the white banner still floating over the Castle of St. Louis.
On the day after the arrival of the Dieppe goelette bringing the news of peace, Bigot sat before his desk reading his despatches and letters from France, when the Chevalier de Pean entered the room with a bundle of papers in his hand, brought to the Palace by the chief clerk of the Bourgeois Philibert, for the Intendant's signature.
The Bourgeois, in the course of his great commercial dealings, got possession of innumerable orders upon the royal treasury, which in due course had to be presented to the Intendant for his official signature. The signing of these treasury orders in favor of the Bourgeois never failed to throw Bigot into a fit of ill humor.
On the present occasion he sat down muttering ten thousand curses upon the Bourgeois, as he glanced over the papers with knitted eyebrows and teeth set hard together. He signed the mass of orders and drafts made payable to Nicolas Philibert, and when done, threw into the fire the pen which had performed so unwelcome an office. Bigot sent for the chief clerk who had brought the bills and orders, and who waited for them in the antechamber. “Tell your master, the Bourgeois,” said he, “that for this time, and only to prevent loss to the foolish officers, the Intendant has signed these army bills; but that if he purchase more, in defiance of the sole right of the Grand Company, I shall not sign them. This shall be the last time, tell him!”
The chief clerk, a sturdy, gray-haired Malouin, was nothing daunted by the angry look of the Intendant. “I shall inform the Bourgeois of your Excellency's wishes,” said he, “and--” “Inform him of my commands!” exclaimed Bigot, sharply. “What! have you more to say? But you would not be the chief clerk of the Bourgeois without possessing a good stock of his insolence!”
“Pardon me, your Excellency!” replied the chief clerk, “I was only going to observe that His Excellency the Governor and the Commander of the Forces both have decided that the officers may transfer their warrants to whomsoever they will.”
“You are a bold fellow, with your Breton speech; but by all the saints in Saintonge, I will see whether the Royal Intendant or the Bourgeois Philibert shall control this matter! And as for you--” “Tut! cave canem! let this cur go back to his master,” interrupted Cadet, amused at the coolness of the chief clerk. “Hark you, fellow!” said he, “present my compliments--the Sieur Cadet's compliments--to your master, and tell him I hope he will bring his next batch of army bills himself, and remind him that it is soft falling at low tide out of the windows of the Friponne.”
“I shall certainly advise my master not to come himself, Sieur Cadet,” replied the chief clerk; “and I am very certain of returning in three days with more army bills for the signature of his Excellency the Intendant.”
“Get out, you fool!” shouted Cadet, laughing at what he regarded the insolence of the clerk. “You are worthy of your master!” And Cadet pushed him forcibly out of the door, and shut it after him with a bang that resounded through the Palace.
“Don't be angry at him, Bigot, he is not worth it,” said Cadet. “'Like master like man,' as the proverb says. And, after all, I doubt whether the furred law-cats of the Parliament of Paris would not uphold the Bourgeois in an appeal to them from the Golden Dog.”
Bigot was excessively irritated, for he was lawyer enough to know that Cadet's fear was well founded. He walked up and down his cabinet, venting curses upon the heads of the whole party of the Honnêtes Gens, the Governor and Commander of the Forces included. The Marquise de Pompadour, too, came in for a full share of his maledictions, for Bigot knew that she had forced the signing of the treaty of Aix la Chapelle,--influenced less by the exhaustion of France than by a feminine dislike to camp life, which she had shared with the King, and a resolution to withdraw him back to the gaieties of the capital, where he would be wholly under her own eye and influence.
“She prefers love to honor, as all women do!” remarked Bigot; “and likes money better than either. The Grand Company pays the fiddler for the royal fêtes at Versailles, while the Bourgeois Philibert skims the cream off the trade of the Colony. This peace will increase his power and make his influence double what it is already!”
“Egad, Bigot!” replied Cadet, who sat near him smoking a large pipe of tobacco, “you speak like a preacher in Lent. We have hitherto buttered our bread on both sides, but the Company will soon, I fear, have no bread to butter! I doubt we shall have to eat your decrees, which will be the only things left in the possession of the Friponne.”
“My decrees have been hard to digest for some people who think they will now eat us. Look at that pile of orders, Cadet, in favor of the Golden Dog!”
The Intendant had long regarded with indignation the ever increasing trade and influence of the Bourgeois Philibert, who had become the great banker as well as the great merchant of the Colony, able to meet the Grand Company itself upon its own ground, and fairly divide with it the interior as well as the exterior commerce of the Colony.
“Where is this thing going to end?” exclaimed Bigot, sweeping from him the pile of bills of exchange that lay upon the table. “That Philibert is gaining ground upon us every day! He is now buying up army bills, and even the King's officers are flocking to him with their certificates of pay and drafts on France, which he cashes at half the discount charged by the Company!”
“Give the cursed papers to the clerk and send him off, De Pean!” said Bigot.
De Pean obeyed with a grimace, and returned.
“This thing must be stopped, and shall!” continued the Intendant, savagely.
“That is true, your Excellency,” said De Pean. “And we have tried vigorously to stop the evil, but so far in vain. The Governor and the Honnêtes Gens, and too many of the officers themselves, countenance his opposition to the Company. The Bourgeois draws a good bill upon Paris and Bordeaux, and they are fast finding it out.”
“The Golden Dog is drawing half the money of the Colony into his coffers, and he will blow up the credit of the Friponne some fine day when we least expect it, unless he be chained up,” replied Bigot.
“'A méchant chien court lien,' says the proverb, and so say I,” replied Cadet. “The Golden Dog has barked at us for a long time; par Dieu! he bites now! --ere long he will gnaw our bones in reality, as he does in effigy upon that cursed tablet in the Rue Buade.”
“Every dog has his day, and the Golden Dog has nearly had his, Cadet. But what do you advise?” asked Bigot.
“Hang him up with a short rope and a shorter shrift, Bigot! You have warrant enough if your Court friends are worth half a handful of chaff.”
“But they are not worth half a handful of chaff, Cadet. If I hung the Bourgeois there would be such a cry raised among the Honnêtes Gens in the Colony, and the whole tribe of Jansenists in France, that I doubt whether even the power of the Marquise could sustain me.”
Cadet looked quietly truculent. He drew Bigot aside. “There are more ways than one to choke a dog, Bigot,” said he. “You may put a tight collar outside his throat, or a sweetened roll inside of it. Some course must be found, and that promptly. We shall, before many days, have La Corne St. Luc and young Philibert like a couple of staghounds in full cry at our heels about that business at the Château. They must be thrown off that scent, come what will, Bigot!”
The pressure of time and circumstance was drawing a narrower circle around the Intendant. The advent of peace would, he believed, inaugurate a personal war against himself. The murder of Caroline was a hard blow, and the necessity of concealing it irritated him with a sense of fear foreign to his character.
His suspicion of Angélique tormented him day and night. He had loved Angélique in a sensual, admiring way, without one grain of real respect. He worshipped her one moment as the Aphrodite of his fancy; he was ready to strip and scourge her the next as the possible murderess of Caroline. But Bigot had fettered himself with a lie, and had to hide his thoughts under degrading concealments. He knew the Marquise de Pompadour was jealously watching him from afar. The sharpest intellects and most untiring men in the Colony were commissioned to find out the truth regarding the fate of Caroline. Bigot was like a stag brought to bay. An ordinary man would have succumbed in despair, but the very desperation of his position stirred up the Intendant to a greater effort to free himself.
He walked gloomily up and down the room, absorbed in deep thought. Cadet, who guessed what was brooding in his mind, made a sign to De Pean to wait and see what would be the result of his cogitations.
Bigot, gesticulating with his right hand and his left, went on balancing, as in a pair of scales, the chances of success or failure in the blow he meditated against the Golden Dog. A blow which would scatter to the winds the inquisition set on foot to discover the hiding-place of Caroline.
He stopped suddenly in his walk, striking both hands together, as if in sign of some resolution arrived at in his thoughts.
“De Pean!” said he, “has Le Gardeur de Repentigny shown any desire yet to break out of the Palace?”
“None, your Excellency. He is fixed as a bridge to fortune. You can no more break him down than the Pont Neuf at Paris. He lost, last night, a thousand at cards and five hundred at dice; then drank himself dead drunk until three o'clock this afternoon. He has just risen; his valet was washing his head and feet in brandy when I came here.”
“You are a friend that sticks closer than a brother, De Pean. Le Gardeur believes in you as his guardian angel, does he not?” asked Bigot with a sneer.
“When he is drunk he does,” replied De Pean; “when he is sober I care not to approach him too nearly! He is a wild colt that will kick his groom when rubbed the wrong way; and every way is wrong when the wine is out of him.”
“Keep him full then!” exclaimed Bigot; “you have groomed him well, De Pean! but he must now be saddled and ridden to hunt down the biggest stag in New France!”
De Pean looked hard at the Intendant, only half comprehending his allusion.
“You once tried your hand with Mademoiselle de Repentigny, did you not?” continued Bigot.
“I did, your Excellency; but that bunch of grapes was too high for me. They are very sour now.”
“Sly fox that you were! Well, do not call them sour yet, De Pean. Another jump at the vine and you may reach that bunch of perfection!” said Bigot, looking hard at him.
“Your Excellency overrates my ability in that quarter, and if I were permitted to choose--” “Another and a fairer maid would be your choice. I see, De Pean, you are a connoisseur in women. Be it as you wish! Manage this business of Philibert discreetly, and I will coin the Golden Dog into doubloons for a marriage portion for Angélique des Meloises. You understand me now?”
De Pean started. He hardly guessed yet what was required of him, but he cared not in the dazzling prospect of such a wife and fortune as were thus held out to him.
“Your Excellency will really support my suit with Angélique?” De Pean seemed to mistrust the possibility of such a piece of disinterestedness on the part of the Intendant.
“I will not only commend your suit, but I will give away the bride, and Madame de Pean shall not miss any favor from me which she has deserved as Angélique des Meloises,” was Bigot's reply, without changing a muscle of his face.
“And your Excellency will give her to me?” De Pean could hardly believe his ears.
“Assuredly you shall have her if you like,” cried Bigot, “and with a dowry such as has not been seen in New France!”
“But who would like to have her at any price?” muttered Cadet to himself, with a quiet smile of contempt,--Cadet thought De Pean a fool for jumping at a hook baited with a woman; but he knew what the Intendant was driving at, and admired the skill with which he angled for De Pean.
“But Angélique may not consent to this disposal of her hand,” replied De Pean with an uneasy look; “I should be afraid of your gift unless she believed that she took me, and not I her.”
“Hark you, De Pean! you do not know what women like her are made of, or you would be at no loss how to bait your hook! You have made four millions, they say, out of this war, if not more.”
“I never counted it, your Excellency; but, much or little, I owe it all to your friendship,” replied De Pean with a touch of mock humility.
“My friendship! Well, so be it. It is enough to make Angélique des Meloises Madame de Pean when she finds she cannot be Madame Intendant. Do you see your way now, De Pean?”
“Yes, your Excellency, and I cannot be sufficiently grateful for such a proof of your goodness.”
Bigot laughed a dry, meaning laugh. “I truly hope you will always think so of my friendship, De Pean. If you do not, you are not the man I take you to be. Now for our scheme of deliverance!
“Hearken, De Pean,” continued the Intendant, fixing his dark, fiery eyes upon his secretary; “you have craft and cunning to work out this design and good will to hasten it on. Cadet and I, considering the necessities of the Grand Company, have resolved to put an end to the rivalry and arrogance of the Golden Dog. We will treat the Bourgeois,” Bigot smiled meaningly, “not as a trader with a baton, but as a gentleman with a sword; for, although a merchant, the Bourgeois is noble and wears a sword, which under proper provocation he will draw, and remember he can use it too! He can be tolerated no longer by the gentlemen of the Company. They have often pressed me in vain to take this step, but now I yield. Hark, De Pean! The Bourgeois must be INSULTED, CHALLENGED, and KILLED by some gentleman of the Company with courage and skill enough to champion its rights. But mind you! it must be done fairly and in open day, and without my knowledge or approval! Do you understand?”
Bigot winked at De Pean and smiled furtively, as much as to say, “You know how to interpret my words.”
“I understand your Excellency, and it shall be no fault of mine if your wishes, which chime with my own, be not carried out before many days. A dozen partners of the Company will be proud to fight with the Bourgeois if he will only fight with them.”
“No fear of that, De Pean! give the devil his due. Insult the Bourgeois and he will fight with the seven champions of Christendom! so mind you get a man able for him, for I tell you, De Pean, I doubt if there be over three gentlemen in the Colony who could cross swords fairly and successfully with the Bourgeois.”
“It will be easier to insult and kill him in a chance medley than to risk a duel!” interrupted Cadet, who listened with intense eagerness. “I tell you, Bigot, young Philibert will pink any man of our party. If there be a duel he will insist on fighting it for his father. The old Bourgeois will not be caught, but we shall catch a Tartar instead, in the young one.”
“Well, duel or chance medley be it! I dare not have him assassinated,” replied the Intendant. “He must be fought with in open day, and not killed in a corner. Eh, Cadet, am I not right?”
Bigot looked for approval from Cadet, who saw that he was thinking of the secret chamber at Beaumanoir.
“You are right, Bigot! He must be killed in open day and not in a corner. But who have we among us capable of making sure work of the Bourgeois?”
“Leave it to me,” replied De Pean. “I know one partner of the Company who, if I can get him in harness, will run our chariot wheels in triumph over the Golden Dog.”
“And who is that?” asked Bigot eagerly.
“Le Gardeur de Repentigny!” exclaimed De Pean, with a look of exultation.
“Pshaw! he would draw upon us more readily! Why, he is bewitched with the Philiberts!” replied Bigot.
“I shall find means to break the spell long enough to answer our purpose, your Excellency!” replied De Pean. “Permit me only to take my own way with him.”
“Assuredly, take your own way, De Pean! A bloody scuffle between De Repentigny and the Bourgeois would not only be a victory for the Company, but would breakup the whole party of the Honnêtes Gens!”
The Intendant slapped De Pean on the shoulder and shook him by the hand. “You are more clever than I believed you to be, De Pean. You have hit on a mode of riddance which will entitle you to the best reward in the power of the Company to bestow.”
“My best reward will be the fulfilment of your promise, your Excellency,” answered De Pean.
“I will keep my word, De Pean. By God you shall have Angélique, with such a dowry as the Company can alone give! Or, if you do not want the girl, you shall have the dowry without the wife!”
“I shall claim both, your Excellency! But--” “But what? Confess all your doubts, De Pean.”
“Le Gardeur may claim her as his own reward!” De Pean guessed correctly enough the true bent of Angélique's fancy.
“No fear! Le Gardeur de Repentigny, drunk or sober, is a gentleman. He would reject the Princess d'Elide were she offered on such conditions as you take her on. He is a romantic fool; he believes in woman's virtue and all that stuff!”
“Besides, if he kill the Bourgeois, he will have to fight Pierre Philibert before his sword is dry!” interjected Cadet. “I would not give a Dutch stiver for Le Gardeur's bones five hours after he has pinked the Bourgeois!”
An open duel in form was not to be thought of, because in that they would have to fight the son and not the father, and the great object would be frustrated. But the Bourgeois might be killed in a sudden fray, when blood was up and swords drawn, when no one, as De Pean remarked, would be able to find an i undotted or a t uncrossed in a fair record of the transaction, which would impose upon the most critical judge as an honorable and justifiable act of self-defence.
This was Cadet's real intent, and perhaps Bigot's, but the Intendant's thoughts lay at unfathomable depths, and were not to be discovered by any traces upon the surface. No divining-rod could tell where the secret spring lay hid which ran under Bigot's motives.
Not so De Pean. He meditated treachery, and it were hard to say whether it was unnoted by the penetrating eye of Bigot. The Intendant, however, did not interfere farther, either by word or sign, but left De Pean to accomplish in his own way the bloody object they all had in view, namely, the death of the Bourgeois and the break-up of the Honnêtes Gens. De Pean, while resolving to make Le Gardeur the tool of his wickedness, did not dare to take him into his confidence. He had to be kept in absolute ignorance of the part he was to play in the bloody tragedy until the moment of its denouement arrived. Meantime he must be plied with drink, maddened with jealousy, made desperate with losses, and at war with himself and all the world, and then the whole fury of his rage should, by the artful contrivance of De Pean, be turned, without a minute's time for reflection, upon the head of the unsuspecting Bourgeois.
To accomplish this successfully, a woman's aid was required, at once to blind Le Gardeur and to sharpen his sword.
In the interests of the Company Angélique des Meloises was at all times a violent partisan. The Golden Dog and all its belongings were objects of her open aversion. But De Pean feared to impart to her his intention to push Le Gardeur blindly into the affair. She might fear for the life of one she loved. De Pean reflected angrily on this, but he determined she should be on the spot. The sight of her and a word from her, which De Pean would prompt at the critical moment, should decide Le Gardeur to attack the Bourgeois and kill him; and then, what would follow? De Pean rubbed his hands with ecstasy at the thought that Le Gardeur would inevitably bite the dust under the avenging hand of Pierre Philibert, and Angélique would be his beyond all fear of rivals.
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{
"id": "2735"
}
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46
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THE BOURGEOIS PHILIBERT.
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The Bourgeois Philibert, after an arduous day's work, was enjoying in his armchair a quiet siesta in the old comfortable parlor of his city home.
The sudden advent of peace had opened the seas to commerce, and a fleet of long-shut-up merchantmen were rapidly loading at the quays of the Friponne as well as at those of the Bourgeois, with the products of the Colony for shipment to France before the closing in of the St. Lawrence by ice. The summer of St. Martin was lingering soft and warm on the edge of winter, and every available man, including the soldiers of the garrison, were busy loading the ships to get them off in time to escape the hard nip of winter.
Dame Rochelle sat near the window, which to-day was open to the balmy air. She was occupied in knitting, and occasionally glancing at a volume of Jurieu's hard Calvinistic divinity, which lay upon the table beside her. Her spectacles reposed upon the open page, where she had laid them down while she meditated, as was her custom, upon knotty points of doctrine, touching free will, necessity, and election by grace; regarding works as a garment of filthy rags, in which publicans and sinners who trusted in them were damned, while in practice the good soul was as earnest in performing them as if she believed her salvation depended exclusively thereupon.
Dame Rochelle had received a new lease of life by the return home of Pierre Philibert. She grew radiant, almost gay, at the news of his betrothal to Amélie de Repentigny, and although she could not lay aside the black puritanical garb she had worn so many years, her kind face brightened from its habitual seriousness. The return of Pierre broke in upon her quiet routine of living like a prolonged festival. The preparation of the great house of Belmont for his young bride completed her happiness.
In her anxiety to discover the tastes and preferences of her young mistress, as she already called her, Dame Rochelle consulted Amélie on every point of her arrangements, finding her own innate sense of the beautiful quickened by contact with that fresh young nature. She was already drawn by that infallible attraction which every one felt in the presence of Amélie.
“Amélie was too good and too fair,” the dame said, “to become any man's portion but Pierre Philibert's!”
The dame's Huguenot prejudices melted like wax in her presence, until Amélie almost divided with Grande Marie, the saint of the Cevennes, the homage and blessing of Dame Rochelle.
Those were days of unalloyed delight which she spent in superintending the arrangements for the marriage which had been fixed for the festivities of Christmas.
It was to be celebrated on a scale worthy of the rank of the heiress of Repentigny and of the wealth of the Philiberts. The rich Bourgeois, in the gladness of his heart, threw open all his coffers, and blessed with tears of happiness the money he flung out with both hands to honor the nuptials of Pierre and Amélie.
The Bourgeois was profoundly happy during those few brief days of Indian summer. As a Christian, he rejoiced that the long desolating war was over. As a colonist, he felt a pride that, unequal as had been the struggle, New France remained unshorn of territory, and by its resolute defence had forced respect from even its enemies. In his eager hope he saw commerce revive, and the arts and comforts of peace take the place of war and destruction. The husbandman would now reap for himself the harvest he had sown, and no longer be crushed by the exactions of the Friponne!
There was hope for the country. The iniquitous régime of the Intendant, which had pleaded the war as its justification, must close, the Bourgeois thought, under the new conditions of peace. The hateful monopoly of the Grand Company must be overthrown by the constitutional action of the Honnêtes Gens, and its condemnation by the Parliament of Paris, to which an appeal would presently be carried, it was hoped, would be secured.
The King was quarreling with the Jesuits. The Molinists were hated by La Pompadour, and he was certain His Majesty would never hold a lit de justice to command the registration of the decrees issued in his name by the Intendant of New France after they had been in form condemned by the Parliament of Paris.
The Bourgeois still reclined very still on his easy chair. He was not asleep. In the daytime he never slept. His thoughts, like the dame's, reverted to Pierre. He meditated the repurchase of his ancestral home in Normandy and the restoration of its ancient honors for his son.
Personal and political enmity might prevent the reversal of his own unjust condemnation, but Pierre had won renown in the recent campaigns. He was favored with the friendship of many of the noblest personages in France, who would support his suit for the restoration of his family honors, while the all-potent influence of money, the open sesame of every door in the palace of Versailles, would not be spared to advance his just claims.
The crown of the Bourgeois's ambition would be to see Pierre restored to his ancestral château as the Count de Philibert, and Amélie as its noble châtelaine, dispensing happiness among the faithful old servitors and vassals of his family, who in all these long years of his exile never forgot their brave old seigneur who had been banished to New France.
His reflections took a practical turn, and he enumerated in his mind the friends he could count upon in France to support, and the enemies who were sure to oppose the attainment of this great object of his ambition. But the purchase of the château and lands of Philibert was in his power. Its present possessor, a needy courtier, was deeply in debt, and would be glad, the Bourgeois had ascertained, to sell the estates for such a price as he could easily offer him.
To sue for simple justice in the restoration of his inheritance would be useless. It would involve a life-long litigation. The Bourgeois preferred buying it back at whatever price, so that he could make a gift of it at once to his son, and he had already instructed his bankers in Paris to pay the price asked by its owner and forward to him the deeds, which he was ambitious to present to Pierre and Amélie on the day of their marriage.
The Bourgeois at last looked up from his reverie. Dame Rochelle closed her book, waiting for her master's commands.
“Has Pierre returned, dame?” asked he.
“No, master; he bade me say he was going to accompany Mademoiselle Amélie to Lorette.”
“Ah! Amélie had a vow to Our Lady of St. Foye, and Pierre, I warrant, desired to pay half the debt! What think you, dame, of your godson? Is he not promising?” The Bourgeois laughed quietly, as was his wont sometimes.
Dame Rochelle sat a shade more upright in her chair. “Pierre is worthy of Amélie and Amélie of him,” replied she, gravely; “never were two out of heaven more fitly matched. If they make vows to the Lady of St. Foye they will pay them as religiously as if they had made them to the Most High, to whom we are commanded to pay our vows!”
“Well, Dame, some turn to the east and some to the west to pay their vows, but the holiest shrine is where true love is, and there alone the oracle speaks in response to young hearts. Amélie, sweet, modest flower that she is, pays her vows to Our Lady of St. Foye, Pierre his to Amélie! I will be bound, dame, there is no saint in the calendar so holy in his eyes as herself!”
“Nor deserves to be, master! Theirs is no ordinary affection. If love be the fulfilling of the law, all law is fulfilled in these two, for never did the elements of happiness mingle more sweetly in the soul of a man and a woman than in Pierre and Amélie!”
“It will restore your youth, dame, to live with Pierre and Amélie,” replied the Bourgeois. “Amélie insists on it, not because of Pierre, she says, but for your own sake. She was moved to tears one day, dame, when she made me relate your story.”
Dame Rochelle put on her spectacles to cover her eyes, which were fast filling, as she glanced down on the black robe she wore, remembering for whom she wore it.
“Thanks, master. It would be a blessed thing to end the remaining days of my mourning in the house of Pierre and Amélie, but my quiet mood suits better the house of my master, who has also had his heart saddened by a long, long day of darkness and regret.”
“Yes, dame, but a bright sunset, I trust, awaits it now. The descending shadow of the dial goes back a pace on the fortunes of my house! I hope to welcome my few remaining years with a gayer aspect and a lighter heart than I have felt since we were driven from France. What would you say to see us all reunited once more in our old Norman home?”
The dame gave a great start, and clasped her thin hands.
“What would I say, master? Oh, to return to France, and be buried in the green valley of the Côte d'Or by the side of him, were next to rising in the resurrection of the just at the last day.”
The Bourgeois knew well whom she meant by “him.” He reverenced her feeling, but continued the topic of a return to France.
“Well, dame, I will do for Pierre what I would not do for myself. I shall repurchase the old château, and use every influence at my command to prevail on the King to restore to Pierre the honors of his ancestors. Will not that be a glorious end to the career of the Bourgeois Philibert?”
“Yes, master, but it may not end there for you. I hear from my quiet window many things spoken in the street below. Men love you so, and need you so, that they will not spare any supplication to bid you stay in the Colony; and you will stay and die where you have lived so many years, under the shadow of the Golden Dog. Some men hate you, too, because you love justice and stand up for the right. I have a request to make, dear master.”
“What is that, dame?” asked he kindly, prepared to grant any request of hers.
“Do not go to the market to-morrow,” replied she earnestly.
The Bourgeois glanced sharply at the dame, who continued to ply her needles. Her eyes were half closed in a semi-trance, their lids trembling with nervous excitement. One of her moods, rare of late, was upon her, and she continued: “Oh, my dear master! you will never go to France; but Pierre shall inherit the honors of the house of Philibert!”
The Bourgeois looked up contentedly. He respected, without putting entire faith in Dame Rochelle's inspirations. “I shall be resigned,” he said, “not to see France again, if the King's Majesty makes it a condition that he restore to Pierre the dignity, while I give him back the domain of his fathers.”
Dame Rochelle clasped her hands hard together and sighed. She spake not, but her lips moved in prayer as if deprecating some danger, or combating some presentiment of evil.
The Bourgeois watched her narrowly. Her moods of devout contemplation sometimes perplexed his clear worldly wisdom. He could scarcely believe that her intuitions were other than the natural result of a wonderfully sensitive and apprehensive nature; still, in his experience he had found that her fancies, if not supernatural, were not unworthy of regard as the sublimation of reason by intellectual processes of which the possessor was unconscious.
“You again see trouble in store for me, dame,” said he smiling; “but a merchant of New France setting at defiance the decrees of the Royal Intendant, an exile seeking from the King the restoration of the lordship of Philibert, may well have trouble on his hands.”
“Yes, master, but as yet I only see trouble like a misty cloud which as yet has neither form nor color of its own, but only reflects red rays as of a setting sun. No voice from its midst tells me its meaning; I thank God for that. I like not to anticipate evil that may not be averted!”
“Whom does it touch, Pierre or Amélie, me, or all of us?” asked the Bourgeois.
“All of us, master? How could any misfortune do other than concern us all? What it means, I know not. It is now like the wheel seen by the Prophet, full of eyes within and without, like God's providence looking for his elect.”
“And finding them?”
“Not yet, master, but ere long,--finding all ere long,” replied she in a dreamy manner. “But go not to the market to-morrow.”
“These are strange fancies of yours, Dame Rochelle. Why caution me against the market to-morrow? It is the day of St. Martin; the poor will expect me; if I go not, many will return empty away.”
“They are not wholly fancies, master. Two gentlemen of the Palace passed to-day, and looking up at the tablet, one wagered the other on the battle to-morrow between Cerberus and the Golden Dog. I have not forgotten wholly my early lessons in classical lore,” added the dame.
“Nor I, dame. I comprehend the allusion, but it will not keep me from the market! I will be watchful, however, for I know that the malice of my enemies is at this time greater than ever before.”
“Let Pierre go with you, and you will be safe,” said the dame half imploringly.
The Bourgeois laughed at the suggestion and began good-humoredly to rally her on her curious gift and on the inconvenience of having a prophetess in his house to anticipate the evil day.
Dame Rochelle would not say more. She knew that to express her fears more distinctly would only harden the resolution of the Bourgeois. His natural courage would make him court the special danger he ought to avoid.
“Master,” said she, suddenly casting her eyes in the street, “there rides past one of the gentlemen who wagered on the battle between Cerberus and the Golden Dog.”
The Bourgeois had sufficient curiosity to look out. He recognized the Chevalier de Pean, and tranquilly resumed his seat with the remark that “that was truly one of the heads of Cerberus which guards the Friponne, a fellow who wore the collar of the Intendant and was worthy of it. The Golden Dog had nothing to fear from him.”
Dame Rochelle, full of her own thoughts, followed with her eyes the retreating figure of the Chevalier de Pean, whom she lost sight of at the first turn, as he rode rapidly to the house of Angélique des Meloises. Since the fatal eve of St. Michael, Angélique had been tossing in a sea of conflicting emotions, sometimes brightened by a wild hope of the Intendant, sometimes darkened with fear of the discovery of her dealings with La Corriveau.
It was in vain she tried every artifice of female blandishment and cunning to discover what was really in the heart and mind of Bigot. She had sounded his soul to try if he entertained a suspicion of herself, but its depth was beyond her power to reach its bottomless darkness, and to the last she could not resolve whether he suspected her or not of complicity with the death of the unfortunate Caroline.
She never ceased to curse La Corriveau for that felon stroke of her mad stiletto which changed what might have passed for a simple death by heartbreak into a foul assassination.
The Intendant she knew must be well aware that Caroline had been murdered; but he had never named it or given the least token of consciousness that such a crime had been committed in his house.
It was in vain that she repeated, with a steadiness of face which sometimes imposed even on Bigot, her request for a lettre de cachet, or urged the banishment of her rival, until the Intendant one day, with a look which for a moment annihilated her, told her that her rival had gone from Beaumanoir and would never trouble her any more.
What did he mean? Angélique had noted every change of muscle, every curve of lip and eyelash as he spake, and she felt more puzzled than before.
She replied, however, with the assurance she could so well assume, “Thanks, Bigot; I did not speak from jealousy. I only asked for justice and the fulfilment of your promise to send her away.”
“But I did not send her away. She has gone away, I know not whither,--gone, do you mind me, Angélique? I would give half my possessions to know who helped her to ESCAPE--yes, that is the word--from Beaumanoir.”
Angélique had expected a burst of passion from Bigot; she had prepared herself for it by diligent rehearsal of how she would demean herself under every possible form of charge, from bare innuendo to direct impeachment of herself.
Keenly as Bigot watched Angélique, he could detect no sign of confusion in her. She trembled in her heart, but her lips wore their old practised smile. Her eyes opened widely, looking surprise, not guilt, as she shook him by the sleeve or coquettishly pulled his hair, asking if he thought that “she had stolen away his lady-love!”
Bigot though only half deceived, tried to persuade himself of her innocence, and left her after an hour's dalliance with the half belief that she did not really merit the grave suspicions he had entertained of her.
Angélique feared, however, that he was only acting a part. What part? It was still a mystery to her, and likely to be; she had but one criterion to discover his real thoughts. The offer of his hand in marriage was the only test she relied upon to prove her acquittal in the mind of Bigot of all complicity with the death of Caroline.
But Bigot was far from making the desired offer of his hand. That terrible night in the secret chamber of Beaumanoir was not absent from his mind an hour. It could never be forgotten, least of all in the company of Angélique, whom he was judging incessantly, either convicting or acquitting her in his mind as he was alternately impressed by her well-acted innocent gaiety or stung by a sudden perception of her power of deceit and unrivalled assurance.
So they went on from day to day, fencing like two adepts in the art of dissimulation, Bigot never glancing at the murder, and speaking of Caroline as gone away to parts unknown, but, as Angélique observed with bitterness, never making that a reason for pressing his suit; while she, assuming the rôle of innocence and ignorance of all that had happened at Beaumanoir, put on an appearance of satisfaction, or pretending still to fits of jealousy, grew fonder in her demeanor and acted as though she assumed as a matter of course that Bigot would now fulfill her hopes of speedily making her his bride.
The Intendant had come and gone every day, unchanged in his manner, full of spirits and gallantry, and as warm in his admiration as before; but her womanly instinct told her there was something hidden under that gay exterior.
Bigot accepted every challenge of flirtation, and ought to have declared himself twenty times over, but he did not. He seemed to bring himself to the brink of an avowal only to break into her confidence and surprise the secret she kept so desperately concealed.
Angélique met craft by craft, duplicity by duplicity, but it began to be clear to herself that she had met with her match, and although the Intendant grew more pressing as a lover, she had daily less hope of winning him as a husband.
The thought was maddening. Such a result admitted of a twofold meaning: either he suspected her of the death of Caroline, or her charms, which had never failed before with any man, failed now to entangle the one man she had resolved to marry.
She cursed him in her heart while she flattered him with her tongue, but by no art she was mistress of, neither by fondness nor by coyness, could she extract the declaration she regarded as her due and was indignant at not receiving. She had fairly earned it by her great crime. She had still more fully earned it, she thought, by her condescensions. She regarded Providence as unjust in withholding her reward, and for punishing as a sin that which for her sake ought to be considered a virtue.
She often reflected with regretful looking back upon the joy which Le Gardeur de Repentigny would have manifested over the least of the favors which she had lavished in vain upon the inscrutable Intendant. At such moments she cursed her evil star, which had led her astray to listen to the promptings of ambition and to ask fatal counsel of La Corriveau.
Le Gardeur was now in the swift downward road of destruction. This was the one thing that caused Angélique a human pang. She might yet fail in all her ambitious prospects, and have to fall back upon her first love,--when even that would be too late to save Le Gardeur or to save her.
De Pean rode fast up the Rue St. Louis, not unobservant of the dark looks of the Honnêtes Gens or the familiar nods and knowing smiles of the partisans of the Friponne whom he met on the way.
Before the door of the mansion of the Chevalier des Meloises he saw a valet of the Intendant holding his master's horse, and at the broad window, half hid behind the thick curtains, sat Bigot and Angélique engaged in badinage and mutual deceiving, as De Pean well knew.
Her silvery laugh struck his ear as he drew up. He cursed them both; but fear of the Intendant, and a due regard to his own interests, two feelings never absent from the Chevalier De Pean, caused him to ride on, not stopping as he had intended.
He would ride to the end of the Grande Allée and return. By that time the Intendant would be gone, and she would be at liberty to receive his invitation for a ride to-morrow, when they would visit the Cathedral and the market.
De Pean knew enough of the ways of Angélique to see that she aimed at the hand of the Intendant. She had slighted and vilipended himself even, while accepting his gifts and gallantries. But with a true appreciation of her character, he had faith in the ultimate power of money, which represented to her, as to most women, position, dress, jewels, stately houses, carriages, and above all, the envy and jealousy of her own sex.
These things De Pean had wagered on the head of Angélique against the wild love of Le Gardeur, the empty admiration of Bigot, and the flatteries of the troop of idle gentlemen who dawdled around her.
He felt confident that in the end victory would be his, and the fair Angélique would one day lay her hand in his as the wife of Hugues de Pean.
De Pean knew that in her heart she had no love for the Intendant, and the Intendant no respect for her. Moreover, Bigot would not venture to marry the Queen of Sheba without the sanction of his jealous patroness at Court. He might possess a hundred mistresses if he liked, and be congratulated on his bonnes fortunes, but not one wife, under the penalty of losing the favor of La Pompadour, who had chosen a future wife for him out of the crowd of intriguantes who fluttered round her, basking like butterflies in the sunshine of her semi-regal splendor.
Bigot had passed a wild night at the Palace among the partners of the Grand Company, who had met to curse the peace and drink a speedy renewal of the war. Before sitting down to their debauch, however, they had discussed, with more regard to their peculiar interests than to the principles of the Decalogue, the condition and prospects of the Company.
The prospect was so little encouraging to the associates that they were glad when the Intendant bade them cheer up and remember that all was not lost that was in danger. “Philibert would yet undergo the fate of Actaeon, and be torn in pieces by his own dog.” Bigot, as he said this, glanced from Le Gardeur to De Pean, with a look and a smile which caused Cadet, who knew its meaning, to shrug his shoulders and inquire of De Pean privately, “Is the trap set?”
“It is set!” replied De Pean in a whisper. “It will spring to-morrow and catch our game, I hope.”
“You must have a crowd and a row, mind! this thing, to be safe, must be done openly,” whispered Cadet in reply.
“We will have both a crowd and a row, never fear! The new preacher of the Jesuits, who is fresh from Italy and knows nothing about our plot, is to inveigh in the market against the Jansenists and the Honnêtes Gens. If that does not make both a crowd and a row, I do not know what will.”
“You are a deep devil, De Pean! So deep that I doubt you will cheat yourself yet,” answered Cadet gruffly.
“Never fear, Cadet! To-morrow night shall see the Palace gay with illumination, and the Golden Dog in darkness and despair.”
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{
"id": "2735"
}
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47
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A DRAWN GAME.
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Le Gardeur was too drunk to catch the full drift of the Intendant's reference to the Bourgeois under the metaphor of Actaeon torn in pieces by his own dog. He only comprehended enough to know that something was intended to the disparagement of the Philiberts, and firing up at the idea, swore loudly that “neither the Intendant nor all the Grand Company in mass should harm a hair of the Bourgeois's head!”
“It is the dog!” exclaimed De Pean, “which the Company will hang, not his master, nor your friend his son, nor your friend's friend the old Huguenot witch! We will let them hang themselves when their time comes; but it is the Golden Dog we mean to hang at present, Le Gardeur!”
“Yes! I see!” replied Le Gardeur, looking very hazy. “Hang the Golden Dog as much as you will, but as to the man that touches his master, I say he will have to fight ME, that is all.” Le Gardeur, after one or two vain attempts, succeeded in drawing his sword, and laid it upon the table.
“Do you see that, De Pean? That is the sword of a gentleman, and I will run it through the heart of any man who says he will hurt a hair of the head of Pierre Philibert, or the Bourgeois, or even the old Huguenot witch, as you call Dame Rochelle, who is a lady, and too good to be either your mother, aunt, or cater cousin, in any way, De Pean!”
“By St. Picot! You have mistaken your man, De Pean!” whispered Cadet. “Why the deuce did you pitch upon Le Gardeur to carry out your bright idea?”
“I pitched upon him because he is the best man for our turn. But I am right. You will see I am right. Le Gardeur is the pink of morality when he is sober. He would kill the devil when he is half drunk, but when wholly drunk he would storm paradise, and sack and slay like a German ritter. He would kill his own grandfather. I have not erred in choosing him.”
Bigot watched this by-play with intense interest. He saw that Le Gardeur was a two-edged weapon just as likely to cut his friends as his enemies, unless skilfully held in hand, and blinded as to when and whom he should strike.
“Come, Le Gardeur, put up your sword!” exclaimed Bigot, coaxingly; “we have better game to bring down to-night than the Golden Dog. Hark! They are coming! Open wide the doors, and let the blessed peacemakers enter!”
“The peacemakers!” ejaculated Cadet; “the cause of every quarrel among men since the creation of the world! What made you send for the women, Bigot?”
“Oh, not to say their prayers, you may be sure, old misogynist, but this being a gala-night at the Palace, the girls and fiddlers were ordered up by De Pean, and we will see you dance fandangoes with them until morning, Cadet.”
“No you won't! Damn the women! I wish you had kept them away, that is all. It spoils my fun, Bigot!”
“But it helps the Company's! Here they come!”
Their appearance at the door caused a hubbub of excitement among the gentlemen, who hurried forward to salute a dozen or more women dressed in the extreme of fashion, who came forward with plentiful lack of modesty, and a superabundance of gaiety and laughter.
Le Gardeur and Cadet did not rise like the rest, but kept their seats. Cadet swore that De Pean had spoiled a jolly evening by inviting the women to the Palace.
These women had been invited by De Pean to give zest to the wild orgie that was intended to prepare Le Gardeur for their plot of to-morrow, which was to compass the fall of the Bourgeois. They sat down with the gentlemen, listening with peals of laughter to their coarse jests, and tempting them to wilder follies. They drank, they sang, they danced and conducted, or misconducted, themselves in such a thoroughly shameless fashion that Bigot, Varin, and other experts of the Court swore that the petits appartements of Versailles, or even the royal fêtes of the Parc aux cerfs, could not surpass the high life and jollity of the Palace of the Intendant.
In that wild fashion Bigot had passed the night previous to his present visit to Angélique. The Chevalier de Pean rode the length of the Grande Allée and returned. The valet and horse of the Intendant were still waiting at the door, and De Pean saw Bigot and Angélique still seated at the window engaged in a lively conversation, and not apparently noticing his presence in the street as he sat pulling hairs out of the mane of his horse, “with the air of a man in love,” as Angélique laughingly remarked to Bigot.
Her quick eye, which nothing could escape, had seen De Pean the first time he passed the house. She knew that he had come to visit her, and seeing the horse of the Intendant at the door, had forborne to enter,--that would not have been the way with Le Gardeur, she thought. He would have entered all the readier had even the Dauphin held her in conversation.
Angélique was woman enough to like best the bold gallant who carries the female heart by storm and puts the parleying garrison of denial to the sword, as the Sabine women admired the spirit of their Roman captors and became the most faithful of wives.
De Pean, clever and unprincipled, was a menial in his soul, as cringing to his superiors as he was arrogant to those below him.
“Fellow!” said he to Bigot's groom, “how long has the Intendant been here?”
“All the afternoon, Chevalier,” replied the man, respectfully uncovering his head.
“Hum! and have they sat at the window all the time?”
“I have no eyes to watch my master,” replied the groom; “I do not know.”
“Oh!” was the reply of De Pean, as he suddenly reflected that it were best for himself also not to be seen watching his master too closely. He uttered a spurt of ill humor, and continued pulling the mane of his horse through his fingers.
“The Chevalier de Pean is practising patience to-day, Bigot,” said she; “and you give him enough time to exercise it.”
“You wish me gone, Angélique!” said he, rising; “the Chevalier de Pean is naturally waxing impatient, and you too!”
“Pshaw!” exclaimed she; “he shall wait as long as I please to keep him there.”
“Or as long as I stay. He is an accommodating lover, and will make an equally accommodating husband for his wife's friend some day!” remarked Bigot laughingly.
Angélique's eyes flashed out fire, but she little knew how true a word Bigot had spoken in jest. She could have choked him for mentioning her in connection with De Pean, but remembering she was now at his mercy, it was necessary to cheat and cozen this man by trying to please him.
“Well, if you must go, you must, Chevalier! Let me tie that string,” continued she, approaching him in her easy manner. The knot of his cravat was loose. Bigot glanced admiringly at her slightly flushed cheek and dainty fingers as she tied the loose ends of his rich steinkirk together.
“'Tis like love,” said she, laughingly; “a slip-knot that looks tied until it is tried.”
She glanced at Bigot, expecting him to thank her, which he did with a simple word. The thought of Caroline flashed over his mind like lightning at that moment. She, too, as they walked on the shore of the Bay of Minas had once tied the string of his cravat, when for the first time he read in her flushed cheek and trembling fingers that she loved him. Bigot, hardy as he was and reckless, refrained from touching the hand or even looking at Angélique at this moment.
With the quick perception of her sex she felt it, and drew back a step, not knowing but the next moment might overwhelm her with an accusation. But Bigot was not sure, and he dared not hint to Angélique more than he had done.
“Thanks for tying the knot, Angélique,” said he at length. “It is a hard knot, mine, is it not, both to tie and to untie?”
She looked at him, not pretending to understand any meaning he might attach to his words. “Yes, it is a hard knot to tie, yours, Bigot, and you do not seem particularly to thank me for my service. Have you discovered the hidden place of your fair fugitive yet?” She said this just as he turned to depart. It was the feminine postscript to their interview.
Bigot's avoidance of any allusion to the death of Caroline was a terrible mark of suspicion; less in reality, however, than it seemed.
Bigot, although suspicious, could find no clue to the real perpetrators of the murder. He knew it had not been Angélique herself in person. He had never heard her speak of La Corriveau. Not the smallest ray of light penetrated the dark mystery.
“I do not believe she has left Beaumanoir, Bigot,” continued Angélique; “or if she has, you know her hiding-place. Will you swear on my book of hours that you know not where she is to be found?”
He looked fixedly at Angélique for a moment, trying to read her thoughts, but she had rehearsed her part too often and too well to look pale or confused. She felt her eyebrow twitch, but she pressed it with her fingers, believing Bigot did not observe it, but he did.
“I will swear and curse both, if you wish it, Angélique,” replied he. “Which shall it be?”
“Well, do both,--swear at me and curse the day that I banished Le Gardeur de Repentigny for your sake, François Bigot! If the lady be gone, where is your promise?”
Bigot burst into a wild laugh, as was his wont when hard-pressed. He had not, to be sure, made any definite promise to Angélique, but he had flattered her with hopes of marriage never intended to be realized.
“I keep my promises to ladies as if I had sworn by St. Dorothy,” replied he.
“But your promise to me, Bigot! Will you keep it, or do worse?” asked she, impatiently.
“Keep it or do worse! What mean you, Angélique?” He looked up in genuine surprise. This was not the usual tone of women towards him.
“I mean that nothing will be better for François Bigot than to keep his promise, nor worse than to break it, to Angélique des Meloises!” replied she, with a stamp of her foot, as was her manner when excited.
She thought it safe to use an implied threat, which at any rate might reach the thought that lay under his heart like a centipede under a stone which some chance foot turns over.
But Bigot minded not the implied threat. He was immovable in the direction she wished him to move. He understood her allusion, but would not appear to understand it, lest worse than she meant should come of it.
“Forgive me, Angélique!” said he, with a sudden change from frigidity to fondness. “I am not unmindful of my promises; there is nothing better to myself than to keep them, nothing worse than to break them. Beaumanoir is now without reproach, and you can visit it without fear of aught but the ghosts in the gallery.”
Angélique feared no ghosts, but she did fear that the Intendant's words implied a suggestion of one which might haunt it for the future, if there were any truth in tales.
“How can you warrant that, Bigot?” asked she dubiously.
“Because Pierre Philibert and La Corne St. Luc have been with the King's warrant and searched the château from crypt to attic, without finding a trace of your rival.”
“What, Chevalier, searched the Château of the Intendant?”
“Par bleu! yes, I insisted upon their doing so; not, however, till they had gone through the Castle of St. Louis. They apologized to me for finding nothing. What did they expect to find, think you?”
“The lady, to be sure! Oh, Bigot,” continued she, tapping him with her fan, “if they would send a commission of women to search for her, the secret could not remain hid.”
“No, truly, Angélique! If you were on such a commission to search for the secret of her.”
“Well, Bigot, I would never betray it, if I knew it,” answered she, promptly.
“You swear to that, Angélique?” asked he, looking full in her eyes, which did not flinch under his gaze.
“Yes; on my book of hours, as you did!” said she.
“Well, there is my hand upon it, Angélique. I have no secret to tell respecting her. She has gone, I cannot tell WHITHER.”
Angélique gave him her hand on the lie. She knew he was playing with her, as she with him, a game of mutual deception, which both knew to be such. And yet they must, circumstanced as they were, play it out to the end, which end, she hoped, would be her marriage with this arch-deceiver. A breach of their alliance was as dangerous as it would be unprofitable to both.
Bigot rose to depart with an air of gay regret at leaving the company of Angélique to make room for De Pean, “who,” he said, “would pull every hair out of his horse's mane if he waited much longer.”
“Your visit is no pleasure to you, Bigot,” said she, looking hard at him. “You are discontented with me, and would rather go than stay!”
“Well, Angélique, I am a dissatisfied man to-day. The mysterious disappearance of that girl from Beaumanoir is the cause of my discontent. The defiant boldness of the Bourgeois Philibert is another. I have heard to-day that the Bourgeois has chartered every ship that is to sail to France during the remainder of the autumn. These things are provoking enough, but they drive me for consolation to you. But for you I should shut myself up in Beaumanoir, and let every thing go helter-skelter to the devil.”
“You only flatter me and do not mean it!” said she, as he took her hand with an over-empressement as perceptible to her as was his occasional coldness.
“By all the saints! I mean it,” said he. But he did not deceive her. His professions were not all true, but how far they were true was a question that again and again tormented her, and set her bosom palpitating as he left her room with his usual courteous salute.
“He suspects me! He more than suspects me!” said she to herself as Bigot passed out of the mansion and mounted his horse to ride off. “He would speak out plainer if he dared avow that that woman was in truth the missing Caroline de St. Castin!” thought she with savage bitterness.
“I have a bit in your mouth there, François Bigot, that will forever hold you in check. That missing demoiselle, no one knows as you do where she is. I would give away every jewel I own to know what you did with the pretty piece of mortality left on your hands by La Corriveau.”
Thus soliloquized Angélique for a few moments, looking gloomy and beautiful as Medea, when the step of De Pean sounded up the broad stair.
With a sudden transformation, as if touched by a magic wand, Angélique sprang forward, all smiles and fascinations to greet his entrance.
The Chevalier de Pean had long made distant and timid pretensions to her favor, but he had been overborne by a dozen rivals. He was incapable of love in any honest sense; but he had immense vanity. He had been barely noticed among the crowd of Angélique's admirers. “He was only food for powder,” she had laughingly remarked upon one occasion, when a duel on her account seemed to be impending between De Pean and the young Captain de Tours; and beyond doubt Angélique would have been far prouder of him shot for her sake in a duel than she was of his living attentions.
She was not sorry, however, that he came in to-day after the departure of the Intendant. It kept her from her own thoughts, which were bitter enough when alone. Moreover, she never tired of any amount of homage and admiration, come from what quarter it would.
De Pean stayed long with Angélique. How far he opened the details of the plot to create a riot in the market-place that afternoon can only be conjectured by the fact of her agreeing to ride out at the hour designated, which she warmly consented to do as soon as De Pean informed her that Le Gardeur would be there and might be expected to have a hand in the tumult raised against the Golden Dog. The conference over, Angélique speedily dismissed De Pean. She was in no mood for flirtation with him. Her mind was taken up with the possibility of danger to Le Gardeur in this plot, which she saw clearly was the work of others, and not of himself, although he was expected to be a chief actor in it.
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{
"id": "2735"
}
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48
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“IN GOLD CLASPS LOCKS IN THE GOLDEN STORY.”
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Love is like a bright river when it springs from the fresh fountains of the heart. It flows on between fair and ever-widening banks until it reaches the ocean of eternity and happiness.
The days illuminated with the brightest sunshine are those which smile over the heads of a loving pair who have found each other, and with tender confessions and mutual avowals plighted their troth and prepared their little bark for sailing together down the changeful stream of time.
So it had been through the long Indian summer days with Pierre Philibert and Amélie de Repentigny. Since the blessed hour they plighted their troth in the evening twilight upon the shore of the little lake of Tilly, they had showed to each other, in the heart's confessional, the treasures of true human affection, holy in the eyes of God and man.
When Amélie gave her love to Pierre, she gave it utterly and without a scruple of reservation. It was so easy to love Pierre, so impossible not to love him; nay, she remembered not the time it was otherwise, or when he had not been first and last in her secret thoughts as he was now in her chaste confessions, although whispered so low that her approving angel hardly caught the sound as it passed into the ear of Pierre Philibert.
A warm, soft wind blew gently down the little valley of the Lairet, which wound and rippled over its glossy brown pebbles, murmuring a quiet song down in its hollow bed. Tufts of spiry grass clung to its steep banks, and a few wild flowers peeped out of nooks among the sere fallen leaves that lay upon the still greensward on each shore of the little rivulet.
Pierre and Amélie had been tempted by the beauty of the Indian summer to dismount and send their horses forward to the city in charge of a servant while they walked home by way of the fields to gather the last flowers of autumn, which Amélie said lingered longest in the deep swales of the Lairet.
A walk in the golden sunshine with Amélie alone amid the quiet fields, free to speak his love, and she to hear him and be glad, was a pleasure Pierre had dreamt of but never enjoyed since the blessed night when they plighted their troth to each other by the lake of Tilly.
The betrothal of Pierre and Amélie had been accepted by their friends on both sides as a most fitting and desirable match, but the manners of the age with respect to the unmarried did not admit of that freedom in society which prevails at the present day.
They had seldom met save in the presence of others, and except for a few chance but blissful moments, Pierre had not been favored with the company all to himself of his betrothed.
Amélie was not unmindful of that when she gave a willing consent to-day to walk with him along the banks of the Lairet, under the shady elms, birches, and old thorns that overhung the path by the little stream.
“Pierre,” said she smiling, “our horses are gone and I must now walk home with you, right or wrong. My old mistress in the Convent would shake her head if she heard of it, but I care not who blames me to-day, if you do not, Pierre!”
“Who can blame you, darling? What you do is ever wisest and best in my eyes, except one thing, which I will confess now that you are my own, I cannot account for--” “I had hoped, Pierre, there was no exception to your admiration; you are taking off my angel's wings already, and leaving me a mere woman!” replied she merrily.
“It is a woman I want you to be, darling, a woman not faultless, but human as myself, a wife to hold to me and love me despite my faults, not an angel too bright and too perfect to be my other self.”
“Dear Pierre,” said she, pressing his arm, “I will be that woman to you, full enough of faults to satisfy you. An angel I am not and cannot be, nor wish to be until we go together to the spirit-land. I am so glad I have a fault for which you can blame me, if it makes you love me better. Indeed I own to many, but what is that one fault, Pierre, which you cannot account for?”
“That you should have taken a rough soldier like me, Amélie! That one so fair and perfect in all the graces of womanhood, with the world to choose from, should have permitted Pierre Philibert to win her loving heart of hearts.”
Amélie looked at him with a fond expression of reproach. “Does that surprise you, Pierre? You rough soldier, you little know, and I will not tell you, the way to a woman's heart; but for one blindfolded by so much diffidence to his own merits, you have found the way very easily! Was it for loving you that you blamed me? What if I should recall the fault?” added she, laughing.
Pierre raised her hand to his lips, kissing devotedly the ring he had placed upon her finger. “I have no fear of that, Amélie! The wonder to me is that you could think me worthy of the priceless trust of your happiness.”
“And the wonder to me,” replied she, “is that your dear heart ever burdened itself with my happiness. I am weak in myself, and only strong in my resolution to be all a loving wife should be to you, my Pierre! You wonder how you gained my love? Shall I tell you? You never gained it; it was always yours, before you formed a thought to win it! You are now my betrothed, Pierre Philibert, soon to be my husband; I would not exchange my fortune to become the proudest queen that ever sat on the throne of France.”
Amélie was very happy to-day. The half-stolen delight of walking by the side of Pierre Philibert was enhanced by the hope that the fatal spell that bound Le Gardeur to the Palace had been broken, and he would yet return home, a new man.
Le Gardeur had only yesterday, in a moment of recollection of himself and of his sister, addressed a note to Amélie, asking pardon for his recent neglect of home, and promising to come and see them on St. Martin's day.
He had heard of her betrothal to Pierre. It was the gladdest news, he said, that had ever come to him in his life. He sent a brother's blessing upon them both, and claimed the privilege of giving away her hand to the noblest man in New France, Pierre Philibert.
Amélie showed the precious note to Pierre. It only needed that to complete their happiness for the day. The one cloud that had overshadowed their joy in their approaching nuptials was passing away, and Amélie was prouder in the anticipation that Le Gardeur, restored to himself, sober, and in his right mind, was to be present at her wedding and give her away, than if the whole Court of France, with thousands of admiring spectators, were to pay her royal honors.
They sauntered on towards a turn of the stream where a little pool lay embayed like a smooth mirror reflecting the grassy bank. Amélie sat down under a tree while Pierre crossed over the brook to gather on the opposite side some flowers which had caught her eye.
“Tell me which, Amélie!” exclaimed he, “for they are all yours; you are Flora's heiress, with right to enter into possession of her whole kingdom!”
“The water-lilies, Pierre, those, and those, and those; they are to deck the shrine of Notre Dame des Victoires. Aunt has a vow there, and to-morrow it must be paid; I too.”
He looked up at her with eyes of admiration. “A vow! Let me share in its payment, Amélie,” said he.
“You may, but you shall not ask me what it is. There now, do not wet yourself further! You have gathered more lilies than we can carry home.”
“But I have my own thank-offering to make to Notre Dame des Victoires, for I think I love God even better for your sake, Amélie.”
“Fie, Pierre, say not that! and yet I know what you mean. I ought to reprove you, but for your penance you shall gather more lilies, for I fear you need many prayers and offerings to expiate,--” she hesitated to finish the sentence.
“My idolatry, Amélie,” said he, completing her meaning.
“I doubt it is little better, Pierre, if you love me as you say. But you shall join in my offering, and that will do for both. Please pull that one bunch of lilies and no more, or Our Lady of Victory will judge you harder than I do.”
Pierre stepped from stone to stone over the gentle brook, gathering the golden lilies, while Amélie clasped her hands and silently thanked God for this happy hour of her life.
She hardly dared trust herself to look at Pierre except by furtive glances of pride and affection; but as his form and features were reflected in a shadow of manly beauty in the still pool, she withdrew not her loving gaze from his shadow, and leaning forward towards his image, “A thousand times she kissed him in the brook, Across the flowers with bashful eyelids down!”
Amélie had royally given her love to Pierre Philibert. She had given it without stint or measure, and with a depth and strength of devotion of which more facile natures know nothing.
Pierre, with his burden of golden lilies, came back over the brook and seated himself beside her; his arm encircled her, and she held his hand firmly clasped in both of hers.
“Amélie,” said he, “I believe now in the power of fate to remove mountains of difficulty and cast them into the sea. How often, while watching the stars wheel silently over my head as I lay pillowed on a stone, while my comrades slumbered round the campfires, have I repeated my prayer for Amélie de Repentigny! I had no right to indulge a hope of winning your love; I was but a rough soldier, very practical, and not at all imaginative. 'She would see nothing in me,' I said; and still I would not have given up my hope for a kingdom.”
“It was not so hard, after all, to win what was already yours, Pierre, was it?” said she with a smile and a look of unutterable sweetness; “but it was well you asked, for without asking you would be like one possessing a treasure of gold in his field without knowing it, although it was all the while there and all his own. But not a grain of it would you have found without asking me, Pierre!”
“But having found it I shall never lose it again, darling!” replied he, pressing her to his bosom.
“Never, Pierre, it is yours forever!” replied she, her voice trembling with emotion. “Love is, I think, the treasure in heaven which rusts not, and which no thief can steal.”
“Amélie,” said he after a few minutes' silence, “some say men's lives are counted not by hours but by the succession of ideas and emotions. If it be so, I have lived a century of happiness with you this afternoon. I am old in love, Amélie!”
“Nay, I would not have you old in love, Pierre! Love is the perennial youth of the soul. Grand'mère St. Pierre, who has been fifty years an Ursuline, and has now the visions which are promised to the old in the latter days, tells me that in heaven those who love God and one another grow ever more youthful; the older the more beautiful! Is not that better than the philosophers teach, Pierre?”
He drew her closer, and Amélie permitted him to impress a kiss on each eyelid as she closed it; suddenly she started up.
“Pierre,” said she, “you said you were a soldier and so practical. I feel shame to myself for being so imaginative and so silly. I too would be practical if I knew how. This was to be a day of business with us, was it not, Pierre?”
“And is it not a day of business, Amélie? or are we spending it like holiday children, wholly on pleasure? But after all, love is the business of life, and life is the business of eternity,--we are transacting it to-day, Amélie! I never was so seriously engaged as at this moment, nor you either, darling; tell the truth!”
Amélie pressed her hands in his. “Never, Pierre, and yet I cannot see the old brown woods of Belmont rising yonder upon the slopes of St. Foye without remembering my promise, not two hours old, to talk with you to-day about the dear old mansion.”
“That is to be the nest of as happy a pair of lovers as ever went to housekeeping; and I promised to keep soberly by your side as I am doing,” said he, mischievously twitching a stray lock of her dark hair, “and talk with you on the pretty banks of the Lairet about the old mansion.”
“Yes, Pierre, that was your promise, if I would walk this way with you. Where shall we begin?”
“Here, Amélie,” replied he, kissing her fondly; “now the congress is opened! I am your slave of the wonderful lamp, ready to set up and pull down the world at your bidding. The old mansion is your own. It shall have no rest until it becomes, within and without, a mirror of the perfect taste and fancy of its lawful mistress.”
“Not yet, Pierre. I will not let you divert me from my purpose by your flatteries. The dear old home is perfect, but I must have the best suite of rooms in it for your noble father, and the next best for good Dame Rochelle. I will fit them up on a plan of my own, and none shall say me nay; that is all the change I shall make.”
“Is that all? and you tried to frighten the slave of the lamp with the weight of your commands. A suite of rooms for my father, and one for good Dame Rochelle! Really, and what do you devote to me, Amélie?”
“Oh, all the rest, with its mistress included, for the reason that what is good enough for me is good enough for you, Pierre,” said she gaily.
“You little economist! Why, one would say you had studied housekeeping under Madame Painchaud.”
“And so I have. You do not know what a treasure I am, Pierre,” said she, laughing merrily. “I graduated under mes tantes in the kitchen of the Ursulines, and received an accessit as bonne menagère which in secret I prize more than the crown of honor they gave me.”
“My fortune is made, and I am a rich man for life,” exclaimed Pierre, clapping his hands; “why, I shall have to marry you like the girls of Acadia, with a silver thimble on your finger and a pair of scissors at your girdle, emblems of industrious habits and proofs of a good housewife!”
“Yes, Pierre, and I will comb your hair to my own liking. Your valet is a rough groom,” said she, taking off his hat and passing her finger through his thick, fair locks.
Pierre, although always dressed and trimmed like a gentleman, really cared little for the petit maître fashions of the day. Never had he felt a thrill of such exquisite pleasure as when Amélie's hands arranged his rough hair to her fancy.
“My blessed Amélie!” said he with emotion, pressing her finger to his lips, “never since my mother combed my boyish locks has a woman's hand touched my hair until now.”
Leaning her head fondly against the shoulder of Pierre, she bade him repeat to her again, to her who had not forgotten one word or syllable of the tale he had told her before, the story of his love.
She listened with moistened eyelids and heaving bosom as he told her again of his faithfulness in the past, his joys in the present, and his hopes in the future. She feared to look up lest she should break the charm, but when he had ended she turned to him passionately and kissed his lips and his hands, murmuring, “Thanks, my Pierre, I will be a true and loving wife to you!”
He strained her to his bosom, and held her fast, as if fearful to let her go.
“Her image at that last embrace, Ah! little thought he 'twas the last!”
Dim twilight crept into the valley. It was time to return home. Pierre and Amélie, full of joy in each other, grateful for the happiest day in their lives, hopeful of to-morrow and many to-morrows after it, and mercifully blinded to what was really before them, rose from their seat under the great spreading elm. They slowly retraced the path through the meadow leading to the bridge, and reëntered the highway which ran to the city, where Pierre conducted Amélie home.
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{
"id": "2735"
}
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49
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THE MARKET-PLACE ON ST. MARTIN'S DAY.
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The market-place then as now occupied the open square lying between the great Cathedral of Ste. Marie and the College of the Jesuits. The latter, a vast edifice, occupied one side of the square. Through its wide portal a glimpse was had of the gardens and broad avenues of ancient trees, sacred to the meditation and quiet exercises of the reverend fathers, who walked about in pairs, according to the rule of their order, which rarely permitted them to go singly.
The market-place itself was lively this morning with the number of carts and stalls ranged on either side of the bright little rivulet which ran under the old elms that intersected the square, the trees affording shade and the rivulet drink for man and beast.
A bustling, loquacious crowd of habitans and citizens, wives and maid-servants, were buying, selling, exchanging compliments, or complaining of hard times. The marketplace was full, and all were glad at the termination of the terrible war, and hopeful of the happy effect of peace in bringing plenty back again to the old market.
The people bustled up and down, testing their weak purses against their strong desires to fill their baskets with the ripe autumnal fruits and the products of field and garden, river and basse cour, which lay temptingly exposed in the little carts of the marketmen and women who on every side extolled the quality and cheapness of their wares.
There were apples from the Côte de Beaupré, small in size but impregnated with the flavor of honey; pears grown in the old orchards about Ange Gardien, and grapes worthy of Bacchus, from the Isle of Orleans, with baskets of the delicious bilberries that cover the wild hills of the north shore from the first wane of summer until late in the autumn.
The drain of the war had starved out the butchers' stalls, but Indians and hunters took their places for the nonce with an abundance of game of all kinds, which had multiplied exceedingly during the years that men had taken to killing Bostonnais and English instead of deer and wild turkeys.
Fish was in especial abundance; the blessing of the old Jesuits still rested on the waters of New France, and the fish swarmed metaphorically with money in their mouths.
There were piles of speckled trout fit to be eaten by popes and kings, taken in the little pure lakes and streams tributary to the Montmorency; lordly salmon that swarmed in the tidal weirs along the shores of the St. Lawrence, and huge eels, thick as the arm of the fisher who drew them up from their rich river-beds.
There were sacks of meal ground in the banal mills of the seigniories for the people's bread, but the old tinettes of yellow butter, the pride of the good wives of Beauport and Lauzon, were rarely to be seen, and commanded unheard-of prices. The hungry children who used to eat tartines of bread buttered on both sides were now accustomed to the cry of their frugal mother as she spread it thin as if it were gold-leaf: “Mes enfants, take care of the butter!”
The Commissaries of the Army, in other words the agents of the Grand Company, had swept the settlements far and near of their herds, and the habitans soon discovered that the exposure for sale in the market of the products of the dairy was speedily followed by a visit from the purveyors of the army, and the seizure of their remaining cattle.
Roots and other esculents of field and garden were more plentiful in the market, among which might have been seen the newly introduced potato,--a vegetable long despised in New France, then endured, and now beginning to be liked and widely cultivated as a prime article of sustenance.
At the upper angle of the square stood a lofty cross or Holy Rood, overtopping the low roofs of the shops and booths in its neighborhood. About the foot of the cross was a platform of timber raised a few feet from the ground, giving a commanding view of the whole market-place.
A crowd of habitans were gathered round this platform listening, some with exclamations of approval, not unmingled on the part of others with sounds of dissent, to the fervent address of one of the Jesuit Fathers from the College, who with crucifix in hand was preaching to the people upon the vices and backslidings of the times.
Father Glapion, the Superior of the order in New France, a grave, saturnine man, and several other fathers in close black cassocks and square caps, stood behind the preacher, watching with keen eyes the faces of the auditory as if to discover who were for and who were against the sentiments and opinions promulgated by the preacher.
The storm of the great Jansenist controversy, which rent the Church of France from top to bottom, had not spared the Colony, where it had early caused trouble; for that controversy grew out of the Gallican liberties of the national Church and the right of national participation in its administrations and appointments. The Jesuits ever fiercely contested these liberties; they boldly set the tiara above the crown, and strove to subordinate all opinions of faith, morals, education, and ecclesiastical government to the infallible judgment of the Pope alone.
The Bishop and clergy of New France had labored hard to prevent the introduction of that mischievous controversy into the Colony, and had for the most part succeeded in reserving their flocks, if not themselves, from its malign influence. The growing agitation in France, however, made it more difficult to keep down troublesome spirits in the Colony, and the idea got abroad, not without some foundation, that the Society of Jesus had secret commercial relations with the Friponne. This report fanned the smouldering fires of Jansenism into a flame visible enough and threatening enough to the peace of the Church.
The failure and bankruptcy of Father Vallette's enormous speculations in the West Indies had filled France with bad debts and protested obligations which the Society of Jesus repudiated, but which the Parliament of Paris ordered them to pay. The excitement was intense all over the Kingdom and the Colonies. On the part of the order it became a fight for existence.
They were envied for their wealth, and feared for their ability and their power. The secular clergy were for the most part against them. The Parliament of Paris, in a violent decree, had declared the Jesuits to have no legal standing in France. Voltaire and his followers, a growing host, thundered at them from the one side. The Vatican, in a moment of inconsistency and ingratitude, thundered at them from the other. They were in the midst of fire, and still their ability and influence over individual consciences, and especially over the female sex, prolonged their power for fifteen years longer, when Louis XV., driven to the wall by the Jansenists, issued his memorable decree declaring the Jesuits to be rebels, traitors, and stirrers up of mischief. The King confiscated their possessions, proscribed their persons, and banished them from the kingdom as enemies of the State.
Padre Monti, an Italian newly arrived in the Colony, was a man very different from the venerable Vimont and the Jogues and the Lallements, who had preached the Evangel to the wild tribes of the forest, and rejoiced when they won the crown of martyrdom for themselves.
Monti was a bold man in his way, and ready to dare any bold deed in the interests of religion, which he could not dissociate from the interests of his order. He stood up, erect and commanding, upon the platform under the Holy Rood, while he addressed with fiery eloquence and Italian gesticulation the crowd of people gathered round him.
The subject he chose was an exciting one. He enlarged upon the coming of Antichrist and upon the new philosophy of the age, the growth of Gallicanism in the Colony, with its schismatic progeny of Jansenists and Honnêtes Gens, to the discouragement of true religion and the endangering of immortal souls.
His covert allusions and sharp innuendoes were perfectly understood by his hearers, and signs of dissentient feeling were rife among the crowd. Still, the people continued to listen, on the whole respectfully; for, whatever might be the sentiment of Old France with respect to the Jesuits, they had in New France inherited the profound respect of the colonists, and deserved it.
A few gentlemen, some in military, some in fashionable civil attire, strolled up towards the crowd, but stood somewhat aloof and outside of it. The market people pressed closer and closer round the platform, listening with mouths open and eager eyes to the sermon, storing it away in their retentive memories, which would reproduce every word of it when they sat round the fireside in the coming winter evenings.
One or two Recollets stood at a modest distance from the crowd, still as statues, with their hands hid in the sleeves of their gray gowns, shaking their heads at the arguments, and still more at the invectives of the preacher; for the Recollets were accused, wrongfully perhaps, of studying the five propositions of Port Royal more than beseemed the humble followers of St. Francis to do, and they either could not or would not repel the accusation.
“Padre Monti deserves the best thanks of the Intendant for this sermon,” remarked the Sieur d'Estebe to Le Mercier, who accompanied him.
“And the worst thanks of His Excellency the Count! It was bold of the Italian to beard the Governor in that manner! But La Galissonière is too great a philosopher to mind a priest!” was the half-scoffing reply of Le Mercier.
“Is he? I do not think so, Le Mercier. I hate them myself, but egad! I am not philosophic enough to let them know it. One may do so in Paris, but not in New France. Besides, the Jesuits are just now our fast friends, and it does not do to quarrel with your supporters.”
“True, D'Estebe! We get no help from the Recollets. Look yonder at Brothers Ambrose and Daniel! They would like to tie Padre Monti neck and heels with the cords of St. Francis, and bind him over to keep the peace towards Port Royal; but the gray gowns are afraid of the black robes. Padre Monti knew they would not catch the ball when he threw it. The Recollets are all afraid to hurl it back.”
“Not all,” was the reply; “the Reverend Father de Berey would have thrown it back with a vengeance. But I confess, Le Mercier, the Padre is a bold fellow to pitch into the Honnêtes Gens the way he does. I did not think he would have ventured upon it here in the market, in face of so many habitans, who swear by the Bourgeois Philibert.”
The bold denunciations by the preacher against the Honnêtes Gens and against the people's friend and protector, the Bourgeois Philibert, caused a commotion in the crowd of habitans, who began to utter louder and louder exclamations of dissent and remonstrance. A close observer would have noticed angry looks and clenched fists in many parts of the crowd, pressing closer and closer round the platform.
The signs of increasing tumult in the crowd did not escape the sharp eyes of Father Glapion, who, seeing that the hot-blooded Italian was overstepping the bounds of prudence in his harangue, called him by name, and with a half angry sign brought his sermon suddenly to a close. Padre Monti obeyed with the unquestioning promptness of an automaton. He stopped instantly, without rounding the period or finishing the sentence that was in his mouth.
His flushed and ardent manner changed to the calmness of marble as, lifting up his hands with a devout oremus, he uttered a brief prayer and left the puzzled people to finish his speech and digest at leisure his singular sermon.
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{
"id": "2735"
}
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50
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“BLESSED THEY WHO DIE DOING THY WILL.”
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It was the practice of the Bourgeois Philibert to leave his counting-room to walk through the market-place, not for the sake of the greetings he met, although he received them from every side, nor to buy or sell on his own account, but to note with quick, sympathizing eye the poor and needy and to relieve their wants.
Especially did he love to meet the old, the feeble, the widow, and the orphan, so numerous from the devastation of the long and bloody war.
The Bourgeois had another daily custom which he observed with unfailing regularity. His table in the House of the Golden Dog was set every day with twelve covers and dishes for twelve guests, “the twelve apostles,” as he gayly used to say, “whom I love to have dine with me, and who come to my door in the guise of poor, hungry, and thirsty men, needing meat and drink. Strangers to be taken in, and sick wanting a friend.” If no other guests came he was always sure of the “apostles” to empty his table, and, while some simple dish sufficed for himself, he ordered the whole banquet to be given away to the poor. His choice wines, which he scarcely permitted himself to taste, were removed from his table and sent to the Hôtel Dieu, the great convent of the Nuns Hospitalières, for the use of the sick in their charge, while the Bourgeois returned thanks with a heart more content than if kings had dined at his table.
To-day was the day of St. Martin, the anniversary of the death of his wife, who still lived in his memory fresh as upon the day he took her away as his bride from her Norman home. Upon every recurrence of that day, and upon some other special times and holidays, his bounty was doubled, and the Bourgeois made preparations, as he jocularly used to say, “not only for the twelve apostles, but for the seventy disciples as well!”
He had just dressed himself with scrupulous neatness in the fashion of a plain gentleman, as was his wont, without a trace of foppery. With his stout gold-headed cane in his hand, he was descending the stairs to go out as usual to the market, when Dame Rochelle accosted him in the hall.
Her eyes and whole demeanor wore an expression of deep anxiety as the good dame looked up in the face of the Bourgeois.
“Do not go to the market to-day, dear master!” said she, beseechingly; “I have been there myself and have ordered all we need for the due honor of the day.”
“Thanks, good dame, for remembering the blessed anniversary, but you know I am expected in the market. It is one of my special days. Who is to fill the baskets of the poor people who feel a delicacy about coming for alms to the door, unless I go? Charity fulfills its mission best when it respects the misfortune of being poor in the persons of its recipients. I must make my round of the market, good dame.”
“And still, dear master, go not to-day; I never asked you before; I do this time. I fear some evil this morning!”
The Bourgeois looked at her inquiringly. He knew the good dame too well not to be sure she had some weighty reason for her request.
“What particularly moves you to this singular request, Dame Rochelle?” asked he.
“A potent reason, master, but it would not weigh a grain with you as with me. There is this morning a wild spirit afloat,--people's minds have been excited by a sermon from one of the college fathers. The friends of the Intendant are gathered in force, they say, to clear the market of the Honnêtes Gens. A disturbance is impending. That, master, is one reason. My other is a presentiment that some harm will befall you if you go to the market in the midst of such excitement.”
“Thanks, good dame,” replied the Bourgeois calmly, “both for your information and your presentiment; but they only furnish an additional reason why I should go to try to prevent any disturbance among my fellow-citizens.”
“Still, master, you see not what I see, and hear not what I hear, and would not believe it did I tell you! I beseech you, go not to-day!” exclaimed she imploringly, clasping her hands in the eagerness of her appeal.
“Good dame,” replied he, “I deeply respect your solicitude, but I could not, without losing all respect for myself as a gentleman, stay away out of any consideration of impending danger. I should esteem it my duty all the more to go, if there be danger, which I cannot believe.”
“Oh, that Pierre were here to accompany you! But at least take some servants with you, master,” implored the dame, persisting in her request.
“Good dame, I cannot consult fear when I have duty to perform; besides, I am in no danger. I have enemies enough, I know; but he would be a bold man who would assail the Bourgeois Philibert in the open market-place of Quebec.”
“Yet there may be such a bold man, master,” replied she. “There are many such men who would consider they did the Intendant and themselves good service by compassing your destruction!”
“May be so, dame; but I should be a mark of scorn for all men if I evaded a duty, small or great, through fear of the Intendant or any of his friends.”
“I knew my appeal would be in vain, master, but forgive my anxiety. God help you! God defend you!”
She looked at him fixedly for a moment. He saw her features were quivering with emotion and her eyes filled with tears.
“Good dame,” said he kindly, taking her hand, “I respect your motives, and will so far show my regard for your forecast of danger as to take my sword, which, after a good conscience, is the best friend a gentleman can have to stand by him in peril. Please bring it to me.”
“Willingly, master, and may it be like the sword of the cherubim, to guard and protect you to-day!”
She went into the great hall for the rapier of the Bourgeois, which he only wore on occasions of full dress and ceremony. He took it smilingly from her hand, and, throwing the belt over his shoulder, bade Dame Rochelle good-by, and proceeded to the market.
The dame looked earnestly after him until he turned the corner of the great Cathedral, when, wiping her eyes, she went into the house and sat down pensively for some minutes.
“Would that Pierre had not gone to St. Ann's to-day!” cried she. “My master! my noble, good master! I feel there is evil abroad for him in the market to-day.” She turned, as was her wont in time of trouble, to the open Bible that ever lay upon her table, and sought strength in meditation upon its sacred pages.
There was much stir in the market when the Bourgeois began his accustomed walk among the stalls, stopping to converse with such friends as he met, and especially with the poor and infirm, who did not follow him--he hated to be followed,--but who stood waiting his arrival at certain points which he never failed to pass. The Bourgeois knew that his poor almsmen would be standing there, and he would no more avoid them than he would avoid the Governor.
A group of girls very gaily dressed loitered through the market, purchasing bouquets of the last of autumnal flowers, and coquetting with the young men of fashion who chose the market-place for their morning promenade, and who spent their smiles and wit freely, and sometimes their money, upon the young ladies they expected to find there.
This morning the Demoiselles Grandmaison and Hebert were cheapening immortelles and dry flowers to decorate their winter vases,--a pleasant fashion, not out of date in the city at the present day.
The attention of these young ladies was quite as much taken up with the talk of their cavaliers as with their bargaining when a quick exclamation greeted them from a lady on horseback, accompanied by the Chevalier de Pean. She drew bridle sharply in front of the group, and leaning down from her saddle gave her hand to the ladies, bidding them good morning in a cheery voice which there was no mistaking, although her face was invisible behind her veil. It was Angélique des Meloises, more gay and more fascinating than ever.
She noticed two gentlemen in the group. “Oh, pardon me, Messieurs Le Mercier and d'Estebe!” said she. “I did not perceive you. My veil is so in the way!” She pushed it aside coquettishly, and gave a finger to each of the gentlemen, who returned her greeting with extreme politeness.
“Good morning! say you, Angélique?” exclaimed Mademoiselle Hebert; “it is a good noon. You have slept rarely! How bright and fresh you look, darling!”
“Do I not!” laughed Angélique in reply. “It is the morning air and a good conscience make it! Are you buying flowers? I have been to Sillery for mine!” said she, patting her blooming cheeks with the end of her riding-whip. She had no time for further parley, for her attention was suddenly directed by De Pean to some stir upon the other side of the market, with an invitation to her to ride over and see what was the matter. Angélique at once wheeled her horse to accompany De Pean.
The group of girls felt themselves eclipsed and overborne by the queenly airs of Angélique, and were glad when she moved off, fearing that by some adroit manoeuvre she would carry off their cavaliers. It needed but a word, as they knew, to draw them all after her.
Angélique, under the lead of De Pean, rode quickly towards the scene of confusion, where men were gesticulating fiercely and uttering loud, angry words such as usually precede the drawing of swords and the rush of combatants.
To her surprise, she recognized Le Gardeur de Repentigny, very drunk and wild with anger, in the act of leaping off his horse with oaths of vengeance against some one whom she could not distinguish in the throng.
Le Gardeur had just risen from the gaming-table, where he had been playing all night. He was maddened with drink and excited by great losses, which in his rage he called unfair.
Colonel St. Remy had rooked him at piquet, he said, and refused him the chance of an honorable gamester to win back some part of his losses. His antagonist had left the Palace like a sneak, and he was riding round the city to find him, and horsewhip him if he would not fight like a gentleman.
Le Gardeur was accompanied by the Sieur de Lantagnac, who, by splendid dissipation, had won his whole confidence. Le Gardeur, when drunk, thought the world did not contain a finer fellow than Lantagnac, whom he thoroughly despised when sober.
At a hint from De Pean, the Sieur de Lantagnac had clung to Le Gardeur that morning like his shadow, had drunk with him again and again, exciting his wrath against St. Remy; but apparently keeping his own head clear enough for whatever mischief De Pean had put into it.
They rode together to the market-place, hearing that St. Remy was at the sermon. Their object, as Le Gardeur believed, was to put an unpardonable insult upon St. Remy, by striking him with his whip and forcing him to fight a duel with Le Gardeur or his friend. The reckless De Lantagnac asserted loudly, he “did not care a straw which!”
Le Gardeur and De Lantagnac rode furiously through the market, heedless of what they encountered or whom they ran over, and were followed by a yell of indignation from the people, who recognized them as gentlemen of the Grand Company.
It chanced that at that moment a poor almsman of the Bourgeois Philibert was humbly and quietly leaning on his crutches, listening with bowing head and smiling lips to the kind inquiries of his benefactor as he received his accustomed alms.
De Lantagnac rode up furiously, followed by Le Gardeur. De Lantagnac recognized the Bourgeois, who stood in his way talking to the crippled soldier. He cursed him between his teeth, and lashed his horse with intent to ride him down as if by accident.
The Bourgeois saw them approach and motioned them to stop, but in vain. The horse of De Lantagnac just swerved in its course, and without checking his speed ran over the crippled man, who instantly rolled in the dust, his face streaming with blood from a sharp stroke of the horse's shoe upon his forehead.
Immediately following De Lantagnac came Le Gardeur, lashing his horse and yelling like a demon to all to clear the way.
The Bourgeois was startled at this new danger, not to himself,--he thought not of himself,--but to the bleeding man lying prostrate upon the ground. He sprang forward to prevent Le Gardeur's horse going over him.
He did not, in the haste and confusion of the moment, recognize Le Gardeur, who, inflamed with wine and frantic with passion, was almost past recognition by any who knew him in his normal state. Nor did Le Gardeur, in his frenzy, recognize the presence of the Bourgeois, whose voice calling him by name, with an appeal to his better nature, would undoubtedly have checked his headlong career.
The moment was critical. It was one of those points of time where the threads of many lives and many destinies cross and intersect each other, and thence part different ways, leading to life or death, happiness or despair, forever!
Le Gardeur spurred his horse madly over the wounded man who lay upon the ground; but he did not hear him, he did not see him. Let it be said for Le Gardeur, if aught can be said in his defence, he did not see him. His horse was just about to trample upon the prostrate cripple lying in the dust, when his bridle was suddenly and firmly seized by the hand of the Bourgeois, and his horse wheeled round with such violence that, rearing back upon his haunches, he almost threw his rider headlong.
Le Gardeur, not knowing the reason of this sudden interference, and flaming with wrath, leaped to the ground just at the moment when Angélique and De Pean rode up. Le Gardeur neither knew nor cared at that moment who his antagonist was; he saw but a bold, presumptuous man who had seized his bridle, and whom it was his desire to punish on the spot.
De Pean recognized the stately figure and fearless look of the Bourgeois confronting Le Gardeur. The triumph of the Friponne was at hand. De Pean rubbed his hands with ecstasy as he called out to Le Gardeur, his voice ringing above the din of the crowd, “Achevez-le! Finish him, Le Gardeur!”
Angélique sat upon her horse fixed as a statue and as pale as marble, not at the danger of the Bourgeois, whom she at once recognized, but out of fear for her lover, exposed to the menaces of the crowd, who were all on the side of the Bourgeois.
Le Gardeur leaped down from his horse and advanced with a terrible imprecation upon the Bourgeois, and struck him with his whip. The brave old merchant had the soul of a marshal of France. His blood boiled at the insult; he raised his staff to ward off a second blow and struck Le Gardeur sharply upon the wrist, making his whip fly out of his hand. Le Gardeur instantly advanced again upon him, but was pressed back by the habitans, who rushed to the defence of the Bourgeois. Then came the tempter to his ear,--a word or two, and the fate of many innocent lives was decided in a moment!
Le Gardeur suddenly felt a hand laid upon his shoulder, and heard a voice, a woman's voice, speaking to him in passionate tones.
Angélique had forced her horse into the thick of the crowd. She was no longer calm, nor pale with apprehension, but her face was flushed redder than fire, and her eyes, those magnetic orbs which drove men mad, blazed upon Le Gardeur with all their terrible influence. She had seen him struck by the Bourgeois, and her anger was equal to his own.
De Pean saw the opportunity.
“Angélique,” exclaimed he, “the Bourgeois strikes Le Gardeur! What an outrage! Can you bear it?”
“Never!” replied she; “neither shall Le Gardeur!”
With a plunge of her horse she forced her way close to Le Gardeur, and, leaning over him, laid her hand upon his shoulder and exclaimed in a voice choking with passion,-- “Comment, Le Gardeur! vous souffrez qu'un Malva comme ça vous abîme de coups, et vous portez l'épée!” “What, Le Gardeur! you allow a ruffian like that to load you with blows, and you wear a sword!”
It was enough! That look, that word, would have made Le Gardeur slaughter his father at that moment.
Astonished at the sight of Angélique, and maddened by her words as much as by the blow he had received, Le Gardeur swore he would have revenge upon the spot. With a wild cry and the strength and agility of a panther he twisted himself out of the grasp of the habitans, and drawing his sword, before any man could stop him, thrust it to the hilt through the body of the Bourgeois, who, not expecting this sudden assault, had not put himself in an attitude of defense to meet it.
The Bourgeois fell dying by the side of the bleeding man who had just received his alms, and in whose protection he had thus risked and lost his own life.
“Bravo, Le Gardeur!” exclaimed De Pean; “that was the best stroke ever given in New France. The Golden Dog is done for, and the Bourgeois has paid his debt to the Grand Company.”
Le Gardeur looked up wildly. “Who is he, De Pean?” exclaimed he. “What man have I killed?”
“The Bourgeois Philibert, who else?” shouted De Pean with a tone of exultation.
Le Gardeur uttered a wailing cry, “The Bourgeois Philibert! have I slain the Bourgeois Philibert? De Pean lies, Angélique,” said he, suddenly turning to her. “I would not kill a sparrow belonging to the Bourgeois Philibert! Oh, tell me De Pean lies.”
“De Pean does not lie, Le Gardeur,” answered she, frightened at his look. “The Bourgeois struck you first. I saw him strike you first with his staff. You are a gentleman and would kill the King if he struck you like a dog with his staff. Look where they are lifting him up. You see it is the Bourgeois and no other.”
Le Gardeur gave one wild look and recognized the well-known form and features of the Bourgeois. He threw his sword on the ground, exclaiming, “Oh! oh! unhappy man that I am! It is parricide! parricide! to have slain the father of my brother Pierre! Oh, Angélique des Meloises! you made me draw my sword, and I knew not who it was or what I did!”
“I told you, Le Gardeur, and you are angry with me. But see! hark! what a tumult is gathering; we must get out of this throng or we shall all be killed as well as the Bourgeois. Fly, Le Gardeur, fly! Go to the Palace!”
“To hell sooner! Never shall the Palace see me again!” exclaimed he madly. “The people shall kill me if they will, but save yourself, Angélique. De Pean, lead her instantly away from this cursed spot, or all the blood is not spilt that will be spilt to-day. This is of your contriving, De Pean,” cried he, looking savagely, as if about to spring upon him.
“You would not harm me or her, Le Gardeur?” interrupted De Pean, turning pale at his fierce look.
“Harm her, you fool, no! but I will harm you if you do not instantly take her away out of this tumult. I must see the Bourgeois. Oh God, if he be dead!”
A great cry now ran through the market-place: “The Bourgeois is killed. The Grand Company have assassinated the Bourgeois.” Men ran up from every side shouting and gesticulating. The news spread like wild-fire through the city, and simultaneously a yell for vengeance rose from the excited multitude.
The Recollet Brother Daniel had been the first to fly to the help of the Bourgeois. His gray robe presently was dyed red with the blood of the best friend and protector of their monastery. But death was too quick for even one prayer to be heard or uttered by the dying man.
The gray Brother made the sign of the cross upon the forehead of the Bourgeois, who opened his eyes once for a moment, and looked in the face of the good friar while his lips quivered with two inarticulate words, “Pierre! Amélie!” That was all. His brave eyes closed again forever from the light of the sun. The good Bourgeois Philibert was dead.
“'Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord,'” repeated the Recollet. “'Even so, saith the Spirit, for they rest from their labors.'”
De Pean had foreseen the likelihood of a popular commotion. He was ready to fly on the instant, but could not prevail on Angélique to leave Le Gardeur, who was kneeling down by the side of the Bourgeois, lifting him in his arms and uttering the wildest accents of grief as he gazed upon the pallid, immovable face of the friend of his youth.
“That is the assassin, and the woman, too,” cried a sturdy habitan. “I heard her bid him draw his sword upon the Bourgeois.”
The crowd for the moment believed that De Pean had been the murderer of Philibert.
“No, not he; it was the other. It was the officer who dismounted,--the drunken officer. Who was he? Where is he?” cried the habitan, forcing his way into the presence of Le Gardeur, who was still kneeling by the side of the Bourgeois and was not seen for a few moments; but quickly he was identified.
“That is he!” cried a dozen voices. “He is looking if he has killed him, by God!”
A number of men rushed upon Le Gardeur, who made no defence, but continued kneeling beside the Recollet Brother Daniel over the body of the Bourgeois. He was instantly seized by some of the crowd. He held out his hands and bade them take him prisoner or kill him on the spot, if they would, for it was he who had killed the Bourgeois.
Half a dozen swords were instantly drawn as if to take him at his word, when the terrible shrieks of Angélique pierced every ear. The crowd turned in astonishment to see who it was on horseback that cried so terribly, “Do not kill him! Do not kill Le Gardeur de Repentigny!” She called several citizens by name and entreated them to help to save him.
By her sudden interference Angélique caused a diversion in the crowd. Le Gardeur rose up to his feet, and many persons recognized him with astonishment and incredulity, for no one could believe that he had killed the good Bourgeois, who was known to have been the warm friend of the whole family of De Repentigny.
De Pean, taking advantage of the sudden shift of feeling in the crowd and anxious for the safety of Angélique, seized the bridle of her horse to drag her forcibly out of the press, telling her that her words had been heard and in another instant the whole mob would turn its fury upon her, and in order to save her life she must fly.
“I will not fly, De Pean. You may fly yourself, for you are a coward. They are going to kill Le Gardeur, and I will not forsake him. They shall kill me first.”
“But you must! You shall fly! Hark! Le Gardeur is safe for the present. Wheel your horse around, and you will see him standing up yonder quite safe! The crowd rather believe it was I who killed the Bourgeois, and not Le Gardeur! I have a soul and body to be saved as well as he!”
“Curse you, soul and body, De Pean! You made me do it! You put those hellish words in my mouth! I will not go until I see Le Gardeur safe!”
Angélique endeavored frantically to approach Le Gardeur, and could not, but as she looked over the surging heads of the people she could see Le Gardeur standing up, surrounded by a ring of agitated men who did not appear, however, to threaten him with any injury,--nay, looked at him more with wonder and pity than with menace of injury.
He was a prisoner, but Angélique did not know it or she would not have left him. As it was, urged by the most vehement objurgations of De Pean, and seeing a portion of the crowd turning their furious looks towards herself as she sat upon her horse, unable either to go or stay, De Pean suddenly seized her rein, and spurring his own horse, dragged her furiously in spite of herself out of the tumult. They rode headlong to the casernes of the Regiment of Béarn, where they took refuge for the moment from the execrations of the populace.
The hapless Le Gardeur became suddenly sobered and conscious of the enormity of his act. He called madly for death from the raging crowd. He held out his hands for chains to bind a murderer, as he called himself! But no one would strike him or offer to bind him. The wrath of the people was so mingled with blank astonishment at his demeanor, his grief and his despair were so evidently genuine and so deep, that many said he was mad, and more an object of pity than of punishment.
At his own reiterated command, he was given over to the hands of some soldiers and led off, followed by a great crowd of people, to the main guard of the Castle of St. Louis, where he was left a prisoner, while another portion of the multitude gathered about the scene of the tragedy, surrounded the body of the Bourgeois, which was lifted off the ground and borne aloft on men's shoulders, followed by wild cries and lamentations to the House of the Golden Dog,--the house which he had left but half an hour before, full of life, vigor and humanity, looking before and after as a strong man looks who has done his duty, and who feels still able to take the world upon his shoulders and carry it, if need were.
The sad procession moved slowly on amid the pressing, agitated crowd, which asked and answered a hundred eager questions in a breath. The two poor Recollet brothers, Daniel and Ambrose, walked side by side before the bleeding corpse of their friend, and stifled their emotions by singing, in a broken voice that few heard but themselves, the words of the solitary hymn of St. Francis d'Assisi, the founder of their order: “Praised be the Lord, by our sweet sister Death, From whom no man escapes, howe'er he try! Woe to all those who yield their parting breath In mortal sin! But blessed those who die Doing thy will in that decisive hour! The second death o'er such shall have no power. Praise, blessing, and thanksgiving to my Lord! For all He gives and takes be He adored!”
Dame Rochelle heard the approaching noise and tumult. She looked out of the window and could see the edge of the crowd in the market-place tossing to and fro like breakers upon a rocky shore. The people in the streets were hurrying towards the market. Swarms of men employed in the magazines of the Bourgeois were running out of the edifice towards the same spot.
The dame divined at once that something had happened to her master. She uttered a fervent prayer for his safety. The noise grew greater, and as she reached out of the window to demand of passers-by what was the matter, a voice shouted up that the Bourgeois was dead; that he had been killed by the Grand Company, and they were bringing him home.
The voice passed on, and no one but God heeded the long wail of grief that rose from the good dame as she fell upon her knees in the doorway, unable to proceed further. She preserved her consciousness, however.
The crowd now swarmed in the streets about the doors of the house. Presently were heard the shuffling steps of a number of men in the great hall, bearing the body of the Bourgeois into the large room where the sunshine was playing so gloriously.
The crowd, impelled by a feeling of reverence, stood back; only a few ventured to come into the house.
The rough habitans who brought him in laid him upon a couch and gazed for some moments in silent awe upon the noble features, so pale and placid, which now lay motionless before them.
Here was a man fit to rule an empire, and who did rule the half of New France, who was no more now, save in the love and gratitude of the people, than the poorest piece of human clay in the potter's field. The great leveller had passed his rule over him as he passes it over every one of us. The dead lion was less now than the living dog, and the Golden Dog itself was henceforth only a memory, and an epitaph forever of the tragedy of this eventful day.
“Oh, my master! my good, noble master!” exclaimed Dame Rochelle as she roused herself up and rushed to the chamber of the dead. “Your implacable enemies have killed you at last! I knew it! Oh, I knew that your precious life would one day pay the penalty of your truth and justice! And Pierre! Oh, where is he on this day of all days of grief and sorrow?”
She wrung her hands at the thought of Pierre's absence to-day, and what a welcome home awaited him.
The noise and tumult in the street continued to increase. The friends of the Bourgeois poured into the house, among them the Governor and La Corne St. Luc, who came with anxious looks and hasty steps to inquire into the details of the murder.
The Governor, after a short consultation with La Corne St. Luc, who happened to be at the Castle, fearing a riot and an attack upon the magazines of the Grand Company, ordered the troops immediately under arms and despatched strong detachments under the command of careful and trusty officers to the Palace of the Intendant, and the great warehouse of the Friponne, and also into the market-place, and to the residence of the Lady de Tilly, not knowing in what direction the fury of the populace might direct itself.
The orders were carried out in a few minutes without noise or confusion. The Count, with La Corne St. Luc, whose countenance bore a concentration of sorrow and anger wonderful to see, hastened down to the house of mourning. Claude Beauharnais and Rigaud de Vaudreuil followed hastily after them. They pushed through the crowd that filled the Rue Buade, and the people took off their hats, while the air resounded with denunciations of the Friponne and appeals for vengeance upon the assassin of the Bourgeois.
The Governor and his companions were moved to tears at the sight of their murdered friend lying in his bloody vesture, which was open to enable the worthy Dr. Gauthier, who had run in all haste, to examine the still oozing wound. The Recollet Brother Daniel still knelt in silent prayer at his feet, while Dame Rochelle with trembling hands arranged the drapery decently over her dead master, repeating to herself: “It is the end of trouble, and God has mercifully taken him away before he empties the vials of his wrath upon this New France, and gives it up for a possession to our enemies! What says the prophet? 'The righteous perisheth and no man layeth it to heart, and merciful men are taken away, none considering that the righteous are taken away from the evil to come!'”
The very heart of La Corne St. Luc seemed bursting in his bosom, and he choked with agony as he placed his hand upon the forehead of his friend, and reflected that the good Bourgeois had fallen by the sword of his godson, the old man's pride,--Le Gardeur de Repentigny!
“Had death come to him on the broad, common road of mortality,--had he died like a soldier on the battlefield,” exclaimed La Corne, “I would have had no spite at fate. But to be stabbed in the midst of his good deeds of alms, and by the hand of one whom he loved! Yes, by God! I will say it! and by one who loved him! Oh, it is terrible, Count! Terrible and shameful to me as if it had been the deed of my own son!”
“La Corne, I feel with you the grief and shame of such a tragedy. But there is a fearful mystery in this thing which we cannot yet unravel. They say the Chevalier de Pean dropped an expression that sounded like a plot. I cannot think Le Gardeur de Repentigny would deliberately and with forethought have killed the Bourgeois.”
“On my life he never would! He respected the Bourgeois, nay, loved him, for the sake of Pierre Philibert as well as for his own sake. Terrible as is his crime, he never committed it out of malice aforethought. He has been himself the victim of some hellish plot,--for a plot there has been. This has been no chance melee, Count,” exclaimed La Corne St. Luc impetuously.
“It looks like a chance melee, but I suspect more than appears on the surface,” replied the Governor. “The removal of the Bourgeois decapitates the party of the Honnêtes Gens, does it not?”
“Gospel is not more true! The Bourgeois was the only merchant in New France capable of meeting their monopoly and fighting them with their own weapons. Bigot and the Grand Company will have everything their own way now.”
“Besides, there was the old feud of the Golden Dog,” continued the Governor. “Bigot took its allusion to the Cardinal as a personal insult to himself, did he not, La Corne?”
“Yes; and Bigot knew he deserved it equally with his Eminence, whose arch-tool he had been,” replied La Corne. “By God! I believe Bigot has been at the bottom of this plot. It would be worthy of his craft.”
“These are points to be considered, La Corne. But such is the secrecy of these men's councils, that I doubt we may suspect more than we shall ever be able to prove.” The Governor looked much agitated.
“What amazes me, Count, is not that the thing should be done, but that Le Gardeur should have done it!” exclaimed La Corne, with a puzzled expression.
“That is the strangest circumstance of all, La Corne,” observed the Governor. “The same thought has struck me. But he was mad with wine, they say; and men who upset their reason do not seldom reverse their conduct towards their friends; they are often cruelest to those whom they love best.”
“I will not believe but that he was made drunk purposely to commit this crime!” exclaimed La Corne, striking his hand upon his thigh. “Le Gardeur in his senses would have lost his right hand sooner than have raised it against the Bourgeois.”
“I feel sure of it; his friendship for Pierre Philibert, to whom he owed his life, was something rarely seen now-a-days,” remarked the Count.
La Corne felt a relief in bearing testimony in favor of Le Gardeur. “They loved one another like brothers,” said he, “and more than brothers. Bigot had corrupted the habits, but could never soil the heart or lessen the love of Le Gardeur for Pierre Philibert, or his respect for the Bourgeois, his father.”
“It is a mystery, La Corne; I cannot fathom it. But there is one more danger to guard against,” said the Governor meditatively, “and we have sorrow enough already among our friends.”
“What is that, Count?” La Corne stood up erect as if in mental defiance of a new danger.
“Pierre Philibert will return home to-night,” replied the Governor; “he carries the sharpest sword in New France. A duel between him and Le Gardeur would crown the machinations of the secret plotters in this murder. He will certainly avenge his father's death, even upon Le Gardeur.”
La Corne St. Luc started at this suggestion, but presently shook his head. “My life upon it,” said he, “Le Gardeur would stand up to receive the sword of Pierre through his heart, but he would never fight him! Besides, the unhappy boy is a prisoner.”
“We will care well for him and keep him safe. He shall have absolute justice, La Corne, but no favor.”
An officer entered the room to report to the Governor that the troops had reached their assigned posts, and that there was no symptom of rioting among the people in any quarter of the city.
The Governor was greatly relieved by these tidings. “Now, La Corne,” said he, “we have done what is needful for the public. I can spare you, for I know where your heart yearns most to go, to offer the consolations of a true friend.”
“Alas, yes,” replied La Corne sadly. “Men weep tears of water, but women tears of blood! What is our hardest grief compared with the overwhelming sorrow and desolation that will pass over my poor goddaughter, Amélie de Repentigny, and the noble Lady de Tilly at this doleful news?”
“Go comfort them, La Corne, and the angel of consolation go with you!” The Governor shook him by the hand and wished him Godspeed.
La Corne St. Luc instantly left the house. The crowd uncovered and made way for him as they would have done for the Governor himself, as with hasty strides he passed up the Rue du Fort and on towards the Cape, where stood the mansion of the Lady de Tilly.
“Oh, Rigaud, what a day of sorrow this is!” exclaimed the Governor to De Vaudreuil, on their return to the Castle of St. Louis. “What a bloody and disgraceful event to record in the annals of New France!”
“I would give half I have in the world could it be forever blotted out,” replied De Vaudreuil. “Your friend, Herr Kalm, has left us, fortunately, before he could record in his book, for all Europe to read, that men are murdered in New France to sate the vengeance of a Royal Intendant and fill the purses of the greatest company of thieves that ever plundered a nation.”
“Hark, Rigaud! do not say such things,” interrupted the Governor; “I trust it is not so bad as that; but it shall be seen into, if I remain Governor of New France. The blood of the noble Bourgeois shall be requited at the hands of all concerned in his assassination. The blame of it shall not rest wholly upon that unhappy Le Gardeur. We will trace it up to its very origin and fountain-head.”
“Right, Count; you are true as steel. But mark me! if you begin to trace this assassination up to its origin and fountain-head, your letters of recall will be despatched by the first ship that leaves France after the news reaches Versailles.” Rigaud looked fixedly at the Count as he said this.
“It may be so, Rigaud,” replied the Count, sadly; “strange things take place under the régime of the strange women who now rule the Court. Nevertheless, while I am here my whole duty shall be done. In this matter justice shall be meted out with a firm and impartial hand, no matter who shall be incriminated!”
The Count de la Galissonière at once summoned a number of his most trusted and most sagacious councillors together--the Intendant was not one of those summoned--to consider what steps it behooved them to take to provide for the public safety and to ensure the ends of justice in this lamentable tragedy.
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{
"id": "2735"
}
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51
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EVIL NEWS RIDES POST.
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The sunbeams never shone more golden through the casement of a lady's bower than on that same morning of St. Martin's through the window of the chamber of Amélie de Repentigny, as she sat in the midst of a group of young ladies holding earnest council over the dresses and adornments of herself and companions, who were to be her bridesmaids on her marriage with Pierre Philibert.
Amélie had risen from pleasant dreams. The tender flush of yesterday's walk on the banks of the Lairet lingered on her cheek all night long, like the rosy tint of a midsummer's sunset. The loving words of Pierre floated through her memory like a strain of divine music, with the sweet accompaniment of her own modest confessions of love, which she had so frankly expressed.
Amélie's chamber was vocal with gaiety and laughter; for with her to-day were the chosen friends and lifelong companions who had ever shared her love and confidence.
These were, Hortense Beauharnais, happy also in her recent betrothal to Jumonville de Villiers; Héloise de Lotbinière, so tenderly attached to Amélie, and whom of all her friends Amélie wanted most to call by the name of sister; Agathe, the fair daughter of La Corne St. Luc, so like her father in looks and spirit; and Amélie's cousin, Marguerite de Repentigny, the reflection of herself in feature and manners.
There was rich material in that chamber for the conversation of such a group of happy girls. The bridal trousseau was spread out before them, and upon chairs and couches lay dresses of marvellous fabric and beauty,--muslins and shawls of India and Cashmere, and the finest products of the looms of France and Holland. It was a trousseau fit for a queen, and an evidence at once of the wealth of the Lady de Tilly and of her unbounded love for her niece, Amélie. The gifts of Pierre were not mingled with the rest, nor as yet had they been shown to her bridesmaids,--Amélie kept them for a pretty surprise upon another day.
Upon the table stood a golden casket of Venetian workmanship, the carvings of which represented the marriage at Cana in Galilee. It was stored with priceless jewels which dazzled the sight and presented a constellation of starry gems, the like of which had never been seen in the New World. It was the gift of the Bourgeois Philibert, who gave this splendid token of his affection and utter contentment with Amélie as the bride of his son and heir.
The girls were startled in the midst of their preparations by the sudden dashing past of a horseman, who rode in a cloud of dust, followed by a wild, strange cry, as of many people shouting together in lamentation and anger.
Amélie and Héloise looked at each other with a strange feeling, but sat still while the rest rushed to the balcony, where they leaned eagerly over to catch sight of the passing horseman and discover the meaning of the loud and still repeated cry.
The rider had disappeared round the angle of the Cape, but the cry from the city waxed still louder, as if more and more voices joined in it.
Presently men on horseback and on foot were seen hurrying towards the Castle of St. Louis, and one or two shot up the long slope of the Place d'Armes, galloping towards the mansion of the Lady de Tilly, talking and gesticulating in the wildest manner.
“In God's name, what is the matter, Monsieur La Force?” exclaimed Hortense as that gentleman rode furiously up and checked his horse violently at the sight of the ladies upon the balcony.
Hortense repeated her question. La Force took off his hat and looked up, puzzled and distressed. “Is the Lady de Tilly at home?” inquired he eagerly.
“Not just now, she has gone out; but what is the matter, in heaven's name?” repeated she, as another wild cry came up from the city.
“Is Mademoiselle Amélie home?” again asked La Force with agitated voice.
“She is home. Heavens! have you some bad news to tell her or the Lady de Tilly?” breathlessly inquired Hortense.
“Bad news for both of them; for all of us, Hortense. But I will not be the bearer of such terrible tidings,--others are following me; ask them. Oh, Hortense, prepare poor Amélie for the worst news that ever came to her.”
The Sieur La Force would not wait to be further questioned,--he rode off furiously.
The bridesmaids all turned pale with affright at these ominous words, and stood looking at each other and asking what they could mean.
Amélie and Héloise caught some of the conversation between Hortense and La Force. They sprang up and ran to the balcony just as two of the servants of the house came rushing up with open mouths, staring eyes, and trembling with excitement. They did not wait to be asked what was the matter, but as soon as they saw the ladies they shouted out the terrible news, as the manner of their kind is, without a thought of the consequences: that Le Gardeur had just killed the Bourgeois Philibert in the market-place, and was himself either killed or a prisoner, and the people were going to burn the Friponne and hang the Intendant under the tablet of the Golden Dog, and all the city was going to be destroyed.
The servants, having communicated this piece of wild intelligence, instantly rushed into the house and repeated it to the household, filling the mansion in a few moments with shrieks and confusion.
It was in vain Hortense and Agathe La Corne St. Luc strove to withhold the terrible truth from Amélie. Her friends endeavored with kindly force and eager exhortations to prevent her coming to the balcony, but she would not be stayed; in her excitement she had the strength of one of God's angels. She had caught enough of the speech of the servants to gather up its sense into a connected whole, and in a moment of terrible enlightenment, that came like a thunderbolt driven through her soul, she understood the whole significance of their tidings.
Her hapless brother, maddened with disappointment, drink, and desperation, had killed the father of Pierre, the father of her betrothed husband, his own friend and hers; why or how, was a mystery of amazement.
She saw at a glance all the ruin of it. Her brother a murderer, the Bourgeois a bleeding corpse. Pierre, her lover and her pride, lost,--lost to her forever! The blood of his father rising up between them calling for vengeance upon Le Gardeur and invoking a curse upon the whole house of Repentigny.
The heart of Amélie, but a few moments ago expanding with joy and overflowing with the tenderest emotions of a loving bride, suddenly collapsed and shrivelled like a leaf in the fire of this unlooked-for catastrophe.
She stared wildly and imploringly in the countenances of her trembling companions as if for help, but no human help could avail her. She spake not, but uttering one long, agonizing scream, fell senseless upon the bosom of Héloise de Lotbinière, who, herself nigh fainting, bore Amélie with the assistance of her friends to a couch, where she lay unconscious of the tears and wailing that surrounded her.
Marguerite de Repentigny with her weeping companions remained in the chamber of Amélie, watching eagerly for some sign of returning consciousness, and assiduously administering such restoratives as were at hand.
Their patience and tenderness were at last rewarded,--Amélie gave a flutter of reviving life. Her dark eyes opened and stared wildly for a moment at her companions with a blank look, until they rested upon the veil and orange blossoms on the head of Agathe, who had put them on in such a merry mood and forgotten in the sudden catastrophe to take them off again.
The sight of the bridal veil and wreath seemed to rouse Amélie to consciousness. The terrible news of the murder of the Bourgeois by Le Gardeur flashed upon her mind, and she pressed her burning eyelids hard shut with her hands, as if not to see the hideous thought.
Her companions wept, but Amélie found no relief in tears as she murmured the name of the Bourgeois, Le Gardeur, and Pierre.
They spoke softly to her in tones of tenderest sympathy, but she scarcely heeded them, absorbed as she was in deepest despair, and still pressing her eyes shut as if she had done with day and cared no more to see the bright sunshine that streamed through the lattice. The past, present, and future of her whole life started up before her in terrible distinctness, and seemed concentrated in one present spot of mental anguish.
Amélie came of a heroic race, stern to endure pain as to inflict it, capable of unshrinking fortitude and of desperate resolves. A few moments of terrible contemplation decided her forever, changed the whole current of her life, and overthrew as with an earthquake the gorgeous palace of her maiden hopes and long-cherished anticipations of love and happiness as the wife of Pierre Philibert.
She saw it all; there was no room for hope, no chance of averting the fatal doom that had fallen upon her. Her life, as she had long pictured it to her imagination, was done and ended. Her projected marriage with Pierre Philibert? It was like sudden death! In one moment the hand of God had transported her from the living to the dead world of woman's love. A terrible crime had been perpetrated, and she, innocent as she was, must bear the burden of punishment. She had but one object now to live for: to put on sackcloth and ashes, and wear her knees out in prayer before God, imploring forgiveness and mercy upon her unhappy brother, and expiate the righteous blood of the just man who had been slain by him.
She rose hastily and stood up. Her face was beautiful as the face of a marble Niobe, but as pale and as full of anguish.
“My loving bridesmaids,” said she, “it is now all over with poor Amélie de Repentigny; tell Pierre,” and here she sobbed, almost choking in her grief, “tell Pierre not to hate me for this blood that lies on the threshold of our house! Tell him how truly and faithfully I was preparing to devote myself to his happiness as his bride and wife; tell him how I loved him, and I only forsake him because it is the inexorable decree of my sad fate; not my will, but my cruel misfortune. But I know his noble nature; he will pity, not hate me. Tell him it will even rejoice me where I am going to know that Pierre Philibert still loves me. I cannot, dare not ask him to pardon Le Gardeur! I dare not pardon him myself! But I know Pierre will be just and merciful to my poor brother, even in this hour of doom.”
“And now,” continued she, speaking with a terrible energy, “put away these bridal deceits; they will never be worn by me! I have a garb more becoming the bridal of death; more fitting to wear by the sister of--O God! I was going to say, of a murderer!”
Amélie, with a wild desperation, gathered up the gay robes and garlands and threw them in a heap in the corner of the chamber. “My glory is departed!” said she. “Oh, Hortense, I am punished for the pride I took in them! Yet it was not for myself, but for the sake of him, I took pride in them! Bestow them, I pray you, upon some more happy girl, who is poor in fortune, but rich in love, who will wear them at her bridal, instead of the unhappy Amélie.”
The group of girls beheld her, while their eyes were swimming with tears. “I have long, long kept a bridal veil in my closet,” she went on, “and knew not it was to be mine!” Opening a wardrobe, she took out a long black veil. It had belonged to her grandaunt, the nun, Madelaine de Repentigny, and was kept as an heirloom in her family.
“This,” said she, “shall be mine till death! Embrace me, O my sisters, my bridesmaids and companions. I go now to the Ursulines to kneel at the door and crave admittance to pass a life of penitence for Le Gardeur, and of prayer for my beloved Pierre.”
“O Amélie, think what you do!” exclaimed Hortense Beauharnais; “be not hasty, take not a step that cannot be recalled. It will kill Pierre!”
“Alas! I have killed him already!” said she; “but my mind is made up! Dear Hortense, I love Pierre, but oh, I could never look at his face again without shame that would burn like guilt. I give myself henceforth to Christ, not for my own sake, but for his, and for my unhappy brother's! Do not hinder me, dear friends, and do not follow me! May you all be happy in your happiness, and pray for poor Amélie, whom fate has stricken so hard and so cruelly in the very moment of her brightest hopes! And now let me go--alone--and God bless you all! Bid my aunt to come and see me,” added she; “I cannot even wait her return.”
The girls stood weeping around her, and kissed and embraced her over and over. They would not disobey her request to be allowed to go alone to the Convent, but as she turned to depart, she was clasped around the neck by Héloise de Lotbinière, exclaiming that she should not go alone, that the light of the world had gone out for her as well as for Amélie, and she would go with her.
“But why, Héloise, would you go with me to the Convent?” asked Amélie, sadly. She knew but too well why.
“Oh, my cousin! I too would pray for Le Gardeur! I too--but no matter! I will go with you, Amélie! If the door of the Ursulines open for you, it shall open for Héloise de Lotbinière also.”
“I have no right to say nay, Héloise, nor will I,” replied Amélie, embracing her; “you are of my blood and lineage, and the lamp of Repentigny is always burning in the holy chapel to receive broken-hearted penitents like you and me!”
“Oh, Héloise, do not you also leave us! Stay till to-morrow!” exclaimed the agitated girls, amazed at this new announcement.
“My mind is made up; it has long been made up!” replied Héloise. “I only waited the marriage of Amélie before consummating my resolution to enter the convent. I go now to comfort Amélie, as no other friend in the world can comfort her. We shall be more content in the midst of our sorrows to be together.”
It was in vain to plead with or to dissuade them. Amélie and Héloise were inexorable and eager to be gone. They again kissed their companions, with many tears bidding them a last farewell, and the two weeping girls, hiding their heads under their veils, left the bright mansion that was their home, and proceeded with hasty steps towards the Convent of the Ursulines.
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{
"id": "2735"
}
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52
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THE LAMP OF REPENTIGNY.
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Closely veiled, acknowledging no one, looking at no one, and not themselves recognized by any, but clinging to each other for mutual support, Amélie and Héloise traversed swiftly the streets that led to the Convent of the Ursulines.
At the doors, and in the porches and galleries of the old-fashioned houses, women stood in groups, discussing eagerly the wild reports that were flying to and fro through the city, and looking up and down the streets for further news of the tragedy in the market-place. The male part of the population had run off and gathered in excited masses around the mansion of the Golden Dog, which was suddenly shut up, and long streamers of black crape were hanging at the door.
Many were the inquisitive glances and eager whisperings of the good wives and girls as the two ladies, deeply veiled in black, passed by with drooping heads and handkerchiefs pressed against their faces, while more than one quick ear caught the deep, suppressed sobs that broke from their bosoms. No one ventured to address them, however, although their appearance caused no little speculation as to who they were and whither they were going.
Amélie and Héloise, almost fainting under their sorrow, stood upon the broad stone step which formed the threshold that separated the world they were entering into from the world they were leaving.
The high gables and old belfry of the Monastrey stood bathed in sunlight. The figure of St. Joseph that dominated over the ancient portal held out his arms and seemed to welcome the trembling fugitives into the house with a gesture of benediction.
The two ladies paused upon the stone steps. Amélie clasped her arm round Héloise, whom she pressed to her bosom and said, “Think before you knock at this door and cross the threshold for the last time, Héloise! You must not do it for my sake, darling.”
“No, Amélie,” replied she sadly. “It is not wholly for your sake. Would I could say it were! Alas! If I remained in the world, I could even now pity Le Gardeur, and follow him to the world's end; but it must not--cannot be. Do not seek to dissuade me, Amélie, for it is useless.”
“Your mind is made up, then, to go in with me, my Héloise?” said Amélie, with a fond, questioning look.
“Fully, finally, and forever!” replied she, with energy that left no room for doubt. “I long ago resolved to ask the community to let me die with them. My object, dear sister, is like yours: to spend my life in prayers and supplications for Le Gardeur, and be laid, when God calls me to his rest, by the side of our noble aunt, Mère Madelaine de Repentigny, whose lamp still burns in the Chapel of the Saints, as if to light you and me to follow in her footsteps.”
“It is for Le Gardeur's sake I too go,” replied Amélie; “to veil my face from the eyes of a world I am ashamed to see, and to expiate, if I can, the innocent blood that has been shed. But the sun shines very bright for those to whom its beams are still pleasant!” said she, looking around sadly, as if it were for the last time she bade adieu to the sun, which she should never again behold under the free vault of heaven.
Héloise turned slowly to the door of the Convent. “Those golden rays that shine through the wicket,” said she, “and form a cross upon the pavement within, as we often observed with schoolgirl admiration, are the only rays to gladden me now. I care no more for the light of the sun. I will live henceforth in the blessed light of the lamp of Repentigny. My mind is fixed, and I will not leave you, Amélie. 'Where thou goest I will go, where thou lodgest I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.'”
Amélie kissed her cousin tenderly. “So be it, then, Héloise. Your heart is broken as well as mine. We will pray together for Le Gardeur, beseeching God to pity and forgive.”
Amélie knocked at the door twice before a sound of light footsteps was heard within. A veiled nun appeared at the little wicket and looked gravely for a moment upon the two postulantes for admission, repeating the formula usual on such occasions.
“What seek you, my sisters?”
“To come in and find rest, good Mère des Seraphins,” replied Amélie, to whom the portière was well known. “We desire to leave the world and live henceforth with the community in the service and adoration of our blessed Lord, and to pray for the sins of others as well as our own.”
“It is a pious desire, and no one stands at the door and knocks but it is opened. Wait, my sisters, I will summon the Lady Superior to admit you.”
The nun disappeared for a few minutes. Her voice was heard again as she returned to the wicket: “The Lady Superior deputes to Mère Esther the privilege, on this occasion, of receiving the welcome postulantes of the house of Repentigny.”
The portière retired from the wicket. The heavy door swung noiselessly back, opening the way into a small antechamber, floored with smooth flags, and containing a table and a seat or two. On either side of the interior door of the antechamber was a turnstile or tourelle, which enabled the inmates within to receive anything from the outside world without being themselves seen. Amélie and Héloise passed through the inner door, which opened as of its own accord, as they approached it with trembling steps and troubled mien.
A tall nun, of commanding figure but benign aspect, received the two ladies with the utmost affection, as well-known friends.
Mère Esther wore a black robe sweeping the ground. It was bound at the waist by a leathern girdle. A black veil fell on each side of the snowy fillet that covered her forehead, and half covered the white wimple upon her neck and bosom.
At the first sight of the veil thrown over the heads of Amélie and Héloise, and the agitation of both, she knew at once that the time of these two girls, like that of many others, had come. Their arrival was a repetition of the old, old story, of which her long experience had witnessed many instances.
“Good mother,” exclaimed Amélie, throwing her arms around the nun, who folded her tenderly to her bosom, although her face remained calm and passionless, “we are come at last! Héloise and I wish to live and die in the monastery. Good Mother Esther, will you take us in?”
“Welcome both!” replied Mère Esther, kissing each of them on the forehead. “The virgins who enter in with the bridegroom to the marriage are those whose lamps are burning! The lamp of Repentigny is never extinguished in the Chapel of Saints, nor is the door of the monastery ever shut against one of your house.”
“Thanks, good mother! But we bring a heavy burden with us. No one but God can tell the weight and the pain of it!” said Amélie sadly.
“I know, Amélie, I know; but what says our blessed Lord? 'Come unto me all ye that are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.'”
“I seek not rest, good mother,” replied she sadly, “but a place for penance, to melt Heaven with prayers for the innocent blood that has been shed to-day, that it be not recorded forever against my brother. Oh, Mère Esther, you know my brother, Le Gardeur; how generous and kind he was! You have heard of the terrible occurrence in the market-place?”
“Yes, I have heard,” said the nun. “Bad news reaches us ever soonest. It fills me with amazement that one so noble as your brother should have done so terrible a deed.”
“Oh, Mère Esther!” exclaimed Amélie eagerly, “it was not Le Gardeur in his senses who did it. No, he never knowingly struck the blow that has killed me as well as the good Bourgeois! Alas! he knew not what he did. But still he has done it, and my remaining time left on earth must be spent in sackcloth and ashes, beseeching God for pardon and mercy for him.”
“The community will join you in your prayers, Amélie,” replied the Mère.
Esther stood wrapt in thought for a few moments. “Héloise!” said she, addressing the fair cousin of Amélie, “I have long expected you in the monastery. You struggled hard for the world and its delights, but God's hand was stronger than your purposes. When He calls, be it in the darkest night, happy is she who rises instantly to follow her Lord!”
“He has indeed called me, O mother! and I desire only to become a faithful servant of His tabernacle forever. I pray, good Mère Esther, for your intercession with the Mère de la Nativité. The venerable Lady Superior used to say we were dowerless brides, we of the house of Lotbinière.”
“But you shall not be dowerless, Héloise!” burst out Amélie. “You shall enter the convent with as rich a dowry as ever accompanied an Ursuline.”
“No, Amélie; if they will not accept me for myself, I will imitate my aunt, the admirable quêteuse, who, being, like me, a dowerless postulante, begged from house to house throughout the city for the means to open to her the door of the monastery.
“Héloise,” replied Mère Esther, “this is idle fear. We have waited for you, knowing that one day you would come, and you will be most welcome, dowered or not!”
“You are ever kind, Mère Esther, but how could you know I should come to you?” asked Héloise with a look of inquiry.
“Alas, Héloise, we know more of the world and its doings than is well for us. Our monastery is like the ear of Dionysius: not a whisper in the city escapes it. Oh, darling, we knew you had failed in your one great desire upon earth, and that you would seek consolation where it is only to be found, in the arms of your Lord.”
“It is true, mother; I had but one desire upon earth, and it is crushed; one little bird that nestled a while in my bosom, and it has flown away. The event of to-day has stricken me and Amélie alike, and we come together to wear out the stones of your pavement praying for the hapless brother of Amélie.”
“And the object of Héloise's faithful love!” replied the nun with tender sympathy. “Oh! how could Le Gardeur de Repentigny refuse a heart like yours, Héloise, for the sake of that wild daughter of levity, Angélique des Meloises?
“But come, I will conduct you to the venerable Lady Superior, who is in the garden conversing with Grand'mère St. Pierre, and your old friend and mistress, Mère Ste. Helène.”
The news of the tragedy in the market-place had been early carried to the Convent by the ubiquitous Bonhomme Michael, who was out that day on one of his multifarious errands in the service of the community.
The news had passed quickly through the Convent, agitating the usually quiet nuns, and causing the wildest commotion among the classes of girls, who were assembled at their morning lessons in the great schoolroom. The windows were clustered with young, comely heads, looking out in every direction, while nuns in alarm streamed from the long passages to the lawn, where sat the venerable Superior, Mère Migeon de la Nativité, under a broad ash-tree, sacred to the Convent by the memories that clustered around it. The Ste. Therèse of Canada, Mère Marie de l'Incarnation, for lack of a better roof, in the first days of her mission, used to gather around her under that tree the wild Hurons as well as the young children of the colonists, to give them their first lessons in religion and letters.
Mère Esther held up her finger warningly to the nuns not to speak, as she passed onward through the long corridors, dim with narrow lights and guarded by images of saints, until she came into an open square flagged with stones. In the walls of this court a door opened upon the garden into which a few steps downwards conducted them.
The garden of the monastery was spacious and kept with great care. The walks meandered around beds of flowers, and under the boughs of apple-trees, and by espaliers of ancient pears and plums.
The fruit had long been gathered in, and only a few yellow leaves hung upon the autumnal trees, but the grass was still green on the lawn where stood the great ash-tree of Mère Marie de l'Incarnation. The last hardy flowers of autumn lingered in this sheltered spot.
In these secluded alleys the quiet recluses usually walked and meditated in peace, for here man's disturbing voice was never heard.
But to-day a cluster of agitated nuns gathered around the great ash-tree, and here and there stood groups of black and white veils; some were talking, while others knelt silently before the guardian of the house, the image of St. Joseph, which overlooked this spot, considered particularly sacred to prayer and meditation.
The sight of Mère Esther, followed by the well-known figures of Amélie and Héloise, caused every head to turn with a look of recognition; but the nuns were too well disciplined to express either surprise or curiosity in the presence of Mère Migeon, however much they felt of both. They stood apart at a sign from the Lady Superior, leaving her with a nun attendant on each side to receive Mère Esther and her two companions.
Mère Migeon de la Nativité was old in years, but fresh in looks and alert in spirit. Her features were set in that peculiar expression of drooping eyelids and placid lips which belongs to the Convent, but she could look up and flash out on occasion with an air of command derived from high birth and a long exercise of authority as Superior of the Ursulines, to which office the community had elected her as many trienniums as their rules permitted.
Mère Migeon had been nearly half a century a nun, and felt as much pride as humility in the reflection. She liked power, which, however, she exercised wholly for the benefit of her subjects in the Convent, and wore her veil with as much dignity as the Queen her crown. But, if not exempt from some traces of human infirmity, she made amends by devoting herself night and day to the spiritual and temporal welfare of the community, who submitted to her government with extreme deference and unquestioning obedience.
Mère Migeon had directed the two sorrowing ladies to be brought into the garden, where she would receive them under the old tree of Mère Marie de l'Incarnation.
She rose with affectionate eagerness as they entered, and embraced them one after the other, kissing them on the cheek; “her little prodigals returning to the house of their father and mother, after feeding on the husks of vanity in the gay world which was never made for them.”
“We will kill the fatted calf in honor of your return, Amélie. Will we not, Mère Esther?” said the Lady Superior, addressing Amélie rather than Héloise.
“Not for me, reverend Mère; you shall kill no fatted calf, real or symbolical, for me!” exclaimed Amélie. “I come only to hide myself in your cloister, to submit myself to your most austere discipline. I have given up all. Oh, my Mère, I have given up all! None but God can know what I have given up forever!”
“You were to have married the son of the Bourgeois, were you not, Amélie?” asked the Superior, who, as the aunt of Varin, and by family ties connected with certain leading spirits of the Grand Company, had no liking for the Bourgeois Philibert; her feelings, too, had been wrought upon by a recital of the sermon preached in the marketplace that morning.
“Oh, speak not of it, good Mère! I was betrothed to Pierre Philibert, and how am I requiting his love? I should have been his wife, but for this dreadful deed of my brother. The Convent is all that is left to me now.”
“Your aunt called herself the humble handmaid of Mary, and the lamp of Repentigny will burn all the brighter trimmed by a daughter of her noble house,” answered Mère Migeon.
“By two daughters, good Mere! Héloise is equally a daughter of our house,” replied Amélie, with a touch of feeling.
Mère Esther whispered a few words in the ear of the Superior, advising her to concede every request of Amélie and Héloise, and returned to the wicket to answer some other hasty call from the troubled city.
Messengers despatched by Bonhomme Michael followed one another at short intervals, bringing to the Convent exact details of all that occurred in the streets, with the welcome tidings at last that the threatened outbreak had been averted by the prompt interposition of the Governor and troops. Comparative quietness again reigned in every quarter of the city.
Le Gardeur de Repentigny had voluntarily surrendered himself to the guard and given up his sword, being overwhelmed with remorse for his act. He had been placed, not in irons as he had demanded, but as a prisoner in the strong ward of the Castle of St. Louis.
“I pray you, reverend Mère Superior,” said Amélie, “permit us now to go into the Chapel of Saints to lay our hearts, as did our kinswoman, Madelaine de Repentigny, at the feet of our Lady of Grand Pouvoir.”
“Go, my children, and our prayers shall go with you,” replied the Superior; “the lamp of Repentigny will burn brighter than ever to-night to welcome you.”
The Chapel of Saints was held in reverence as the most sacred place in the monastery. It contained the shrines and relics of many saints and martyrs. The devout nuns lavished upon it their choicest works of embroidery, painting, and gilding, in the arts of which they were eminent. The old Sacristaine was kneeling before the altar as Amélie and Héloise entered the Chapel.
An image of the Virgin occupied a niche in the Chapel wall, and before it burned the silver lamp of Repentigny which had been hung there two generations before, in memory of the miraculous call of Madelaine de Repentigny and her victory over the world.
The high-bred and beautiful Madelaine had been the delight and pride of Ville Marie. Stricken with grief by the death of a young officer to whom she was affianced, she retired to Quebec, and knelt daily at the feet of our Lady of Pouvoir, beseeching her for a sign if it was her will that she should become an Ursuline.
The sign was given, and Madelaine de Repentigny at once exchanged her gay robes for the coarse black gown and veil, and hung up this votive lamp before the Madonna as a perpetual memorial of her miraculous call.
Seven generations of men have passed away since then. The house of Repentigny has disappeared from their native land. Their name and fame lie buried in oblivion, except in that little Chapel of the Saints where their lamp still burns brightly as ever. The pious nuns of St. Ursule, as the last custodians of the traditions of New France, preserve that sole memorial of the glories and misfortunes of the noble house,--the lamp of Repentigny.
Amélie and Héloise remained long in the Chapel of Saints, kneeling upon the hard floor as they prayed with tears and sobs for the soul of the Bourgeois and for God's pity and forgiveness upon Le Gardeur.
To Amélie's woes was added the terrible consciousness that, by this deed of her brother, Pierre Philibert was torn from her forever. She pictured to herself his grief, his love, his despair, perhaps his vengeance; and to add to all, she, his betrothed bride, had forsaken him and fled like a guilty thing, without waiting to see whether he condemned her.
An hour ago Amélie had been the envy and delight of her gay bridesmaids. Her heart had overflowed like a fountain of wine, intoxicating all about her with joy at the hope of the speedy coming of her bridegroom. Suddenly the idols of her life had been shattered as by a thunderbolt, and lay in fragments around her feet.
The thought came upon her like the rush of angry wings. She knew that all was over between her and Pierre. The cloister and the veil were all that were left to Amélie de Repentigny.
“Héloise, dearest sister!” exclaimed she, “my conscience tells me I have done right, but my heart accuses me of wrong to Pierre, of falseness to my plighted vows in forsaking him; and yet, not for heaven itself would I have forsaken Pierre. Would that I were dead! Oh, what have I done, Héloise, to deserve such a chastisement as this from God?”
Amélie threw her arms around the neck of Héloise, and leaning her head on her bosom, wept long and without restraint, for none saw them save God.
“Listen!” said Héloise, as the swelling strain of the organ floated up from the convent chapel. The soft voices of the nuns mingled in plaintive harmony as they sang the hymn of the Virgin: “Pia Mater! Fons amoris! Me sentire vim doloris Fac, ut tecum lugeam!”
Again came the soft pleading notes of the sacred hymn: “Quando corpus morietur, Fac ut animae donetur Paradisi gloria! Amen!”
The harmony filled the ears of Amélie and Héloise, like the lap of the waves of eternity upon the world's shore. It died away, and they continued praying before Our Lady of Grand Pouvoir.
The silence was suddenly broken. Hasty steps traversed the little chapel. A rush of garments caused Amélie and Héloise to turn around, and in an instant they were both clasped in the passionate embrace of the Lady de Tilly, who had arrived at the Convent.
“My dear children, my poor, stricken daughters,” exclaimed she, kissing them passionately and mingling her tears with theirs, “what have you done to be dashed to the earth by such a stroke of divine wrath?”
“Oh, aunt, pardon us for what we have done!” exclaimed Amélie, “and for not asking your consent, but alas! it is God's will and doing! I have given up the world; do not blame me, aunt!”
“Nor me, aunt!” added Héloise; “I have long known that the cloister was my sole heritage, and I now claim it.”
“Blame you, darling! Oh, Amélie, in the shame and agony of this day I could share the cloister with you myself forever, but my work is out in the wide world, and I must not withdraw my hand!”
“Have you seen Le Gardeur? Oh, aunt! have you seen my brother?” asked Amélie, seizing her hand passionately.
“I have seen him, and wept over him,” was the reply. “Oh, Amélie! great as is his offence, his crime, yes, I will be honest calling it such,--no deeper contrition could rend his heart had he committed all the sins forbidden in the Decalogue. He demands a court martial to condemn him at once to death, upon his own self-accusation and confession of the murder of the good Bourgeois.”
“Oh, aunt, and he loved the Bourgeois so! It seems like a hideous dream of fright and nightmare that Le Gardeur should assail the father of Pierre Philibert, and mine that was to be!”
At this thought the poor girl flung herself upon the bosom of the Lady de Tilly, convulsed and torn by as bitter sobs as ever drew human pity.
“Le Gardeur! Le Gardeur! Good God! what will they do with him, aunt? Is he to die?” cried she imploringly, as with streaming eyes she looked up at her aunt.
“Listen, Amélie! Compose yourself and you shall hear. I was in the Church of Notre Dame des Victoires when I received the tidings. It was long before the messenger found me. I rose instantly and hastened to the house of the Bourgeois, where its good master lay dead in his bloody vesture. I cannot describe the sad sight, Amélie! I there learned that the Governor and La Corne St. Luc had been to the house of the Bourgeois and had returned to the Castle.”
“Oh, aunt, did you see him? Did you see the good old Bourgeois? And you know he is dead?”
“Yes, Amélie, I saw him, and could have wished my eyesight blasted forever after. Do not ask me more.”
“But I must, aunt! Did you see--oh, why may I not yet utter his dear name? --did you see Pierre?”
“Yes, Amélie. Pierre came home unexpectedly while I was weeping over the dead corpse of his father. Poor Pierre! my own sorrows were naught to his silent grief! It was more terrible than the wildest outburst of passion I ever saw!”
“And what did he say? Oh, aunt, tell me all! Do not spare me one word, however bitter! Did he not curse you? Did he not curse me? And above all, Le Gardeur? Oh, he cursed us all; he heaped a blasting malediction upon the whole house of Repentigny, did he not?”
“Amélie, be composed! Do not look at me so wildly with these dear eyes, and I will tell you.” Her aunt tried to soothe her with fond caresses.
“I will be composed! I am calm! Look now, aunt, I am calm!” exclaimed the grief-stricken girl, whose every nerve was quivering with wild excitement.
The Lady de Tilly and Héloise made her sit down, while each held forcibly a hand to prevent an access of hysteria. Mère Ste. Vierge rose and hastily left the chapel to fetch water.
“Amélie, the nobleness of Pierre Philibert is almost beyond the range of fallible mortals,” said the Lady de Tilly. “In the sudden crash of all his hopes he would not utter a word of invective against your brother. His heart tells him that Le Gardeur has been made the senseless instrument of others in this crime.”
“A thousand thanks, dearest aunt, for your true appreciation of Pierre! I know he deserves it all; and when the veil covers my head forever from the eyes of men, it will be my sole joy to reflect that Pierre Philibert was worthy, more than worthy, of my love! But what said he further, aunt? Oh, tell me all!”
“He rose from his knees beside the corpse of his father,” continued the lady, “and seeing me kneeling, raised me and seated me in a chair beside him. He asked me where you were, and who was with you to support and comfort you in this storm of affliction. I told him, and he kissed me, exclaiming, 'Oh, aunt,--mother, what shall I do?'”
“Oh, aunt! did Pierre say that? Did he call you aunt and mother? And he did not curse me at all? Poor Pierre!” And she burst out into a flood of tears which nothing could control.
“Yes Amélie! His heart is bleeding to death with this dreadful sword-stroke of Le Gardeur's,” said the Lady de Tilly, after waiting till she recovered somewhat.
“And will he not slay Le Gardeur? Will he not deem it his duty to kill my brother and his?” cried she. “He is a soldier and must!”
“Listen, Amélie. There is a divinity in Pierre that we see only in the noblest of men; he will not slay Le Gardeur. He is his brother and yours, and will regard him as such. Whatever he might have done in the first impulse of anger, Pierre will not now seek the life of Le Gardeur. He knows too well whence this blow has really come. He has been deeply touched by the remorse and self-accusation of Le Gardeur.”
“I could kiss his feet! my noble Pierre! Oh, aunt, aunt! what have I not lost! But I was betrothed to him, was I not?” She started up with a shriek of mortal agony. “They never can recall that!” she cried wildly. “He was to have been mine! He is still mine, and forever will be mine! Death will reunite what in life is sundered! Will it not, aunt?”
“Yes; be composed, darling, and I will tell you more. Nay, do not look at me so, Amélie!” The Lady de Tilly stroked her cheek and kissed the dark eyes that seemed flaring out of their sockets with maddening excitement.
“When I had recovered strength enough to go to the Castle to see the Count, Pierre supported me thither. He dared not trust himself to see Le Gardeur, who from his prison sent message after message to him to beg death at his hand.
“I held a brief conference with the Governor, La Corne St. Luc, and a few gentlemen, who were hastily gathered together in the council-chamber. I pleaded long, not for pardon, not even for Le Gardeur could I ask for pardon, Amélie!” exclaimed the just and noble woman,--“but for a calm consideration of the terrible circumstances which had surrounded him in the Palace of the Intendant, and which had led directly to the catastrophe.”
“And what said they? Oh, be quick, aunt! Is not Le Gardeur to be tried by martial law and condemned at once to death?”
“No, Amélie! The Count de la Galissonière, with the advice of his wisest counsellors, among whom is your godfather and others, the dearest friends of both families, have resolved to send Le Gardeur to France by the Fleur de Lys, which sails to-morrow. They do this in order that the King may judge of his offence, as also to prevent the conflict that may arise between the contending factions in the Colony, should they try him here. This resolution may be wise, or not, I do not judge; but such is the determination of the Governor and Council, to which all must submit.”
Amélie held her head between her palms for some moments. She was violently agitated, but she tried to consider, as best she might, the decision with regard to her brother.
“It is merciful in them,” she said, “and it is just. The King will judge what is right in the sight of God and man. Le Gardeur was but a blind instrument of others in this murder, as blind almost as the sword he held in his hand. But shall I not see him, aunt, before he is sent away?”
“Alas, no! The Governor, while kind, is inexorable on one point. He will permit no one, after this, to see Le Gardeur, to express either blame or approval of his deed, or to report his words. He will forbid you and me and his nearest friends from holding any communication with him before he leaves the Colony. The Count has remitted his case to the King, and resolved that it shall be accompanied by no self-accusation which Le Gardeur may utter in his frantic grief. The Count does this in justice as well as mercy, Amélie.”
“Then I shall never see my brother more in this world,--never!” exclaimed Amélie, supporting herself on the arm of Héloise. “His fate is decided as well as mine, and yours too, O Héloise.”
“It may not be so hard with him as with us, Amélie,” replied Héloise, whose bosom was agitated with fresh emotions at every allusion to Le Gardeur. “The King may pardon him, Amélie.” Héloise in her soul hoped so, and in her heart prayed so.
“Alas! If we could say God pardoned him!” replied Amélie, her thoughts running suddenly in a counter-current. “But my life must be spent in imploring God's grace and forgiveness all the same, whether man forgive him or no.”
“Say not my life, but our lives, Amélie. We have crossed the threshold of this house together for the last time. We go no more out to look upon a world fair and beautiful to see, but so full of disappointment and wretchedness to have experience of!”
“My daughters,” exclaimed the Lady de Tilly, “another time we will speak of this. Harken, Amélie! I did not tell you that Pierre Philibert came with me to the gate of the Convent to see you. He would have entered, but the Lady Superior refused inexorably to admit him even to the parlor.”
“Pierre came to the Convent,--to the Convent?” repeated Amélie with fond iteration, “and they would not admit him. Why would they not admit him? But I should have died of shame to see him. They were kind in their cruelty. Poor Pierre! he thinks me still worthy of some regard.” She commenced weeping afresh.
“He would fain have seen you, darling,” said her aunt. “Your flight to the Convent--he knows what it means--overwhelms him with a new calamity.”
“And yet it cannot be otherwise. I dare not place my hand in his now, for it would redden it! But it is sweet amid my affliction to know that Pierre has not forgotten me, that he does not hate me, nay, that he still loves me, although I abandon the world and him who to me was the light of it. Why would they not admit him?”
“Mère Migeon is as hard as she is just, Amélie. I think too she has no love for the Philiberts. Her nephew Varin has all the influence of a spoilt son over the Lady Superior.”
Amélie scarcely regarded the last remark of her aunt, but repeated the words, “Hard and just! Yes, it is true, and hardness and justice are what I crave in my misery. The flintiest couch shall be to me a bed of down, the scantiest fare a royal feast, the hardest penance a life of pleasure. Mère Migeon cannot be more hard nor more just to me than I would be to myself.”
“My poor Amélie! My poor Héloise!” repeated the lady, stroking their hair and kissing them both alternately; “be it as God wills. When it is dark every prospect lies hid in the darkness, but it is there all the same, though we see it not; but when the day returns everything is revealed. We see naught before us now but the image of our Lady of Grand Pouvoir illumined by the lamp of Repentigny, but the sun of righteousness will yet arise with healing on his wings for us all! But oh, my children, let nothing be done hastily, rashly, or unbecoming the daughters of our honorable house.”
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{
"id": "2735"
}
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53
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“LOVELY IN DEATH THE BEAUTEOUS RUIN LAY.”
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The chant of vespers had long ceased. The Angelus had rung its last summons to invoke a blessing upon life and death at the close of the day. The quiet nuns filed off from their frugal meal in the long refectory and betook themselves to the community or to their peaceful cells. The troop of children in their charge had been sent with prayer to their little couches in the dormitory, sacred to sleep and happy dreams.
Candles flickered through the long passages as veiled figures slowly and noiselessly passed towards the chapel to their private devotions. Scarcely a footfall reached the ear, nor sound of any kind, except the sweet voice of Mère Madelaine de St. Borgia. Like the flow of a full stream in the still moonlight, she sang her canticle of praise to the guardian of the house, before she retired to rest: “Ave, Joseph! Fili David juste! Vir Mariae de qua natus est Jesus!”
Lady de Tilly sat listening as she held the hands of her two nieces, thinking how merciless was Fate, and half rebelling in her mind against the working of Providence. The sweet song of Mère St. Borgia fell like soft rain upon her hard thoughts, and instilled a spirit of resignation amid the darkness, as she repeated the words, “Ave, Joseph!” She fought bitterly in her soul against giving up her two lambs, as she called them, to the cold, scant life of the cloister, while her judgment saw but too plainly that naught else seemed left to their crushed and broken spirits. But she neither suggested their withdrawal from the Convent, nor encouraged them to remain.
In her secret thought, the Lady de Tilly regarded the cloister as a blessed refuge for the broken-hearted, a rest for the weary and overladen with earthly troubles, a living grave, which such may covet and not sin; but the young, the joyous, the beautiful, and all capable of making the world fairer and better, she would inexorably shut out. Christ calls not these from the earthly paradise; but the afflicted, the disappointed, the despairing, they who have fallen helplessly down in the journey of life, and are of no further use in this world, these he calls by their names and comforts them. But for those rare souls who are too cold for aught but spiritual joys, he reserves a peculiar though not his choicest benediction.
The Lady de Tilly pondered these thoughts over and over, in the fulness of pity for her children. She would not leave the Convent at the closing of the gates for the night, but remained the honored guest of Mère Migeon, who ordered a chamber to be prepared for her in a style that was luxurious compared with the scantily furnished rooms allotted to the nuns.
Amélie prevailed, after much entreaty, upon Mère Esther, to intercede with the Superior for permission to pass the night with Héloise in the cell that had once been occupied by her pious kinswoman, Mère Madelaine.
“It is a great thing to ask,” replied Mère Esther as she returned with her desired boon, “and a greater still to be obtained! But Mère Migeon is in a benevolent mood tonight; for the sake of no one else would she have granted a dispensation of the rules of the house.”
That night Lady de Tilly held a long and serious conference with Mère Migeon and Mère Esther, upon the event which had driven her nieces to the cloister, promising that if, at the end of a month, they persisted in their resolutions, she would consent to their assumption of the white veil; and upon the completion of their novitiate, when they took the final vows, she would give them up with such a dower as would make all former gifts of the house of Repentigny and Tilly poor in the comparison.
Mère Migeon was especially overjoyed at this prospect of relieving the means of her house, which had been so terribly straitened of late years. The losses occasioned by the war had been a never-ending source of anxiety to her and Mère Esther, who, however, kept their troubles as far as possible to themselves, in order that the cares of the world might not encroach too far upon the minds of the community. Hence they were more than ordinarily glad at this double vocation in the house of Repentigny. The prospect of its great wealth falling to pious uses they regarded as a special mark of divine providence and care for the house of Ste. Ursule.
“Oh, Mère Esther! Mère Esther!” exclaimed the Lady Superior. “I feel too great a satisfaction in view of the rich dower of these two girls. I need much self-examination to weed out worldly thoughts. Alas! Alas! I would rather be the humblest aunt in our kitchen than the Lady Superior of the Ursulines. Blessed old Mère Marie used to say 'a good turn in the kitchen was as good as a prayer in the chapel.'”
Mère Esther reflected a moment, and said, “We have long found it easier to pray for souls than to relieve bodies. I thank good St. Joseph for this prospective blessing upon our monastery.”
During the long and wasting war, Mère Migeon had seen her poor nuns reduced to grievous straits, which they bore cheerfully, however, as their share of the common suffering of their country. The cassette of St. Joseph, wherein were deposited the oboli for the poor, had long been emptied. The image of St. Joseph au Blé, that stood at the great stair, and kept watch over the storeroom of corn and bread, had often guarded an empty chamber. St. Joseph au Labeur, overlooking the great kitchen of the Convent, had often been deaf to the prayers of “my aunts,” who prepared the food of the community. The meagre tables of the refectory had not seldom been the despair of the old depositaire, Mère St. Louis, who devoutly said her longest graces over her scantiest meals.
“I thank St. Joseph for what he gives, and for what he withholds; yea, for what he takes away!” observed Mère St. Louis to her special friend and gossip, Mère St. Antoine, as they retired from the chapel. “Our years of famine are nearly over. The day of the consecration of Amélie de Repentigny will be to us the marriage at Cana. Our water will be turned into wine. I shall no longer need to save the crumbs, except for the poor at our gate.”
The advent of Amélie de Repentigny was a circumstance of absorbing interest to the nuns, who regarded it as a reward for their long devotions and prayers for the restoration of their house to its old prosperity. We usually count Providence upon our side when we have consciously done aught to merit the good fortune that befalls us.
And now days came and went, went and came, as Time, the inexorable, ever does, regardless of human joys or sorrows. Amélie, weary of the world, was only desirous of passing away from it to that sphere where time is not, and where our affections and thoughts alone measure the periods of eternity. For time, there, is but the shadow that accompanies the joys of angels, or the woes of sinners,--not the reality. It is time here, eternity there!
The two postulantes seemed impressed with the spirit that, to their fancies, lingered in the cell of their kinswoman, Mère Madelaine. They bent their gentle necks to the heaviest yoke of spiritual service which their Superior would consent to lay upon them.
Amélie's inflexible will made her merciless towards herself. She took pleasure in the hardest of self-imposed penances, as if the racking of her soul by incessant prayers, and wasting of her body by vigils and cruel fastings, were a vicarious punishment, borne for the sake of her hapless brother.
She could not forget Pierre, nor did she ever try to forget him. It was observed by the younger nuns that when, by chance or design, they mentioned his name, she looked up and her lips moved in silent prayer; but she spoke not of him, save to her aunt and to Héloise. These two faithful friends alone knew the inexpressible anguish with which she had heard of Pierre's intended departure for France.
The shock caused by the homicide of the Bourgeois, and the consequent annihilation of all the hopes of her life in a happy union with Pierre Philibert, was too much for even her naturally sound and elastic constitution. Her health gave way irrecoverably. Her face grew thin and wan without losing any of its spiritual beauty, as her soul looked through its ever more transparent covering, which daily grew more and more aetherialized as she faded away. A hectic flush, like a spot of fire, came and went for a time, and at last settled permanently upon her cheek. Her eyes, those glorious orbs, filled with unquenchable love, grew supernaturally large and brilliant with the flames that fed upon her vital forces. Amélie sickened and sank rapidly. The vulture of quick consumption had fastened upon her young life.
Mère Esther and Mère Migeon shook their heads, for they were used to broken hearts, and knew the infallible signs which denote an early death in the young and beautiful. Prayers and masses were offered for the recovery of Amélie, but all in vain. God wanted her. He alone knew how to heal that broken heart. It was seen that she had not long to live. It was known she wished to die.
Pierre heard the tidings with overwhelming grief. He had been permitted but once to see her for a few brief moments, which dwelt upon his mind forever. He deferred his departure to Europe in consequence of her illness, and knocked daily at the door of the Convent to ask after her and leave some kind message or flower, which was faithfully carried to her by the friendly nuns who received him at the wicket. A feeling of pity and sympathy for these two affianced and unfortunate lovers stole into the hearts of the coldest nuns, while the novices and the romantic convent girls were absolutely wild over the melancholy fate of Pierre and Amélie.
He long solicited in vain for another interview with Amélie, but until it was seen that she was approaching the end, it was not granted him. Mère Esther interceded strongly with the Lady Superior, who was jealous of the influence of Pierre with her young novice. At length Amélie's prayers overcame her scruples. He was told one day that Amélie was dying, and wished to see him for the last time in this world.
Amélie was carried in a chair to the bars to receive her sorrowing lover. Her pale face retained its statuesque beauty of outline, but so thin and wasted!
“Pierre will not know me;” whispered she to Héloise, “but I shall smile at the joy of meeting him, and then he will recognize me.”
Her flowing veil was thrown back from her face. She spoke little, but her dark eyes were fixed with devouring eagerness upon the door by which she knew Pierre would come in. Her aunt supported her head upon her shoulder, while Héloise knelt at her knee and fanned her with sisterly tenderness, whispering words of sisterly sympathy in her ear.
Pierre flew to the Convent at the hour appointed. He was at once admitted, with a caution from Mère Esther to be calm and not agitate the dying girl. The moment he entered the great parlor, Amélie sprang from her seat with a sudden cry of recognition, extending her poor thin hands through the bars towards him. Pierre seized them, kissing them passionately, but broke down utterly at the sight of her wasted face and the seal of death set thereon.
“Amélie, my darling Amélie!” exclaimed he; “I have prayed so long to see you, and they would not let me in.”
“It was partly my fault, Pierre,” said she fondly. “I feared to let you see me. I feared to learn that you hate, as you have cause to do, the whole house of Repentigny! And yet you do not curse me, dear Pierre?”
“My poor angel, you break my heart! I curse the house of Repentigny? I hate you? Amélie, you know me better.”
“But your good father, the noble and just Bourgeois! Oh, Pierre, what have we not done to you and yours!”
She fell back upon her pillow, covering her eyes with her semi-transparent hands, bursting, as she did so, into a flood of passionate tears and passing into a dead faint.
Pierre was wild with anguish. He pressed against the bars. “For God's sake, let me in!” exclaimed he; “she is dying!”
The two quiet nuns who were in attendance shook their heads at Pierre's appeal to open the door. They were too well disciplined in the iron rule of the house to open it without an express order from the Lady Superior, or from Mère Esther. Their bosoms, abounding in spiritual warmth, responded coldly to the contagion of mere human passion. Their ears, unused to the voice of man's love, tingled at the words of Pierre. Fortunately, Mère Esther, ever on the watch, came into the parlor, and, seeing at a glance the need of the hour, opened the iron door and bade Pierre come in. He rushed forward and threw himself at the feet of Amélie, calling her by the most tender appellatives, and seeking to recall her to a consciousness of his presence.
That loved, familiar voice overtook her spirit, already winging its flight from earth, and brought it back for a few minutes longer. Mère Esther, a skilful nurse, administered a few drops of cordial, and, seeing her dying condition, sent instantly for the physician and the chaplain.
Amélie opened her eyes and turned them inquiringly around the group until they fastened upon Pierre. A flash of fondness suddenly suffused her face, as she remembered how and why he was there. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him many times, murmuring, “I have often prayed to die thus, Pierre! close to you, my love, close to you; in your arms and God's, where you could receive my last breath, and feel in the last throb of my heart that it is wholly yours!”
“My poor Amélie,” cried he, pressing her to his bosom, “you shall not die! Courage, darling! It is but weakness and the air of the convent; you shall not die.”
“I am dying now, Pierre,” said she, falling back upon her pillow. “I feel I have but a short time to live. I welcome death, since I cannot be yours. But, oh, the unutterable pang of leaving you, my dear love!”
Pierre could only reply by sobs and kisses. Amélie was silent for a few moments, as if revolving some deep thought in her mind.
“There is one thing, Pierre, I have to beg of you,” said she, faltering as if doubting his consent to her prayer. “Can you, will you, accept my life for Le Gardeur's? If I die for HIM, will you forgive my poor blood-stained and deluded brother, and your own? Yes, Pierre,” repeated she, as she raised his hand to her lips and kissed it, “your brother, as well as mine! Will you forgive him, Pierre?”
“Amélie! Amélie!” replied he with a voice broken with emotion, “can you fancy other than that I would forgive him? I forgave Le Gardeur from the first. In my heart I never accused him of my father's death. Alas, he knew not what he did! He was but a sword in the hands of my father's enemies. I forgave him then, darling, and I forgive him wholly now, for your sake and his own.”
“My noble Pierre!” replied she, putting out her arms towards him. “Why might not God have suffered me to reward such divine goodness? Thanks, my love! I now die content with all things but parting with you.” She held him fast by his hands, one of which she kept pressed to her lips. They all looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to speak again, for her eyes were wide open and fixed with a look of ineffable love upon the face of Pierre, looking like life, after life was fled. She still held him in her rigid clasp, but she moved not. Upon her pale lips a smile seemed to hover. It was but the shadow left behind of her retreating soul. Amélie de Repentigny was dead! The angel of death had kissed her lovingly, and unnoticed of any she had passed with him away.
The watchful eye of the Lady de Tilly was the first to see that Amélie's breath had gone so quietly that no one caught her latest sigh. The physician and chaplain rushed hurriedly into the chamber, but too late. The great physician of souls had already put his beloved to sleep,--the blessed sleep, whose dream is of love on earth, and whose waking is in heaven. The great high priest of the sons and daughters of men had anointed her with the oil of his mercy, and sent his blessed angels to lead her to the mansions of everlasting rest.
The stroke fell like the stunning blow of a hammer upon the heart of Pierre. He had, indeed, foreseen her death, but tried in vain to realize it. He made no outcry, but sat still, wrapped in a terrible silence as in the midst of a desert. He held fast her dead hands, and gazed upon her dead face until the heart-breaking sobs of Héloise, and the appeals of Mère Esther, roused him from his stupor.
He rose up, and, lifting Amélie in his arms, laid her upon a couch tenderly and reverently, as a man touches the holiest object of his religion. Amélie was to him a sacrament, and in his manly love he worshipped her more as a saint than as a woman, a creation of heavenly more than of earthly perfections.
Pierre bent over her and closed for the last time those dear eyes which had looked upon him so pure and so lovingly. He embraced her dead form, and kissed those pallid lips which had once confessed her unalterable love and truth for Pierre Philibert.
The agitated nuns gathered round them at the news of death in the Convent. They looked wonderingly and earnestly at an exhibition of such absorbing affection, and were for the most part in tears. With some of these gentle women this picture of true love, broken in the midst of its brightest hopes, woke sympathies and recollections which the watchful eye of Mère Migeon promptly checked as soon as she came into the parlor.
The Lady Superior saw that all was over, and that Pierre's presence was an uneasiness to the nuns, who glanced at him with eyes of pity and womanly sympathy. She took him kindly by the hand, with a few words of condolence, and intimated that, as he had been permitted to see the end, he must now withdraw from those forbidden precincts and leave his lost treasure to the care of the nuns who take charge of the dead.
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{
"id": "2735"
}
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54
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“THE MILLS OF GOD GRIND SLOWLY.”
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Pierre was permitted to see the remains of his affianced bride interred in the Convent chapel. Her modest funeral was impressive from the number of sad, sympathizing faces which gathered around her grave.
The quiet figure of a nun was seen morn and eve, for years and years after, kneeling upon the stone slab that covered her grave, laying upon it her daily offering of flowers, and if the name of Le Gardeur mingled with her prayers, it was but a proof of the unalterable affection of Héloise de Lotbinière, known in religion as Mère St. Croix.
The lamp of Repentigny shed its beams henceforth over the grave of the last representative of that noble house, where it still shines to commemorate their virtues, and perpetuate the memory of their misfortunes; but God has long since compensated them for all.
Lady de Tilly was inconsolable over the ruin of her fondest hopes. She had regarded Pierre as her son, and intended to make him and Amélie joint inheritors with Le Gardeur of her immense wealth. She desired still to bequeath it to Pierre, not only because of her great kindness for him, but as a sort of self-imposed amercement upon her house for the death of his father.
Pierre refused. “I have more of the world's riches already than I can use,” said he; “and I value not what I have, since she is gone for whose sake alone I prized them. I shall go abroad to resume my profession of arms, not seeking, yet not avoiding an honorable death, which may reunite me to Amélie, and the sooner the more welcome.”
Lady de Tilly sought, by assiduous devotion to the duties of her life and station, distraction from the gnawing cares that ever preyed upon her. She but partially succeeded. She lived through the short peace of Aix-la-Chapelle, and shared in the terrible sufferings of the seven years' war that followed in its wake. When the final conquest of New France overwhelmed the Colony, to all appearances in utter ruin, she endowed the Ursulines with a large portion of her remaining wealth, and retired with her nearest kinsmen to France. The name of Tilly became extinct among the noblesse of the Colony, but it still flourishes in a vigorous branch upon its native soil of Normandy.
Pierre Philibert passed a sad winter in arranging and settling the vast affairs of his father before leaving New France. In the spring following the death of Amélie, he passed over to the old world, bidding a long and last adieu to his native land.
Pierre endeavored manfully to bear up under the load of recollections and sorrows which crushed his heart, and made him a grave and melancholy man before his time. He rejoined the army of his sovereign, and sought danger--his comrades said for danger's sake--with a desperate valor that was the boast of the army; but few suspected that he sought death and tempted fate in every form.
His wish was at last accomplished,--as all earnest, absorbing wishes ever are. He fell valorously, dying a soldier's death upon the field of Minden, his last moments sweetened by the thought that his beloved Amélie was waiting for him on the other side of the dark river, to welcome him with the bridal kiss promised upon the banks of the Lake of Tilly. He met her joyfully in that land where love is real, and where its promises are never broken.
The death of the Bourgeois Philibert, affecting so many fortunes, was of immense consequence to the Colony. It led to the ruin of the party of the Honnêtes Gens, to the supremacy of the Grand company, and the final overthrow of New France.
The power and extravagance of Bigot after that event grew without check or challenge, and the departure of the virtuous La Galissonière left the Colony to the weak and corrupt administrations of La Jonquière, and De Vaudreuil. The latter made the Castle of St. Louis as noted for its venality as was the Palace of the Intendant. Bigot kept his high place through every change. The Marquis de Vaudreuil gave him free course, and it was more than suspected shared with the corrupt Intendant in the plunder of the Colony.
These public vices bore their natural fruit, and all the efforts of the Honnêtes Gens to stay the tide of corruption were futile. Montcalm, after reaping successive harvests of victories, brilliant beyond all precedent in North America, died a sacrifice to the insatiable greed and extravagance of Bigot and his associates, who, while enriching themselves, starved the army and plundered the Colony of all its resources. The fall of Quebec, and the capitulation of Montreal were less owing to the power of the English than to the corrupt misgovernment of Bigot and Vaudreuil, and the neglect by the court of France of her ancient and devoted Colony.
Le Gardeur, after a long confinement in the Bastille, where he incessantly demanded trial and punishment for his rank offence of the murder of the Bourgeois, as he ever called it, was at last liberated by express command of the King, without trial and against his own wishes. His sword was restored to him, accompanied by a royal order bidding him, upon his allegiance, return to his regiment, as an officer of the King, free from all blame for the offence laid to his charge. Whether the killing of the Bourgeois was privately regarded at Court as good service was never known. But Le Gardeur, true to his loyal instincts, obeyed the King, rejoined the army, and once more took the field.
Upon the outbreak of the last French war in America, he returned to New France, a changed and reformed man; an ascetic in his living, and, although a soldier, a monk in the rigor of his penitential observances. His professional skill and daring were conspicuous among the number of gallant officers upon whom Montcalm chiefly relied to assist him in his long and desperate struggle against the ever-increasing forces of the English. From the capture of Chouaguen and the defence of the Fords of Montmorency, to the last brave blow struck upon the plains of St. Foye, Le Gardeur de Repentigny fulfilled every duty of a gallant and desperate soldier. He carried his life in his hand, and valued it as cheaply as he did the lives of his enemies.
He never spoke to Angélique again. Once he met her full in the face, upon the perron of the Cathedral of St. Marie. She started as if touched by fire,--trembled, blushed, hesitated, and extended her hand to him in the old familiar way,--with that look of witchery in her eyes, and that seductive smile upon her lips, which once sent the hot blood coursing madly in his veins. But Le Gardeur's heart was petrified now. He cared for no woman more,--or if he did, his thought dwelt with silent regret upon that pale nun in the Convent of the Ursulines--once Héloise de Lotbinière--who he knew was wasting her young life in solitary prayers for pardon for his great offence.
His anger rose fiercely at the sight of Angélique, and Le Gardeur forgot for a moment that he was a gentleman, a man who had once loved this woman. He struck her a blow, and passed on. It shattered her last illusion. The proud, guilty woman still loved Le Gardeur, if she loved any man. But she felt she had merited his scorn. She staggered, and sat down on the steps of the Cathedral, weeping the bitterest tears her eyes had ever wept in her life. She never saw Le Gardeur again.
After the conquest of New France, Le Gardeur retired with the shattered remnant of the army of France, back to their native land. His sovereign loaded him with honors which he cared not for. He had none to share them with now! Lover, sister, friends, all were lost and gone! But he went on performing his military duties with an iron rigor and punctuality that made men admire, while they feared him. His life was more mechanical than human. Le Gardeur spared neither himself nor others. He never married, and never again looked with kindly eye upon a woman. His heart was proof against every female blandishment. He ended his life in solitary state and greatness, as Governor of Mahé in India, many years after he had left his native Canada.
One day, in the year of grace 1777, another council of war was sitting in the great chamber of the Castle of St. Louis, under a wonderful change of circumstances. An English governor, Sir Guy Carleton, presided over a mixed assemblage of English and Canadian officers. The royal arms and colors of England had replaced the emblems and ensigns of France upon the walls of the council-chamber, and the red uniform of her army was loyally worn by the old, but still indomitable, La Corne St. Luc, who, with the De Salaberrys, the De Beaujeus, Duchesnays, De Gaspes, and others of noblest name and lineage in New France, had come forward as loyal subjects of England's Crown to defend Canada against the armies of the English Colonies, now in rebellion against the King.
“Read that, La Corne,” said Sir Guy Carleton, handing him a newspaper just received from England. “An old friend of yours, if I mistake not, is dead. I met him once in India. A stern, saturnine man he was, but a brave and able commander; I am sorry to hear of his death, but I do not wonder at it. He was the most melancholy man I ever saw.”
La Corne took the paper and gave a start of intense emotion as he read an obituary notice as follows: “East Indies. Death of the Marquis de Repentigny. The Marquis Le Gardeur de Repentigny, general of the army and Governor of Mahé, died last year in that part of India, which he had, by his valor and skill, preserved to France. This officer had served in Canada with the reputation of an able and gallant soldier.”
La Corne was deeply agitated; his lips quivered, and tears gathered in the thick gray eyelashes that formed so prominent a feature of his rugged but kindly face. He concluded his reading in silence, and handed the paper to De Beaujeu, with the single remark, “Le Gardeur is dead! Poor fellow! He was more sinned against than sinning! God pardon him for all the evil he meant not to do! Is it not strange that she who was the cursed cause of his ruin still flourishes like the Queen of the Kingdom of Brass? It is hard to justify the ways of Providence, when wickedness like hers prospers, and virtues like those of the brave old Bourgeois find a bloody grave! My poor Amélie, too! poor girl, poor girl!” La Corne St. Luc sat silent a long time, immersed in melancholy reflections.
The Canadian officers read the paragraph, which revived in their minds also sad recollections of the past. They knew that, by her who had been the cursed cause of the ruin of Le Gardeur and of the death of the Bourgeois, La Corne referred to the still blooming widow of the Chevalier de Pean,--the leader of fashion and gaiety in the capital now, as she had been thirty years before, when she was the celebrated Angélique des Meloises.
Angélique had played desperately her game of life with the juggling fiend of ambition, and had not wholly lost. Although the murder of Caroline de St. Castin pressed hard upon her conscience, and still harder upon her fears, no man read in her face the minutest asterisk that pointed to the terrible secret buried in her bosom, nor ever discovered it. So long as La Corriveau lived, Angélique never felt safe. But fear was too weak a counsellor for her to pretermit either her composure or her pleasures. She redoubled her gaiety and her devotions; and that was the extent of her repentance! The dread secret of Beaumanoir was never revealed. It awaited, and awaits still, the judgment of the final day of account.
Angélique had intrigued and sinned in vain. She feared Bigot knew more than he really did, in reference to the death of Caroline, and oft, while laughing in his face, she trembled in her heart, when he played and equivocated with her earnest appeals to marry her. Wearied out at length with waiting for his decisive yes or no, Angélique, mortified by wounded pride and stung by the scorn of Le Gardeur on his return to the Colony, suddenly accepted the hand of the Chevalier de Pean, and as a result became the recognized mistress of the Intendant,--imitating as far as she was able the splendor and the guilt of La Pompadour, and making the Palace of Bigot as corrupt, if not as brilliant, as that of Versailles.
Angélique lived thenceforth a life of splendid sin. She clothed herself in purple and fine linen, while the noblest ladies of the land were reduced by the war to rags and beggary. She fared sumptuously, while men and women died of hunger in the streets of Quebec. She bought houses and lands, and filled her coffers with gold out of the public treasury, while the brave soldiers of Montcalm starved for the want of their pay. She gave fêtes and banquets while the English were thundering at the gates of the capital. She foresaw the eventual fall of Bigot and the ruin of the country, and resolved that, since she had failed in getting himself, she would make herself possessor of all that he had.
The fate of Bigot was a warning to public peculators and oppressors. He returned to France soon after the surrender of the Colony, with Cadet, Varin, Penisault, and others of the Grand Company, who were now useless tools, and were cast aside by their court friends. The Bastille opened its iron doors to receive the godless and wicked crew, who had lost the fairest Colony of France, the richest jewel in her crown. Bigot and the others were tried by a special commission, were found guilty of the most heinous malversations of office, and sentenced to make full restitution of the plunder of the King's treasures, to be imprisoned until their fines and restitutions were paid, and then banished from the kingdom forever.
It is believed that, by favor of La Pompadour, Bigot's heavy sentence was commuted, and he retained a sufficiency of his ill-gotten wealth to enable him, under a change of name, to live in ease and opulence at Bordeaux, where he died.
Angélique had no sympathy for Bigot in his misfortunes, no regrets save that she had failed to mould him more completely to her own purposes, flattering herself that had she done so, the fortunes of the war and the fate of the Colony might have been different. What might have been, had she not ruined herself and her projects by the murder of Caroline, it were vain to conjecture. But she who had boldly dreamed of ruling king and kingdom by the witchery of her charms and the craft of her subtle intellect, had to content herself with the name of De Pean and the shame of a lawless connection with the Intendant.
She would fain have gone to France to try her fortunes when the Colony was lost, but La Pompadour forbade her presence there, under pain of her severest displeasure. Angélique raved at the inhibition, but was too wise to tempt the wrath of the royal mistress by disobeying her mandate. She had to content herself with railing at La Pompadour with the energy of three furies, but she never ceased, to the end of her life, to boast of the terror which her charms had exercised over the great favorite of the King.
Rolling in wealth and scarcely faded in beauty, Angélique kept herself in the public eye. She hated retirement, and boldly claimed her right to a foremost place in the society of Quebec. Her great wealth and unrivalled power of intrigue enabled her to keep that place, down to the last.
The fate of La Corriveau, her confederate in her great wickedness, was peculiar and terrible. Secured at once by her own fears, as well as by a rich yearly allowance paid her by Angélique, La Corriveau discreetly bridled her tongue over the death of Caroline, but she could not bridle her own evil passions in her own household.
One summer day, of the year following the conquest of the Colony, the Goodman Dodier was found dead in his house at St. Valier. Fanchon, who knew something and suspected more, spoke out; an investigation into the cause of death of the husband resulted in the discovery that he had been murdered by pouring melted lead into his ear while he slept. La Corriveau was arrested as the perpetrator of the atrocious deed.
A special court of justice was convened in the great hall of the Convent of the Ursulines, which, in the ruinous state of the city after the siege and bombardment, had been taken for the headquarters of General Murray. Mère Migeon and Mère Esther, who both survived the conquest, had effected a prudent arrangement with the English general, and saved the Convent from all further encroachment by placing it under his special protection.
La Corriveau was tried with all the fairness, if not with all the forms, of English law. She made a subtle and embarrassing defence, but was at last fairly convicted of the cruel murder of her husband. She was sentenced to be hung, and gibbetted in an iron cage, upon the hill of Levis, in sight of the whole city of Quebec.
La Corriveau made frantic efforts during her imprisonment to engage Angélique to intercede in her behalf; but Angélique's appeals were fruitless before the stern administrators of English law. Moreover, Angélique, to be true to herself, was false to her wicked confederate. She cared not to intercede too much, or enough to ensure success. In her heart she wished La Corriveau well out of the way, that all memory of the tragedy of Beaumanoir might be swept from the earth, except what of it remained hid in her own bosom. She juggled with the appeals of La Corriveau, keeping her in hopes of pardon until the fatal hour came, when it was too late for La Corriveau to harm her by a confession of the murder of Caroline.
The hill of Levis, where La Corriveau was gibbetted, was long remembered in the traditions of the Colony. It was regarded with superstitious awe by the habitans. The ghost of La Corriveau long haunted, and, in the belief of many, still haunts, the scene of her execution. Startling tales, raising the hair with terror, were told of her around the firesides in winter, when the snow-drifts covered the fences, and the north wind howled down the chimney and rattled the casement of the cottages of the habitans; how, all night long, in the darkness, she ran after belated travellers, dragging her cage at her heels, and defying all the exorcisms of the Church to lay her evil spirit!
Our tale is now done. There is in it neither poetic nor human justice. But the tablet of the Chien d'Or still overlooks the Rue Buade; the lamp of Repentigny burns in the ancient chapel of the Ursulines; the ruins of Beaumanoir cover the dust of Caroline de St. Castin; and Amélie sleeps her long sleep by the side of Héloise de Lotbinière.
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{
"id": "2735"
}
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1
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RUSSELL AUBREY
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The town-clock was on the last stroke of twelve, the solitary candle measured but two inches from its socket, and as the summer wind rushed through the half-closed shutters, the melted tallow dripped slowly into the brightly-burnished brazen candlestick. The flickering light fell upon the pages of a ledger, and flashed fitfully in the face of the accountant, as he bent over his work. Sixteen years growth had given him unusual height and remarkable breadth of chest, and it was difficult to realize that the stature of manhood had been attained by a mere boy in years. A grey suit (evidently home-made), of rather coarse texture, bespoke poverty; and, owing to the oppressive heat of the atmosphere, the coat was thrown partially off. He wore no vest, and the loosely-tied black ribbon suffered the snowy white collar to fall away from the throat and expose its well-turned outline. The head was large, but faultlessly proportioned, and the thick black hair, cut short and clinging to the temples, added to its massiveness. The lofty forehead, white and smooth, the somewhat heavy brows matching the hue of the hair, the straight, finely-formed nose with its delicate but clearly defined nostril, the full firm lips unshaded by moustache, combined to render the face one of uncommon beauty. Yet, as he sat absorbed by his figures, there was nothing prepossessing or winning in his appearance, for though you could not carp at the moulding of his features, you involuntarily shrank from the prematurely grave, nay, austere expression which seemed habitual to them. He looked just what he was, youthful in years, but old in trials and labours, and to one who analysed his countenance, the conviction was inevitable that his will was gigantic, his ambition unbounded, his intellect wonderfully acute and powerful.
"Russell, do you know it is midnight?"
He frowned, and answered without looking up-- "Yes."
"How much longer will you sit up?"
"Till I finish my work."
The speaker stood on the threshold, leaning against the door facing, and, after waiting a few moments, softly crossed the room and put her hand on the back of his chair. She was two years his junior, and though evidently the victim of recent and severe illness, even in her feebleness she was singularly like him. Her presence seemed to annoy him, for he turned round and said hastily: "Electra, go to bed. I told you good-night three hours ago."
She stood still, but silent.
"What do you want?"
"Nothing."
He wrote on for some ten minutes longer, then closed the ledger and put it aside. The candle had burned low; he took a fresh one from the drawer of the table, and, after lighting it, drew a Latin dictionary near to him, opened a worn copy of Horace, and began to study. Quiet as his own shadow stood the fragile girl behind his chair, but as she watched him a heavy sigh escaped her.
"If I thought I should be weak and sickly all my life I would rather die at once, and burden you and auntie no longer."
"Electra, who told you that you burdened me?"
"Oh, Russell! don't I know how hard you have to work; and how difficult it is for you to get even bread and clothes? Don't I see how auntie labours day after day, and month after month? You are good and kind, but does that prevent my feeling the truth, that you are working for me too? If I could only help you in some way." She knelt down by his chair and leaned her head on his knee, holding his hands between both hers.
"Electra, you do help me; all day long when I am at the store your face haunts, strengthens me; I feel that I am striving to give you comforts, and when at night you meet me at the gate, I am repaid for all I have done. You must put this idea out of your head, little one; it is altogether a mistake. Do you hear what I say? Get up, and go to sleep like a good child, or you will have another wretched headache to-morrow, and can't bring me my lunch."
He lifted her from the floor, and kissed her hastily. She raised her arms as if to wind them about his neck, but his grave face gave her no encouragement, and turning away she retired to her room, with hot tears rolling over her cheeks. Russell had scarcely read half a dozen lines after his cousin's departure when a soft hand swept back the locks of hair on his forehead, and wiped away the heavy drops that moistened them.
"My son, you promised me you would not sit up late to-night."
"Well, mother, I have almost finished. Remember the nights are very short now, and twelve o'clock comes early."
"The better reason that you should not be up so late. My son, I am afraid you will ruin your health by this unremitting application."
"Why--look at me. I am as strong as an athlete of old." He shook his limbs and smiled, proud of his great physical strength.
"True, Russell; but, robust as you are, you cannot stand such toil without detriment. Put up your books."
"Not yet; I have more laid out, and you know I invariably finish all I set apart to do. But, mother, your hand is hot; you are not well." He raised the thin hand, and pressed it to his lips.
"A mere headache, nothing more. Mr. Clark was here to-day; he is very impatient about the rent. I told him we were doing all we could, and thought that by September we should be able to pay the whole." He knew she watched him, and answered with a forced smile. "Yes, he came to the store this morning. I told him we had been very unfortunate this year, that sickness had forced us to incur more expense than usual. However, I drew fifty dollars, and paid him all I could. True, I anticipated my dues, but Mr. Watson gave me permission. So for the present you need not worry about rent."
"What is the amount of that grocery bill you would not let me see last week?"
"My dear mother, do not trouble yourself with these little matters; the grocery bill will very soon be paid. I have arranged with Mr. Hill to keep his books at night, and therefore, you may be easy. Trust all to me, mother; only take care of your dear self, and I ask no more."
"Oh, Russell! my son, my dear son!"
She had drawn a chair near him, and now laid her head on his shoulder, while tears dropped on his hand. He had not seen her so unnerved for years, and as he looked down on her grief-stained, yet resigned face, his countenance underwent a marvellous change; and, folding his arms about her, he kissed her pale, thin cheek repeatedly.
"Mother, it is not like you to repine in this way; you who have suffered and endured so much must not despond when, after a long, starless night, the day begins to dawn."
"I fear 'it dawns in clouds, and heralds only storms.' For myself I care not, but for you, Russell--my pride, my only hope, my brave boy? it is for you that I suffer. I have been thinking to-night that this is a doomed place for you, and that if we could only save money enough to go to California, you might take the position you merit; for there none would know of the blight which fell upon you; none could look on your brow and dream it seemed sullied. Here you have such bitter prejudice to combat; such gross injustice heaped upon you."
He lifted his mother's head from his bosom, and rose, with a haughty, defiant smile on his lip.
"Not so; I will stay here, and live down their hate. Mark me, mother, I will live it down, so surely as I am Russell Aubrey, the despised son of a ----! Go to California! not I! not I! In this state will I work and conquer; here, right here, I will plant my feet upon the necks of those that now strive to grind me to the dust. I swore it over my father's coffin!"
"Hush, Russell, you must subdue your fierce temper; you must! you must! Remember it was this ungovernable rage which brought disgrace upon your young, innocent head. Oh! it grieves me, my son, to see how bitter you have grown. Once you were gentle and forgiving; now scorn and defiance rule you."
"I am not fierce, I am not in a rage. If I should meet the judge and jury who doomed my father to the gallows, I think I would serve them if they needed aid. But I am proud; I inherited my nature; I writhe, yes, mother, writhe under the treatment I constantly receive."
"We have trouble enough, my son, without dwelling upon what is past and irremediable. So long as you seem cheerful I am content. I know that God will not lay more on me than I can bear; 'As my day so shall my strength be.' Thy will be done, oh! my God."
There was a brief pause, and Russell Aubrey passed his hand over his eyes, and dashed off a tear. His mother watched him, and said cautiously-- "Have you noticed that my eyes are rapidly growing worse?"
"Yes, mother, I have been anxious for some weeks."
"You know it all then?"
"Yes, mother."
"I shall not murmur; I have become resigned at last; though for many weeks I have wrestled for strength, for patience. It was so exceedingly bitter to know that the time drew near when I should see you no more; to feel that I should stretch out my hands to you, and lean on you, and yet look no longer on the dear face of my child, my boy, my all. But my prayers were heard; the sting has passed away, and I am resigned. I am glad that we have spoken of it; now my mind is calmer, and I can sleep. Good night, my son."
She pressed the customary good night kiss on his lips, and left him. He closed the dictionary, leaned his elbow on the table, and rested his head on his hand. His piercing black eyes were fixed gloomily on the floor, and now and then his broad chest heaved as dark and painful thoughts crowded up.
Mrs. Aubrey was the only daughter of wealthy and ambitious parents, who refused to sanction her marriage with the object of her choice; and threatened to disinherit her if she persisted in her obstinate course. Mr. Aubrey was poor, but honest, highly cultivated and, in every sense of that much abused word, a gentleman. His poverty was not to be forgiven, however, and when the daughter left her father's roof, and wedded the man whom her parents detested, she was banished for ever from a home of affluence, and found that she had indeed forfeited her fortune. For this she was prepared, and bore it bravely; but ere long severer trials came upon her. Unfortunately, her husband's temper was fierce and ungovernable; and pecuniary embarrassments rarely have the effect of sweetening such. He removed to an inland town, and embarked in mercantile pursuits; but misfortune followed him, and reverses came thick and fast. One miserable day, when from early morning everything had gone wrong, an importunate creditor, of wealth and great influence in the community, chafed at Mr. Aubrey's tardiness in repaying some trifling sum, proceeded to taunt and insult him most unwisely. Stung to madness, the wretched man resented the insults; a struggle ensued, and at its close Mr. Aubrey stood over the corpse of the creditor. There was no mode of escape, and the arm of the law consigned him to prison. During the tedious weeks that elapsed before the trial his devoted wife strove to cheer and encourage him. Russell was about eleven years of age, and, boy though he was, realized most fully the horrors of his parent's situation. The days of his trial came at last; but the accused had surrendered himself to the demon Rage, had taken the life of a fellow creature; what could legal skill accomplish? The affair produced great and continued excitement; the murdered man had been exceedingly popular, and the sympathies of the citizens were enlisted in behalf of his family. Although clearly a case of manslaughter only, to the astonishment of the counsel on both sides, the cry of "blood for blood," went out from that crowded court-room, and in defiance of precedent, Mr. Aubrey was unjustly sentenced to be hanged. When the verdict was known, Russell placed his insensible mother on a couch from which it seemed probable she would never rise. But there is an astonishing amount of endurance in even a feeble woman's frame, and after a time she went about her house once more, doing her duty to her child and learning to "suffer and grow strong." Fate had ordained, however, that Russell's father should not die upon the gallows; and soon after the verdict was pronounced, when all Mrs. Aubrey's efforts to procure a pardon had proved unavailing, the proud and desperate man, in the solitude of his cell, with no eye but Jehovah's to witness the awful deed, took his own life with the aid of a lancet. Such was the legacy of shame which Russell inherited; was it any marvel that at sixteen that boy had lived ages of sorrow? Mrs. Aubrey found her husband's financial affairs so involved that she relinquished the hope of retaining the little she possessed, and retired to a small cottage on the outskirts of the town, where she endeavoured to support herself and the two dependent on her by taking in sewing. Electra Grey was the orphan child of Mr. Aubrey's only sister, who, dying in poverty, bequeathed the infant to her brother. He had loved her as well as his own Russell, and his wife, who cradled her in her arms and taught her to walk by clinging to her finger, would almost as soon have parted with her son as the little Electra. For five years the widow had toiled by midnight lamps to feed these two; now oppressed nature rebelled, the long over-taxed eyes refused to perform their office; filmy cataracts stole over them, veiling their sadness and their unshed tears--blindness was creeping on. At his father's death Russell was forced to quit school, and with some difficulty he succeeded in obtaining a situation in a large dry-goods store, where his labours were onerous in the extreme, and his wages a mere pittance. Though Russell's employer, Mr. Watson, shrank from committing a gross wrong, and prided himself on his scrupulous honesty, his narrow mind and penurious habits strangled every generous impulse, and, without being absolutely cruel or unprincipled, he contrived to gall the boy's proud spirit and render his position one of almost purgatorial severity. His eldest son was just Russell's age, had been sent to various schools from his infancy, was indolent, self-indulgent, and thoroughly dissipated. Having been a second time expelled from school for most disgraceful misdemeanours, he lounged away his time about the store, or passed it still more disreputably with reckless companions.
The daily contrast presented by Cecil and Russell irritated the father, and hence his settled dislike of the latter. The faithful discharge of duty on the part of the clerk afforded no plausible occasion for invective; he felt that he was narrowly watched, and resolved to give no ground for fault-finding; yet during the long summer days, when the intense heat prevented customers from thronging the store, and there was nothing to be done, when Russell, knowing that the books were written up and the counters free from goods, took his Latin grammar and improved every leisure half-hour, he was not ignorant of the fact that an angry scowl darkened his employer's visage, and understood why he was constantly interrupted to perform most unnecessary labours. What the day denied him he reclaimed from night, and succeeded in acquiring a tolerable knowledge of Greek, besides reading several Latin books. Finding that his small salary was inadequate, now that his mother's failing sight prevented her from accomplishing the usual amount of sewing, he solicited and obtained permission to keep an additional set of books for the grocer who furnished his family with provisions, though by this arrangement few hours remained for necessary sleep. The protracted illness and death of an aged and faithful servant, together with Electra's tedious sickness, bringing the extra expense of medical aid, had prevented the prompt payment of rent due for the three-roomed cottage, and Russell was compelled to ask for a portion of his salary in advance. His mother little dreamed of the struggle which took place in his heart ere he could force himself to make the request, and he carefully concealed from her the fact that at the moment of receiving the money, he laid in Mr. Watson's hands, by way of pawn, the only article of any value which he possessed--the watch his father had always worn, and which the coroner took from the vest pocket of the dead, dabbled with blood. The gold chain had been sold long before, and the son wore it attached to a simple black ribbon. His employer received the watch, locked it in the iron safe, and Russell fastened a small weight to the ribbon, and kept it around his neck that his mother might not suspect the truth. It chanced that Cecil stood near at the time; he saw the watch deposited in the safe, whistled a tune, fingered his own gold repeater, and walked away. Such was Russell Aubrey's history; such his situation at the beginning of his seventeenth year.
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{
"id": "27811"
}
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2
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IRENE'S FRIENDSHIP
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"Irene, your father will be displeased if he sees you in that plight."
"Pray, what is wrong about me now? You seem to glory in finding fault. What is the matter with my 'plight' as you call it?"
"You know very well your father can't bear to see you carrying your own satchel and basket to school. He ordered Martha to take them every morning and evening, but she says you will not let her carry them. It is just sheer obstinacy in you."
"There it is again! because I don't choose to be petted like a baby, or made a wax doll of, it is set down to obstinacy, as if I had the temper of a heathen. See here, Aunt Margaret, I am tired of having Martha tramping eternally at my heels as though I were a two-year-old child. There is no reason in her walking after me when I am strong enough to carry my own books, and I don't intend she shall do it any longer."
Irene Huntingdon stood on the marble steps of her palatial home, and talked with the maiden aunt who governed her father's household. The girl was about fourteen, tall for her age, straight, finely-formed, slender. The broad straw hat shaded but by no means concealed her features, and as she looked up at her aunt the sunshine fell upon a face of extraordinary beauty, such as is rarely seen, save in the idealized heads of the old masters. Her eyes were strangely, marvellously beautiful; they were larger than usual, and of that rare shade of purplish blue which borders the white velvet petals of a clematis. When the eyes were uplifted, as on this occasion, long, curling lashes of the bronze hue of her hair rested against her brow. Save the scarlet lines which marked her lips, her face was of that clear colourlessness which can be likened only to the purest ivory. Though there was an utter absence of the rosy hue of health, the transparency of the complexion seemed characteristic of her type, and precluded all thought of disease. Miss Margaret muttered something inaudible in reply to her last remark, and Irene walked on to school. Her father's residence was about a mile from the town, but the winding road rendered the walk somewhat longer; and on one side of this road stood the small house occupied by Mrs. Aubrey. As Irene approached it she saw Electra Grey coming from the opposite direction, and at the cottage gate they met. Both paused: Irene held out her hand cordially-- "Good morning. I have not seen you for a fortnight. I thought you were coming to school again as soon as you were strong enough?"
"No; I am not going back to school."
"Why?"
"Because auntie can't afford to send me any longer. You know her eyes are growing worse every day, and she is not able to take in sewing as she used to do. I am sorry; but it can't be helped."
"How do you know it can't be helped? Russell told me he thought she had cataracts on her eyes, and they can be removed."
"Perhaps so, if we had the means of consulting that celebrated physician in New Orleans. Money removes a great many things, Irie, but unfortunately we haven't it."
"The trip would not cost much; suppose you speak to Russell about it."
"Much or little it will require more than we can possibly spare. Everything is so high, we can barely live as it is. But I must go in; my aunt is waiting for me."
They shook hands and Irene walked on. Soon the brick walls of the academy rose grim and uninviting, and taking her place at the desk she applied herself to her books. When school was dismissed in the afternoon, instead of returning home as usual, she walked down the principal street, entered Mr. Watson's store, and put her books on the counter. It happened that the proprietor stood near the front door, and he came forward instantly to wait upon her.
"Ah, Miss Irene! happy to see you. What shall I have the pleasure of showing you?"
"Russell Aubrey, if you please."
The merchant stared, and she added-- "I want some kid gauntlets, but Russell can get them for me."
The young clerk stood at the desk in the rear of the store, with his back toward the counter; and Mr Watson called out-- "Here, Aubrey, some kid gauntlets for this young lady."
He laid down his pen, and taking a box of gloves from the shelves, placed it on the counter before her. He had not noticed her particularly, and when she pushed back her hat and looked up at him he started slightly.
"Good evening, Miss Huntingdon. What number do you wish?"
Perhaps it was from the heat of the day, or from stooping over his desk, or perhaps it was from something else, but his cheek was flushed, and gradually it grew pale again.
"Russell, I want to speak to you about Electra. She ought to be at school, you know."
"Yes."
"But she says your mother can't afford the expense."
"Just now she cannot; next year things will be better."
"What is the tuition for her?"
"Five dollars a month."
"Is that all?"
He selected a delicate fawn-coloured pair of gloves and laid them before her, while a faint smile passed over his face.
"Russell, has anything happened?"
"What do you mean?"
"What is troubling you so?"
"Nothing more than usual. Do those gloves suit you?"
"Yes, they will fit me, I believe." She looked at him very intently.
He met her gaze steadily, and for an instant his face brightened; then she said abruptly-- "Your mother's eyes are worse."
"Yes, much worse."
"Have you consulted Dr. Arnold about them?"
"He says he can do nothing for her."
"How much would it cost to take her to New Orleans and have that celebrated oculist examine them?"
"More than we can afford just now; at least two hundred dollars."
"Oh, Russell! that is not much. Would not Mr. Watson lend you that little?"
"I shall not ask him."
"Not even to restore your mother's sight?"
"Not to buy my own life. Besides, the experiment is a doubtful one."
"Still it is worth making."
"Yes, under different circumstances it certainly would be."
"Have you talked to Mr. Campbell about it?"
"No, because it is useless to discuss the matter."
"It would be dangerous to go to New Orleans now, I suppose?"
"October or November would be better."
Again she looked at him very earnestly, then stretched out her little hand.
"Good-bye, Russell. I wish I could do something to help you, to make you less sorrowful."
He held the slight waxen fingers, and his mouth trembled as he answered-- "Thank you, Miss Huntingdon. I am not sorrowful, but my path in life is not quite so flowery as yours."
"I wish you would not call me 'Miss Huntingdon' in that stiff, far-off way, as if we were not friends. Or maybe it is a hint that you desire me to address you as Mr. Aubrey. It sounds strange, unnatural, to say anything but Russell."
She gathered up her books, took the gloves, and went slowly homeward, and Russell returned to his desk with a light in his eyes which, for the remainder of the day, nothing could quench. As Irene ascended the long hill on which Mr. Huntingdon's residence stood, she saw her father's buggy at the door, and as she approached the steps, he came out, drawing on his gloves.
"You are late, Irene. What kept you?"
"I have been shopping a little. Are you going to ride? Take me with you."
"Going to dine at Mr. Carter's."
"Why, the sun is almost down now. What time will you come home? I want to ask you something."
"Not till long after you are asleep."
The night passed very slowly; Irene looked at the clock again and again. Finally the house became quiet, and at last the crush of wheels on the gravel-walk announced her father's return. He came into the library for a cigar, and, without noticing her, drew his chair to the open window. She approached and put her hand on his shoulder.
"Irene! what is the matter, child?"
"Nothing sir; only I want to ask you something."
"Well, Queen, what is it?"
He drew her tenderly to his knee, and passed his hand over her floating hair.
Leonard Huntingdon was forty years old; tall, spare, with an erect and martial carriage. He had been trained at West Point, and perhaps early education contributed somewhat to the air of unbending haughtiness which many found repulsive. His black hair was slightly sprinkled with grey, and his features were still decidedly handsome, though the expression of mouth and eyes was, ordinarily, by no means winning. Irene was his only child; her mother had died during her infancy, and on this beautiful idol he lavished all the tenderness of which his nature was capable. His tastes were cultivated, his house was elegant and complete, and furnished magnificently; every luxury that money could yield him he possessed, yet there were times when he seemed moody and cynical, and no one could surmise the cause of his gloom. The girl looked up at him fearing no denial.
"Father, I wish, please, you would give me two hundred dollars."
"What would you do with it, Queen?"
"I do not want it for myself; I should like to have that much to enable a poor woman to recover her sight. She has cataracts on her eyes, and there is a physician in New Orleans who can relieve her. Father, won't you give me the money?"
He took the cigar from his lips, shook off the ashes, and asked indifferently-- "What is the woman's name? Has she no husband to take care of her?"
"Mrs. Aubrey; she----" "What!"
The cigar fell from his fingers, he put her from his knee, and rose instantly. His swarthy cheek glowed, and she wondered at the expression of his eyes, so different from anything she had ever seen there before.
"Who gave you permission to visit that house?"
"No permission was necessary. I go there because I love her and Electra, and because I like Russell. Why shouldn't I go there, sir? Is poverty disgrace?"
"Irene, mark me. You are to visit that house no more in future; keep away from the whole family. I will have no such association. Never let me hear their names again. Go to bed."
"Give me one good reason, and I will obey you."
"Reason! My will, my command, is sufficient reason. What do you mean by catechising me in this way? Implicit obedience is your duty."
The calm, holy eyes looked wonderingly into his; and as he marked the startled expression of the girl's pure face his own eyes drooped.
"Father, has Mrs. Aubrey ever injured you?"
No answer.
"If she has not, you are very unjust to her; if she has, remember she is a woman, bowed down with many sorrows, and it is unmanly to hoard up old differences. Father, please give me that money."
"I will bury my last dollar in the Red Sea first! Now are you answered?"
She put her hands over her eyes, as if to shut out some painful vision; and he saw the slight form shudder. In perfect silence she took her books and went up to her room. Mr. Huntingdon reseated himself as the door closed behind her, and the lamplight showed a sinister smile writhing over his dark features. He sat there, staring out into the starry night, and seeing by the shimmer of the setting moon only the graceful form and lovely face of Amy Aubrey, as she had appeared to him in other days. Could he forget the hour when she wrenched her cold fingers from his clasp, and, in defiance of her father's wishes, vowed she would never be his wife? No; revenge was sweet, very sweet; his heart had swelled with exultation when the verdict of death upon the gallows was pronounced upon the husband of her choice; and now, her poverty, her humiliation, her blindness gave him deep, unutterable joy. The history of the past was a sealed volume to his daughter, but she was now for the first time conscious that her father regarded the widow and her son with unconquerable hatred; and with strange, foreboding dread she looked into the future, knowing that forgiveness was no part of his nature; that insult or injury was never forgotten.
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{
"id": "27811"
}
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3
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THE MISSING WATCH
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Whether the general rule of implicit obedience to parental injunction admitted of no exceptions, was a problem which Irene readily solved; and on Saturday, as soon as her father and cousin had started to the plantation (twenty-five miles distant), she put on her hat, and walked to town. Wholly absorbed in philanthropic schemes, she hurried along the sidewalk, ran up a flight of steps, and knocked at a door, on which was written in large gilt letters "Dr. Arnold."
"Ah, Beauty! come in. Sit down, and tell me what brought you to town so early."
He was probably a man of fifty; gruff in appearance, and unmistakably a bachelor. His thick hair was grizzled, so was the heavy beard; and the shaggy grey eyebrows slowly unbent, as he took his visitor's little hands and looked kindly down into her grave face. From her infancy he had petted and fondled her and she stood as little in awe of him as of Paragon.
"Doctor, are you busy this morning?"
"I am never too busy to attend to you, little one. What is it?"
"Of course you know that Mrs. Aubrey is almost blind."
"Of course I do, having been her physician."
"Those cataracts can be removed, however."
"Perhaps they can, and perhaps they can't."
"But the probabilities are that a good oculist can relieve her."
"I rather think so."
"Two hundred dollars would defray all the expenses of a trip to New Orleans for this purpose, but she is too poor to afford it."
"Decidedly too poor."
His grey eyes twinkled promisingly, but he would not anticipate her.
"Dr. Arnold, don't you think you could spare that small sum without much inconvenience?"
"Really! is that what you trudged into town for?"
"Yes. I have not the necessary amount at my disposal just now, and I came to ask you to lend it to me."
"Do you want the money now?"
"Yes, if you please; but before you give it to me I ought to tell you that I want the matter kept secret. No one is to know anything about it--not even my father."
She looked so unembarrassed that for a moment he felt puzzled.
"I knew Mrs. Aubrey before her marriage." He bent forward to watch the effect of his words, but if she really knew or suspected aught of the past there was not the slightest intimation of it. Putting back her hair, she looked up and answered-- "That should increase your willingness to aid her in her misfortunes."
"Hold out your hand; fifty, one hundred, a hundred and fifty, two hundred. There, will that do?"
"Thank you! thank you. You will not need it soon, I hope?"
"Not until you are ready to pay me."
"Dr. Arnold, you have given me a great deal of pleasure--more than I can express. I----" "Don't try to express it, Queen. You have given me infinitely more, I assure you."
Her splendid eyes were lifted toward him, and with some sudden impulse she touched her lips to the hand he had placed on her shoulder. Something like a tremor crossed the doctor's habitually stern mouth as he looked at the marvellous beauty of the girl's countenance, and he kissed her slender fingers as reverently as though he touched something consecrated.
"Irene, shall I take you home in my buggy?"
"No, thank you, I would rather walk. Oh! Doctor, I am so much obliged to you."
In answer to Irene's knock, Electra opened the cottage door, and ushered her into the small room which served as both kitchen and dining-room. Everything was scrupulously neat, not a spot on the bare polished floor, not a speck to dim the purity of the snowy dimity curtains, and on the table in the centre stood a vase filled with fresh fragrant flowers. In a low chair before the open window sat the widow knitting a blue and white nubia. She glanced round as Irene entered.
"Who is it, Electra?"
"Miss Irene, aunt."
"Sit down, Miss Irene; how are you to-day?"
"Mrs. Aubrey, I am sorry to hear your eyes are no better."
"Thank you for your kind sympathy. My sight grows more dim every day."
"You shan't suffer much longer; these veils shall be taken off. Here is the money to enable you to go to New Orleans and consult that physician. As soon as the weather turns cooler you must start."
"Miss Irene, I cannot tax your generosity so heavily; I have no claim on your goodness. Indeed I----" "Mrs. Aubrey, don't you think it is your duty to recover your sight if possible?"
"Yes, if I could command the means."
"You have the means; you must employ them. There, I will not take back the money; it is yours."
"Don't refuse it, auntie, you will wound Irie," pleaded Electra.
There was silence for a few seconds; then Mrs. Aubrey took the hands from her face and said,--"Irene, I will accept your generous offer. If my sight is restored, I can repay you some day; if not, I am not too proud to be under this great obligation to you. Oh, Irene! I can't tell you how much I thank you; my heart is too full for words." She threw her arm round the girl's waist and strained her to her bosom, and the hot tears fell fast on the waves of golden hair. A moment after, Irene threw a tiny envelope into Electra's lap, and without another word glided out of the room. The orphan broke the seal, and as she opened a sheet of note-paper a ten-dollar bill slipped out.
"Electra, come to school Monday. The enclosed will pay your tuition for two months longer. Please don't hesitate to accept it if you really love "Your friend IRENE."
Thinking of the group she had just left, Irene approached the gate and saw that Russell stood holding it open for her to pass. Looking up she stopped, for the expression of his face frightened and pained her.
"Russell, what is the matter? oh! tell me."
"I have been injured and insulted. Just now I doubt all people and all things, even the justice and mercy of God."
"Russell, 'shall not the righteous Judge of all the earth do right?'"
"Shall the rich and the unprincipled eternally trample upon the poor and the unfortunate?"
"Who has injured you?"
"A meek-looking man who passes for a Christian, who turns pale at the sound of a violin, who exhorts to missionary labours, and talks often about widows and orphans. Such a man, knowing the circumstances that surround me, my poverty, my mother's affliction, on bare and most unwarrantable suspicion turns me out of my situation as clerk, and endeavours to brand my name with infamy. To-day I stand disgraced in the eyes of the community, thanks to the vile slanders of that pillar of the church, Jacob Watson. I could bear it myself, but my mother! my noble, patient, suffering mother! I must go in, and add a yet heavier burden to those already crushing out her life. Pleasant tidings, these I bring her; that her son is disgraced, branded as a rogue!"
There was no moisture in the keen eye, no tremor in the metallic ring of his voice, no relaxation of the curled lip.
"Can't you prove your innocence? Was it money?"
"No, it was a watch, which I gave up as security for drawing a portion of my salary in advance. It was locked up in the iron safe; this morning it was missing, and they accuse me of having stolen it."
He took off his hat as if it oppressed him, and tossed back his hair.
"What will you do, Russell?"
"I don't know yet."
"Oh! if I could only help you."
She clasped her hands over her heart, and for the first time since her infancy tears rushed down her cheeks. It was painful to see that quiet girl so moved, and Russell hastily took the folded hands in his, and bent his face close to hers.
"Irene, the only comfort I have is that you are my friend. Don't let them influence you against me. No matter what you may hear, believe in me. Oh! Irene, Irene! believe in me always!"
He held her hands in a clasp so tight that it pained her, then suddenly dropped them and left her.
Mrs. Aubrey recognized the step and looked round in surprise.
"Electra, I certainly hear Russell coming."
He drew near and touched her cheek with his lips, saying tenderly-- "How is my mother?"
"Russell, what brings you home so early?"
"That is rather a cold welcome, mother, but I am not astonished. Can you bear to hear something unpleasant? Here, put your hands in mine; now listen to me. You know I drew fifty dollars of my salary in advance, to pay Clark. At that time I gave my watch to Mr. Watson by way of pawn, he seemed so reluctant to let me have the money; you understand, mother, why I did not mention it at the time. He locked it up in the iron safe, to which no one has access except him and myself. Late yesterday I locked the safe as usual, but do not remember whether the watch was still there or not; this morning Mr. Watson missed it; we searched safe, desk, store, could find it nowhere, nor the twenty-dollar gold piece deposited at the same time. No other money was missing, though the safe contained nearly a thousand dollars. The end of it all is that I am accused as the thief, and expelled in disgrace for----" A low, plaintive cry escaped the widow's lips, and her head sank heavily on the boy's shoulder. Passing his arm fondly around her, he kissed her white face, and continued in the same hushed, passionless tone, like one speaking under his breath, and stilling some devouring rage-- "Mother, I need not assure you of my innocence. You know that I never could be guilty of what is imputed to me; but, not having it in my power to prove my innocence, I shall have to suffer the disgrace for a season. Only for a season, I trust, mother, for in time the truth must be discovered. I have been turned out of my situation, and, though they have no proof of my guilt, they will try to brand me with the disgrace."
For a few moments deep silence reigned in the little kitchen, and only the Infinite eye pierced the heart of the long-tried sufferer. When she raised her head from the boy's bosom, the face, though tear-stained, was serene, and, pressing her lips twice to his, she said slowly-- "'Beloved, think it not strange concerning the fiery trial which is to try you; as though some strange thing happened unto you. For whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth.' I will wait patiently, my son, hoping for proofs which shall convince the world of your innocence. I wish I could take the whole burden on my shoulders, and relieve you, my dear boy."
"You have, mother; it ceases to crush me, now that you are yourself once more." He spoke with difficulty, however, as if something stifled him, and, rising hastily, poured out and drank a glass of water.
"And now, Russell, sit down and let me tell you a little that is pleasant and sunshiny. There is still a bright spot left to look upon."
Stealing her hand into his, the mother informed him of all that had occurred during Irene's visit, and concluded by laying the money in his palm.
Electra sat opposite, watching the change that came over the face she loved best on earth. Her large, eager midnight eyes noted the quick flush and glad light which overspread his features; the deep joy that kindled in his tortured soul; and unconsciously she clutched her fingers till the nails grew purple, as though striving to strangle some hideous object thrusting itself before her. Her breathing became laboured and painful, her gaze more concentrated and searching, and when her cousin exclaimed: "Oh, mother! she is an angel! I have always known it. She is unlike everybody else!" Electra's heart seemed to stand still; and from that moment a sombre curtain fell between the girl's eyes and God's sunshine. She rose, and a silent yet terrible struggle took place in her passionate soul. Justice and jealousy wrestled briefly; she would be just though every star fell from her sky, and with a quick uncertain step she reached Russell, thrust Irene's note into his fingers, and fled into solitude. An hour later, Russell knocked at the door of an office, which bore on a square tin plate these words, "Robert Campbell, Attorney at Law." The door was partially closed, and as he entered an elderly man looked up from a desk, covered with loose papers and open volumes, from which he was evidently making extracts. The thin hair hung over his forehead as if restless fingers had ploughed carelessly through it, and, as he kept one finger on a half-copied paragraph, the cold blue eye said very plainly, "This is a busy time with me; despatch your errand at once."
"Good morning, Mr. Campbell; are you particularly engaged?"
"How-d'ye-do, Aubrey. I am generally engaged; confoundedly busy this morning. What do you want?"
His pen resumed its work, but he turned his head as if to listen.
"I will call again when you are at leisure," said Russell, turning away.
"That will be--next month--next year; in fine, postponing your visit indefinitely. Sit down--somewhere--well--clear those books into a corner, and let's hear your business. I am at your service for ten minutes--talk fast."
He put his pen behind his ear, crossed his arms on the desk, and looked expectant.
"I came here to ask whether you wished to employ anyone in your office."
"And what the deuce do you suppose I want with an office lad like yourself? I tried that experiment to my perfect satisfaction a few months ago. Is that all?"
"That is all, sir."
The boy rose, but the bitter look that crossed his face as he glanced at the well-filled book-shelves arrested the lawyer's attention, and he added-- "Why did you leave Watson, young man? It is a bad plan to change about in this style."
"I was expelled from my situation on a foul and most unjust accusation."
"Let's hear the whole business; sit down."
Without hesitation he narrated all the circumstances, once or twice pausing to still the tempest of passion that flashed from his eyes. While he spoke, Mr. Campbell's keen eyes searched him from head to foot, and at the conclusion he said-- "I see fate has thumped none of your original obstinacy out of you. Aubrey, suppose I shut my eyes to the watch transaction, and take you into my office?"
"If so, I shall do my duty faithfully. But you said you did not need anyone here, and though I am anxious to find work, I do not expect or desire to be taken in from charity. I intend to earn my wages, sir, and from your own account I should judge you had very little use for an assistant."
"Humph! a bountiful share of pride along with prodigious obstinacy. Though I am a lawyer, I told you the truth; I have no earthly use for such assistants as I have been plagued with for several years. In the main, office-boys are a nuisance, comparable only to the locusts of Egypt; I washed my hands of the whole tribe months since. But if I could only get an intelligent, ambitious, honourable, trustworthy young man, he would be a help to me. I had despaired of finding such, but, on the whole, I rather like you; believe you can suit me exactly if you will, and I am disposed to give you a trial. Sit down here and copy this paragraph; let me see what sort of hieroglyphics I shall have to decipher if I make you my copyist."
Russell silently complied, and after a careful examination it seemed the chirography was satisfactory.
"Aubrey, you and I can work peaceably together; I value your candour, I like your resolution. Come to me on Monday, and in the matter of salary you shall find me liberal enough. I think you told me you had a cousin as well as your mother to support; I shall not forget it. Now, good morning, and leave me unless you desire to accumulate work for yourself."
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{
"id": "27811"
}
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4
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ELECTRA'S DISCOVERY
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From early childhood Irene had experienced a sensation of loneliness. Doubtless the loss of her mother enhanced this feeling, but the peculiarity of her mental organization would have necessitated it even under happier auspices. Miss Margaret considered her "a strange little thing," and rarely interfered with her plans in any respect, while her father seemed to take it for granted that she required no looking after. He knew that her beauty was extraordinary; he was proud of the fact; and having provided her with a good music master, and sent her to the best school in the county, he left her to employ her leisure as inclination prompted. Occasionally her will conflicted with his, and more than once he found it impossible to make her yield assent to his wishes. To the outward observances of obedience and respect she submitted, but whenever these differences occurred, he felt that in the end she was unconquered. Inconsistent as it may appear, though fretted for the time by her firmness, he loved her the more for her "wilfulness," as he termed it; and despotic and exacting though he certainly was in many respects, he stood somewhat in awe of his pure-hearted, calm-eyed child. His ward and nephew, Hugh Seymour, had resided with him for several years, and it was well known that Mr. Huntingdon had pledged his daughter's hand to his sister's son. Irene had never been officially apprised of her destiny, but surmised very accurately the true state of the case. Between the two cousins there existed not the slightest congeniality of taste or disposition; not a sympathetic link save the tie of relationship. On her part there was a moderate share of cousinly affection; on his, as much love and tenderness as his selfish nature was capable of feeling. They rarely quarrelled as most children do, for when (as frequently happened) he flew into a rage and tried to tyrannize, she scorned to retort in any way and generally locked him out of the library. What she thought of her father's intentions concerning herself, no one knew; she never alluded to the subject, and if in a frolicsome mood Hugh broached it, she invariably cut the discussion short. When he went to college in a distant state, she felt infinitely relieved, and during his vacations secluded herself as much as possible. Yet the girl's heart was warm and clinging; she loved her father devotedly, and loved most intensely Electra Grey, whom she had first met at school. They were nearly the same age, classmates, and firm friends. As totally different in character as appearance was Electra Grey. Rather smaller and much thinner than Irene, with shining, purplish black hair, large, sad, searching black eyes, from which there was no escape, a pale olive complexion, and full crimson lips that rarely smiled. Electra was a dreamer, richly gifted; dissatisfied because she could never attain that unreal world which her busy brain kept constantly before her.
Electra's love of drawing had early displayed itself; first, in strange, weird figures on her slate, then in her copy-book, on every slip of paper which she could lay her hands upon; and, finally, for want of more suitable material, she scrawled all over the walls of the little bedroom, to the great horror of her aunt, who spread a coat of whitewash over the child's frescos, and begged her to be guilty of no such conduct in future, as Mr. Clark might, with great justice, sue for damages. In utter humiliation, Electra retreated to the garden, and here, after a shower had left the sandy walks white and smooth, she would sharpen a bit of pine, and draw figures and faces of all conceivable and inconceivable shapes. Chancing to find her thus engaged one Sunday afternoon, Russell supplied her with a package of drawing-paper, and pencils. So long as these lasted she was perfectly happy, but unluckily their straitened circumstances admitted of no such expenditure, and before many weeks she was again without materials. She would not tell Russell that she had exhausted his package, and passed sleepless nights trying to devise some method by which she could aid herself. It was positive torture for her to sit in school and see the drawing-master go round, giving lessons on this side and that, skipping over her every time, because her aunt could not afford the extra three dollars. Amid all these yearnings and aspirations she turned constantly to Russell, with a worshipping love that knew no bounds. She loved her meek affectionate aunt as well as most natures love their mothers, and did all in her power to lighten her labours, but her affection for Russell bordered on adoration. In a character so exacting and passionate as hers there is necessarily much of jealousy, and thus it came to pass that, on the day of Irene's visit to the cottage, the horrible suspicion took possession of her that he loved Irene better than herself. True, she was very young, but childish hearts feel as keenly as those of matured years; and Electra endured more agony during that day than in all her past life. Had Irene been other than she was, in every respect, she would probably have hated her cordially; as matters stood, she buried the suspicion deep in her own heart, and kept as much out of everybody's way as possible. Days and weeks passed very wearily; she busied herself with her text-books, and when the lessons had been recited, drew all over the margins--here a hand, there an entire arm, now and then a face, sad-eyed as Fate.
Mrs. Aubrey's eyes became so blurred that finally she could not leave the house without having some one to guide her, and, as cold weather had now arrived, preparations were made for her journey. Mr. Hill, who was going to New Orleans, kindly offered to take charge of her, and the day of departure was fixed. Electra packed the little trunk, saw it deposited on the top of the stage in the dawn of an October morning, saw her aunt comfortably seated beside Mr. Hill, and in another moment all had vanished. In the afternoon of that day, on returning from school, Electra went to the bureau, and, unlocking a drawer, took out a small paper box. It contained a miniature of her father, set in a handsome gold frame. She knew it had been her mother's most valued trinket; her aunt had carefully kept it for her, and as often as the temptation assailed her she had resisted; but now the longing for money triumphed over every other feeling. Having touched the spring, she took a knife and cautiously removed the bit of ivory beneath the glass, then deposited the two last in the box, put the gold frame in her pocket, and went out to a jewellery store. As several persons had preceded her, she leaned against the counter, and, while waiting, watched with some curiosity the movements of one of the goldsmiths, who, with a glass over one eye, was engaged in repairing watches. Some had been taken from the cases, others were untouched; and as her eyes passed swiftly over the latter, they were suddenly riveted to a massive gold one lying somewhat apart. A half-smothered exclamation caused the workman to turn round and look at her, but in an instant she calmed herself; and thinking it a mere outbreak of impatience, he resumed his employment. Just then one of the proprietors approached, and said politely, "I am sorry we have kept you waiting, miss. What can I do for you?"
"What is this worth?"
She laid the locket down on the counter, and looked up with eyes that sparkled very joyously he thought. He examined it a moment, and said rather dryly-- "Well, how do I know, in the first place, that it belongs to you? Jewellers have to be very particular about what they buy."
She crimsoned, and drew herself proudly away from the counter, then smiled and held out her hand for the locket.
"It is mine; it held my father's miniature, but I took it out because I want a paint-box, and thought I could sell this case for enough to buy one. It was my mother's once; here are her initials on the back, H. G.--Harriet Grey. But of course you don't know whether I am telling the truth; I will bring my cousin with me, he can prove it. Sir, are you so particular about everything you buy?"
"We try to be."
Again her eyes sparkled; she bowed, and left the store.
Once in the street, she hurried to Mr. Campbell's office, ran up the steps, and rapped loudly at the door.
"Come in!" thundered the lawyer.
She stopped on the threshold, glanced round, and said timidly-- "I want to see Russell, if you please."
"Russell is at the post-office. Have you any particular spite at my door, that you belabour it in that style? or do you suppose I am as deaf as a gatepost?"
"I beg your pardon; I did not mean to startle you, sir. I was not thinking of either you or your door."
She sprang down the steps to wait on the sidewalk for her cousin, and met him at the entrance.
"Oh, Russell! I have found your watch."
A ray of light seemed to leap from his eyes as he seized her hand.
"Where?"
"At Mr. Brown's jewellery store."
"Thank God!"
He went up the stairway, delivered the letters, and came back accompanied by Mr. Campbell.
"This is my cousin, Electra Grey, Mr. Campbell."
"So I inferred from the unceremonious assault she made on my door just now. However, shake hands, little lady; it seems there is some reason for your haste. Let's hear about this precious watch business."
She simply told what she had seen. Presently Russell said-- "But how did you happen there, Electra?"
"Your good angel, sent me, I suppose; and," she added in a whisper, "I will tell you some other time."
On re-entering the store, she walked at once to the workman's corner, and pointed out the watch.
"Yes, it is mine. I would know it among a thousand."
"How can you identify it, Aubrey?"
He immediately gave the number, and name of the manufacturer, and described the interior tracery, not omitting the quantity of jewels. Mr. Campbell turned to the proprietor (the same gentleman with whom Electra had conversed), and briefly recapitulated the circumstances which had occurred in connection with the watch. Mr. Brown listened attentively, then requested Russell to point out the particular one that resembled his. He did so, and on examination, the number, date, name, and all the marks corresponded so exactly that no doubt remained on the jeweller's mind.
"Young man, this watch was sold for ninety dollars by a man named Rufus Turner, who lives in New Orleans, No. 240 ---- street. I will write to him at once, and find out, if possible, how it came into his possession. I rather think he had some horses here for sale."
"Did he wear green glasses," inquired Russell of the young man who had purchased the watch.
"Yes, and had one arm in a sling."
"I saw such a man here about the time my watch was missing."
After some directions from Mr. Campbell concerning the proper course to be pursued, Electra drew out her locket, saying-- "Now, Russell, is not this locket mine?"
"Yes; but where is the miniature? What are you going to do with it?"
"The miniature is at home, but I want to sell the frame, and Mr. Brown does not know but that it is another watch case."
"If it is necessary, I will swear that it belongs lawfully to you; but what do you want to sell it for? I should think you would prize it too highly to be willing to part with it."
"I do prize the miniature, and would not part with it for any consideration; but I want something far more than a gold case to keep it in."
"Tell me what you want, and I will get it for you," whispered her cousin.
"No--I am going to sell this frame."
"And I am going to buy it from you," said the kind-hearted merchant, taking it from her hand and weighing it.
Russell and Mr. Campbell left the store, and soon after Mr. Brown paid Electra several dollars for the locket.
In half an hour she had purchased a small box of paints, a supply of drawing-paper and pencils, and returned home, happier and prouder than many an empress, whose jewels have equalled those of the Begums of Oude. She had cleared Russell's character, and her hands were pressed over her heart to still its rapturous throbbing. Many days elapsed before Mr. Turner's answer arrived. He stated that he had won the watch from Cecil Watson, at a horse-race, where both were betting; and proved the correctness of his assertion by reference to several persons who were present, and who resided in the town. Russell had suspected Cecil from the moment of its disappearance, and now provided with both letter and watch, and accompanied by Mr. Brown, he repaired to Mr. Watson's store. Russell had been insulted, his nature was stern, and now he exulted in the power of disgracing the son of the man who had wronged him. There was no flush on his face, but a cold, triumphant glitter in his eyes as he approached his former employer, and laid watch and letter before him.
"What business have you here?" growled the merchant, trembling before the expression of the boy's countenance.
"My business is to clear my character which you have slandered, and to fix the disgrace you intended for me on your own son. I bring you the proofs of his, not my villainy."
"Come into the back-room; I will see Brown another time," said Watson, growing paler each moment.
"No, sir; you were not so secret in your dealings with me. Here, where you insulted me, you shall hear the whole truth. Read that. I suppose the twenty-dollar gold piece followed the watch."
The unfortunate father perused the letter slowly, and smothered a groan. Russell watched him with a keen joy which he might have blushed to acknowledge had he analysed his feelings. Writhing under his impaling eye, Mr. Watson said-- "Have you applied to the witnesses referred to?"
"Yes; they are ready to swear that they saw Cecil bet Turner the watch."
"You did not tell them the circumstances, did you?"
"No."
There was an awkward silence, broken by Mr. Watson.
"If I retract all that I have said against you, and avow your innocence, will it satisfy you? Will you be silent about Cecil?"
"No!" rose peremptorily to Russell's lips, but he checked it; and the patient teaching of years, his mother's precepts, and his mother's prayers brought forth their first fruit--golden charity.
"You merit no forbearance at my hands, and I came here intending to show you none; but, on reflection, I will not follow your example. Clear my name before the public, and I leave the whole affair with you. Good morning."
Afraid to trust himself, he turned away and joined Mr. Campbell in the office.
In the afternoon of the same day came a letter from Mr. Hill containing sad news. The oculist had operated on Mrs. Aubrey's eyes, but violent inflammation had ensued; he had done all that scientific skill could prompt, but feared she would be hopelessly blind. At the close of the letter Mr. Hill stated that he would bring her home the following week. One November evening, just before dark, while Russell was cutting wood for the kitchen-fire, the stage stopped at the cottage-gate, and he hurried forward to receive his mother in his arms. It was a melancholy reunion; for a moment the poor sufferer's fortitude forsook her, and she wept. But his caresses soothed her, and she followed Electra into the house while he brought in the trunk. When shawl and bonnet had been removed, and Electra placed her in the rocking-chair, the light fell on face and figure, and the cousins started at the change that had taken place. She was so ghastly pale, so very much reduced. She told them all that had occurred during the tedious weeks of absence; how much she regretted having gone since the trip proved so unsuccessful, how much more she deplored the affliction on their account than her own; and then from that hour no allusion was ever made to it.
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{
"id": "27811"
}
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5
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IRENE IS SENT AWAY
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Weeks and months slipped away, and total darkness came down on the widow. She groped with some difficulty from room to room, and Electra was compelled to remain at home and watch over her. Russell had become a great favourite with his crusty employer, and, when the labours of the office were ended, brought home such books as he needed, and spent his evenings in study. His powers of application and endurance were extraordinary, and his progress was in the same ratio. As he became more and more absorbed in these pursuits his reserve and taciturnity increased. His employer was particularly impressed by the fact that he never volunteered a remark on any subject, and rarely opened his lips except to ask some necessary information in connection with his business. He comprehended Russell's character, and quietly facilitated his progress. There was no sycophancy on the part of the young man, no patronage on that of the employer.
One afternoon Irene tapped lightly at the cottage-door, and entered the kitchen. Mrs. Aubrey sat in a low chair close to the fireplace, engaged in knitting; her smooth, neat calico dress and spotless linen collar told that careful hands tended her, and the soft auburn hair brushed over her temples showed broad bands of grey as the evening sun shone on it. She turned her brown, sightless eyes toward the door, and asked in a low voice-- "Who is it?"
"It is only me, Mrs. Aubrey."
Irene bent down, laid her two hands on the widow's, and kissed her forehead.
"I am glad to hear your voice, Irene; it has been a long time since you were here."
"Yes, a good many weeks, I know, but I could not come."
"Are you well? Your hands and face are cold."
"Yes, thank you, very well. I am always cold, I believe. Hugh says I am. Here are some flowers from the greenhouse. I brought them because they are so fragrant; and here, too, are a few oranges from the same place. Hush! don't thank me, if you please. I wish I could come here oftener. I always feel better after being with you."
Mrs. Aubrey had finished her knitting, and sat with her hands folded in her lap, the meek face more than usually serene, the sightless eyes directed toward her visitor. Sunshine reflected the bare boards under the window, flashed on the tin vessels ranged on the shelves, and lingered like a halo around Irene's head. Electra had been drawing at the table in the middle of the room, and now sat leaning on her hand watching the two at the fire. Presently Irene approached and began to examine the drawings, which were fragmentary, except one or two heads, and a sketch taken from the bank opposite the Falls. After some moments passed in looking over them, Irene addressed the quiet little figure.
"Have you been to Mr. Clifton's studio?"
"No; who is he?"
"An artist from New York. His health is poor, and he is spending the winter south. Haven't you heard of him? Everybody is having portraits taken. He is painting mine now--father would make me sit again, though he has a likeness which was painted four years ago. I am going down to-morrow for my last sitting, and should like very much for you to go with me. Perhaps Mr. Clifton can give you some valuable hints. Will you go?"
"With great pleasure."
"Then I will call for you a little before ten o'clock. Here are some crayons I bought for you a week ago. Good-bye."
The following day Miss Margaret accompanied her to the studio. As the carriage approached the cottage-gate, Irene directed the driver to stop.
"For what?" asked her aunt.
"Electra Grey is going with me; I promised to call for her. She has an extraordinary talent for drawing, and I want to introduce her to Mr. Clifton. Open the door, Andrew."
"Irene, are you deranged? Your father never would forgive you if he knew you associated with those people. I can't think of allowing that girl to enter this carriage. Drive on. I must really speak to Leonard about your obstinacy in visiting at that----" "Stop, Andrew! If you don't choose to ride with Electra, Aunt Margaret, you may go on alone, for either she shall ride or I will walk with her."
Andrew opened the door, and she was stepping out, when Electra appeared in the walk and immediately joined her. Miss Margaret was thoroughly aroused and indignant, but thought it best to submit for the time, and when Irene introduced her friend she took no notice of her whatever, except by drawing herself up in one corner and lowering her veil. The girls talked during the remainder of the ride, and when they reached Mr. Clifton's door ran up the steps together, totally unmindful of the august lady's ill humour.
The artist was standing before an easel which held Irene's unfinished portrait, and as he turned to greet his visitors, Electra saw that, though thin and pale, his face was one of rare beauty and benevolence. His brown, curling hair hung loosely about his shoulders, and an uncommonly long beard of the same silky texture descended almost to his waist. He shook hands with Irene, and looked inquiringly at her companion.
"Mr. Clifton, this is Miss Electra Grey, whose drawings I mentioned to you last week. I wish, if you please, you would examine some of them when you have leisure."
Electra looked for an instant into his large, clear grey eyes as he took her drawings and said he would be glad to assist her, and knew that henceforth the tangled path would be smoothed and widened. She stood at the back of his chair during the hour's sitting, and with peculiar interest watched the strokes of his brush as the portrait grew under his practised hand. When Irene rose, the orphan moved away and began to scrutinize the numerous pictures scattered about the room. A great joy filled her heart and illumined her face, and she waited for the words of encouragement that she felt assured would be spoken. The artist looked over her sketches slowly, carefully, and his eye went back to her brilliant countenance as if to read there answers to ciphers which perplexed him. But yet more baffling cryptography met him in the deep, flashing, appealing eyes, on the crimson, quivering lips, on the low, full brow, with its widely separated black arches. Evidently the face possessed far more attraction than the drawings, and he made her sit down beside him, and passed his hand over her head and temples, as a professed phrenologist might preparatory to rendering a chart.
"Your sketches are very rough, very crude, but they also display great power of thought, some of them singular beauty of conception; and I see from your countenance that you are dissatisfied because the execution falls so far short of the conception. Let me talk to you candidly; you have uncommon talent, but the most exalted genius cannot dispense with laborious study. Think well of all this."
"I have thought of it; I am willing to work any number of years; I have decided, and I am not to be frightened from my purpose. I am poor, I can barely buy the necessary materials, much less the books, but I will be an artist yet. I have decided, sir; it is no new whim; it has been a bright dream to me all my life, and I am determined to realize it."
"Amen; so let it be, then. I shall remain here some weeks longer; come to me every day at ten o'clock, and I will instruct you. You shall have such books as you need, and with perseverance you have nothing to fear."
He went into the adjoining room, and returned with a small volume. As he gave it to her, with some directions concerning the contents, she caught his hand to her lips, saying hastily-- "My guardian angel certainly brought you here to spend the winter. Oh, sir! I will prove my gratitude for your goodness by showing that I am not unworthy of it. I thank you from the very depths of my glad heart."
As she released his hand and left the studio he found two bright drops on his fingers, drops called forth by the most intense joy she had ever known. Having some commission from her aunt, she did not re-enter the carriage, and, after thanking Irene for her kindness, walked away.
The ride home was very silent. Miss Margaret sat stiff and icy, looking quite insulted, while her niece was too much engrossed by other reflections to notice her. The latter spent the remainder of the morning in writing to Hugh and correcting her French exercises, and when summoned to dinner she entered the room expecting a storm. A glance sufficed to show her that Miss Margaret had not yet spoken to her father, though it was evident from her countenance that she was about to make what she considered an important revelation. The meal passed, however, without any allusion to the subject, and, knowing what she had to expect, Irene immediately withdrew to the library to give her aunt an opportunity of unburdening her mind. The struggle must come some time, and she longed to have it over as soon as possible. She threw up the sash, seated herself on the broad cedar window-sill, and began to work out a sum in Algebra. Nearly a half-hour passed; the slamming of the dining-room door was like the first line of foam, curling and whitening the sea when the tempest sweeps forward; her father stamped into the library, and the storm broke over her.
"Irene! didn't I positively order you to keep away from that Aubrey family? What do you mean by setting me at defiance in this way, you wilful, spoiled, hard-headed piece? Do you suppose I intend to put up with your obstinacy all my life, and let you walk roughshod over me and my commands? You have queened it long enough, my lady. If I don't rein you up, you will turn your aunt and me out of the house next, and invite that precious Aubrey crew to take possession. Your confounded stubbornness will ruin you yet. You deserve a good whipping, miss; I can hardly keep my hands off of you."
He did not; rough hands seized her shoulder, jerked her from the window-sill, and shook her violently. Down fell book, slate, and pencil with a crash; down swept the heavy hair, blinding her. She put it back, folded her hands behind her as if for support, and, looking up at him, said in a low, steady, yet grieved tone-- "I am very sorry you are angry with me, father."
"Devilish sorry, I dare say! Don't be hypocritical! Didn't I tell you to keep away from those people? Don't stand there like a block of stone; answer me!"
"Yes, sir; but I did not promise to do so. I am not hypocritical, father."
"You did not promise, indeed! What do I care for promises? It was your duty to obey me."
"I don't think it was, father, when you refused to give me any reason for avoiding Mrs. Aubrey or her family. They are unfortunate but honourable people; and, being very poor and afflicted, I felt sorry for them. I can't see how my going there occasionally harms you or me, or anybody else. I know very well that you dislike them, but you never told me why, and I cannot imagine any good reason for it. Father, if I love them why should not I associate with them?"
"Because I say you shan't! you tormenting, headstrong little imp!"
"My father, that is no reason."
"Reason! I will put you where you will have no occasion for reasons. Oh! I can match you, you perverse little wretch! I am going to send you to a boarding-school, do you hear that? send you where you will have no Aubreys to abet your obstinacy and disobedience, where that temper of yours can be curbed. How will you relish getting up before day, kindling your own fire, if you have any, making your own bed, and living on bread and water? I will take you to New York, and keep you there till you are grown and learn common sense. Now get out of my sight!"
With a stamp of rage he pointed to the door. Hitherto she had stood quite still, but now an expression of anguish passed swiftly over her face, and she put out her hands appealingly-- "Father! my father! don't send me away. Please let me stay at home."
"Not if I live long enough to take you. Just as certainly as the sun shines in heaven you will go as soon as your clothes can be made. Your aunt will have you ready in a week. Don't open your mouth to me! I don't want to hear another word from you. Take yourself off."
She picked up her slate and book, and left the room.
The week which succeeded was wretched to the girl, for her father's _surveillance_ prevented her from visiting the cottage, even to say adieu to its inmates; and no alternative presented itself but to leave for them (in the hands of Nellie, her devoted nurse) a note containing a few parting words and assurances of unfading friendship and remembrance. The day of departure dawned rainy, gloomy, and the wind sobbed and wailed down the avenue as Irene stood at her window, looking out on the lawn where her life had been passed. The breakfast-bell summoned her away, and, a half-hour after, she saw the lofty columns of the old house fade from view, and knew that many months, perhaps years, must elapse before the ancestral trees of the long avenue would wave again over the head of their young mistress. Her father sat beside her, moody and silent, and, when the brick wall and arched iron gate vanished from her sight, she sank back in one corner, and, covering her face with her hands, smothered a groan and fought desperately with her voiceless anguish.
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{
"id": "27811"
}
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6
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MASTER AND PUPIL
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Day after day Electra toiled over her work. The rapidity of her progress astonished Mr. Clifton. He questioned her concerning the processes she employed in some of her curious combinations, but the fragmentary, abstracted nature of her conversation during the hours of instruction gave him little satisfactory information. His interest in her increased, until finally it became absorbing, and he gave her all the time she could spare from home. The eagerness with which she listened to his directions, the facility with which she applied his rules, fully repaid him; and from day to day he postponed his return to the North, reluctant to leave his indefatigable pupil. Now and then the time of departure was fixed, but ere it arrived he wavered and procrastinated.
Electra knew that his stay had been prolonged beyond his original intention, and she dreaded the hour when she should be deprived of his aid and advice. Though their acquaintance had been so short, a strangely strong feeling had grown up in her heart toward him; a feeling of clinging tenderness, blended with earnest and undying gratitude. She knew that he understood her character and appreciated her struggles, and it soothed her fierce, proud heart, in some degree to receive from him those tokens of constant remembrance which she so yearned to have from Russell. She felt, too, that she was not regarded as a stranger by the artist; she could see his sad eyes brighten at her entrance, and detect the tremor in his hand and voice when he spoke of going home. His health had improved, and the heat of summer had come; why did he linger? His evenings were often spent at the cottage, and even Mrs. Aubrey learned to smile at the sound of his step.
One morning, as Electra finished her lesson and rose to go, he said slowly, as if watching the effect of his words-- "This is the last hour I can give you. In two days I return to New York. Letters of importance came this morning; I have waited here too long already."
"Are you in earnest this time?"
"I am; it is absolutely necessary that I should return home."
"Mr. Clifton, what shall I do without you?"
"Suppose you had never seen me?"
"Then I should not have had to lose you. Oh, sir! I need you very much."
"Electra, child, you will conquer your difficulties without assistance from anyone. You have nothing to fear."
"Yes, I know I shall conquer at last, but the way would be so much easier if you were only with me. I shall miss you more than I can tell you."
He passed his hand over his short shining hair, and mused for a moment as if laying conflicting emotions in the balance. She heard his deep, laboured breathing, and saw the working of the muscles in his pale face; when he spoke his voice was husky-- "You are right; you need me, and I want you always with me; we must not be parted. Electra, I say we shall not. Come to me, put your hands in mine--promise me that you will be my child, my pupil. I will take you to my mother, and we need never be separated. You require aid, such as cannot be had here; in New York you shall have all that you want. Will you come with me?"
He held her hands in a vice-like grasp, and looked pleadingly into her astonished countenance. A mist gathered before her, and she closed her eyes.
"Electra, will you come?"
She raised her bloodless face, stamped with stern resolve, and ere the words were pronounced he read his answer in the defiant gleam of her eyes, in the hard, curved lines of the mouth.
"Mr. Clifton, I cannot go with you just now, for at present I cannot, ought not, to leave my aunt. Helpless as she is, it would be cruel, ungrateful to desert her; but things cannot continue this way much longer, and I promise you that as soon as I can I will go to you. I want to be with you; I want somebody to care for me, and I know you will be a kind friend to me always. Most gratefully will I accept your generous offer as soon as I feel that I can do so."
He stooped and touched her forehead with his lips.
"My dear Electra, you are right to remain with her, but when she needs you no more I shall expect you to come to me in New York. Meantime, I shall write to you frequently, and supply you with such books and materials as you require. My pupil, I long to have you in my own home. Remember, no matter what happens, you have promised yourself to me."
"I shall not forget;" but he saw her shudder.
"Shall I speak to your aunt about this matter before I go?"
"No, it would only distress her; leave it all with me. It is late, and I must go. Good-bye, sir."
He promised to see her again before his departure, and she walked home with her head bowed and a sharp continual pain gnawing at her heart.
In the calm, peaceful years of ordinary childhood the soul matures slowly; but a volcanic nature like Electra's, subjected to galling trials, rapidly hardens, and answers every stroke with the metallic ring of age. Keen susceptibility to joy or pain taught her early that less impressive characters are years in learning, and it was lamentably true that while yet a mere girl, she suffered as acutely as a woman. Russell knew that a change had come over his cousin, but was too constantly engaged, too entirely absorbed by his studies, to ask or analyse the cause. She never watched at the gate for him now, never sprang with outstretched arms to meet him, never hung over the back of his chair and caressed his hands as formerly. When not waiting upon her aunt, she was as intent upon her books as he, and though invariably kind and unselfish in her conduct toward him, she was evidently constrained in his presence. As the summer wore on, Mrs. Aubrey's health failed rapidly, and she was confined to her couch. One morning when Mr. Campbell, the pastor, had spent some time in the sick-room praying with the sufferer and administering the sacrament of the Lord's Supper, Electra followed him to the door, leaving Russell with his mother. The gentle pastor took her hand kindly, and looked at her with filling eyes.
"You think my aunt is worse?"
"Yes, my child. I think that very soon she will be with her God. She will scarcely survive till night----" She turned abruptly from him and threw herself down across the foot of the bed, burying her face in her arms. Russell sat with his mother's hands in his, while she turned her brown eyes toward him, and exhorted him to commit himself and his future to the hands of a merciful God. Electra was not forgotten; she advised her to go to a cousin of her mother, residing in Virginia. Long before she had written to this lady, informing her of her own feebleness and of the girl's helpless condition; and a kind answer had been returned, cordially inviting the orphan to share her home, to become an inmate of her house. Russell could take her to these relatives as soon as possible. To all this no reply was made, and, a few moments later, when Russell kissed her tenderly and raised her pillow, she said faintly-- "If I could look upon your face once more, my son, it would not be hard to die. Let me see you in heaven, my dear, dear boy." These were the last words, and soon after a stupor fell upon her. Hour after hour passed; Mrs. Campbell came and sat beside the bed, and the three remained silent, now and then lifting bowed heads to look at the sleeper. The autumn day died slowly as the widow, and when the clock dirged out the sunset hour Russell rose, and, putting back the window curtains, stooped and laid his face close to his mother's. No pulsation stirred the folds over the heart, or the soft bands of hair on the blue-veined temples; the still mouth had breathed its last sigh, and the meek brown eyes had opened in eternity.
The day bore her away on its wings, and as Russell touched the icy cheek a despairing cry rolled through the silent cottage-- "Oh, mother! my own precious dead mother!"
Falling on his knees, he laid his head on her pillow, and when kind friendly hands bore her into the adjoining room, he knelt there still, unconscious of what passed, knowing only that the keenest of many blows had fallen, that the last and bitterest vial of sorrows had been emptied.
At the window stood Electra, pressing her face against the frame, looking out into the moaning, struggling night, striving to read the mystic characters dimly traced on the ash-grey hurrying clouds as the reckless winds parted their wan folds. She shrank away from the window, and approached her cousin.
"Oh, Russell! say something to me, or I shall die."
It was the last wail she ever suffered to escape her in his presence. He raised his head and put his hand on her forehead, but the trembling lips refused their office, and as she looked up at him tears rolled slowly down and fell on her cheek. She would have given worlds to mingle her tears with his, but no moisture came to her burning eyes; and there these two, soon to separate, passed the remaining hours of that long wretched night of watching. The stormy day lifted her pale, mournful face at last, and with it came the dreary patter and sobbing of autumn rain, making it doubly harrowing to commit the precious form to its long, last resting-place. Electra stood up beside her cousin and folded her arms together.
"Russell, I am not going to that cousin in Virginia. I could owe my bread and clothes to you, but not to her. She has children, and I do not intend to live on her charity. I know you, and I must part; the sooner the better. I would not be willing to burden you a day longer. I am going to fit myself to work profitably. Mr. Clifton offered me a home in his house, said his mother was lonely, and would be rejoiced to have me; that letter which I received last week contained one from her, also urging me to come; and, Russell, I am going to New York to study with him as long as I need instruction. I did not tell aunt of this, because I knew it would grieve her to think that I would be thrown with strangers; and having fully determined to take this step, thought it best not to distress her by any allusion to it. You know it is my own affair, and I can decide it better than anyone else."
"So you prefer utter strangers to your relatives and friends?"
"Ties of blood are not the strongest; strangers step in to aid where relatives sometimes stand aloof, and watch a fatal struggle. Remember Irene; who is nearer to you, she or your grandfather? Such a friend Mr. Clifton is to me, and go to him I will at all hazards. Drop the subject, if you please."
He looked at her an instant, then turned once more to his mother's face, and his cousin left them together.
The day was so inclement that only Mr. and Mrs. Campbell and Russell's employer attended the funeral. These few followed the gentle sleeper, and laid her down to rest till the star of eternity dawns; and the storm chanted a long, thrilling requiem as the wet mound rose above the coffin.
The kind-hearted pastor and his wife urged the orphans to remove to their house for a few days at least, until the future could be mapped; but they preferred to meet and battle at once with the spectre which they knew stood waiting in the desolate cottage. At midnight a heavy sleep fell on Russell, who had thrown himself upon his mother's couch; and, softly spreading a shawl over him, Electra sat down by the dying fire on the kitchen hearth, and looked her future in the face. A few days sufficed to prepare for her journey; and a gentleman from New York, who had met her cousin in Mr. Campbell's office, consented to take charge of her, and commit her to Mr. Clifton's hands. The scanty furniture was sent to an auction-room, and a piece of board nailed to the gatepost announced that the cottage was for rent. Russell decided to take his meals at a boarding-house, and occupy a small room over the office, which Mr. Campbell had placed at his disposal. On the same day, the cousins bade adieu to the only spot they had called "home" for many years; and as Russell locked the door and joined Electra, his melancholy face expressed, far better than words could have done, the pain it cost him to quit the house where his idolized mother had lived, suffered and died. Mr. Colton was waiting for Electra at the hotel, whither the stage had been driven for passengers; and as she drew near and saw her trunk among others piled on top, she stopped and grasped Russell's hand between both hers. A livid paleness settled on her face, while her wild black eyes fastened on his features. She might never see him again; he was far dearer to her than her life; how could she bear to leave him, to put hundreds of miles between that face and her own? An icy hand clutched her heart as she gazed into his deep, sad, beautiful eyes. His feeling for her was a steady, serene affection, such as brothers have for dear young sisters, and to give her up now filled him with genuine, earnest sorrow.
"Electra, it is very hard to tell you good-bye. You are all I have left, and I shall be desolate indeed when you are away. But the separation will not be long, I trust; in a few years we shall be able to have another home; and where my home is, yours must always be. Write to me often, and believe that I shall do all that a brother could for you. Mr. Colton is waiting; good-bye, darling."
He bent down to kiss her, and the strained, tortured look that greeted him he never forgot. She put her arms around his neck, and clung to him like a shivering weed driven by rough winds against a stone wall. He removed her clasping arms, and led her to Mr. Colton; but as the latter offered to assist her into the stage, she drew back, that Russell might perform that office. While he almost lifted her to a seat, her fingers refused to release his, and he was forced to disengage them. Other passengers entered, and the door was closed. Russell stood near the window, and said gently, pitying her suffering-- "Electra, won't you say good-bye?"
She leaned out till her cheek touched his, and in a hoarse tone uttered the fluttering words-- "Oh, Russell, Russell! good-bye! May God have mercy on me!"
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{
"id": "27811"
}
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7
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NEW FRIENDS
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As tall tyrannous weeds and rank unshorn grass close over and crush out slender, pure, odorous flowerets on a hill-side, so the defects of Irene's character swiftly strengthened and developed in the new atmosphere in which she found herself. The school was on an extensive scale, thoroughly fashionable, and thither pupils were sent from every section of the United States. As regarded educational advantages, the institution was unexceptionable; the professors were considered unsurpassed in their several departments, and every provision was made for thorough tuition. But what a Babel reigned outside of the recitation room! One hundred and forty girls to spend their recesses in envy, ridicule, malice, and detraction. Anxious to shake off the loneliness which so heavily oppressed her, Irene at first mingled freely among her companions; but she soon became disgusted with the conduct and opinions of the majority, and endeavoured to find quiet in her own room. Early in winter a new pupil, a "day scholar," joined her class; she resided in New York, and very soon a strong friendship sprang up between them. Louisa Young was about Irene's age, very pretty, very gentle, and winning in her manners. She was the daughter of an affluent merchant, and was blessed in the possession of parents who strove to rear their children as Christian parents should. Louisa's attachment was very warm and lasting, and ere long she insisted that her friend should visit her. Weary of the school, the latter gladly availed herself of the invitation, and one Friday afternoon she accompanied Louisa home. The mansion was almost palatial, and as Irene entered the splendidly-furnished parlours her own Southern home rose vividly before her.
"Mother, this is Miss Huntingdon."
Mrs. Young received her cordially, and as she held the gloved hand, and kindly expressed her pleasure at meeting her daughter's friend, the girl's heart gave a quick bound of joy.
"Come upstairs and put away your bonnet."
In Louisa's beautiful room the two sat talking of various things till the tea-bell rang. Mr. Young's greeting was scarcely less friendly than his wife's, and as they seated themselves at the table, the stranger felt at home for the first time in New York.
"Where is brother?" asked Louisa, glancing at the vacant seat opposite her own.
"He has not come home yet; I wonder what keeps him? There he is now, in the hall," answered the mother.
A moment after, he entered and took his seat. He was tall, rather handsome, and looked about thirty. His sister presented her friend, and with a hasty bow he fastened his eyes on her face. Probably he was unconscious of the steadiness of his gaze, but Irene became restless under his fixed, earnest eye, and perceiving her embarrassment, Mrs. Young said-- "Harvey, where have you been? Dr. Melville called here for you at four o'clock; said you had made some engagement with him."
"Yes, mother; we have been visiting together this afternoon."
Withdrawing his eyes, he seemed to fall into a reverie and took no part in the conversation that ensued. As the party adjourned to the sitting-room, he paused on the rug, and leaned his elbow on the mantel. Louisa lingered and drew near. He passed his arm around her shoulders, and looked affectionately down at her.
"Go to your friend, and when you are at a loss for conversation, bring her to my study to see those sketches of Palmyra and Baalbec."
He passed on to his work, and she to the sitting-room. He read industriously for some time, occasionally pausing to annotate; and once or twice he raised his head and listened. A light tap at the door was followed by the entrance of the two girls. Irene came very reluctantly, fearful of intruding; but he rose, and placed a chair for her close to his own, assuring her that he was glad to see her there. Louisa found the portfolio, and, bringing it to the table, began to exhibit its treasures. The two leaned over it, and as Irene sat resting her cheek on her hand, the beauty of her face and figure was clearly revealed. Harvey remained silent, watching the changing expression of the visitor's countenance; and once he put out his hand to touch the hair floating over the back and arms of her chair. Gradually his still heart stirred, his brow flushed, and a new light burned in the deep clear eyes.
He told her of his visit to the old world, of its mournful ruins, its decaying glories; of the lessons he learned there; the sad but precious memories he brought back, and as he talked time passed unheeded--she forgot her embarrassment, they were strangers no longer. The clock struck ten; Louisa rose at once.
"Thank you, Harvey, for giving us so much of your time. Father and mother will be waiting for you."
"Yes, I will join you at once."
She led the way back to the sitting-room, and a few moments after, to Irene's great surprise, the student came in, and sitting down before the table, opened the Bible and read a chapter. Then all knelt and he prayed. There was a strange spell on the visitor; in all this there was something so unexpected. It was the first time she had ever knelt around the family altar, and, as she rose, that sitting-room seemed suddenly converted into a temple of worship. Mutual "good nights" were exchanged, and as Irene turned toward the young minister, he held out his hand. She gave him hers, and he pressed it gently, saying-- "I trust this is the first of many pleasant evenings which we shall spend together."
"Thank you, sir. I hope so too, for I have not been so happy since I left home."
He smiled, and she walked on.
"Louisa, how came your brother to be a minister?" asked Irene, when they had reached their apartment.
"When he was a boy he said he intended to preach, and father never dissuaded him. Harvey is a singular man--so silent, so equable, so cold in his manner, and yet he has a warm heart. He has declined two calls since his ordination; Dr. Melville's health is very poor, and Harvey frequently fills his pulpit. I know you will like him when you know him well; everybody loves Harvey."
The inclemency of the weather confined the girls to the house the following day. Harvey was absent at breakfast, and at dinner the chair opposite Irene's was still vacant. The afternoon wore away, and at dusk Louisa opened the piano and began to play Thalberg's "Home, Sweet Home."
Somebody took a seat near Irene, and though the room was dim, she knew the tall form and the touch of his hand.
"Good evening, Miss Irene; we have had a gloomy day. How have you and Louisa spent it?"
"Not very profitably, I dare say, though it has not appeared at all gloomy to me. Have you been out in the snow?"
"Yes, my work has been sad. I buried a mother and child this afternoon, and have just come from a house of orphanage and grief. It is a difficult matter to realize how many aching hearts there are in this great city. Our mahogany doors shut out the wail that hourly goes up to God from the thousand sufferers in our midst."
As he talked she lifted her beautiful eyes and looked steadily at him, and he thought that, of all the lovely things he had ever seen, that face was the most peerless. She drew closer to him, and said earnestly-- "You do not seem to me a very happy man."
"There you mistake me. I presume there are few happier persons."
"Countenance is not a faithful index, then; you look so exceedingly grave."
"Do you suppose that gravity of face is incompatible with sunshine in the heart?"
He smiled encouragingly as he spoke, and without a moment's thought she laid her delicate hand in his.
"Mr. Young, I want somebody to advise me. Very often I am at a loss about my duty, and, having no one to consult, either do nothing at all or that which I should not. If it will not trouble you too much, I should like to bring my difficulties to you sometimes, and get you to direct me. If you will only talk frankly to me, as you do to Louisa, oh, I will be very grateful!"
"Have you no brother?"
"I am an only child."
"You would like a brother, however?"
"Yes, sir, above all things."
"Take care; you express yourself strongly. If you can fancy me for a brother, consider me such."
When Monday morning came, and she was obliged to return to school, Irene reluctantly bade farewell to the new friends. She knew that, in conformity to the unalterable regulations of Crim Tartary, she could only leave the institution once a month, and the prospect of this long interval between her visits was by no means cheering. Harvey assisted her into the carriage.
"I shall send some books in a day or two, and, if you are troubled about anything before I see you again write me a note by Louisa. I would call to see you occasionally if you were boarding anywhere else. Good morning, Miss Irene. Do not forget that I am your brother so long as you stay in New York, or need one."
The books were not forgotten; they arrived the ensuing week, and his selection satisfied her that he perfectly understood what kind of aid she required. At the close of the next month, instead of accompanying Louisa home, Irene was suffering with severe cold, and too much indisposed to quit the house. This was a grievous disappointment, but she bore it bravely, and went on with her studies. What a dreary isolation in the midst of numbers of her own age! It was a thraldom that galled her, and more than once she implored her father's permission to return home. His replies were positive denials, and after a time she ceased to expect release, until the prescribed course should be ended. Thus another month dragged itself away. On Friday morning Louisa was absent. Irene felt anxious and distressed. Perhaps she was ill; something must have happened. As the day pupils were dismissed she started back to her own room, heart-sick because of this second disappointment. A few minutes after a servant knocked at the door and informed her that a gentleman wished to see her in the parlour.
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{
"id": "27811"
}
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8
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A DISCOVERY
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"I am so glad to see you, Mr. Young. Louisa is not sick, I hope?"
"I came for you in Louisa's place; she is not well enough to quit her room. Did you suppose that I intended leaving you here for another month?"
"I was rather afraid you had forgotten me; the prospect was gloomy ten minutes ago. It seems a long time since I was with you."
She stood close to him, looking gladly into his face, unconscious of the effect of her words.
"You sent me no note all this time; why not?"
"I was afraid of troubling you; and, besides, I would rather tell you what I want you to know."
"Miss Irene, the carriage is at the door. I am a patient man, and can wait half an hour if you have any preparation to make."
In much less time she joined him, equipped for the ride, and took her place beside him in the carriage. As they reached his father's door, and he assisted her out, she saw him look at her very searchingly.
"It is time that you had a little fresh air. You are not quite yourself. Louisa is in her room; run up to her."
She found her friend suffering with sore throat, and was startled at the appearance of her flushed cheeks. Mrs. Young sat beside her, and after most cordial greetings the latter resigned her seat and left them, enjoining upon her daughter the necessity of remaining quiet.
"Mother was almost afraid for you to come, but I teased and coaxed for permission; told her that even if I had the scarlet fever you had already had it, and would run no risk. Harvey says it is not scarlet fever at all, and he persuaded mother to let him go after you. He always has things his own way, though he brings it about so quietly that nobody would even suspect him of being self-willed. Harvey is a good friend of yours, Irene."
"I am glad to hear it; he is certainly very kind to me. But recollect you are not to talk much; let me talk to you."
The following morning found Louisa much better, and Irene and the mother spent the day in her room. Late in the afternoon the minister came in and talked to his sister for some moments, then turned to his mother.
"Mother, I am going to take this visitor of yours down to the library; Louisa has monopolized her long enough. Come, Miss Irene, you shall join them again at tea."
He led the way, and she followed very willingly. Placing her in a chair before the fire, he drew another to the rug; and seating himself, said just as if speaking to Louisa-- "What have you been doing these two months? What is it that clouds your face, my little sister?"
"Ah, sir! I am so weary of that school. You don't know what a relief it is to come here."
"It is rather natural that you should feel home-sick. It is a fierce ordeal for a child like you to be thrust so far from home."
"I am not home-sick now, I believe. I have in some degree become accustomed to the separation from my father; but I am growing so different from what I used to be; so different from what I expected. It grieves me to know that I am changing for the worse; but, somehow, I can't help it. I make good resolutions in the morning before I leave my room, and by noon I manage to break all of them. The girls try me and I lose my patience. When I am at home nothing of this kind ever troubles me."
"Miss Irene, yours is not a clinging, dependent disposition; if I have rightly understood your character, you have never been accustomed to lean upon others. After relying on yourself so long, why yield to mistrust now? With years should grow the power, the determination, to do the work you find laid out for you."
"It is precisely because I know how very poorly I have managed myself thus far that I have no confidence in my own powers for future emergencies. Either I have lived alone too long, or else not long enough; I rather think the last. If they had only suffered me to act as I wished, I should have been so much better at home. Oh, sir, I am not the girl I was eight months ago. I knew how it would be when they sent me here."
"Some portentous cloud seems lowering over your future. What is it? You ought to be a gleeful girl, full of happy hopes."
She sank farther back in her chair to escape his searching gaze and drooped her face lower.
"Yes, yes; I know I ought, but people can't always shut their eyes."
"Shut their eyes to what?"
"Various coming troubles, Mr. Young."
His lip curled slightly, and, replacing the book on the table, he said, as if speaking rather to himself than to her-- "The heart knoweth his own bitterness, and a stranger doth not intermeddle with his joy."
"You are not a stranger, sir."
"I see you are disposed to consider me such. I thought I was your brother. But no matter; after a time all will be well."
She looked puzzled; and, as the tea-bell summoned them, he merely added-- "I do not wonder. You are a shy child; but you will soon learn to understand me; you will come to me with all your sorrows."
During the remainder of this visit she saw him no more. Louisa recovered rapidly, and when she asked for her brother on Sabbath evening, Mrs. Young said he was to preach twice that day. Monday morning arrived, and Irene returned to school with a heavy heart fearing that she had wounded him; but a few days after, Louisa brought her a book and brief note of kind words. One Saturday morning she sat quite alone in her small room; the week had been specially painful, and, wearied in soul, the girl laid her head down on her folded arms, and thought of her home in the far South. A loud rap startled her from this painful reverie, and ere she could utter the stereotyped "come in," Louisa sprang to her side.
"I have come for you, Irene; have obtained permission from Dr. ---- for you to accompany us to the Academy of Design. Put on your bonnet; Harvey is waiting in the reception room. We shall have a charming day."
"Ah, Louisa! you are all very kind to recollect me so constantly. It will give me great pleasure to go."
When they joined the minister, Irene fancied he received her coldly, and as they walked on he took no part in the conversation. The annual exhibition had just opened; the rooms were thronged with visitors, and the hushed tones swelled to a monotonous hum. Some stood in groups, expatiating eagerly on certain pictures; others occupied the seats and leisurely scanned now the paintings, now the crowd. Furnished with a catalogue, the girls moved slowly on, while Mr. Young pointed out the prominent beauties or defects of the works exhibited. They made the circuit of the room, and began a second tour, when their attention was attracted by a girl who stood in one corner, with her hands clasped behind her. She was gazing very intently on an Ecce-Homo, and, though her face was turned toward the wall, the posture bespoke most unusual interest. Irene looked at her an instant, and held her breath; she had seen only one other head which resembled that--she knew the purplish waving hair, and gliding up to her she exclaimed-- "Electra! Electra Grey!"
The orphan turned, and they were locked in a tight embrace.
"Oh, Irie! I am so glad to see you. I have been here so long, and looked for you so often, that I had almost despaired. Whenever I walk down Broadway, whenever I go out anywhere, I look at every face, peep into every bonnet, hoping to find you. Oh! I am so glad. Do come and see me soon--soon. I must go now--I promised."
"Where do you live? I will go home with you now."
"I am not going home immediately. Mr. Clifton's house is No. 85, West ---- Street. Come this afternoon."
With a long, warm pressure of hands they parted, and Irene stood looking after the graceful figure till it glided out of sight.
"In the name of wonder, who is that? You two have been the 'observed of all observers,'" ejaculated the impulsive Louisa.
"That is my old schoolmate and friend of whom I once spoke to you. I had no idea that she was in New York. She is a poor orphan."
"Are you ready to return home? This episode has evidently driven pictures out of your head for to-day," said Mr. Young, who had endeavoured to screen her from observation.
"Yes, quite ready to go, though I have enjoyed the morning very much indeed, thanks to your kindness."
Soon after they reached home, Louisa was called into the parlour to see a young friend, and as Mrs. Young was absent, Irene found it rather lonely upstairs. She thought of a new volume of travels which she had noticed on the hall-table as they entered, and started down to get it. About half-way of the flight of steps she caught her foot in the carpeting, where one of the rods chanced to be loose, and despite her efforts to grasp the railing fell to the floor of the hall, crushing one arm under her. The library-door was thrown open instantly, and the minister came out. She lay motionless, and he bent over her.
"Irene! where are you hurt? Speak to me."
He raised her in his arms and placed her on the sofa in the sitting-room. The motion produced great pain, and she groaned and shut her eyes. A crystal vase containing some exquisite perfume stood on his mother's work-table, and, pouring a portion of its contents in his palm, he bathed her forehead. Acute suffering distorted her features, and his face grew pallid as her own while he watched her. Taking her hand, he repeated-- "Irene, my darling! tell me how you are hurt?"
She looked at him, and said with some difficulty-- "My ankle pains me very much, and I believe my arm is broken. I can't move it."
"Thank God you are not killed."
He kissed her, then turned away and despatched a servant for a physician. He summoned Louisa, and inquired fruitlessly for his mother; no one knew whither she had gone; it would not do to wait for her. He stood by the sofa and prepared the necessary bandages, while his sister could only cry over and caress the sufferer. When the physician came the white dimpled arm was bared; and he discovered that the bone was broken. The setting was extremely painful, but she lay with closed eyes and firmly compressed lips, uttering no sound, giving no token of the torture, save in the wrinkling of her forehead. They bound the arm tightly, and then the doctor said the ankle was badly strained and swollen, but there was, luckily, no fracture. He gave minute directions to the minister and withdrew, praising the patient's remarkable fortitude. Louisa would talk, and her brother sent her off to prepare a room for her friend.
"I think I had better go back to the Institution, Mr. Young. It will be a long time before I can walk again, and I wish you would have me carried back. Dr. ---- will be uneasy, and will prefer my returning, as father left me in his charge." She tried to rise, but sank back on the pillow.
"Hush! hush! You will stay where you are, little cripple; I am only thankful you happened to be here."
He smoothed the folds of her hair from her temples, and for the first time played with the curls he had so often before been tempted to touch. She looked so slight, so childish, with her head nestled against the pillow, that he forgot she was almost sixteen, forgot everything but the beauty of her pale face, and bent over her with an expression of the tenderest love. She was suffering too much to notice his countenance, and only felt that he was very kind and gentle. Mrs. Young came in very soon, and heard with the deepest solicitude of what had occurred. Irene again requested to be taken to the school, fearing that she would cause too much trouble during her long confinement to the house. But Mrs. Young stopped her arguments with kisses, and would listen to no such arrangements; she would trust to no one but herself to nurse "the bruised Southern lily." Having seen that all was in readiness, she insisted on carrying her guest to the room adjoining Louisa's, and opening into her own. Mr. Young had gone to Boston the day before, and, turning to her son, she said-- "Harvey, as your father is away, you must take Irene upstairs; I am not strong enough. Be careful that you do not hurt her."
She led the way, and, bending down, he whispered-- "My little sister, put this uninjured arm around my neck, there--now I shall carry you as easily as if you were in a cradle."
He held her firmly, and as he bore her up the steps the white face lay on his bosom, and the golden hair floated against his cheek. If she had looked at him then, she would have seen more than he intended that anyone should know: for, young and free from vanity though she was, it was impossible to mistake the expression of the eyes riveted upon her. Mrs. Young wrote immediately to Mr. Huntingdon, and explained the circumstances which had made his daughter her guest for some weeks at least, assuring him that he need indulge no apprehension whatever on her account, as she would nurse her as tenderly as a mother could. Stupefied by the opiate, Irene took little notice of what passed, except when roused by the pain consequent upon dressing the ankle. Louisa went to school as usual, but her mother rarely left their guest; and after Mr. Young's return he treated her with all the affectionate consideration of a parent. Several days after the occurrence of the accident Irene turned toward the minister, who stood talking to his mother.
"Your constant kindness emboldens me to ask a favour of you, which I think you will scarcely deny me. I am very anxious to see the friend whom I so unexpectedly met at the Academy of Design. Here is a card containing her address; will you spare me the time to bring her here to-day? I shall be very much obliged to you."
"Very well. I will go after her as soon as I have fulfilled a previous engagement. What is her name?"
"Electra Grey. Did you notice her face?"
"Yes; but why do you ask?"
"Because I think she resembles your mother."
"She resembles far more an old portrait hanging in my room. I remarked it as soon as I saw her."
He seemed lost in thought, and immediately after left the room. An hour later, Irene's listening ear detected the opening and closing of the hall door.
"There is Electra on the steps; I hear her voice. Will you please open the door?"
Mrs. Young laid down her work and rose to comply, but Harvey ushered the stranger in and then retired.
The lady of the house looked at the new-comer, and a startled expression came instantly into her countenance. She made a step forward and paused irresolute.
"Mrs. Young, allow me to introduce my friend, Miss Electra Grey." Electra bowed, and Mrs. Young exclaimed-- "Grey! Grey! Electra Grey; and so like Robert? Oh! it must be so. Child, who are you? Where are your parents?"
She approached and put her hand on the girl's shoulders, while a hopeful light kindled in her eyes.
"I am an orphan, madam, from the South. My father died before my birth, my mother immediately after."
"Was your father's name Robert? Where was he from?"
"His name was Enoch R. Gray. I don't know what his middle name was. He came originally from Pennsylvania, I believe."
"Oh! I knew that I could not be mistaken! My brother's child! Robert's child!"
She threw her arms around the astonished girl, and strained her to her heart.
"There must be some mistake, madam. I never heard that I had relatives in New York."
"Oh! child! call me aunt! I am your father's sister. We called him by his middle name, Robert, and for eighteen years have heard nothing of him. Sit down here, and let me tell you the circumstances. Your father was the youngest of three children, and in his youth gave us great distress by his wildness; he ran away from college and went to sea. After an absence of three years he returned, almost a wreck of his former self. My mother had died during his long voyage to the South Sea Islands, and father, who believed him to have been the remote cause of her death (for her health failed soon after he left), upbraided him most harshly and unwisely. His reproaches drove poor Robert to desperation, and without giving us any clue, he left home as suddenly as before. Whither he went we never knew. Father was so incensed that he entirely disinherited him; but at his death, when the estate was divided, my brother William and I decided that we would take only what we considered our proportion, and we set apart one-third for Robert. We advertised for several years, and could hear nothing of him; and at the end of the fifth year, William divided that remaining third. Oh, my dear child! I am so glad to find you out. But where have you been all this time? Where did Robert die?"
She held the orphan's hand, and made no attempt to conceal the tears that rolled over her cheeks. Electra gave her a detailed account of her life from the time when she was taken to her uncle, Mr. Aubrey, at the age of four months, till the death of her aunt and her removal to New York.
"And Robert's child has been in want, while we knew not of her existence! Oh, Electra! you shall have no more sorrow that we can shield you from. I loved your father very devotedly, and I shall love his orphan quite as dearly. Come to me, let me be your mother. Let me repair the wrong of bygone years."
She folded her arms around the graceful young form and sobbed aloud, while Irene found it difficult to repress her own tears of sympathy and joy that her friend had found such relatives. Of the three, Electra was calmest. Though glad to meet with her father's family, she knew better than they that this circumstance could make little alteration in her life, and therefore, when Mrs. Young had left the room to acquaint her husband and son with the discovery she had made, Electra sat down beside her friend's sofa just as she would have done two hours before.
"I am so glad for your sake that you are to come and live here. Until you know them all as well as I do, you cannot properly appreciate your good fortune," said Irene, raising herself on her elbow.
"Yes, I am very glad to meet my aunt," returned Electra, evasively, and then she added earnestly-- "I don't know that I ought to talk about things that should have been buried before you were born. But you probably know something of what happened. We found out after you left why you were so suddenly sent off to boarding-school; and you can have no idea how much my poor aunt was distressed at the thought of having caused your banishment. Irene, your father hated her, and of course you know it; but do you know why?"
"No; I never could imagine any adequate cause."
"Well, I can tell you. Before Aunt Amy's marriage your father loved her, and to please her parents she accepted him. She was miserable, because she was very much attached to my uncle, and asked Mr. Huntingdon to release her from the engagement. He declined, and finding that her parents sided with him she left home and married against their wishes. They adopted a distant relative and never gave her a cent. Your father never forgave her. He had great influence with the governor, and she went to him and entreated him to aid her in procuring a pardon for her husband. He repulsed her cruelly, and used his influence against my uncle. She afterwards saw a letter which he wrote to the governor, urging him to withhold a pardon. Now you have the key to his hatred; now you understand why he wrote you nothing concerning us. Not even Aunt Amy's coffin could shut in his hate. Irene, I must go home now, for they will wonder what has become of me. I will see you again soon."
She was detained by her aunt, and presented to the remainder of the family, and it was arranged that Mr. and Mrs. Young should visit her the ensuing day. While they talked over the tea-table of the newly-found, Harvey went slowly upstairs and knocked at Irene's door. Louisa was chattering delightedly about her cousin, and, sending her down to her tea, he took her seat beside the sofa. Irene lay with her fingers over her eyes, and he said gently-- "You see that I am wiser than you, Irene. I knew that it would do you no good to have company. Next time be advised."
"It was not Electra that harmed me."
"Then you admit that you have been harmed?"
"No; I am low-spirited to-night; I believe that is all."
He opened the _Rambler_, of which she was particularly fond, and began to read. For a while she listened, and in her interest forgot her forebodings, but after a time her long silky lashes swept her cheeks, and she slept. The minister laid down the volume and watched the pure girlish face; noted all its witching loveliness, and thought of the homage which it would win her in coming years. He knew as he sat watching her slumber that he loved her above everything on earth; that she wielded a power none had ever possessed before--that his heart was indissolubly linked with hers. He had wrestled with this infatuation, had stationed himself on the platform of common sense, and railed at and ridiculed this piece of folly. His clear, cool reason gave solemn verdict against the fiercely-throbbing heart, but not one pulsation had been restrained. As he sat looking down at her, a mighty barrier rose between them. His future had long been determined--duty called him to the rude huts of the far West; thither pointed the finger of destiny, and thither, at all hazards, he would go. He thought that he had habituated himself to sacrifices, but the spirit of self-abnegation was scarcely equal to this trial. Reason taught him that the tenderly-nurtured child of Southern climes would never suit him for a companion in the pioneer life which he had marked out. He folded his arms tightly over his chest, and resolved to go promptly.
The gaslight flashed on Irene's hair as it hung over the side of the sofa; he stooped, and pressed his lips to the floating curls, and went down to the library, smiling grimly at his own folly. Without delay he wrote two letters, and was dating a third, when his mother came in. Placing a chair for her, he laid down his pen.
"I am glad to see you, mother; I want to have a talk with you."
"About what, Harvey?" --an anxious look settled on her face.
"About my leaving you, and going West. I have decided to start next week."
"Oh, my son! how can you bring such grief upon me? Surely there is work enough for you to do here, without your tearing yourself from us."
"Yes, mother, work enough, but hands enough also, without mine. These are the sunny slopes of the vineyard, and labourers crowd to till them; but there are cold, shadowy, barren nooks and corners, that equally demand cultivation. There the lines have fallen to me, and there I go to my work. I have delayed my departure too long already."
"Oh, Harvey! have you fully determined on this step?"
"Yes, my dear mother, fully determined to go."
"It is very hard for me to give up my only son. I can't say that I will reconcile myself to this separation; but you are old enough to decide your own future; and I suppose I ought not to urge you. For months I have opposed your resolution; now I will not longer remonstrate. Oh, Harvey! it makes my heart ache to part with you. If you were married I should be better satisfied; but to think of you in your loneliness!" She laid her head on his shoulder, and wept.
The minister compressed his lips firmly an instant, then replied-- "I always told you that I should never marry. I shall be too constantly occupied to sit down and feel lonely. Now, mother, I must finish my letters, if you please, for they should go by the earliest mail."
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{
"id": "27811"
}
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9
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AN ORPHAN'S PROTECTORS
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The artist stood at the window watching for his pupil's return; it was the late afternoon hour, which they were wont to spend in reading, and her absence annoyed him. As he rested carelessly against the window, his graceful form was displayed to great advantage, and the long brown hair dropped about a classical face of almost feminine beauty. The delicacy of his features was enhanced by the extreme pallor of his complexion, and it was apparent that close application to his profession had made sad inroads on a constitution never very robust. A certain listlessness of manner, a sort of lazy-grace seemed characteristic; but when his pupil came in and laid aside her bonnet, the expression of _ennui_ vanished, and he threw himself on a sofa looking infinitely relieved. She drew near, and without hesitation acquainted him with the discovery of her relatives in New York. He listened in painful surprise, and, ere she had concluded, sprang up. "I understand! they will want to take you; will urge you to share their home of wealth. But, Electra, you won't leave me; surely you won't leave me?"
He put his hands on her shoulders, and she knew from his quick, irregular breathing that the thought of separation greatly distressed him.
"My aunt has not explicitly invited me to reside with her, though I inferred from her manner that she confidently expected me to do so. Irene also spoke of it as a settled matter."
"You will not allow me to persuade you? Oh, child! tell me at once you will never leave me."
"Mr. Clifton, we must part some day; I cannot always live here, you know. Before very long I must go out and earn my bread."
"Never! while I live. When I offered you a home, I expected it to be a permanent one. I intended to adopt you. Here, if you choose, you may work and earn a reputation; but away from me, among strangers, never. Electra, you forget, you gave yourself to me once."
She looked into his eyes, and, with a woman's quick perception, read all the truth.
In an instant her countenance changed painfully; she stooped, touched his hand with her lips, and exclaimed-- "Thank you, a thousand times, my friend, my father! for your interest in, and your unvarying, unparalleled kindness to me. All the gratitude and affection which a child could give to a parent I shall always cherish toward you. Since it annoys you, we will say no more about the future; let the years take care of themselves as they come."
"Will you promise me positively that you will not go to your aunt?"
"Yes; I have never seriously entertained the thought."
She escaped from his hands, and lighting the gas, applied herself to her books for the next hour.
If Irene found the restraint of boarding-school irksome, the separation from Russell was well-nigh intolerable to Electra. At first she had seemed plunged in lethargy; but after a time this mood gave place to restless, unceasing activity. Like one trying to flee from something painful, she rushed daily to her work, and regretted when the hours of darkness consigned her to reflection. Mrs. Clifton was quite aged, and though uniformly gentle and affectionate toward the orphan, there was no common ground of congeniality on which they could meet. To a proud, exacting nature like Electra's, Mr. Clifton's constant manifestations of love and sympathy were very soothing. Writhing under the consciousness of her cousin's indifference, she turned eagerly to receive the tokens of affection showered upon her. She knew that his happiness centred in her, and vainly fancied that she could feed her hungry heart with his adoration. But by degrees she realized that these husks would not satisfy her; and a singular sensation of mingled gratitude and impatience arose whenever he caressed her.
Mrs. Clifton was a rigid Roman Catholic, her son a free-thinker, in the broadest significance of the term, if one might judge from the selections that adorned his library shelves. But deep in his soul was the germination of a mystical creed, which gradually unfolded itself to Electra.
It was late at night when Electra retired to her room, and sat down to collect her thoughts after the unexpected occurrences of the day.
More than one discovery had been made since the sunrise, which she awoke so early to study. She had found relatives, and an opportunity of living luxuriously; but, in the midst of this beautiful _bouquet_ of surprises, a serpent's head peered out at her. Mr. Clifton loved her; not as a teacher his pupil, not as guardian loves ward, not as parent loves child. Perhaps he had not intended that she should know it so soon, but his eyes had betrayed the secret. She saw perfectly how matters stood. This, then, had prompted him from the first, to render her assistance; he had resolved to make her his wife; nothing less would content him. She twisted her white fingers in her hair, and gazed vacantly down on the carpet, and gradually the rich crimson blood sank out of her face. She held his life in the hollow of her hand, and this she well knew; death hung over him like the sword of Damocles; she had been told that any violent agitation or grief would bring on the hemorrhage which he so much dreaded, and although he seemed stronger and better than usual, the insidious nature of his disease gave her little hope that he would ever be robust. To feign ignorance of his real feelings for her, would prove but a temporary stratagem; the time must inevitably come, before long, when he would put aside this veil, and set the truth before her. How should she meet it--how should she evade him? Accept the home which Mrs. Young would offer her, and leave him to suffer briefly, to sink swiftly into the tomb? No; her father's family had cast him most unjustly off, withholding his patrimony; and now she scorned to receive one cent of the money which his father was unwilling that he should enjoy. Beside, who loved her as well as Henry Clifton? She owed more to him than to any living being; it would be the part of an ingrate to leave him; it was cowardly to shrink from repaying the debt. But the thought of being his wife froze her blood, and heavy drops gathered on her brow as she endeavoured to reflect upon this possibility.
A feeling of unconquerable repulsion sprang up in her heart, nerving, steeling her against his affection. With a strange, instantaneous reaction she thought with loathing of his words of endearment. How could she endure them in future, yet how reject without wounding him? One, and only one path of escape presented itself--a path of measureless joy. She lifted her hands, and murmured-- "Russell! Russell! save me from this!"
When Mr. and Mrs. Young visited the studio the following day and urged the orphan's removal to their house, she gently but resolutely declined their generous offer, expressing an affectionate gratitude toward her teacher, and a determination not to leave him, at least for the present. Mrs. Young was much distressed, and adduced every argument of which she was mistress, but her niece remained firm; and finding their entreaties fruitless, Mr. Young said that he would immediately take the necessary steps to secure Robert Grey's portion of the estate to his daughter. Electra sat with her hand nestled in her aunt's, but when this matter was alluded to she rose, and said proudly-- "No, sir; let the estate remain just as it is. I will never accept one cent. My grandfather on his deathbed excluded my father from any portion of it, and since he willed it so, even so it shall be. I have no legal claim to a dollar, and I will never receive one from your generosity. It was the will of the dead that you and my Uncle William should inherit the whole, and as far as I am concerned, have it you shall. I am poor, I know; so were my parents. Poverty they bequeathed as my birthright, and even as they lived without aid from my grandfather, so will I. It is very noble and generous in you, after the expiration of nearly twenty years, to be willing to divide with the orphan of the outcast; but I will not, cannot, allow you to do so. I fully appreciate and most cordially thank you both for your goodness; but I am young and strong, and I expect to earn my living. Mr. Clifton and his mother want me to remain in his house until I finish my studies, and I gratefully accept his kind offer. Nay, aunt! don't let it trouble you so. I shall visit you very frequently."
"She has all of Robert's fierce obstinacy. I see it in her eyes, hear it ringing in the tones of her voice. Take care, child; it ruined your father," said Mrs. Young sorrowfully.
"You should remember, Electra, that an orphan girl needs a protector. Such I would fain prove myself."
As Mr. Young spoke, he took one of her hands and drew her to him. She turned quickly and laid the other on the artist's arm.
"I have one here, sir, a protector as true and kind as my own father could be."
She understood the flash of his eyes and his proud smile as he assured her relatives that he would guard her from harm and want so long as he lived, or as she remained under his care. She knew he regarded this as a tacit sealing of the old compact, and she had no inclination to undeceive him at this juncture.
Urging her to visit them as often as possible, and extending the invitation to Mr. Clifton, the Youngs withdrew, evidently much disappointed, and as the door closed behind them, Electra felt that the circle of doom was narrowing around her. Mr. Clifton approached her, but, averting her head, she lifted the damask curtain that divided the parlour from the studio, and effected her retreat, dreading to meet his glance--putting off the evil day as long as possible--trying to trample the serpent that trailed after her from that hour.
|
{
"id": "27811"
}
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10
|
IRENE'S COUSIN
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"You are better to-day, mother tells me."
"Yes, thank you, my foot is much better. You have not been up to see me for two days."
Irene sat in an easy chair by the open window, and the minister took a seat near her.
"I have not forgotten you in the interim, however."
As he spoke he laid a bouquet of choice flowers in her lap. She bent over them with eager delight, and held out one hand, saying-- "Oh, thank you. How very kind you are! These remind me of the greenhouse at home. They are the most beautiful I have seen in New York."
"Irene, you look sober to-day. Come, cheer up. I don't want to carry that grave expression away with me. I want to remember your face as I first saw it, unshadowed."
"What do you mean? Are you going to leave home?"
"Yes; to-morrow I bid farewell to New York for a long time, I am going to the West to take charge of a church."
"Oh, Mr. Young! surely you are not in earnest? You cannot intend to separate yourself from your family."
She dropped her flowers, and leaned forward.
"Yes, I have had it in contemplation for more than a year, and, recently, I have decided to remove at once."
He saw the great sorrow written in her countenance, the quick flutter of her lip, the large drops that dimmed the violet eyes and gathered on the long golden lashes, and far sweeter than the Eolian harps was the broken voice-- "What shall I do without you? Who will encourage and advise me when you go?"
She leaned her forehead on her hands, and a tear slid down and rested on her chin. The sun was setting, and the crimson light flooding the room, bathed her with glory, spreading a halo around her. He held his breath and gazed upon the drooping figure and bewitching face; and, in after years, when his dark hair had grown silvery grey, he remembered the lovely sun-lit vision that so entranced him, leaving an indelible image on heart and brain. He gently removed the hands, and holding them in his, said, in the measured, low tone so indicative of suppressed emotion-- "Irene, my friend, you attach too much importance to the aid which I might render you. You know your duty, and I feel assured will not require to be reminded of it. Henceforth our paths diverge widely. I go to a distant section of our land, there to do my Father's work; and, ere long, having completed the prescribed course, you will return to your Southern home and take the position assigned you in society. Thus, in all human probability, we shall meet no more, for----" "Oh, sir! don't say that; you will come back to visit your family, and then I shall see you."
"That is scarcely probable; but we will not discuss it now. There is, however, a channel of communication for separated friends, and of this we must avail ourselves. I shall write to you from Western wilds, and letters from you will most pleasantly ripple the monotonous life I expect to lead."
"Can't you stay longer and talk to me?" said Irene, as he rose.
"No; I promised to address the ---- Street Sabbath-school children to-night, and must look over my notes before I go."
There was no unsteadiness in his tone, no trace of emotion, as he stood up before her. Irene was deeply moved, and when she essayed to thank him, found it impossible to pronounce her words. Tears were gliding down her cheeks; he put back the hair, and taking the face softly in his palms, looked long and earnestly at its fascinating beauty. The great, glistening blue eyes gazed into his, and the silky lashes and rich scarlet lips trembled. He felt the hot blood surging like a lava-tide in his veins, and his heart rising in fierce rebellion at the stern interdict which he saw fit to lay upon it; but no token of all this came to the cool, calm surface.
"Good-bye, Irene. May God bless you, my dear little friend!"
He drew the face close to his own as though he would have kissed her, but forbore, and merely raising her hands to his lips turned and left the room. Verily, greater is "he that ruleth his own spirit than he that taketh a city." He left before breakfast the ensuing morning, bearing his secret with him, having given no intimation, by word or look, of the struggle which his resolution cost him. Once his mother had fancied that he felt more than a friendly interest in their guest, but the absolute repose of his countenance and grave serenity of his manner during the last week of his stay dispersed all her suspicions. From a luxurious home, fond friends, and the girlish face he loved better than his life, the minister went forth to his distant post, offering in sacrifice to God, upon the altar of duty, his throbbing heart and hopes of earthly happiness.
A cloud of sadness settled on the household after his departure, and scarcely less than Louisa's was Irene's silent grief. The confinement grew doubly irksome when his voice and step had passed from the threshold, and she looked forward impatiently to her release. The sprain proved more serious than she at first imagined, and the summer vacation set in before she was able to walk with ease. Mr. Huntingdon had been apprised of her long absence from school, and one day, when she was cautiously trying her strength, he arrived, without having given premonition of his visit. As he took her in his arms and marked the alteration in her thin face, the listlessness of her manner, the sorrowful gravity of her countenance, his fears were fully aroused, and, holding her to his heart, he exclaimed-- "My daughter! my beauty! I must take you out of New York."
"Yes, father, take me home; do take me home." She clasped her arms round his neck and nestled her face close to his.
"Not yet, queen. We will go to the Catskill, to Lake George, to Niagara. A few weeks' travel will invigorate you. I have written to Hugh to meet us at Montreal; he is with a gay party, and you shall have a royal time. A pretty piece of business truly, that you can't amuse yourself in any other way than by breaking half the bones in your body."
Thus the summer programme was determined without any reference to the wishes of the one most concerned, and, knowing her father's disposition, she silently acquiesced. After much persuasion, Mr. Huntingdon prevailed on Louisa's parents to allow her to accompany them. The mother consented very reluctantly, and on the appointed day the party set off for Saratoga. The change was eminently beneficial, and before they reached Canada Irene seemed perfectly restored. But her father was not satisfied. Her unwonted taciturnity annoyed and puzzled him; he knew that beneath the calm surface some strong undercurrent rolled swiftly, and he racked his brain to discover what had rendered her so reserved. Louisa's joyous, elastic spirits probably heightened the effect of her companion's gravity, and the contrast daily presented could not fail to arrest Mr. Huntingdon's attention. On arriving at Montreal the girls were left for a few moments in the parlour of the hotel, while Mr. Huntingdon went to register their names. Irene and Louisa stood by the window looking out into the street, when a happy, ringing voice exclaimed-- "Here you are, at last, Irie! I caught a glimpse of your curls as you passed the dining-room door."
She turned to meet her cousin and held out her hand.
"Does your majesty suppose I shall be satisfied with the tip of your fingers? Pshaw, Irie! I will have my kiss."
He threw his arm round her shoulder, drew down the shielding hands, and kissed her twice.
"Oh, Hugh, behave yourself! Miss Louisa Young, my cousin, Hugh Seymour."
He bowed, and shook hands with the stranger, then seized his cousin's fingers and fixed his fine eyes affectionately upon her.
"It seems an age since I saw you, Irie. Come, sit down and let me look at you; how stately you have grown, to be sure! More like a queen than ever; absolutely two inches taller since you entered boarding-school. Irie, I am so glad to see you again!" He snatched up a handful of curls and drew them across his lips, careless of what Louisa might think.
"Thank you, Hugh. I am quite as glad to see you."
"Oh, humbug! I know better. You would rather see Paragon any day, ten to one. I will kill that dog yet, and shoot Erebus, too; see if I don't! then maybe you can think of somebody else. When you are glad you show it in your eyes, and now they are as still as violets under icicles. I think you might love me a little, at least as much as a dog."
"Hush! I do love you, but I don't choose to tell it to everybody in Montreal."
Mr. Huntingdon's entrance diverted the conversation, and Irene was glad to escape to her own room.
"Your cousin seems to be very fond of you," observed Louisa, as she upbraided her hair.
"He is very impulsive and demonstrative, that is all."
"How handsome he is!"
"Do you think so, really? Take care, Louisa! I will tell him, and, by way of crushing his vanity, add '_de gustibus, etc., etc., etc._'" "How old is he?"
"In his twentieth year."
From that time the cousins were thrown constantly together; wherever they went Hugh took charge of Irene, while Mr. Huntingdon gave his attention to Louisa. But the eagle eye was upon his daughter's movements; he watched her countenance, weighed her words, tried to probe her heart. Week after week he found nothing tangible. Hugh was gay, careless; Irene, equable, but reserved. Finally they turned their faces homeward, and in October found themselves once more in New York. Mr. Huntingdon prepared to return South and Hugh to sail for Europe, while Irene remained at the hotel until the morning of her cousin's departure.
A private parlour adjoined the room she occupied, and here he came to say farewell. She knew that he had already had a long conversation with her father, and as he threw himself on the sofa and seized one of her hands, she instinctively shrank from him.
"Irene, here is my miniature. I wanted you to ask for it, but I see that you won't do it. I know very well that you will not value it one-thousandth part as much as I do your likeness here on my watch-chain; but perhaps it will remind you of me sometimes. How I shall want to see you before I come home! You know you belong to me. Uncle gave you to me, and when I come back from Europe we will be married. We are both very young, I know; but it has been settled so long. Irie, my beauty, I wish you would love me more; you are so cold. Won't you try?"
He leaned down to kiss her, but she turned her face hastily away and answered resolutely-- "No, I can't love you other than as my cousin; I would not, if I could. I do not think it would be right, and I won't promise to try. Father has no right to give me to you, or to anybody else. I tell you now I belong to myself, and only I can give myself away. Hugh, I don't consider this settled at all. You might as well know the truth at once; I have some voice in the matter."
Mr. Huntingdon had evidently prepared him for something of this kind on her part, and, though his face flushed angrily, he took no notice of the remonstrance.
"I shall write to you frequently, and I hope that you will be punctual in replying. Irie, give me your left hand just a minute; wear this ring till I come back, to remind you that you have a cousin across the ocean."
He tried to force the flashing jewel on her slender finger, but she resisted, and rose, struggling to withdraw her hand.
"No, no, Hugh! I can't; I won't. I know very well what that ring means, and I cannot accept it. Release my hand; I tell you I won't wear it."
"Come, Hugh; you have not a moment to spare; the carriage is waiting." Mr. Huntingdon threw open the door, having heard every word that had passed. Hugh dropped the ring in his vest-pocket and rose.
"Well, Irie, I suppose I must bid you farewell. Two or three years will change you, my dearest little cousin. Good-bye; think of me now and then, and learn to love me by the time I come home."
She suffered him to take both her hands and kiss her tenderly, for her father stood there, and she could not refuse; but the touch of his lips burned her long after he was gone. She put on her bonnet, and, when her father returned from the steamer, they entered the carriage which was to convey her to the dreary, dreaded school. As they rolled along Broadway, Mr. Huntingdon coolly took her hand and placed Hugh's ring upon it, saying authoritatively-- "Hugh told me you refused to accept his parting gift, and seemed much hurt about it. There is no reason why you should not wear it, and in future I do not wish to see you without it. Remember this, my daughter."
"Father, it is wrong for me to wear it, unless I expected to----" "I understand the whole matter perfectly. Now, Irene, let me hear no more about it. I wish you would learn that it is a child's duty to obey her parent. No more words, if you please, on the subject."
She felt that this was not the hour for resistance, and wisely forbore; but he saw rebellion written in the calm, fixed eye, and read it in the curved lines of the full upper lip. She had entreated him to take her home, and only the night before renewed her pleadings. But his refusal was positive, and now she went back to the hated school without a visible token of regret. She saw her trunks consigned to the porter, listened to a brief conversation between Dr. ---- and her father, and after a hasty embrace and half-dozen words, watched the tall, soldierly form re-enter the carriage. Then she went slowly up the broad stairway to her cell-like room, and with dry eyes unpacked her clothes, locked up the ring in her jewellery-box, and prepared to resume her studies.
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{
"id": "27811"
}
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11
|
ANXIETY
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It was late October; a feeble flame flickered in the grate; on the rug crouched an English spaniel, creeping closer as the heat died out and the waning light of day gradually receded, leaving the room dusky, save where a slanting line of yellow quivered down from the roof and gilt the folds of black silk. At one of the windows stood Electra, half concealed by the heavy green and gold drapery, one dimpled hand clinging to the curtains, the other pressed against the panes, as she watched the forms hurrying along the street below.
For three weeks she had received no letter from Russell; he was remarkably punctual, and this long, unprecedented interval filled her, at first, with vague uneasiness, which grew finally into horrible foreboding. For ten days she had stood at this hour, at the same window, waiting for Mr. Clifton's return from the post-office. Ten times the words "No letter" had fallen, like the voice of doom, on her throbbing heart. On this eleventh day suspense reached its acme, and time seemed to have locked its wheels to lengthen her torture. At last an omnibus stopped, and Mr. Clifton stepped out, with a bundle of papers under his arm. Closer pressed the pallid face against the glass; firmer grew the grasp of the icy fingers on the brocatel; she had no strength to meet him. He closed the door, hung up his hat, and looked into the studio; no fire in the grate, no light in the gas-globes--everything cold and dark save the reflection on that front window.
"Electra!"
"I am here."
"No letter."
She stood motionless a moment; but the brick walls opposite, the trees, the lamp-posts spun around, like maple leaves in an autumn gale.
"My owlet! why don't you have a light and some fire?"
He stumbled toward her, and put his hand on her shoulder; but she shrank away, and, lighting the gas, rang for coal.
"There is something terrible the matter; Russell is either ill or dead. I must go to him."
Just, then the door-bell rang sharply; she supposed it was some brother-artist coming to spend an hour, and turned to go.
"Wait a minute; I want to----" He paused, for at that instant she heard a voice which, even amid the din of Shinar, would have been unmistakable to her, and breaking from him, she sprang to the threshold and met her cousin.
"Oh, Russell! I thought you had forgotten me."
"What put such a ridiculous thought into your head? My last letter must have prepared you to expect me."
"What letter? I have had none for three weeks."
"One in which I mentioned Mr. Campbell's foreign appointment, and the position of secretary which he tendered me. Electra, let me speak to Mr. Clifton."
As he advanced and greeted the artist, she heard a quick, snapping sound, and saw the beautiful Bohemian glass paper-cutter her guardian had been using lying shivered to atoms on the rug. The fluted handle was crushed in his fingers, and drops of blood oozed over the left hand. Ere she could allude to it, he thrust his hand into his pocket and desired Russell to be seated.
"This is a pleasure totally unexpected. What is the appointment of which you spoke?"
"Mr. Campbell has been appointed Minister to ----, and sails next week. I am surprised that you have not heard of it from the public journals; many of them have spoken of it, and warmly commended the selection. I accompany him in the capacity of secretary and shall, meanwhile, prosecute my studies under his direction."
The grey, glittering eyes of the artist sought those of his pupil, and for an instant hers quailed; but, rallying, she looked fully, steadfastly at him, resolved to play out the game, scorning to bare her heart to his scrutiny. She had fancied that Russell's affection had prompted this visit; now it was apparent that he came to New York to take a steamer--not to see her; to put the stormy Atlantic between them.
"New York certainly agrees with you, Electra; you have grown and improved very much since you came North. I never saw such colour in your cheeks before; I can scarcely believe that you are the same fragile child I put into the stage one year ago. This reconciles me to having given you up to Mr. Clifton; he is a better guardian than I could have been. But tell me something more about these new relatives you spoke of having found here."
Mr. Clifton left the room, and the two sat side by side for an hour talking of the gloomy past, the flitting present the uncertain future. Leaning back in his chair, with his eyes fixed on the grate Russell said gravely-- "There is now nothing to impede my successful career; obstacles are rapidly melting away; every day brings me nearer the goal I long since set before me. In two years at farthest, perhaps earlier, I shall return and begin the practice of law. Once admitted, I ask no more. Then, and not till then, I hope to save you from the necessity of labour; in the interim, Mr. Clifton will prove a noble and generous friend; and believe me, my cousin, the thought of leaving you so long is the only thing which will mar the pleasure of my European sojourn."
The words were kind enough, but the tone was indifferent, and the countenance showed her that their approaching separation disquieted him little. She thought of the sleepless nights and wretched days she had passed waiting for a letter from that tall, reserved, cold cousin, and her features relaxed in a derisive smile at the folly of her all-absorbing love. Raising his eyes accidentally he caught the smile, wondered what there was to call it forth in the plans which he had just laid before her, and, meeting his glance of surprise, she said, carelessly-- "Are you not going to see Irene before you sail?"
His cheek flushed as he rose, straightened himself, and answered-- "A strange question, truly, from one who knows me as well as you do. Call to see a girl whose father sent her from home solely to prevent her from associating with my family! Through what sort of metamorphosis do you suppose that I have passed, that every spark of self-respect has been crushed out of me?"
"Her father's tyranny and selfishness can never nullify her noble and affectionate remembrance of Aunt Amy in the hour of her need."
"And when I am able to repay her every cent we owe her, then, and not till then, I wish to see her. Things shall change: _mens cujusque is est quisque_; and the day will come when Mr. Huntingdon may not think it degrading for his daughter to acknowledge my acquaintance on the street."
A brief silence ensued, Russell drew on his gloves, and finally said, hesitatingly-- "Dr. Arnold told me she had suffered very much from a fall."
"Yes; for a long time she was confined to her room."
"Has she recovered entirely?"
"Entirely. She grows more beautiful day by day."
Perhaps he wished to hear more concerning her, but she would not gratify him, and, soon after, he took up his hat.
"Mr. Clifton has a spare room, Russell; why can't you stay with us while you are in New York?"
"Thank you; but Mr. Campbell will expect me at the hotel. I shall be needed, too, as he has many letters to write. I will see you to-morrow, and indeed every day while I remain in the city."
"Then pay your visits in the morning, for I want to take your portrait with my own hands. Give me a sitting as early as possible."
"Very well; look for me to-morrow. Good night."
The week that followed was one of strangely mingled sorrows and joys; in after years it served as a prominent landmark to which she looked back and dated sad changes in her heart. Irene remained ignorant of Russell's presence in the city, and at last the day dawned on which the vessel was to sail. At the breakfast table Mr. Clifton noticed the colourlessness of his pupil's face, but kindly abstained from any allusion to it. He saw that, contrary to habit, she drank a cup of coffee, and, arresting her arm as she requested his mother to give her a second, he said gently-- "My dear child, where did you suddenly find such Turkish tastes? I thought you disliked coffee?"
"I take it now as medicine. My head aches horribly."
"Then let me prescribe for you. We will go down to the steamer with Russell, and afterward take a long drive to Greenwood, if you like."
"He said he would call here at ten o'clock to bid us farewell." " _N'importe. _ The carriage will be ready, and we will accompany him."
At the appointed hour they repaired to the vessel, and, looking at its huge sides, Electra coveted even a deck passage; envied the meanest who hurried about, making all things ready for departure. The last bell rang; people crowded down on the planks; Russell hastened back to the carriage, and took the nerveless, gloved hand.
"I will write as early as possible. Don't be uneasy about me; no accident has ever happened on this line. I am glad I leave you with such a friend as Mr. Clifton. Good-bye, cousin; it will not be very long before we meet again."
He kissed the passive lips, shook hands with the artist, and sprang on board just as the planks were withdrawn. The vessel moved majestically on its way; friends on shore waved handkerchiefs to friends departing, and hands were kissed and hats lifted, and then the crowd slowly dispersed--for steamers sail every week, and people become accustomed to the spectacle.
"Are you ready to go now?" asked Mr. Clifton.
"Yes, ready, quite ready--for Greenwood."
She spoke in a tone which had lost its liquid music, and with a wintry smile that fled over the ashy face, lending the features no light, no warmth.
He tried to divert her mind by calling attention to various things of interest, but the utter exhaustion of her position and the monosyllabic character of her replies soon discouraged him. Both felt relieved when the carriage stopped before the studio, and as he led her up the steps, he said affectionately-- "I am afraid my prescription has not cured your head."
"No, sir; but I thank you most sincerely for the kind effort you have made to relieve me. I shall be better to-morrow. Good-bye till then."
"Stay, my child. Come into the studio, and let me read something light and pleasant to you."
"Not for the universe! The sight of a book would give me brain fever, I verily believe."
She tried unavailingly to shake off his hand.
"Why do you shrink from me, my pupil?"
"Because I am sick, weary; and you watch me so that I get restless and nervous. Do let me go! I want to sleep."
An impatient stamp emphasized the words, and, as he relaxed his clasp of her fingers, she hastened to her room, and locked the door to prevent all intrusion. Taking off her bonnet, she drew the heavy shawl closely around her shoulders and threw herself across the foot of the bed, burying her face in her hands, lest the bare walls should prove witnesses of her agony. Six hours later she lay there still with pale fingers pressed to burning, dry eyelids.
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{
"id": "27811"
}
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12
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A SACRIFICE
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Once more the labours of a twelvemonth had been exhibited at the Academy of Design--some to be classed among things "that were not born to die;" others to fall into nameless graves. Mr. Clifton was represented by an exquisite OEnone, and on the same wall, in a massive oval frame, hung the first finished production of his pupil. For months after Russell's departure she sat before her easel, slowly filling up the outline sketched while his eyes watched her. Application sometimes trenches so closely upon genius as to be mistaken for it in its results, and where both are happily blended, the bud of Art expands in immortal perfection. Electra spared no toil, and so it came to pass that the faultless head of her idol excited intense and universal admiration. In the catalogue it was briefly mentioned as "No. 17--a portrait; first effort of a young female artist." _Connoisseurs_, who had committed themselves by extravagant praise, sneered at the announcement of the catalogue, and, after a few inquiries, blandly asserted that no tyro could have produced it; that the master had wrought out its perfection, and generously allowed the pupil to monopolize the encomiums. In vain Mr. Clifton disclaimed the merit, and asserted that he had never touched the canvas; that she had jealously refused to let him aid her. Incredulous smiles and unmistakable motions of the head were the sole results of his expostulation. Electra was indignant at the injustice meted out to her, and, as might have been expected, rebelled against the verdict. Some weeks after the close of the exhibition, the OEnone was purchased and the portrait sent home. Electra placed it on the easel once more, and stood before it in rapt contemplation. Coldness, silence, neglect, all were forgotten when she looked into the deep, beautiful eyes, and upon the broad, bold, matchless brow.
She had not the faintest hope that he would ever cherish a tenderer feeling for her; but love is a plant of strange growth. A curious plant, truly, and one which will not bear transplanting, as many a luckless experiment has proved. To-day, as Electra looked upon her labours, the coils of Time seemed to fall away; the vista of Eternity opened before her, peopled with two forms, which on earth walked widely separate paths, and over her features stole a serene, lifted expression, as if, after painful scaling, she had risen above the cloud-region and caught the first rays of perpetual sunshine.
Mr. Clifton had watched her for some moments with lowering brow and jealous hatred of the picture. Approaching, he looked over her shoulder, and said-- "Electra, I must speak to you; hear me. You hug a phantom to your heart; Russell does not and will not love you, other than as his cousin."
The blood deserted her face, leaving a greyish pallor, but the eyes sought his steadily, and the rippling voice lost none of its rich cadence.
"Except as his cousin, I do not expect Russell to love me."
"Oh child! you deceive yourself; this is a hope that you cling to with mad tenacity."
She wrung her hand from his, and drew her figure to its utmost height.
"No; you must hear me now. I have a right to question you--the right of my long, silent, faithful love. You may deny it, but that matters little; be still, and listen. Did you suppose that I was simply a generous man when I offered to guard and aid you--when I took you to my house, placed you in my mother's care, and lavished affection upon you? If so, put away the hallucination. Consider me no longer your friend, look at me as I am, a jealous and selfishly exacting man, who stands before you to-day and tells you he loves you. Oh, Electra! From the morning when you first showed me your sketches, you have been more than my life to me. Every hope I have centred in you. I have not deceived myself; I knew that you loved Russell. When he came here, I saw that the old fascination still kept its hold upon you, but I saw, too, what you saw quite as plainly--that in Russell Aubrey's heart there is room for nothing but ambition. I knew how you suffered, and I believed it was the death-struggle of your love. But, instead, I find you, day by day, before that easel--oblivious of me, of everything but the features you cling to so insanely. Do you wonder that I hate that portrait? Do you wonder that I am growing desperate? If he loved you in return, I could bear it better; but as it is, I am tortured beyond all endurance. I have spent nearly three years in trying to gain your heart; all other aims have faded before this one absorbing love. To-day I lay it at your feet, and ask if I have not earned some reward. Oh, Electra! have you no gratitude?"
A scarlet spot burned on his pale cheeks, and the mild liquid grey eyes sparkled like stars.
He stretched out his hand, but she drew back a step.
"God forgive me! but I have no such love for you."
A ghastly smile broke over his face, and, after a moment, the snowy handkerchief he passed across his lips was stained with ruby streaks.
"I know that, and I know the reason. But, once more, I ask you to give me your hand. Electra, dearest, do not, I pray you, refuse me this. Oh, child! give me your hand, and in time you will learn to love me."
He seized her fingers, and stooped his head till the silky brown beard mingled with her raven locks.
"Mr. Clifton, to marry without love would be a grievous sin; I dare not. We would hate each other. Life would be a curse to both, and death a welcome release. Could you endure a wife who accepted your hand from gratitude and pity? Oh! such a relationship would be horrible beyond all degree. I shudder at the thought."
"But you would learn to love me."
"But you cannot take Russell's place. None can come between him and my heart."
"Electra Grey, you are unwomanly in your unsought love."
"Unwomanly! If so, made such by your unmanliness. Unwomanly! Were you more manly, I had never shocked your maudlin sentiments of propriety."
"And this is my reward for all the tenderness I have lavished on you. When I stooped to beg your hand, to be repulsed with scorn and loathing. To spend three years in faithful effort to win your heart, and reap ---- contempt, hatred."
Staggering back, he sank into his arm-chair and closed his eyes a moment, then continued-- "I would not have troubled you long, Electra. It was because I knew that my life must be short at best, that I urged you to gild the brief period with the light of your love. I would not have bound you always to me; and when I asked your hand a few minutes since, I knew that death would soon sever the tie and set you free. Let this suffice to palliate my 'unmanly' pleading. I have but one request to make of you now, and, weak as it may seem, I beg of you not to deny me. You are preparing to leave my house; this I know; I see it in your face, and the thought is harrowing to me. Electra, remain under my roof while I live; let me see you every day, here, in my house. If not as my wife, stay as my friend, my pupil, my child. I little thought I could ever condescend to ask this of anyone; but the dread of separation bows me down. Oh, child, I will not claim you long."
She stood up before him with the portrait in her arms, resolved then and there to leave him for ever. But the ghastly pallor of his face, the scarlet thread oozing over his lips and saturating the handkerchief with which he strove to staunch it, told her that the request was preferred on no idle pretext. In swift review, his kindness, generosity, and unwavering affection passed before her, and the mingled accents of remorse and compassion whispered: "Pay your debt of gratitude by sacrificing your heart. If you can make him happy, you owe it to him."
Softly she took his hand, and said in a low, thrilling tone-- "Mr. Clifton, I was passionate and hasty, and said some unkind things which I would fain recall, and for which I beg your pardon, I thank you for the honour you would have conferred on me, and for the unmerited love you offered me. Unless it were in my power to return that love, it would be sinful to give you my hand; but, since you desire it so earnestly, I will promise to stay by your side, to do what I can to make you happy; to prove by my devotion that I am not insensible to all your kindness, that I am very grateful for the affection you have given me. I come and offer you this, as a poor return for all that I owe you; it is the most my conscience will permit me to tender. My friend, my master, will you accept it and forgive the pain and sorrow I have caused you?"
He felt her tears falling on his fingers, and, for a moment, neither spoke; then he drew the hands to his lips and kissed them tenderly.
"Thank you, Electra. I know it is a sacrifice on your part, but I am selfish enough to accept it. Heaven bless you, my pupil."
"In future we will not allude to this day of trial--let it be forgotten; 'let the dead past bury its dead.' I will have no resurrected phantoms. And now, sir, you must not allow this slight hemorrhage to depress you. In a few days you will be stronger, quite able to examine and find fault with my work. Shall I send a note to Dr. Le Roy, asking him to call and see you this evening?"
"He has just left me. Say nothing of the hemorrhage to mother; it would only distress her."
He released her hands, and, stooping over his pillow, she smoothed the disordered hair, and for the first time pressed her lips to his forehead.
Thus she bowed her neck to the yoke, and, with a fixed, unalterable will, entered on the long dreary ministry to which she felt that duty called.
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{
"id": "27811"
}
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13
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WARNINGS
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With the characteristic fitfulness of consumption, Mr. Clifton rallied, and, for a time, seemed almost restored; but at the approach of winter the cough increased, and dangerous symptoms returned. Several months after the rejection of his suit, to which no allusion had ever been made, Electra sat before her easel, absorbed in work, while the master slowly walked up and down the studio, wrapped in a warm plaid shawl. Occasionally he paused and looked over her shoulder, then resumed his pace, offering no comment. It was not an unusual occurrence for them to pass entire mornings together without exchanging a word, and to-day the silence had lasted more than an hour. A prolonged fit of coughing finally arrested her attention, and, glancing up, she met his sad gaze.
"This is unpropitious weather for you, Mr. Clifton."
"Yes, this winter offers a dreary prospect."
Resting her chin in her hands she raised her eyes, and said-- "Why do you not follow the doctor's advice? A winter South might restore you."
He drew near, and, leaning his folded arms on the top of the easel, looked down into her face.
"There is only one condition upon which I could consent to go; that is in your hands. Will you accompany me?"
She understood it all in an instant, saw the new form in which the trial presented itself, and her soul sickened.
"Mr. Clifton, if I were your sister, or your child, I would gladly go; but as your pupil, I cannot."
"As Electra Grey, certainly not; but as Electra Clifton you could go."
"Electra Grey will be carved on my tombstone."
"Then you decide my fate. I remain, and wait the slow approach of death."
"No, before just Heaven! I take no such responsibility, nor shall you thrust it on me. You are a man, and must decide your destiny for yourself; I am a poor girl, having no claim upon, no power over you. It is your duty to preserve the life which God gave you, in the way prescribed by your physician, and I have no voice in the matter. It is your duty to go South, and it will be both weak and wicked to remain here under existing circumstances."
"My life is centred in you; it is worthless, nay, a burden, separated from you."
"Your life should be centred in something nobler, better; in your duty, in your profession. It is suicidal to fold your hands listlessly, and look to me as you do."
"All these things have I tried, and I am weary of the hollowness, weary of life, and the world. So long as I have your face here, I care not to cross my own threshold till friendly hands bear me out to my quiet resting-place under the willows of Greenwood. Electra, my darling, think me weak if you will, but bear with me a little longer, and then this, my shadow, shall flit from your young heart, leaving not even a memory to haunt you. Be patient! I will soon pass away to another, a more peaceful, blessed sphere."
A melancholy smile lighted his fair waxen features, as waning, sickly sunshine in an autumn evening flickers over sculptured marble in a silent churchyard.
How she compassioned his great weakness, as he wiped away the moisture which, even on that cold day, glistened on his forehead.
"Oh! I beseech you to go to Cuba. Go, and get strong once more."
"Nothing will ever help me now. Sunny skies and soft breezes bring no healing for me. I want to die here, in my home, where your hands will be about me; not among strangers in Cuba or Italy."
He turned to the fire, and springing up, she left the room. The solemn silence of the house oppressed her; she put on her thickest wrappings, and took the street leading to the nearest park. A steel-grey sky, with slowly-trailing clouds, looked down on her, and the keen, chilly wind wafted a fine snow-powder in her face as she pressed against it. The trees were bare, and the sere grass grew hoary as the first snow-flakes of the season came down softly and shroud-like. The walks were deserted, save where a hurrying form crossed from street to street, homeward bound; and Electra passed slowly along, absorbed in thoughts colder than the frosting that gathered on shawl and bonnet. The face and figure of the painter glided spectrally before her at every step, and a mighty temptation followed at its heels. Why not strangle her heart? Why not marry him and bear his name, if, thereby, she could make his few remaining months of existence happy, and, by accompanying him South, prolong his life even for a few weeks? She shuddered at the suggestion, it would be such a miserable lot.
Faster fell the snow-flakes, cresting the waves of her hair like foam, and setting her teeth firmly, as if thereby locking the door against all compassionating compunctions. Electra left the park and turned into a cross-street, on which was situated an establishment where bouquets were kept for sale. The assortment was meagre at that late hour, but she selected a tiny bunch of delicate, fragrant, hot-house blossoms, and, shielding them with her shawl, hastened home. The studio was brilliant with gas-glare and warm with the breath of anthracite, but an aspect of dreariness, silence, and sorrow predominated. On the edge of the low scroll-sculptured mantel, supported at each corner by caryatides, perched a large tame grey owl, with clipped wings folded, and wide, solemn, oracular eyes fastened on the countenance of its beloved master.
With swift, noiseless steps Electra came to the red grate, and, after a moment, drew an ottoman close to the easy chair. Perhaps its occupant slept; perchance he wandered, with closed eyes, far down among the sombre, dank crypts of memory. She laid her cool fingers on his hand, and held the bouquet before him.
"My dear sir, here are your flowers; they are not as pretty as usual, but sweet enough to atone for lack of beauty."
He fingered them caressingly, laid them against his hollow cheeks, and hid his lips among their fragrant petals, but the starry eyes were fixed on the features of the pupil.
"It is bitter weather out; did you brave it for these? Thank you, but don't expose yourself so in future. Two invalids in a house are quite enough. You are snow-crowned, little one; do you know it? The frosting gleams right, royally on that black hair of yours. Nay, child, don't brush it off; like all lovely things it fades rapidly, melts away like the dreams that flutter around a boy in the witchery of a long, still, sunny summer day."
His thin hand nestled in her shining hair, and she submitted to the touch in silence.
He regarded her with an expression of sorrowful tenderness, and his hand trembled as he placed it upon her head. "I know not what is to become of you. Oh, Electra! if you would only be warned in time."
The warmth of the room had vermilioned her cheeks, and the long black lashes failed to veil in any degree the flash of the eyes she raised to his face. Removing the hand from her head, she took it in both hers, and a cold, dauntless smile wreathed her lips.
"Be easy on my account. I am not afraid of my future. Why should I be? God built an arsenal in every soul before he launched it on the stormy sea of Time, and the key to mine is Will! What woman has done, woman may do; a glorious sisterhood of artists beckon me on; what Elizabeth Cheron, Sibylla Merian, Angelica Kauffman, Elizabeth Le Brun, Felicie Fauveau, and Rosa Bonheur have achieved, I also will accomplish, or die in the effort. These travelled no royal road to immortality, but rugged, thorny paths; and who shall stay my feet? Afar off gleams my resting-place, but ambition scourges me unflaggingly on. Do not worry about my future; I will take care of it, and of myself."
"And when, after years of toil, you win fame, even fame enough to satisfy your large expectations, what then? Whither will you look for happiness?"
"I will grapple fame to my empty heart, as women do other idols."
"It will freeze you, my dear child."
"At all events, I will risk it. Thank God! whatever other faults I confess to, there is no taint of cowardice in my soul."
She rose, and stood a moment on the rug, looking into the red network of coals, then turned to leave him, saying-- "I must go to your mother now, and presently I will bring your tea."
"You need not trouble. I can go to the dining-room to-night."
"It is no trouble; it gives me great pleasure to do something for your comfort; and I know you always enjoy your supper more when you have it here."
As she closed the door, he pressed his face against the morocco lining and groaned unconsciously, and large glittering tears, creeping from beneath the trembling lashes, hid themselves in the curling brown beard.
To see that Mrs. Clifton's supper suited her, and then to read aloud to her for half an hour from the worn family Bible, was part of the daily routine which Electra permitted nothing to interrupt. On this occasion she found the old lady seated, as usual, before the fire, her crutches leaning against the chair, and her favourite cat curled on the carpet at her feet. Most tenderly did the aged cripple love her son's protégée, and the wrinkled, sallow face lighted up with a smile of pleasure at her entrance.
"I thought it was about time for you to come to me. Sit down, dear, and touch the bell for Kate. How is Harry?"
"No stronger, I am afraid. You know this is very bad weather for him."
"Yes; when he came up to-day I thought he looked more feeble than I had ever seen him; and as I sit here and listen to his hollow cough, every sound seems a stab at my heart." She rocked herself to and fro for a moment, and added mournfully-- "Ah, child! it is so hard to see my youngest boy going down to the grave before me. The last of five, I hoped he would survive me; but consumption is a terrible thing; it took my husband first, then, in quick succession, my other children, and now Harry, my darling, my youngest, is the last prey."
Anxious to divert her mind, Electra adroitly changed the conversation, and, when she rose to say good night, some time after, had the satisfaction of knowing that the old lady had fallen asleep. In was in vain that she arranged several tempting dishes on the table beside the painter, and coaxed him to partake of them; he received but a cup of tea from her hand, and motioned the remainder away. As the servant removed the tray, he looked up at his pupil, and said-- "Please wheel the lounge nearer to the grate; I am too tired to sit up to-night."
She complied at once, shook up the pillow, and, as he laid his head upon it, she spread his heavy plaid shawl over him.
"Now, sir, what shall I read this evening?" "' _Arcana Coelestia_,' if you please."
She took up the volume, and began at the place he designated; and as she read on and on, her rich flexible voice rose and fell upon the air like waves of melody. One of her hands chanced to hang over the arm of the chair, and as she sat near the lounge, thin hot fingers twined about it, drew it caressingly to the pillow, and held it tightly. Her first impulse was to withdraw it, and an expression of annoyance crossed her features; but, on second thought, she suffered her fingers to rest passively in his. Now and then, as she turned a leaf, she met his luminous eyes fastened upon her; but after a time the quick breathing attracted her attention, and, looking down, she saw that he, too, was sleeping. She closed the book and remained quiet, fearful of disturbing him; and as she studied the weary, fevered face, noting the march of disease, the sorrowful drooping of the mouth, so indicative of grievous disappointment, a new and holy tenderness awoke in her heart. It was a feeling analogous to that of a mother for a suffering child, who can be soothed only by her presence and caresses--an affection not unfrequently kindled in haughty natures by the entire dependence of a weaker one. Blended with this was a remorseful consciousness of the coldness with which she had persistently rejected, repulsed every manifestation of his devoted love; and, winding her fingers through his long hair, she vowed an atonement for the past in increased gentleness for the remainder of his waning life. As she bent over him, wearing her compassion in her face, he opened his eyes and looked at her.
"How long have I slept?"
"Nearly an hour. How do you feel since your nap?"
He made no reply, and she put her hand on his forehead. The countenance lighted, and he said slowly-- "Ah! yes, press your cool soft little palm on my brow. It seems to still the throbbing of my temples."
"It is late, Mr. Clifton, and I must leave you. William looked in, a few minutes since, to say that the fire burned in your room, but I would not wake you. I will send him to you. Good night."
She leaned down voluntarily and kissed him, and, with a quick movement, he folded her to his heart an instant, then released her, murmuring huskily-- "God bless you, Electra, and reward you for your patient endurance. Good night, my precious child."
She went to her room, all unconscious of the burst of emotion which shook the feeble frame of the painter, long after she had laid her head on her pillow in the sound slumber of healthful youth.
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{
"id": "27811"
}
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14
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THE CLOSE OF THE VIGIL
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The year that ensued proved a valuable school of patience, and taught the young artist a gentleness of tone and quietude of manner at variance with the natural impetuosity of her character. Irksome beyond degree was the discipline to which she subjected herself, but, with a fixedness of purpose that knew no wavering, she walked through the daily dreary routine, keeping her eyes upon the end that slowly but unmistakably approached. In mid-summer Mr. Clifton removed, for a few weeks, to the Catskill, and occasionally he rallied for a few hours, with a tenacity of strength almost miraculous. During the still sunny afternoons hosts of gay visitors, summer tourists, often paused in their excursions to watch the emaciated form of the painter leaning on the arm of his beautiful pupil, or reclining on a lichen-carpeted knoll while she sketched the surrounding scenery. Increased feebleness prevented Mrs. Clifton from joining in these outdoor jaunts, and early in September, when it became apparent that her mind was rapidly sinking into imbecility, they returned to the city. Memory seemed to have deserted its throne; she knew neither her son nor Electra, and the last spark of intelligence manifested itself in a semi-recognition of her favourite cat, which sprang to welcome her back as friendly hands bore her to the chamber she was to quit no more till death released the crushed spirit. A letter was found on the _atelier_ mantel, directed to Electra in familiar characters, which she had not seen for months. Very quietly she put it in her pocket, and in the solitude of her room broke the seal; found that Russell had returned during her absence, had spent a morning in the studio looking over her work, and had gone South to establish himself in his native town. Ah! the grievous, grievous disappointment. A bitter cry rolled from her lips, and the hands wrung each other despairingly; but an hour later she stood beside the artist with unruffled brow and a serene mouth, that bore no surface-token of the sorrow gnawing at her heart. Winter came on earlier than usual, with unwonted severity; and, week after week, Electra went continually from one sufferer to another, striving to alleviate pain, and to kindle a stray beam of sunshine in the darkened mansion. Unremitted vigil set its pale, infallible signet on her face, but Mr. Clifton either could not or would not see the painful alteration in her appearance; and when Mrs. Young remonstrated with her niece upon the ruinous effects of this tedious confinement to the house, she only answered steadily: "I will nurse him so long as I have strength left to creep from one room to another."
During Christmas week he grew alarmingly worse, and Dr. Le Roy counted the waning life by hours; but on New Year's eve he declared himself almost well, and insisted on being carried to the studio. The whim was humoured, and wrapped in his silken _robe de chambre_, he was seated in his large cushioned chair, smiling to find himself once more in the midst of his treasures. Turning back the velvet cuff from his attenuated wrist, he lifted his flushed face toward the nurse, and said eagerly: "Uncover my easel; make William draw it close to me; I have been idle long enough. Give me my palette; I want to retouch the forehead of my hero. It needs a high light."
"You are not strong enough to work. Wait till to-morrow."
"To-morrow! to-morrow! You have told me that fifty times. Wheel up the easel, I say. The spell is upon me, and work I will."
It was the "ruling passion strong in death," and Electra acquiesced, arranging the colours on the palette as he directed, and selecting the brushes he required. Resting his feet upon the cross-beam, he leaned forward and gazed earnestly upon his masterpiece, the darling design which had haunted his brain for years. "Theta" he called this piece of canvas, which was a large square painting representing, in the foreground, the death of Socrates. The details of the picture were finished with pre-Raphaelite precision and minuteness--the sweep and folds of drapery about the couch, the emptied hemlock cup--but the central figure of the Martyr lacked something, and to these last touches Mr. Clifton essayed to address himself. Slowly, feebly, the transparent hand wandered over the canvas, and Electra heard with alarm the laboured breath that came panting from his parted lips. She saw the unnatural sparkle in his sunken eyes almost die out, then leap up again, like smouldering embers swept by a sudden gust, and in the clear strong voice of other years, he repeated to himself the very words of Plato's Phædo: "For I have heard that it is right to die with good omens. Be quiet, therefore, and bear up."
Leaning back to note the effect of his touches, a shiver ran through his frame, the brush fell from his tremulous fingers, and he lay motionless and exhausted.
Folding his hands like a helpless, tired child, he raised his eyes to hers and said brokenly-- "I bequeath it to you; finish my work. You understand me--you know what is lacking; finish my 'Theta' and tell the world I died at work upon it. Oh! for a fraction of my old strength! One hour more to complete my Socrates! Just one hour! I would ask no more."
She gave him a powerful cordial which the physician had left, and having arranged the pillows on the lounge, drew it close to the easel, and prevailed on him to lie down.
A servant was dispatched for Dr. Le Roy, but returned to say that a dangerous case detained him elsewhere.
"Mr. Clifton, would you like to have your mother brought downstairs and placed beside you for a while?"
"No; I want nobody but you. Sit down here close to me, and keep quiet."
She lowered the heavy curtains, shaded the gas-globe, and, placing a bunch of sweet violets on his pillow, sat down at his side. His favourite spaniel nestled at her feet, and occasionally threw up his head and gazed wistfully at his master. Thus two hours passed, and as she rose to administer the medicine he waved it off, saying-- "Give me no more of it. I won't be drugged in my last hours. I won't have my intellect clouded by opiates. Throw it into the fire, and let me rest."
"Oh, sir! can I do nothing for you?"
"Sit still. Do not leave me, I beg of you." He drew her back to the seat, and after a short silence said slowly-- "Electra, are you afraid of death?"
"No, sir."
"Do you know that I am dying?"
"I have seen you as ill several times before."
"You are a brave, strong-hearted child; glazed eyes and stiffened limbs will not frighten you. I have but few hours to live; put your hand in mine, and promise me that you will sit here till my soul quits its clay prison. Will you watch with me the death of the year? Are you afraid to stay with me, and see me die?"
She would not trust herself to speak, but laid her hand in his and clasped it firmly. He smiled, and added-- "Will you promise to call no one? I want no eyes but yours to watch me as I die. Let there be only you and me."
"I promise."
For some moments he lay motionless, but the intensity of his gaze made her restless, and she shaded her face.
"Electra, my darling, your martyrdom draws to a close. I have been merciless in my exactions, I know; you are worn to a shadow, and your face is sharp and haggard; but you will forgive me all, when the willows of Greenwood trail their boughs across my headstone. You have been faithful and uncomplaining; you have been to me a light, a joy, and a glory! God bless you, my pupil. In my vest-pocket is the key of my writing-desk. There you will find my will; take charge of it, and put it in Le Roy's hands as soon as possible. Give me some water."
She held the glass to his lips, and, as he sank back, a bright smile played over his face.
"Ah, child! it is such a comfort to have you here--you are so inexpressibly dear to me."
She took his thin hands in hers, and hot tears fell upon them. An intolerable weight crushed her heart, a half-defined, horrible dread, and she asked, falteringly-- "Are you willing to die? Is your soul at peace with God? Have you any fear of Eternity?"
"None, my child, none."
"Would you like to have Mr. Bailey come and pray for you?"
"I want no one now but you."
A long silence ensued, broken only by the heavily drawn breath of the sufferer. Two hours elapsed and there by the couch sat the motionless watcher, noting the indescribable but unmistakable change creeping on. The feeble, threadlike pulse fluttered irregularly, but the breathing became easy and low as a babe's, and occasionally a gentle sigh heaved the chest. She knew that the end was at hand, and a strained, frightened expression came into her large eyes as she glanced nervously round the room, and met the solemn, fascinating eyes of Munin the owl, staring at her from the low mantel. She caught her breath, and the deep silence was broken by the metallic tongue that dirged out "twelve." The last stroke of the bronze hammer echoed drearily; the old year lay stark and cold on its bier; Munin flapped his dusky wings with a long, sepulchral, blood-curdling hoot, and the dying man opened his dim, failing eyes, and fixed them for the last time on his pupil.
"Electra, my darling."
"My dear master, I am here."
She lifted his head to her bosom, nestled her fingers into his cold palm, and leaned her cheek against his brow. Pressing his face close to hers, the grey eyes closed, and a smile throned itself on the parted lips. A slight tremor shook the limbs, a soft shuddering breath swept across the watcher's face, and the "golden bowl" was shivered, the "silver cord" was loosed.
The vigil was over, the burden was lifted from her shoulders, the weary ministry here ended; and shrouding her face in her arms, the lonely woman wept bitterly.
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{
"id": "27811"
}
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15
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AT HOME AGAIN
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Four years had wrought material changes in the town of W----; new streets had been opened, new buildings erected, new forms trod the side-walks, new faces looked out of shop-windows, and flashing equipages, and new shafts of granite and marble stood in the cemetery to tell of many who had been gathered to their forefathers. If important revolutions had been effected in her early home, not less decided and apparent was the change which had taken place in the heiress of Huntingdon Hill; and having been eyed, questioned, scrutinized by the best families, and laid in the social scale, it was found a difficult matter to determine her weight as accurately as seemed desirable. In common parlance, "her education was finished,"--she was regularly and unmistakably "out." Having lost her aunt two years before her return, the duties of hostess devolved upon her, and she dispensed the hospitalities of her home with an easy, though stately elegance, surprising in one so inexperienced.
It chanced that Dr. Arnold was absent for some weeks after her arrival, and no sooner had he returned than he sought his quondam protégé. Entering unannounced, he paused suddenly as he caught sight of her standing before the fire, with Paragon at her feet. She lifted her head and came to meet him, holding out both hands, with a warm, bright smile.
"Oh, Dr. Arnold! I am so glad to see you once more. It was neither friendly nor hospitable to go off just as I came home, after long years of absence. I am very glad to see you."
He held her hands and gazed at her like one in a dream of mingled pain and pleasure, and when he spoke his voice was unsteady.
"You cannot possibly be as glad to see me as I am to have you back. But I can't realize that this is, indeed, you, my pet--the Irene I parted with rather more than four years ago. Oh, child! what a marvellous, what a glorious beauty you have grown to be!"
"Take care; you will spoil her, Arnold. Don't you know, you old cynic, that women can't stand such flattery as yours?" laughed Mr. Huntingdon.
"I am glad you like me, Doctor; I am glad you think I have improved; and since you think so, I am obliged to you for expressing your opinion of me so kindly. I wish I could return your compliments, but my conscience vetoes any such proceeding. You look jaded--overworked. What is the reason that you have grown so grey and haggard? We will enter into a compact to renew the old life; you shall treat me exactly as you used to do, and I shall come to you as formerly, and interrupt labours that seem too heavy. Sit down and talk to me. I want to hear your voice; it is pleasant to my ears, makes music in my heart, calls up the bygone. You have adopted a stick in my absence; I don't like the innovation; it hurts me to think that you need it. I must take care of you, I see, and persuade you to relinquish it entirely."
"Arnold, I verily believe she was more anxious to see you than everybody else in W---- except old Nellie, her nurse."
She did not contradict him, and the three sat conversing for more than an hour; then other visitors came in, and she withdrew to the parlour. The doctor had examined her closely all the while; had noted every word, action, expression; and a troubled, abstracted look came into his face when she left them.
"Huntingdon, what is it? What is it?"
"What is what? I don't understand you."
"What has so changed that child? I want to know what ails her?"
"Nothing, that I know of. You know that she was always rather singular."
"Yes, but it was a different sort of singularity. She is too still, and white, and cold, and stately. I told you it was a wretched piece of business to send a nature like hers, so different from everybody else's, off among utter strangers; to shut up that queer, free untamed thing in a boarding-school for four years, with hundreds of miles between her and the few things she loved. She required very peculiar and skilful treatment, and, instead, you put her off where she petrified! I knew it would never answer, and I told you so. You wanted to break her obstinacy, did you? She comes back marble. I tell you now I know her better than you do, though you are her father, and you may as well give up at once that chronic hallucination of 'ruling, conquering her.' She is like steel--cold, firm, brittle; she will break; snap asunder; but bend! --never! never! Huntingdon, I love that child; I have a right to love her; she has been very dear to me from her babyhood, and it would go hard with me to know that any sorrow darkened her life. Don't allow your old plans and views to influence you now. Let Irene be happy in her own way. Did you ever see a contented-looking eagle in a gilt cage? Did you ever know a leopardess kept in a paddock, and taught to forget her native jungles?"
Mr. Huntingdon moved uneasily, pondering the unpalatable advice.
"You certainly don't mean to say that she has inherited----?" He crushed back the words; could he crush the apprehension, too?
"I mean to say that, if she were my child, I would be guided by her, instead of striving to cut her character to fit the totally different pattern of my own."
He put on his hat, thrust his hands into his pockets, stood for some seconds frowning so heavily that the shaggy eyebrows met and partially concealed the cavernous eyes, then nodded to the master of the house, and sought his buggy. From that day Irene was conscious of a keener and more constant scrutiny on her father's part--a ceaseless _surveillance_, silent, but rigid--that soon grew intolerable. No matter how she employed her time, or whither she went, he seemed thoroughly cognizant of the details of her life; and where she least expected interruption or dictation, his hand, firm though gentle, pointed the way, and his voice calmly but inflexibly directed. Her affection had been in no degree alienated by their long separation, and, through its sway, she submitted for a time; but Huntingdon blood ill-brooked restraint, and, ere long, hers became feverish, necessitating release. As in all tyrannical natures, his exactions grew upon her compliance. She was allowed no margin for the exercise of judgment or inclination; her associates were selected, thrust upon her; her occupations decided without reference to her wishes. From the heartless, frivolous routine marked out, she shrank in disgust; and, painful as was the alternative, she prepared for the clash which soon became inevitable.
From verbal differences she habitually abstained; opinions which she knew to be disagreeable to him she carefully avoided giving expression to in his presence; and while always studiously thoughtful of his comfort, she preserved a respectful deportment, allowing herself no hasty or defiant words. Fond of pomp and ceremony, and imbued with certain aristocratic notions, which an ample fortune had always permitted him to indulge, Mr. Huntingdon entertained company in princely style, and whenever an opportunity offered. His dinners, suppers, and card-parties were known far and wide, and Huntingdon Hall became proverbial for hospitality throughout the State. Strangers were fêted, and it was a rare occurrence for father and daughter to dine quietly together. Fortunately for Irene, the servants were admirably trained; and though this round of company imposed a weight of responsibilities oppressive to one so inexperienced, she applied herself diligently to domestic economy, and soon became familiarized with its details. Her father had been very anxious to provide her with a skilful housekeeper, to relieve her of the care and tedious minutiæ of such matters; but she refused to accept one, avowing her belief that it was the imperative duty of every woman to superintend and inspect the management of her domestic affairs. Consequently, from the first week of her return, she made it a rule to spend an hour after breakfast in her dining-room pantry, determining and arranging the details of the day.
The situation of the house commanded an extensive and beautiful prospect, and the ancient trees that overshadowed it imparted a venerable and imposing aspect. The building was of brick, overcast to represent granite, and along three sides ran a wide gallery, supported by lofty circular pillars, crowned with unusually heavy capitals. The main body consisted of two stories, with a hall in the centre, and three rooms on either side; while two long single-storied wings stretched out right and left, one a billiard-room, the other a greenhouse.
A broad easy flight of white marble steps led up to the richly-carved front door, with its massive silver knocker bearing the name of Huntingdon in old-fashioned Italian characters; and in the arched niches, on either side of this door, stood two statues, brought from Europe by Mr. Huntingdon's father, and supposed to represent certain Roman penates.
The grounds in front, embracing several acres, were enclosed by a brick wall, and at the foot of the hill, at the entrance of the long avenue of elms, stood a tall, arched iron gate. A smoothly-shaven terrace of Bermuda grass ran round the house, and the broad carriage-way swept up to a mound opposite the door, surmounted by the bronze figure of a crouching dog. Such was Irene's home--stately and elegant--kept so thoroughly repaired that, in its cheerfulness, its age was forgotten.
The society of W---- was considered remarkably fine. There was quite an aggregation of wealth and refinement; gentlemen, whose plantations were situated in adjacent counties, resided here, with their families; some, who spent their winters on the seaboard, resorted here for the summer; its bar was said to possess more talent than any other in the State; its schools claimed to be unsurpassed; it boasted of a concert-hall, a lyceum, a handsome court-house, a commodious well-built jail, and half a dozen as fine churches as any country town could desire. I would fain avoid the term, if possible, but no synonym exists--W---- was, indisputably, an "aristocratic" place.
Thus, after more than four years' absence, the summers of which had been spent in travel among the beautiful mountain scenery of the North, the young heiress returned to the home of her childhood.
For several months after her return she patiently, hopefully, faithfully studied the dispositions of the members of various families with whom she foresaw that she would be thrown, by her father's wishes, into intimate relationship, and satisfied herself that, among all these, there was not one, save Dr. Arnold, whose counsel, assistance, or sympathy she felt any inclination to claim. In fine, W---- was not in any respect peculiar, or, as a community, specially afflicted with heartlessness, frivolity, brainlessness, or mammonism; the average was fair, reputable, in all respects. But, incontrovertibly, the girl who came to spend her life among these people was totally dissimilar in criteria of action, thought, and feeling. To the stereotyped conventional standard of fashionable life she had never yielded allegiance; and now stood a social free-thinker. For a season she allowed herself to be whirled on by the current of dinners, parties, and picnics; but soon her sedate, contemplative temperament revolted from the irksome round, and gradually she outlined and pursued a different course, giving to her gay companions just what courtesy required, no more.
Hugh had prolonged his stay in Europe beyond the period originally designated, and, instead of arriving in time to accompany his uncle and cousin home, he did not sail for some months after their return. At length, however, letters were received announcing his presence in New York, and fixing the day when his relatives might expect him.
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{
"id": "27811"
}
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16
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THE LOAN REPAID
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The carriage had been dispatched to the depôt, a servant stood at the end of the avenue waiting to throw open the gate, Mr. Huntingdon walked up and down the wide colonnade, and Irene sat before the fire in her own room, holding in one palm the flashing betrothal ring which she had been forced to wear since her return from New York. The few years of partial peace had passed; she knew that the hour drew near when the long-dreaded struggle must begin, and, hopeless of averting it, quietly waited for the storm to break. Dropping the ring in her jewellery-box, she turned the key, and just then her father's voice rang through the house.
"Irene! the carriage is coming up the avenue."
She went slowly downstairs, followed by Paragon, and joined her father at the door. His searching look discovered nothing in the serene face; the carriage stopped, and he hastened to meet his nephew.
"Come at last, eh! Welcome home, my dear boy."
The young man turned from his uncle, sprang up the steps, then paused, and the cousins looked at each other.
"Well, Hugh! I am very glad to see you once more."
She held out her hands, and he saw at a glance that her fingers were unfettered. Seizing them warmly, he bent forward; but she drew back coldly, and he exclaimed-- "Irene! I claim a warmer welcome."
She made a haughty, repellent gesture, and moved forward a few steps, to greet the stranger who accompanied him.
"My daughter, this is your uncle, Eric Mitchell, who has not seen you since you were a baby."
The party entered the house, and, seated beside him, Irene gazed with mingled emotions of pain and pleasure upon her mother's only brother. He was about thirty, but looked older from life-long suffering; had used crutches from the time he was five years of age, having been hopelessly crippled by a fall during his infancy. His features were sharp, his cheeks wore the sallow hue of habitual ill-health, and his fine grey eyes were somewhat sunken. Resting his crutches against the sofa, he leaned back, and looked long and earnestly at his niece. Very dimly he remembered a fair, flaxen-haired baby whom the nurse had held out to be kissed when he was sent to Philadelphia to be treated for his lameness; soon after he heard of his sister's death, and then his tutor took him to Europe, to command the best medical advice of the old world.
"From the faint recollection which I have of your mother, I think you strongly resemble her," he said at last in a fond, gentle tone.
"I don't know about that, Eric. She is far more of a Huntingdon than a Mitchell. She has many of the traits of your family, but in appearance she certainly belongs to my side of the house. She very often reminds me of Hugh's mother."
Conversation turned upon the misfortune of the cripple; he spoke freely of the unsuccessful experiments made by eminent physicians, of the hopelessness of his case; and Irene was particularly impressed by the calmness and patience with which he seemed to have resigned himself to this great affliction. She felt irresistibly drawn toward him, careless of passing hours and of Hugh's ill-concealed impatience of manner. As they rose from the tea-table her cousin said laughingly-- "I protest against monopoly. I have not been able to say three words to my lady-cousin."
"I yield the floor from necessity. My long journey has unfitted me for this evening, and I must bid you all an early good night."
"Can I do anything for you, uncle?"
"No, thank you, Irene; I have a servant who thoroughly understands taking care of me. Go talk to Hugh, who has been wishing me among the antipodes."
He shook hands with her, smiled kindly, and Mr. Huntingdon assisted him to his room.
"Irene, come into the library and let me have a cigar."
"How tenacious your bad habits are, Hugh."
"Smoking belongs to no such category. My habits are certainly quite as tenacious as my cousin's antipathies."
He selected a cigar, lighted it, and drawing a chair near hers, threw himself into it with an expression of great satisfaction. "It is delightful to get back home, and see you again, Irene. I felt some regret at quitting Paris, but the sight of your face more than compensates me."
She was looking very earnestly at him, noting the alteration in his appearance, and for a moment his eyes drooped before hers. She saw that the years had been spent, not in study, but in a giddy round of pleasure and dissipation; yet the bright, frank, genial expression of boyhood still lingered, and she could not deny that he had grown up a very handsome man.
"Irene, I had a right to expect a warmer welcome than you deigned to give me."
"Hugh, remember that we have ceased to be children. When you learn to regard me simply as your cousin, and are satisfied with a cousin's welcome, then, and not until then, shall you receive it. Let childish whims pass with the years that have separated us; rake up no germs of contention to mar this first evening of your return. Be reasonable, and now tell me how you have employed yourself since we parted; what have you seen? what have you gleaned?"
Insensibly he found himself drawn into a narration of his course of life. She listened with apparent interest, making occasional good-humoured comments, and bringing him back to the subject whenever he attempted a detour toward the topic so extremely distasteful to her.
The clock struck eleven; she rose and said-- "I beg your pardon, Hugh, for keeping you up so late. I ought to have known that you were fatigued by railroad travel, and required sleep. You know the way to your room; it is the same you occupied before you went to college. Good night; I hope you will rest well."
She held out her hand carelessly; he took it eagerly, and holding it up to the light said, in a disappointed tone-- "Irene, where is my ring? Why are you not wearing it?"
"It is in my jewellery-box. As I gave you my reasons for not wearing it, when you offered it to me, it is not necessary to repeat them now. Good night, Hugh; go dream of something more agreeable than our old childish quarrels." She withdrew her fingers and left him.
A week passed, varied by few incidents of interest; the new-comers became thoroughly domesticated--the old routine was re-established. Hugh seemed gay and careless--hunting, visiting, renewing boyish acquaintances, and whiling away the time as inclination prompted. He had had a long conversation with his uncle, and the result was that, for the present, no allusion was made to the future. In Irene's presence the subject was temporarily tabooed. She knew that the project was not relinquished, was only veiled till a convenient season, and, giving to the momentary lull its full value, she acquiesced, finding in Eric's society enjoyment and resources altogether unexpected. Instinctively they seemed to comprehend each other's character, and while both were taciturn and undemonstrative, a warm affection sprang up between them.
On Sunday morning, as the family group sat around the breakfast-table waiting for Hugh, who lingered, as usual, over his second cup of chocolate, Mr. Mitchell suddenly laid down the fork with which he had been describing a series of geometrical figures on the fine damask, and said, "I met a young man in Brussels who interested me extremely, and in connexion with whom I venture the prediction that, if he lives, he will occupy a conspicuous position in the affairs of his country. He is, or was, secretary of Mr. Campbell, our minister to ----, and they were both on a visit to Brussels when I met them. His name is Aubrey, and he told me that he lived here. His talents are of the first order; his ambition unbounded, I should judge; and his patient, laborious application certainly surpasses anything I have ever seen. It happened that a friend of mine, from London, was prosecuting certain researches among the MS. archives at Brussels, and here, immersed in study, he says he found the secretary, who completely distanced him in his investigations, and then, with unexpected generosity, placed his notes at my friend's disposal. His industry is almost incredible. Conversing with Campbell concerning him, I learned that he was a protégé of the minister, who spoke of his future in singularly sanguine terms. He left him some time since to embark in the practice of law. Do you know him, Huntingdon?"
"No, sir! but I know that his father was sentenced to the gallows, and only saved himself from it by cutting his miserable throat, and cheating the law."
The master of the house thrust back his chair violently, crushing one of Paragon's innocent paws as he crouched on the carpet, and overturning a glass which shivered into a dozen fragments at his feet.
Looking at his watch, he said, as if wishing to cut the conversation short: "Irene, if you intend to go to church to-day, it is time that you had your bonnet on. Hugh, what will you do with yourself? Go with Eric and your cousin!"
"No, I rather think I shall stay at home with you. After European cathedrals, our American churches seem excessively plain." Irene went to her room, pondering the conversation. She thought it remarkable that, as long as she had been at home, she had never seen Russell, even on the street.
Unlocking her writing-desk, she took out a tiny note which had accompanied a check for two hundred dollars, and had reached her a few months before she left boarding school. The firm, round, manly hand ran as follows-- "With gratitude beyond all expression for the favour conferred on my mother and myself, some years since, I now return to Miss Huntingdon the money which I have ever regarded as a friendly loan. Hoping that the future will afford me some opportunity of proving my appreciation of her great kindness, "I remain, most respectfully, "Her obliged friend, "RUSSELL AUBREY.
"NEW YORK, _September 5th. _" She was conscious of a feeling of regret that the money had been returned; it was pleasant to reflect on the fact that she had laid him under obligation; now it all seemed cancelled. She relocked the desk, and, drawing on her gloves, joined her uncle at the carriage. Arriving at church later than was her wont, she found the family pew occupied by strangers, and crossed the aisle to share a friend's, but at that instant a tall form rose in Mr. Campbell's long-vacant pew, stepped into the aisle, and held open the door. She drew back to suffer her uncle to limp in and lay aside his crutches, saw him give his hand to the stranger, and, sweeping her veil aside as she entered, she saw Russell quietly resume his seat at the end of the pew.
Startled beyond measure, she looked at him intently, and almost wondered that she recognized him, he had changed so materially since the day on which she stood with him before his mother's gate. Meantime the service commenced, she gave her hymn-book to her uncle, and at the same moment Russell found the place, and handed her one of two which lay near him. As she received it their eyes met, and she held out her hand. He took it, she felt, his fingers tremble as they dropped hers, and then both faces bent over the books. When they knelt side by side, and the heavy folds of her elegant dress swept against him, it seemed a feverish dream to her; she could not realize that, at last, they had met again, and her heart beat so fiercely that she pressed her hand upon it, dreading lest he should hear its loud pulsations.
The discourse was ended, the diapason of the organ swelled through the lofty church, priestly hands hovered like white doves over the congregation, dismissing all with blessing. Once more Irene swept back the rich lace veil, fully exposing her face; once more her eyes looked into those of the man who politely held the pew door open; both bowed with stately grace, and she walked down the aisle. She heard Russell talking to her uncle just behind her, heard the inquiries concerning his health, the expression of pleasure at meeting again, the hope which Eric uttered that he should see him frequently during his stay in W----. Without even a glance over her shoulder, she proceeded to the carriage, where her uncle soon joined her.
She met his searching gaze calmly, and as they now neared the house he forbore any further allusion to the subject which he shrewdly suspected engaged her thoughts quite as fully as his own.
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{
"id": "27811"
}
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17
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IRENE MEETS RUSSELL
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"Surely, Uncle Eric, there is room enough in this large, airy house of ours to accommodate my mother's brother! I thought it was fully settled that you were to reside with us. There is no good reason why you should not. Obviously, we have a better claim upon you than anybody else; why doom yourself to the loneliness of a separate household? Reconsider the matter."
"Irene, I want a house of my own, to which I can feel privileged to invite such guests, such companions as I deem congenial, irrespective of the fiats of would-be social autocrats, and the social ostracism of certain cliques."
She was silent a moment, but met his keen look without the slightest embarrassment, and yet when she spoke he knew, from her eyes and voice, that she fully comprehended his meaning.
"Of course, it is a matter which you must determine for yourself. You are the best judge of what conduces to your happiness; but I am sorry, very sorry, Uncle Eric, that, in order to promote it, you feel it necessary to remove from our domestic circle. I shall miss you painfully."
He looked pained, puzzled, and irresolute; but she smiled, and swept her fingers over the bars of her bird-cage, toying with its golden-throated inmate.
"Have you any engagement for this morning?"
"None, sir. What can I do for you?"
"If you feel disposed, I shall be glad to have you accompany me to town; I want your assistance in selecting a set of china for my new home. Will you go?"
A shadow drifted over the colourless tranquil face, as she said sadly-- "Uncle Eric, is it utterly useless for me to attempt to persuade you to relinquish this project, and remain with us?"
"Utterly useless, my dear child."
"I will get my bonnet, and join you at the carriage."
Very near the cottage formerly occupied by Mrs. Aubrey stood a small brick house, partially concealed by poplar and sycamore trees, and surrounded by a neat, well-arranged flower-garden. This was the place selected and purchased by the cripple for his future home. Mr. Huntingdon had opposed the whole proceeding, and invited his brother-in-law to reside with him; but beneath the cordial surface the guest felt that other sentiments rolled deep and strong. He had little in common with his sister's husband, and only a warm and increasing affection for his niece now induced him to settle in W----. Some necessary repairs had been made, some requisite arrangements completed regarding servants, and to-day the finishing touches were given to the snug little bachelor establishment. When it was apparent that no arguments would avail to alter the decision, Irene ceased to speak of it, and busied herself in various undertakings to promote her uncle's comfort. She made pretty white curtains for his library windows, knitted bright-coloured worsted lamp-mats, and hemmed and marked the contents of the linen-closet. The dining-room pantry she took under her special charge, and at the expiration of ten days, when the master took formal possession, she accompanied him, and enjoyed the pleased surprise with which he received her donation of cakes, preserves, ketchups, pickles, etc., etc., neatly stowed away on the spotless shelves.
"What do those large square boxes in the hall contain?"
"Books which I gathered in Europe and selected in New York; among them many rare old volumes, which you have never seen. Come down next Monday, and help me to number and shelve them; afterward, we will read them together. Lay aside your bonnet, and spend the evening with me."
"No, I must go back; Hugh sent me word that he would bring company to tea."
He took her hand, and drew her close to his chair, saying gently-- "Ah, Irene! I wish I could keep you always. You would be happier here, in this little unpretending home of mine, than presiding as mistress over that great palatial house on the hill yonder."
He kissed her fingers tenderly, and, taking her basket she left him alone in his new home.
A few weeks passed without incident; Hugh went to New Orleans to visit friends, and Mr. Huntingdon was frequently absent at the plantation.
One day he expressed the desire that Judge Harris's family should dine with him, and added several gentlemen, "to make the party merry." Irene promptly issued the invitations, suppressing the reluctance which filled her heart; for the young people were not favourites, and she dreaded Charlie's set speeches and admiring glances, not less than his mother's endless disquisitions on fashion and the pedigree of all the best families of W---- and its vicinage. Grace had grown up very pretty, highly accomplished, even-tempered, gentle-hearted, but full of her mother's fashionable notions, and, withal, rather weak and frivolous. She and Irene were constantly thrown into each other's society, but no warmth of feeling existed on either side. Grace could not comprehend her companion's character, and Irene wearied of her gay, heedless chit-chat. As the latter anticipated, the day proved very tiresome; the usual complement of music was contributed by Grace, the expected quantity of flattering nothings gracefully uttered by her brother, the customary amount of execrable puns handed around the circle for patronage and Irene gave the signal for dinner. Mr. Huntingdon prided himself on his fine wines, and, after the decanters had circulated freely, the gentlemen grew garrulous as market-women.
Irene was gravely discussing the tariff question with Mr. Herbert Blackwell (whom Mrs. Harris pronounced the most promising young lawyer of her acquaintance), and politely listening to his stereotyped reasoning, when a scrap of conversation at the opposite end of the table, attracted her attention.
"Huntingdon, my dear fellow, I tell you I never made a mistake in my life, when reading people's minds; and if Aubrey has not the finest legal intellect in W----, I will throw up my judgeship. You have seen Campbell, I suppose? He returned last week, and, by the way, I half-expected to meet him to-day; well, I was talking to him about Aubrey, and he laughed his droll, chuckling laugh, snapped his bony fingers in my face; and said-- "'Aye! aye, Harris, let him alone; hands off! and I will wager my new office against your old one that he steps into your honour's shoes.' Now you know perfectly well that Campbell has no more enthusiasm than a brick wall, or a roll of red tape; but he is as proud of the young man as if he were his son. Do you know that he has taken him into partnership?"
"Pshaw! he will never commit such a _faux pas_."
"But he has; I read the notice in this morning's paper. Pass the Madeira. The fact is, we must not allow our old prejudices to make us unjust. I know Aubrey has struggled hard; he had much to contend----" With head slightly inclined, and eyes fixed on Mr. Blackwell's face, Irene had heard all that passed, and as the gentleman paused in his harangue to drain his glass, she rose and led the way to the parlours. The gentlemen adjourned to the smoking-room, and in a short time Mrs. Harris ordered her carriage, pleading an engagement with Grace's mantua-maker as an excuse for leaving so early. With a feeling of infinite relief the hostess accompanied them to the door, saw the carriage descend the avenue, and, desiring one of the servants to have Erebus saddled at once, she went to her room and changed the rich dinner-dress for her riding-habit. As she sprang into the saddle, and gathered up the reins, her father called from the open window, whence issued curling wreaths of blue smoke-- "Where now, Irene?"
"I am going to ride; it threatened rain this morning, and I was afraid to venture."
He said something, but without hearing she rode off, and was soon out of sight, leaving the town to the left, and taking the rocky road leading up the hill-side to the cemetery gate. Dismounting she fastened the reins to one of the iron spikes, and, gathering the folds of her habit over her arm, carried her flowers to the family burying-ground. It was a large square lot, enclosed by a handsome railing and tall gate, bearing the name of "Huntingdon" in silver letters. As she approached, she was surprised to find a low brick wall and beautiful new marble monument close to her father's lot, and occupying a space which had been filled with grass and weeds a few weeks previous.
As she passed the new lot the gate swung open, and Russell stood before her.
"Good evening, Miss Huntingdon."
"Good evening, Mr. Aubrey."
The name sounded strange and harsh as she uttered it, and involuntarily she paused and held out her hand. He accepted it; for an instant the cold fingers lay in his warm palm, and as she withdrew them he said, in the rich mellow voice which she had heard in the church-- "Allow me to show you my mother's monument."
He held the gate open, and she entered and stood at his side. The monument was beautiful in its severe simplicity--a pure faultless shaft, crowned with a delicately chiselled wreath of poppy leaves, and bearing these words in gilt letters: "Sacred to the memory of my mother, Amy Aubrey." Just below, in black characters, "_Resurgam_"; and underneath the whole, on a finely fluted scroll, the inscription of St. Gilgen. After a silence of some moments Russell pointed to the singular and solemn words, and said, as if speaking rather to himself than to her-- "I want to say always, with Paul Flemming, 'I will be strong,' and therefore I placed here the inscription which proved an evangel to him, that when I come to my mother's grave I may be strengthened, not melted, by the thronging of bitter memories."
She looked up as he spoke, and the melancholy splendour of the deep eyes stirred her heart as nothing had ever done before.
"I have a few flowers left; let me lay them as an affectionate tribute, an '_in memoriam_' on your mother's tomb--for the olden time, the cottage days, are as fresh in my recollection as in yours."
She held out a woodland bouquet which she had previously gathered; he took it, and strewed the blossoms along the broad base of the shaft, reserving only a small cluster of the rosy china cups. Both were silent; but as she turned to go, a sudden gust blew her hat from her head, the loosened comb fell upon the grass, and down came the heavy masses of hair. She twisted them hastily into a coil, fastened them securely, and received her hat from him, with a cool-- "Thank you, sir. When did you hear from Electra?"
They walked on to the cemetery gate, and he answered-- "I have heard nothing for some weeks. Have you any message? I am going to New York in a few days to try to persuade her to return to W---- with me."
"I doubt the success of your mission; W---- has little to tempt an artist like your cousin. Be kind enough to tender her my love, and best wishes for the realization of her artistic dreams."
They had reached the gate where Erebus waited, when Russell took off his hat.
"You have a long walk to town," said Irene, as Russell arranged her horse's reins.
"I shall not find it long. It is a fine piece of road, and the stars will be up to light it."
He held out his hand to assist her; she sprang easily to the saddle, then leaned toward him, every statue-like curve and moulding of her proud ivory face stamping themselves on his recollection as she spoke.
"Be so good as to hand me my glove; I dropped it at your feet as I mounted. Thank you. Good evening, Mr. Aubrey; take my best wishes on your journey and its mission."
"Good-bye, Miss Huntingdon." He raised his hat, and, as she wheeled off, the magnetic handsome face followed, haunted her. Erebus was impatient, out of humour, and flew up the next steep hill as if he, too, were haunted.
On through gathering gloom dashed horse and rider, over the little gurgling stream, through the gate, up the dark, rayless avenue to the doorstep. The billiard-room was a blaze of light, and the cheerful sound of mingled voices came out at the open window, to tell that the gentlemen had not yet finished their game. Pausing in the hall, Irene listened an instant to distinguish the voices, then ascended the long easy staircase. The lamp threw a mellow radiance on the steps, and as she reached the landing Hugh caught her in his arms, and kissed her warmly. Startled by his unexpected appearance, she recoiled a step or two and asked, rather haughtily-- "When did you get home?"
"Only a few moments after you left the house. Do change your dress quickly, and come down. I have a thousand things to say."
She waited to hear no more, but disengaged herself and went to her room.
When she went down she met her father at the dining room door.
"Come, Queen; we are waiting for you."
He looked at her fondly, took her hand, and drew her to the table; and, in after years, she recalled this occasion with mournful pleasure as the last on which he had ever given her his pet name.
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{
"id": "27811"
}
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18
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A REFUSAL
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"Come out on the colonnade; the air is delicious." As he spoke, Hugh drew his cousin's arm through his, and led the way from the tea-table.
"Irene, how long do you intend to keep me in painful suspense?"
"I am not aware that I have in any degree kept you in suspense."
"You shall not evade me; I have been patient, and the time has come when we must talk of our future. Irene, dearest, be generous, and tell me when will you give me, irrevocably, this hand which has been promised to me from your infancy?"
He took the hand and carried it to his lips, but she forcibly withdrew it, and, disengaging her arm, said emphatically-- "Never, Hugh. Never."
"How can you trifle with me, Irene? If you could realize how impatient I am for the happy day when I shall call you my wife, you would be serious, and fix an early period for our marriage."
"Hugh, why will you affect to misconceive my meaning? I am serious; I have pondered, long and well, a matter involving your life-long happiness and mine, and I tell you, most solemnly, that I will never be your wife."
"Oh, Irene! your promise! your sacred promise!"
"I never gave it! On the contrary, I have never failed to show you that my whole nature rebelled against the most unnatural relation forced upon me."
"My dear Irene, have you, then, no love for me? I have hoped and believed that you hid your love behind your cold mask of proud silence. You must, you do love me, my beautiful cousin!"
"You do not believe your own words; you are obliged to know better. I love you as my cousin, love you somewhat as I love Uncle Eric, love you as the sole young relative left to me, as the only companion of my lonely childhood; but other love than this I never had, never can have for you. Hugh, my cousin, look fearlessly at the unvarnished truth; neither you nor I have one spark of that affection which alone can sanction marriage."
"Indeed, you wrong me, my worshipped cousin. You are dearer to me than anything else on earth. I have loved you, and you only, from my boyhood; you have been a lovely idol from earliest recollection."
"You are mistaken, most entirely mistaken; I am not to be deceived, neither can you hoodwink yourself. You like me, you love me, in the same quiet way that I love you; you admire me, perhaps, more than anyone you chance to know just now; you are partial to my beauty, and, from long habit, have come to regard me as your property, much in the same light as that in which you look upon your costly diamond buttons, or your high-spirited horses, or rare imported pointers. Hugh, I abhor sham! and I tell you now that I never will be a party to that which others have arranged without my consent."
"Ah! I see how matters stand. Having disposed of your heart, and lavished your love elsewhere, you shrink from fulfilling the sacred obligations that make you mine. I little dreamed that you were so susceptible, else I had not left you feeling so secure. My uncle has not proved the faithful guardian I believed him when I entrusted my treasure, my affianced bride to his care."
Bitter disappointment flashed in his face and quivered in his voice, rendering him reckless of consequences. But though he gazed fiercely at her as he uttered the taunt, it produced not the faintest visible effect.
"Confess who stands between your heart and mine. I have a right to ask; I will know."
"You forget yourself, my cousin. Your right is obviously a debatable question; we will waive it, if you please. I have told you already, and now I repeat it for the last time, I will not go with you to the altar, because neither of us has proper affection for the other to warrant such a union; because it would be an infamous pecuniary contract, revolting to every true soul. Hugh, cherish no animosity against me; I merit none. Because we cannot be more, shall we be less than friends?"
She turned to leave him, but he caught her dress, and exclaimed, with more tenderness than he had ever manifested before-- "Oh, Irene! do not reject me utterly! I cannot relinquish you. Give me one more year to prove my love--to win yours. If your proud heart is still your own, may I not hope to obtain it by----" "No, Hugh! no. As well hope to inspire affection in yonder mute marble guardians. Forgive me if I pain you, but I must be candid at every hazard." She pointed to the statues near the door, and went through the greenhouse to the library, thence to the observatory, expecting, ere long, to be joined by her father. Gradually the house became quiet, and, oppressed with the painful sense of coming trouble, she sought her own room just as the clock struck twelve. Pausing to count the strokes, she saw a light gleaming through the keyhole of her father's door, opposite her own, and heard the sound of low but earnest conversation mingled with the restless tramp of pacing feet. She was powerfully tempted to cross the passage, knock, and have the ordeal ended then and there; but second thought whispered, "To-morrow will soon be here; be patient." She entered her room, and, wearied by the events of the day, fell asleep, dreaming of the new lot in the cemetery, and the lonely, joyless man who haunted it.
As she adjusted her riding-habit the following morning, and suffered Andrew to arrange her stirrup, the latter said good-humouredly-- "So, Mas' Hugh got the start of you? It isn't often he beats you."
"What do you mean?"
"He started a while ago, and, if he drives as he generally does, he will get to his plantation in time for dinner."
"Did father go, too?"
"No, ma'am; only Mas' Hugh in his own buggy."
Returning from her ride, she stood a moment on the front step, looking down the avenue. The Bermuda terrace blazed in the sunlight like a jewelled coronal, the billowy sea of foliage, crested by dewy drops, flashed and dripped as the soft air stirred the ancient trees, the hedges were all alive with birds and butterflies, the rich aroma of brilliant and countless flowers, the graceful curl of smoke wreathing up from the valley beyond, the measured musical tinkle of bells as the cows slowly descended the distant hills, and, over all, like God's mantling mercy, a summer sky.
Involuntarily she stretched out her arms to the bending heavens and her lips moved, but no sound escaped to tell what petition went forth to the All-Father. She went to her room, changed her dress, and joined her father at the breakfast-table. Half-concealed behind his paper, he took no notice of her quiet "good morning," seeming absorbed in an editorial. The silent meal ended, he said, as they left the table-- "I want to see you in the library."
She followed him without comment; he locked the door, threw open the blinds, and drew two chairs to the window, seating himself immediately in front of her. For a moment he eyed her earnestly, as if measuring her strength; and she saw the peculiar sparkle in his falcon eye, which, like the first lurid flash in a darkened sky, betokened tempests.
"Irene, I was very much astonished to learn the result of an interview between Hugh and yourself; I can scarcely believe that you were in earnest, and feel disposed to attribute your foolish words to some trifling motive of girlish coquetry or momentary pique. You have long been perfectly well aware that you and your cousin were destined for each other; that I solemnly promised the marriage should take place as soon as you were of age; that all my plans and hopes for you centred in this one engagement. I have not pressed the matter on your attention of late, because I knew you had sense enough to appreciate your position, and because I believed you would be guided by my wishes in this important affair. You are no longer a child; I treat you as a reasonable woman, and now I tell you candidly it is the one wish of my heart to see you Hugh's wife."
"Father, my happiness will not be promoted by this marriage, and if you are actuated solely by this motive, allow me to remain just as I am. I should be most miserable as Hugh's wife; most utterly miserable."
"Why so?"
"Father, my own feelings stand an everlasting barrier to our union. I do not love Hugh, and--I must tell you, sir, that I think it wrong for cousins to marry."
"You talk like a silly child; I thought you had more sense. Your objections I have listened to; they are imaginary and trifling; and I ask you, as a father has a right to ask his child, to waive these ridiculous notions, and grant the only request I have ever made of you. Tell me, my daughter, that you will consent to accept your cousin, and thereby make me happy."
He stooped and kissed her forehead, watching her countenance eagerly.
"Oh, father! do not ask this of me! Anything else! anything else."
"Answer me, my darling child; give me your promise."
His hold was painful, and an angry pant mingled with the pleading tones. She raised her head and said slowly-- "My father, I cannot."
He threw her hand from him, and sprang up.
"Ingrate! do you mean to say that you will not fulfil a sacred engagement? --that you will break an oath given to the dead."
"I do not hold myself bound by the oaths of another, though he were twice my father. I am responsible for no acts but my own. I, only, can give myself away. Why should you wish to force this marriage on me? Father, do you think that a woman has no voice in a matter involving her happiness for life?"
"Oh! I suspected that your cursed obstinacy would meet me here, as well as elsewhere in your life. You have been a source of trouble and sorrow from your birth; but the time has come to end all this. You know that I never menace idly, and if you refuse to hear reason, I will utterly disinherit you, though you are my only child. Ponder it well. You have been raised in luxury, and taught to believe yourself one of the wealthiest heiresses in the state; contrast your present position, your elegant home, your fastidious tastes gratified to the utmost; contrast all this, I say, with poverty--imagine yourself left in the world without one cent! Think of it! think of it! My wealth is my own, mark you, and I will give it to whom I please, irrespective of all claims of custom. Now the alternative is fully before you, and on your own head be the consequences. Will you accede to my wishes, as any dutiful child should, or will you deliberately incur my everlasting displeasure? Will you marry Hugh?"
"Father, I will not marry Hugh, so help me, God!" .
Silence fell between them for several moments; something in that fixed, calm face of his child awed him, but it was temporary and, with a bitter laugh, he exclaimed-- "Oh, very well! Your poverty be upon your own head in coming years, when the grave closes over me. At my death every cent of my property passes to Hugh, and with it my name, and between you and me, as an impassable gulf, lies my everlasting displeasure. Understand that, though we live here in one house, as father and child, I do not, and will not, forgive you. You have defied me; now eat the bitter fruit of your disobedience."
"I have no desire to question the disposition of your wealth; if you prefer to give it to my cousin, I am willing, perfectly willing. I enjoy wealth as well as most people do, I suppose; but poverty does not frighten me half so much as a loveless marriage. Give Hugh your fortune, if you wish, but, father! father! let there be no estrangement between you and me. I can bear everything but your displeasure; I dread nothing so much as the loss of your love. Oh, father! forgive a disappointment which my conscience would not permit me to avert. Forgive the pain which, God knows, I would not have caused you if I could have avoided it without compromising principle. Oh, my father! my father! let not dollars and cents stand between you and your only child. I ask nothing now but your love."
She drew nearer, but he waved her off, and said with a sneering laugh-- "Away with all such cant! I gave you the choice, and you made your selection with your eyes fully open. Accept poverty as your doom, and with it my eternal displeasure. I intend to make you suffer for your obstinacy. You shall find, to your sorrow, that I am not to be trifled with, or my name is not Leonard Huntingdon. Now go your own way, and find what a thorny path you have made for yourself."
He pointed to the door as he had done years before, when the boarding-school decree went forth, and without remonstrance she left him, and sat down on the steps of the greenhouse. Soon after, the sound of his buggy wheels told her that he had gone to town, and, leaning her cheek on her hand, she recalled the painful conversation from first to last. That he meant all he had threatened, and more, she did not question for an instant, and, thinking of her future, she felt sick at heart. But with the shame and sorrow came also a thrill of joy; she had burst the fetters: she was free. Wounded affection bled freely, but brain and conscience exulted in the result.
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{
"id": "27811"
}
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19
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RUSSELL VISITS ELECTRA
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The patient work of twelve months drew to a close; the study of years bore its first fruit; the last delicate yet quivering touch was given; Electra threw down palette and brush, and, stepping back, surveyed the canvas. The Exhibition would open within two days, and this was to be her contribution. A sad-eyed Cassandra, with pallid, prescient, woe-struck features--an over-mastering face, wherein the flickering light of divination struggled feebly with the human horror of the To-Come, whose hideous mysteries were known only to the royal prophetess. In mute and stern despair it looked out from the canvas, a curious anomalous thing--cut adrift from human help, bereft of aid from heaven--yet, in its doomed isolation, scorning to ask the sympathy which its extraordinary loveliness extorted from all who saw it. The artist's pride in this, her first finished creation, might well be pardoned, for she was fully conscious that the cloud-region of a painful novitiate lay far beneath her; that henceforth she would never miss the pressure of long-coveted chaplets from her brow; that she should bask in the warm, fructifying rays of public favour; and measureless exultation flashed in her beautiful eyes.
The door opened, and Russell came into the studio. She was not expecting him; his sudden appearance gave her no time to adjust the chilling mask of pride, and all her uncontrolled affection found eloquent language in the joyful face.
"Russell! my own dear Russell!"
He drew his arm around her and kissed her flushed cheek, and each looked at the other, wondering at the changes which years had wrought.
"Electra, you have certainly improved more than anyone I ever knew. You look the impersonation of perfect health; it is needless to ask how you are." And again his lips touched the beaming face pressed against his shoulder. Her arms stole tremblingly around his neck, past indifference was forgotten in the joy of his presence.
"Sit down, and let me look at you. You have grown so tall and commanding that I am half afraid of my own cousin. You are less like Aunt Amy than formerly."
"Allow me to look at your painting first, for it will soon be too dark to examine it. This is the Cassandra of which you wrote me."
He stood before it for some moments in silence, and she watched him with breathless eagerness--for his opinion was of more value to her than that of all the _dilettanti_ and _connoisseurs_ who would soon inspect it. Gradually his dark cold face kindled, and she had her reward.
"It is a masterly creation; a thing of wonderful and imperishable beauty; it is a great success--as such the world will receive it--and hundreds will proclaim your triumph. I am proud of it, and doubly proud of you."
He held out his hand, and, as she put her fingers in his, her head drooped, and hot tears blinded her. Praise from the lips she loved best stirred her womanly heart as the applause of the public could never do.
"Come, sit down, Electra, and tell me something of your life, since the death of your friend, Mr. Clifton."
"Did you receive my last letter, giving an account of Mrs. Clifton's death?"
"Yes; just as I stepped upon the platform of the cars it was handed to me. I had heard nothing from you for so long, that I thought it was time to look after you."
"You had started, then, before you knew that I was going to Europe?"
"Yes."
He could not understand the instantaneous change which came over her countenance--the illumination, followed as suddenly by a smile, half compassionate, half bitter. She pressed one hand to her heart, and said-- "Mrs. Clifton never seemed to realize her son's death, though, after paralysis took place, and she became speechless, I thought she recovered her memory in some degree. She survived him just four months, and, doubtless, was saved much grief by her unconsciousness of what had occurred. Poor old lady! she suffered little for a year past, and died, I hope, without pain. I have the consolation of knowing that I did all that could be done to promote her comfort. Russell, I would not live here for any consideration; nothing but a sense of duty has detained me this long. I promised him that I would not forsake his mother. But you can have no adequate conception of the feeling of desolation which comes over me when I sit here during the long evenings. He seems watching me from picture-frames and pedestals; his face, his pleading, patient, wan face, haunts me perpetually. And yet I tried to make him happy; God knows I did my duty."
She sprang up and paced the room for some moments, with her hands behind her, and tears glittering on her cheeks. Pausing at last on the rug, she pointed to a large square object, closely shrouded and added-- "Yonder stands his last picture, unfinished. The day he died he put a few feeble strokes upon it, and bequeathed the completion of the task to me. For several years he worked occasionally on it, but much remains to be done. It is the 'Death of Socrates.' I have not even looked at it since that night; I do not intend to touch it until after I visit Italy; I doubt whether my hand will ever be steady enough to give the last strokes. Oh, Russell! the olden time, the cottage days, seem far, far off to me now!"
Leaning against the mantelpiece, she dropped her head on her hand, but when he approached and stood at the opposite corner, he saw that the tears had dried.
"Neither of us has had a sunny life, Electra; both have had numerous obstacles to contend with; both have very bitter memories. Originally there was a certain parallelism in our characters, but with our growth grew the divergence. You have preserved the nobler part of your nature better than I; for my years I am far older than you; none of the brightness of my boyhood seems to linger about me. Contact with the world is an indurating process; I really did not know how hard I had grown, until I felt my heart soften at sight of you. I need you to keep the kindly charities and gentle amenities of life before me, and, therefore, I have come for you. But for my poverty I never would have given you up so long; I felt that it would be for your advantage, in more than one respect to remain with Mr. Clifton until I had acquired my profession. I knew that you would enjoy privileges here which I could not give you in my straitened circumstances. Things have changed; Mr. Campbell has admitted me to partnership; my success I consider an established fact. Give up, for a season, this projected tour of Europe; wait till I can go with you--till I can take you; go back to W---- with me. You can continue your art studies, if you wish it; you can prosecute them there as well as here. You are ambitious, Electra; so am I; let us work together."
She raised her head and looked up at the powerful, nobly-proportioned form, the grand, kingly face, calm and colourless, the large, searching black eyes, within whose baffling depths lay all the mysteries of mesmerism, and a spasm of pain seized her own features. She shaded her brow, and answered-- "No, Russell; I could not entertain that thought an instant."
"Are you too proud to accept a home from me?"
"Not too proud, exactly; but, as long as I have health, I mean to make a support. I will not burden you."
"Full value received for benefit rendered is not charity; come to W----, share my future, and what fortune I may find assigned me. I have bought the cottage, and intend to build a handsome house there some day, where you and Mr. Campbell and I can live peacefully. You shall twine your æsthetic fancies all about it, to make it picturesque enough to suit your fastidious artistic taste. Come and save me from what you consider my worse than vandalian proclivities. I came here simply and solely in the hope of prevailing on you to return with me. I make this request, not because I think it will be expected of me, but for more selfish reasons--because it is a matter resting very near my heart."
"Oh, Russell! you tempt me."
"I wish to do so. My blood beats in your veins; you are the only relative I value, and were you indeed my sister, I should scarcely love you more. With all a brother's interest, why should I not claim a brother's right to keep you with me, at least until you find your Pylades, and give him a higher claim before God and man? Electra, were I your brother, you would require no persuasion; why hesitate now?"
She clasped her hands behind her, as if for support in some fiery ordeal, and, gathering up her strength, spoke rapidly, like one who fears that resolution will fail before some necessary sentence is pronounced.
"You are very kind and generous, Russell, and for all that you have offered me I thank you from the depth of a full heart. The consciousness of your continued interest and affection is inexpressibly precious; but my disposition is too much like your own to suffer me to sit down in idleness, while there is so much to be done in the world. I, too, want to earn a noble reputation, which will survive long after I have been gathered to my fathers; I want to accomplish some work, looking upon which, my fellow-creatures will proclaim: 'That woman has not lived in vain; the world is better and happier because she came and laboured in it.' I want my name carved, not on monumental marble only, but upon the living, throbbing heart of my age! --stamped indelibly on the generation in which my lot is cast. Perhaps I am too sanguine of success; a grievous disappointment may await all my ambitious hopes, but failure will come from want of genius, not lack of persevering patient toil. Upon the threshold of my career, facing the loneliness of coming years, I resign that hope with which, like a golden thread, most women embroider their future. I dedicate myself, my life, unreservedly to Art."
"You believe that you will be happier among the marble and canvas of Italy than in W---- with me?"
"Yes; I shall be better satisfied there. All my life it has gleamed afar off, a glorious land of promise to my eager, longing spirit. From childhood I have cherished the hope of reaching it, and the fruition is near at hand. Italy! bright Alma Mater of the art to which I consecrate my years. Do you wonder that, like a lonely child, I stretch, out my arms toward it? Yet my stay there will be but for a season. I go to complete my studies, to make myself a more perfect instrument for my noble work, and then I shall come home--come, not to New York, but to my own dear native South, to W----, that I may labour under the shadow of its lofty pines, and within hearing of its murmuring river--dearer to me than classic Arno, or immortal Tiber. I wrote you that Mr. Clifton had left me a legacy, which, judiciously invested, will defray my expenses in Europe, where living is cheaper than in this country. Mr. Young has taken charge of the money for me, and has kindly offered to attend to my remittances. Aunt Ruth's friends, the Richardsons, consented to wait for me until after the opening of the Exhibition of the Academy of Design, and one week from to-morrow we expect to sail."
"What do you know of the family?"
"Nothing, except that the lady, who is an old friend of my aunt, is threatened with consumption, and has been advised to spend a year or two in Florence. Aunt Ruth took me to see her the other day; she seems intelligent and agreeable, and I daresay I shall find her kind and pleasant enough."
"Since such is the programme you have marked out, I trust that no disappointments await you, and that all your bright dreams may be realized. But if it should prove otherwise, and you grow weary of your art, sick of isolation, and satiated with Italy, remember that I shall welcome you home and gladly share with you all that I possess. You are embarking in an experiment which thousands have tried before you, and wrecked happiness upon; but I have no right to control your future, and certainly no desire to discourage you. At all events, I hope our separation will be brief."
A short silence followed, broken at last by Electra, who watched him keenly as she spoke-- "Tell me something about Irene. Of course, in a small town like W----, you must see her frequently."
"By no means. I think I have seen her but three times since her childhood--once riding with her father, then accidentally at church, and again a few evenings before I left, at the graveyard, where she was dressing a tombstone with flowers. There we exchanged a few words for the first time, and this reminds me that I am bearer of a message yet undelivered. She inquired after you, and desired me to tender you her love and best wishes."
"I have her here in crayons; tell me what you think of the likeness."
She took down a portfolio and selected the head of her quondam playmate, holding it under the gaslight, and still scrutinizing her cousin's countenance. He took it, and looked gravely, earnestly, at the lovely features.
"It scarcely does her justice; I doubt whether any portrait ever will. Beside, the expression of her face has changed materially since this was sketched. There is a harder outline now about her mouth, less of dreaminess in the eyes, more of cold _hauteur_ in the whole face. If you desire it, I can in one line of Tennyson photograph her proud beauty, as I saw her mounted on her favourite horse, the week that I left home-- "'Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null!'"
He laid the drawing back in the open portfolio, crossed the room, and took up his hat.
"Where are you going, Russell? Can't you spend the evening with me at Aunt Ruth's?"
"No, thank you; I must go. There is to be a great political meeting at Tammany Hall to-night, and I am particularly anxious to attend."
"What! are you, too, engaged in watching the fermentation of the political vat?"
"Yes, I am most deeply interested; no true lover of his country can fail to be so at this juncture."
"How long will you be in New York?"
"Since I cannot persuade you to return with me, my stay here will be shortened. One of our courts meets soon, and though Mr. Campbell will be there to attend to the cases, I want, if possible, to be present. I shall return day after to-morrow. And now good night; I will see you early in the morning."
The door closed behind him, and she remained standing for some time just as he left her. Slowly the folded hands shrank from each other, and dropped nerveless to her side; the bright glow in her cheeks, the dash of crimson on her lips, faded from both; the whole face relaxed into an expression of hopeless agony.
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{
"id": "27811"
}
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20
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A CANDIDATE FOR THE LEGISLATURE
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"Don't you know that even granite millstones finally grind themselves into impalpable powder? You give yourself no rest, Aubrey, and human machinery wears rapidly. Simply for this reason, I sent for you to come and take a cup of tea with me."
"I have been too much engaged of late to spare an evening to merely social claims. A man whose life rests at his feet to be lifted to some fitting pedestal, has little leisure for the luxury of friendly visiting."
The two were in Eric Mitchell's pleasant library. Russell sat in an arm-chair, and the master of the house reclined on a lounge drawn near the hearth. The mellow glow of the lamp, the flash and crackle of the fire, the careless, lazy posture of the invalid, all betokened quiet comfort, save the dark fixed face, and erect, restless figure of the guest.
"But, Aubrey, you have not asked my opinion of your speech."
"I was not aware that you heard it."
"Of course not, but I read it; and let me tell you, it was a great speech, a masterly argument, that will make a lasting impression upon the people. It has greatly changed the vote of this county already."
"You mistake appearances; the seed fell in good soil, but party spirit came, as fowls of the air, and devoured it."
"At any rate, it produced a profound impression on public opinion, and startled some of our political patriarchs."
"No, a mere transitory effect; they have folded their arms and gone to sleep again. I am, of course, gratified by your favourable appreciation of my effort, but I differ with you as to its result. The surging waves of Northern faction and fanaticism already break ominously against our time-honoured constitutional dykes, and if the South would strengthen her bulwarks, there is no time to be slept or wrangled away."
As he spoke, Russell's eye fell upon a large oval vase on the mantelpiece filled with rare exotics, whose graceful tendrils were tastefully disposed into a perfumed fringe. Rising, he looked carefully at the brilliant hues, and said, as he bent to inhale their fragrance-- "Where did you grow such flowers at this season?"
"Irene brings them almost every day from the greenhouse on the hill. She takes a peculiar pleasure in arranging them in my vases. I think she stood a half-hour yesterday twining and bending those stems the way she wanted them to hang. They are so brittle that I snap the blossoms off, but in her hands they seem pliable enough."
Russell withdrew the fingers which had wandered caressingly amid the delicate leaves, and, reseating himself, took a book from his pocket.
He drew his chair nearer the lamp and began to read aloud. Nearly a half-hour passed thus, when the library door was opened hastily, and Irene came in, dressed magnificently in party costume. She stood a moment, irresolute and surprised, with her eyes fixed on Russell's, then both bowed silently, and she came to the fire.
"How are you, Uncle Eric? You look flushed, feverish." She laid her cold, pearly hand on his forehead, and stood at his side.
"Tolerably comfortable, thanks to Mr. Aubrey, who has made me almost forget my headache. You will be fashionably late at the party to-night."
"Yes! as usual; but for a better reason than because I wish to be fashionable. I wanted to know how you were, and as father was not quite ready, I came in advance, and sent the carriage back for him and Hugh. I was not aware that you were in Mr. Aubrey's hands for the evening. You were reading, I believe. Pardon my intrusion, and do not let me interrupt you."
She stood still a moment, listening.
"Good night, Uncle Eric; the carriage is coming. I believe I should know the tramp of those horses amid a regiment of cavalry."
"Why need you hurry off? Let your father come in."
"I will spare him that trouble. Good night, Mr. Aubrey."
She turned to leave the room, but, in gathering her cloak around her, dropped her fan. Russell stooped to pick it up, and, as he restored it, their hands met. His brow flushed, but not even the pale pearly glow of a sea-shell crept to her cheek. Again she raised her eyes to his, and a haughty, dazzling smile flashed over her face as she inclined her head.
"Thank you, sir."
There was a brief silence, broken by Eric, when the sound of the carriage had died away.
"Irene is the only perfectly beautiful woman I ever saw; and yet, Aubrey, it makes me sad to watch her countenance."
"Whenever I see her I cannot avoid recalling an old Scandinavian myth; she realizes so fully my ideal Iduna, standing at the portals of Valhalla, offering apples of immortality."
He returned at once to his book and read several pages, occasionally pausing to call attention to some special passage; finally he rose, and took his hat.
"It is early yet, Aubrey; don't go."
"Thank you; I must fulfil another engagement."
"A word before you leave; will you be a candidate for the legislature?"
"Yes; I was waited upon by a committee to-day, and my name will be announced to-morrow. Good night."
Slowly he walked back to town, and once upon the main street, took a new pair of gloves from his pocket, fitted them carefully, and directed his steps to the elegant residence, whose approach was well-nigh blocked up with carriages. This was the second time that he had been invited by the Hendersons, and he had almost determined to decline as formerly, but something in Irene's chill manner changed his resolution. He knew, from various circumstances, that the social edict against him was being revoked in fashionable circles; that because he had risen without its permission, aid, or countenance, and in defiance of its sneers, the world was beginning to court him. A gloomy scowl sat on his stern lips as he mounted the steps of the mansion from which his meek and suffering mother had borne bundles of plain work, or delicate masses of embroidery, for the mother and daughter who passed her in the street with a supercilious stare. _Beau-monde_ suddenly awoke to the recollection that, "after all, Mrs. Aubrey belonged to one of the wealthiest and first families in the state." At first Russell had proudly repelled all overtures, but gradually he was possessed by a desire to rule in the very circle which had so long excluded his family. Most fully he appreciated his position and the motives which actuated the social autocrats of W----; he was no longer the poor disgraced clerk, but the talented young lawyer, and prospective heir of Mr. Campbell's wealth. Bitterly, bitterly came memories of early trial, and now the haughtiness of Irene's manner stung him as nothing else could possibly have done. He was at a loss to comprehend this change in one who had dared so much in order to assist his family, and proud defiance arose in his heart. It was ten o'clock, the fête was at its height; the sound of music, the shimmer of jewels and rustle of costly silks mingled with the hum of conversation, and the tread of dancing feet as Russell deposited hat and overcoat in the dressing-room and entered the blazing parlours. The quadrille had just ended, and gay groups chattered in the centre of the room; among these, Maria Henderson, leaning on Hugh's arm, and Grace Harris, who had been dancing with Louis Henderson. As Russell crossed the floor to speak to the host and hostess, all eyes turned upon him, and a sudden hush fell on the merry dancers.
"Coaxed at last within the pale of civilization! how did you contrive it, Louis?" asked Maria.
"Oh! he declined when I invited him; but I believe father saw him afterward and renewed the request. Do observe him talking to mother; he is as polished as if he had spent his life at court."
"He is a man whom I never fancied; but that two hours' speech of his was certainly the finest effort I ever listened to. Cæsar's ambition was moderate in comparison with Aubrey's; and, somehow, even against my will, I can't help admiring him, he is so coolly independent," said Hugh, eyeing him curiously.
"I heard father say that the Democrats intend to send him to the legislature next term, and the opposition are bothered to match him fully. By the way, they speak of Mr. Huntingdon for their candidate. But here comes your hero, Miss Maria." As he spoke, Charlie Harris drew back a few steps, and suffered Russell to speak to the young lady of the house. Irene stood not far off, talking to the Governor of the state, who chanced to be on a brief visit to W----, and quite near her, Judge Harris and her father were in earnest conversation. Astonished at the sudden apparition, her eyes followed him as he bowed to the member of the central group; and as she heard the deep, rich voice above the buzz of small talk she waited to see if he would notice her. Soon Governor G---- gave her his arm for a promenade, and she found herself, ere long, very near Maria, who was approaching with Russell. He was saying something, at which she laughed delightedly; just then his eye fell on Irene; there was no token of recognition on the part of either; but the Governor, in passing, put out his hand to shake Russell's, and asked for Mr. Campbell. Again and again they met during the ensuing hour, but no greeting was exchanged; then he disappeared. As Irene leaned against the window-frame in the crowded supper-room, she heard Charlie Harris gaily bantering Maria on the events of the evening.
"What have you done with Aubrey? I will challenge him before to-morrow morning, for cutting me out of my schottische with his prosy chat."
"Oh! he left a half-hour ago; excused himself to mother, on the plea of starting off to court at daybreak. He is perfectly fascinating; don't you think so, Grace? Such eyes and lips; and such a forehead!"
Once more in his own room at the quiet boarding-house, Russell lighted the gas-burner over a small desk, and sat down to a mass of papers. The apartment was cold; the fire had long since died out; the hearth looked ashy and desolate. The measured tones of the watchman on the town-tower recalled him, finally, from his work; he took off his watch and wound it up. It wanted but three hours to dawn, but he heeded it not; the sight of the massive old watch brought vividly back the boyish days of sorrow, and he sat thinking of that morning of shame, when Irene came close to him, nestling her soft little hand in his, and from some long-silent, dark, chill chamber of memory leaped sweet, silvery, childish echoes-- "Oh, Russell! if I could only help you!"
Since his return from Europe he had accustomed himself to think of her as Hugh's wife; but he found it daily more difficult to realize that she could willingly give her hand to her heedless, self-indulgent cousin; and now the alteration in her manner toward him perplexed and grieved him. Did she suspect the truth, and fear that he might presume on her charity in bygone years? To his proud spirit this was a suggestion singularly insulting, and he had resolved to show her in future that he claimed not even a nod of recognition. Instead of avoiding her, as formerly, he would seek occasions to exhibit an indifference which he little thought that her womanly heart would rightly interpret. He had found it more difficult than he supposed to keep his attention chained to Maria's and Grace's gay nonsense; to prevent his eyes from wandering to the face whose image was enshrined in his lonely heart, and now, with complex feelings of tenderness and angry defiance, he sought his pillow for a short respite before the journey that waited but for daylight.
For a few weeks all W---- was astir with interest in the impending election: newspaper columns teemed with caustic articles, and Huntingdon and Aubrey clubs vilified each other with the usual acrimony of such occasions. Mr. Campbell's influence was extensive, but the Huntingdon supporters were powerful, and the result seemed doubtful until the week previous to the election, when Russell, who had as yet taken no active part, accepted the challenge of his opponent to a public discussion. The meeting was held in front of the court-house, the massive stone steps serving as a temporary rostrum. The night was dark and cloudy, but huge bonfires, blazing barrels of pitch, threw a lurid glare over the broad street, now converted into a surging sea of human heads.
Surrounded by a committee of select friends, Mr. Huntingdon sat, confident of success; and when the hiss of rockets ceased, he came forward, and addressed the assembly in an hour's speech. As a warm and rather prominent politician, he was habituated to the task, and bursts of applause from his own party frequently attested the effect of his easy, graceful style, and pungent irony. Blinded by personal hate, and hurried on by the excitement of the hour, he neglected the cautious policy which had hitherto been observed, and finally launched into a fierce philippic against his antagonist--holding up for derision the melancholy fate of his father, and sneeringly denouncing the "audacious pretensions of a political neophyte."
Groans and hisses greeted this unexpected peroration, and many of his own friends bit their lips, and bent their brows in angry surprise, as he took his seat amid an uproar which would have been respectable even in the days of the builders of Babel. Russell was sitting on the upper step, with his head leaning on his hand, and his eyes fixed on the mass of upturned, eager faces, listening patiently to the lengthy address, expecting just what he was destined to hear. At the mention of his family misfortunes he lifted his head, rose, and advancing a few steps, took off his hat, and stood confronting the speaker in full view of the excited crowd. And there the red light, flaring over his features, showed a calm, stern, self-reliant man, who felt that he had nothing to blush for in the past or to dread in future. When the tirade ended, when the tumult ceased and silence fell upon the audience, he turned and fixed his deep, glowing eyes full on the face of his opponent for one moment, smiling haughtily; then, as Mr. Huntingdon quailed before his withering gaze, he crossed his arms over his chest, and addressed the meeting.
He came, he said, to discuss questions of grave import to the State, not the pedigree or antecedents of his antagonist, with which, he supposed, the public had no concern. Briefly he stated the issues dividing the people of the State; warned the opposition of the probable results of their policy, if triumphant; and, with resistless eloquence, pleaded for a firm maintenance of the principles of his own party. He was, he averred, no alarmist, but he proclaimed that the people slept upon the thin heaving crust of a volcano, which would inevitably soon burst forth; and the period was rapidly approaching when the Southern States, unless united and on the alert, would lie bound at the feet of an insolent and rapacious Northern faction. He demanded that, through the legislatures, the States should appeal to Congress for certain restrictions and guarantees, which, if denied, would justify extreme measures on the part of the people. The man's marvellous magnetism was never more triumphantly attested; the mass, who had listened in profound silence to every syllable which had passed his lips, now vented their enthusiasm in prolonged and vociferous applause.
As he descended the steps and disappeared amid the shouts of the crowd, Judge Harris turned to Mr. Huntingdon and said, with ill-concealed annoyance-- "You have lost your election by your confounded imprudence."
The judge walked off, pondering a heavy bet which he had relative to the result.
By sunrise on the day of the election the roads leading to town were crowded with voters making their way to the polls. The drinking-saloons were full to overflowing; the side-walks thronged with reeling groups as the day advanced. Because the Huntingdon side bribed freely, the Aubrey partisans felt that they must, from necessity, follow the disgraceful precedent. Not a lady showed her face upon the street; drinking, wrangling, fighting was the order of the day. Windows were smashed, buggies overturned, and the police exercised to the utmost. Accompanied by a few friends, Mr. Huntingdon rode from poll to poll, encouraging his supporters, and drawing heavily upon his purse, while Russell remained quietly in his office, well assured of the result. At five o'clock, when the town polls closed, Russell's votes showed a majority of two hundred and forty-four. Couriers came in constantly from country precincts, with equally favourable accounts, and at ten o'clock it was ascertained, beyond doubt, that he was elected. Irene and her uncle rode down to learn the truth, and, not knowing where to find Mr. Huntingdon, stopped the carriage at the corner of the main street, and waited a few moments. Very soon a rocket whizzed through the air, a band of music struck up before Russell's office, and a number of his adherents insisted that he should show himself on the balcony. A crowd immediately collected opposite, cheering the successful candidate, and calling for a speech. He came out, and, in a few happy, dignified words, thanked them for the honour conferred, and pledged himself to guard most faithfully the interests committed to his keeping. After the noisy constituents had retired, he stood talking to some friends, when he chanced to recognize the fiery horses across the street. The carriage-top was thrown back, and by the neighbouring gaslight he saw Irene's white face turned toward him, then the horses sprang off. Mr. Campbell noticed, without understanding, the sudden start, and bitter though triumphant smile that crossed his face in the midst of pleasant gratulations.
"Go home, Andrew. I know now what I came to learn."
Irene sank back and folded her mantle closer around her.
"Don't you think, Irene, that Aubrey deserves to succeed?"
"Yes."
Her dreary tone disconcerted him, and he offered no further comment, little suspecting that her hands were pressed hard against her heart, and that her voiceless sorrow, was: "Henceforth we must be still more estranged; a wider gulf, from this night, divides us."
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{
"id": "27811"
}
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21
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THE MINISTER'S LOVE
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Two years rolled on, stained with the tears of many, ringing with the songs and laughter of a fortunate few. The witchery of Southern spring again enveloped W----, and Irene stood on the lawn surveying the "greenery of the outdoor world" that surrounded her.
In this woman's sad but intensely calm countenance, a joyless life found silent history. She felt that her life was passing rapidly, unimproved, and aimless; she knew that her years, instead of being fragrant with the mellow fruitage of good deeds, were tedious and joyless, and that the gaunt, numbing hand of ennui was closing upon her. The elasticity of spirits, the buoyancy of youth had given place to a species of stoical mute apathy; a mental and moral paralysis was stealing over her.
The slamming of the ponderous iron gate attracted her attention, and she saw a carriage ascending the avenue. As it reached a point opposite to the spot where she stood it halted, the door was thrown open, and a gentleman stepped out and approached her. The form was not familiar, and the straw hat partially veiled the features, but he paused before her, and said, with a genial smile-- "Don't you know me?"
"Oh, Harvey! My brother! My great guardian angel!"
A glad light kindled in her face, and she stretched out her hands with the eagerness of a delighted child. Time had pressed heavily upon him; wrinkles were conspicuous about the corners of his eyes and mouth, and the black hair had become a steely grey.
Holding her hands, he drew her nearer to him, scrutinized her features, and a look of keen sorrow crossed his own as he said, almost inaudibly-- "I feared as much! I feared as much! The shadow has spread."
"You kept Punic faith with me, sir; you promised to write and failed. I sent you one letter, but it was never answered."
"Through no fault of mine, Irene; I never received it, believe me. True, I expected to write to you frequently when I parted with you, but subsequently determined that it would be best not to do so. Attribute my silence, however, to every other cause than want of remembrance."
"God only knows how I have wanted, how I have needed you, to guide and strengthen me."
She raised the two hands that still held hers, and bowed her forehead upon them.
For some moments silence reigned; then, standing before him, Irene said, with touching pathos-- "My friend, I am so desolate! so lonely! I am drifting down the current of life aimless, hopeless, useless! What shall I do with my future? I believe I am slowly petrifying; I neither suffer nor enjoy as formerly; my feelings are deadened; I am growing callous, indifferent to everything. I am fast losing sympathy for the sorrows of others, swallowed up in self, oblivious of the noble aspirations of promise. Once more I ask you, what shall I do with my life?"
"Give it to God."
"Ah! there is neither grace nor virtue in necessity. He will not accept the worthless thing thrown at His feet, as a _dernier ressort_. Once it was my choice, but the pure, clear-eyed faith of my childhood shook hands with me when you left me in New York."
For a short while he struggled with himself, striving to overcome the unconquerable impulse which suddenly prompted him, and his face grew pallid as hers as he walked hastily across the smooth grass and came back to her. Her countenance was lifted toward the neighbouring hill, her thoughts evidently far away, when he paused before her, and said unsteadily-- "Irene, my beloved! give yourself to me. Go with me into God's vineyard; let us work together, and consecrate our lives to His service."
The mesmeric eyes gazed into his, full of wonder, and the rich ruby tint fled from her lips as she pondered his words in unfeigned astonishment, and shaking her regal head; answered slowly-- "Harvey, I am not worthy. I want your counsel, not your pity."
"Pity! you mistake me. If you have been ignorant so long, know now that I have loved you from the evening you first sat in my study looking over my foreign sketches. You were then a child, but I was a man, and I knew all that you had so suddenly become to me. Because of this great disparity in years, and because I dared not hope that one so tenderly nurtured could ever brave the hardships of my projected life, I determined to quit New York earlier than I had anticipated, and to bury a foolish memory in the trackless forests of the far West. I ought to have known the fallacy of my expectation; I have proved it since. Your face followed me; your eyes met mine at every turn; your glittering hair swept on every breeze that touched my cheek. Irene, you are young, and singularly beautiful, and I am a grey-haired man, much, much older than yourself; but, if you live a thousand years, you will never find such affection as I offer you now. There is nothing on earth which would make me so happy as the possession of your love. You are the only woman I have ever seen whom I even wish to call my wife--the only woman who, I felt, could lend new charm to life, and make my quiet hearth happier by her presence. Irene, will you share my future? Can you give me what I ask?"
The temptation was powerful--the future he held out enticing indeed. The strong, holy, manly love, the noble heart and head to guide her, the firm, tender hand to support her, the constant, congenial, and delightful companionship--all this passed swiftly through her mind; but, crushing all in its grasp, came the memory of one whom she rarely met, but who held undisputed sway over her proud heart.
Drawing close to the minister, she laid her hands on his shoulder, and, looking reverently up into his fine face, said, in her peculiarly sweet, clear voice-- "The knowledge of your priceless, unmerited love makes me proud beyond degree; but I would not mock you by the miserable and only return I could make you--the affection of a devoted sister. That I do not love you as you wish is my great misfortune; for I appreciate most fully the noble privilege you have tendered me. I trust that the pain I may give you now will soon pass away, and that, in time, you will forget one who is utterly undeserving of the honour you have conferred on her to-day. Oh, Harvey! do not, I beg of you, let one thought of me ever disquiet your noble, generous heart."
A shiver crept over her still face, and she dropped her pale forehead. She felt two tears fall upon her hair, and in silence he bent down and kissed her softly, tenderly, as one kisses a sleeping babe.
"Oh, Harvey! do not let it grieve you, dear friend!"
He smiled sadly, as if not daring to trust himself in words; then, after a moment, laying his hands upon her head, in the baptism of a deathless love, he gently and solemnly blessed her. When his fingers were removed she raised her eyes, but he had gone; she saw only the retreating form through the green arches of the grand old avenue.
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{
"id": "27811"
}
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22
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"COUSINLY--NO MORE"
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Says D'Alembert: "The industry of men is now so far exhausted in canvassing for places, that none is left for fulfilling the duties of them;" and the history of our government furnishes a melancholy parallel. The regular quadrennial storm had swept over the nation; caucuses had been held and platforms fiercely fought for, to be kicked away, plank by plank, when they no longer served as scaffolding by which to climb to office. Buchanan was elected, but destined to exemplify, during his administration, the truth of Tacitus' words: "He was regarded as greater than a private man whilst he remained in privacy, and would have been deemed worthy of governing if he had never governed." The heat of the canvass cooled, people settled down once more to a condition of lethargic indifference--bought and sold, sowed and reaped, as usual--little realizing that the temporary lull, the perfect calm, was treacherous as the glassy green expanse of waters which, it is said, sometimes covers the location of the all-destroying maelstrom of Moskoe. Having taken an active and prominent part in the presidential campaign, and made frequent speeches, Russell found himself again opposed by Mr. Huntingdon, who was equally indefatigable during the exciting contest. The old feud received, if possible, additional acrimony, and there were no bounds to the maledictions heaped upon the young and imperturbable legislator by his virulent antagonist. Many predicted a duel or a street encounter; but weeks passed, and though, in casual meetings, Mr. Huntingdon's glare of hate was always answered by a mocking smile of cold disdain, the cloud floated off without breaking into bloody showers.
Mr. Mitchell's health had failed so rapidly as winter approached, that Dr. Arnold persuaded him to try the efficacy of a sea-voyage, and he had accordingly sailed from New Orleans in a vessel bound for Genoa. Irene begged the privilege of accompanying him, but her father peremptorily refused; and she saw her uncle depart, and superintended the closing of his house, with silent sorrow, and the feeling of one who knows that the night is deepening around her.
Late in the afternoon of Christmas Day Irene went into the greenhouse to gather a bouquet for an invalid friend in town, and had almost accomplished her errand when the crash and whir of wheels drew her to the window that looked out on the lawn. Her father had gone to the plantation early that morning, and she had scarcely time to conjecture whom the visitor would prove, when Hugh's loud voice rang through the house, and, soon after, he came clattering in, with the end of his pantaloons tucked into his boots, and his whip trailing along in true boyish fashion. As he threw down his hat, scattering the petals of a snowy camellia, and drew near his cousin, she saw that his face was deeply flushed, and his eyes somewhat bloodshot.
"Hugh! what are you doing here? Father expected you to overtake him at Crescent Bend; you said last night that you would start by five o'clock."
"Merry Christmas, my beauty! I have come for my Christmas gift. Give it to me, like the queen you are."
He stooped as if to kiss her, but she shrank back instantly, and said gravely-- "You ought not to make promises which you have no idea of keeping; father will be annoyed, and wonder very much what has happened. He was anxious that you should go with him."
"Oh! confound the plantation! I wish it would sink! Of all other days none but Christmas will suit him to tramp down there through mud and mire. The fact is, I did not go to sleep till four o'clock, and nobody ought to be unchristian enough to expect me to wake up in an hour. You may be quiet, though, for I am on my way now to that paradise of black mud. I only stopped to get a glimpse of you, my Sappho! my Corinna! so don't homilize, I pray you."
"Better wait till daylight, Hugh; you know the state of the roads and condition of the bridges. It will be safer, and an economy of time, to defer it till morning, since you have made it so late."
"No; I must go to-night, for I have an engagement to ride with Maria Henderson, and I can't get back in time if I wait till to-morrow morning. I want to start back day after to-morrow. As for time, Wildfire will make it the better for the darkness, he is as much afraid of night and shadows as if he had a conscience, and had maltreated it, master-like. I shall convince him that all Tam O'Shanter's witches are in full pursuit, and his matchless heels his only salvation."
A shade of apprehension settled on her face, and, placing the bouquet in a basket, she turned to her cousin, saying-- "Indeed, you cannot be insane enough to drive that horse such a night as this weather threatens. If go you will, in the face of a coming rain, leave Wildfire here, and drive one of the carriage-horses instead. I shall be uneasy if you start with that vicious, unmanageable incarnation of lightning. Let me ring the bell and direct Andrew to make the change."
She stepped into the parlour adjoining, and laid her fingers on the bell-cord, but he snatched up the hand and kissed it several times.
"No! I'll be hanged if I don't drive my own pearl of Arabia! I can manage him well enough; and, beside, what do you care whether he breaks my neck or not? Without compunction you broke my heart, which is much the greater catastrophe."
"Come into the library; you don't know what you are saying."
She drew him into the room, where a warm fire burned cheerfully, and made him sit down.
"Where did you go last night when you left here? Tell me."
"To Harry Neal's; a party of us were invited there to drink egg-nog, and, of course, found something stronger afterward. Then we had a game or so of poker, and ----, the grand finale is that I have had a deuced headache all day. Ah, my sweet saint! how shocked you are, to be sure! Now, don't lecture, or I shall be off like a flash."
Without answering, she rang the bell and quietly looped back the heavy crimson curtains.
"What is that for? Have you sent for John or old Nellie to carry me upstairs, like other bad boys sent to bed in disgrace without even the cold comfort of supper?"
"Hush, Hugh! hush."
Turning to John, who opened the door and looked in, she said-- "Tell William to make some strong coffee as soon as possible. Mas' Hugh has a headache, and wants some before he leaves."
"Thank you, my angel! my unapproachable Peri! Ugh! how cold it is. Pardon me, but I really must warm my feet."
He threw them carelessly on the fender of the grate.
"Shall I get you a pair of slippers?"
"Could not afford the luxury; positively have not the time to indulge myself."
With a prolonged yawn he laid his head back and closed his eyes. An expression of disgust was discernible in his companion's countenance, but it passed like the shadow of a summer cloud, and she sat down at the opposite side of the fireplace, with her eyes bent upon the hearth, and the long silky lashes sweeping her cheeks. A silence of some minutes ensued; finally she exclaimed-- "Here comes your coffee. Put the waiter on the table, John, and tell Andrew to take Mas' Hugh's buggy."
"Do nothing of the kind! but send somebody to open that everlasting gate, which would not have disgraced ancient Thebes. Are you classical, John? Be off, and see about it; I must start in five minutes."
"Hugh, be reasonable for once in your life; you are not in a proper condition to drive that horse. For my sake, at least, be persuaded to wait till morning. Will you not remain, to oblige me?"
"Oh, hang my condition! I tell you I must and I will go, if all the stars fall and judgment day overtakes me on the road. What splendid coffee you always have! The most fastidious of bashaws could not find it in his Moorish heart to complain."
He put on his hat, buttoned his costly fur coat, and, flourishing his whip, came close to his cousin.
"Good-bye, beauty. I hate to leave you; upon my word I do; but duty before pleasure, my heavenly-eyed monitress. I have not had my Christmas present yet, and have it I will."
"On one condition, Hugh; that you drive cautiously and moderately, instead of thundering down hills and over bridges like some express train behind time. Will you promise?"
"To be sure I will! everything in the world; and am ready to swear it, if you are sceptical."
"Well, then, good-bye, Hugh, and take care of yourself."
She allowed him to press his hot lips to hers, and, accompanying him to the door, saw him jump into the frail open-topped buggy. Wildfire plunged and sprang off in his usual style, and, with a crack of the whip and wave of his hat, Hugh was fairly started.
Seven hours later Irene sat alone at the library table, absorbed in writing an article on Laplace's Nebular Theory for the scientific journal to which she occasionally contributed over the signature of "Sabæan." Gradually her thoughts wandered from the completed task to other themes of scarcely less interest. The week previous she had accompanied Hugh to an operatic concert given by the Parodi troupe, and had been astonished to find Russell seated on the bench in front of her. He so rarely showed himself on such occasions that his appearance elicited some comment. They had met frequently since the evening at Mr. Mitchell's, but he pertinaciously avoided recognizing her; and, on this particular night, though he came during an interlude to speak to Grace Harris, who sat on the same row of seats with Irene, he never once directed his eyes toward the latter. This studied neglect, she felt assured, was not the result of the bitter animosity existing between her father and himself; and though it puzzled her for a while, she began finally to suspect the true nature of his feelings, and, with woman's rarely erring instincts, laid her finger on the real motive which prompted him. The report of his engagement to Grace had reached her some days before, and now it recurred to her mind like a haunting spectre. She did not believe for an instant that he was attached to the pretty, joyous girl whom rumour gave him; but she was well aware that he was ambitious of high social position, and feared that he might possibly, from selfish, ignoble reasons, seek an alliance with Judge Harris' only daughter, knowing that the family was one of the wealthiest and most aristocratic in the State. Life had seemed dreary enough before; but, with this apprehension added, it appeared insupportable, and she was conscious of a degree of wretchedness never dreamed of or realized heretofore. Not even a sigh escaped her; she was one of a few women who permit no external evidences of suffering, but lock it securely in their own proud hearts. The painful reverie might, perhaps, have lasted till the pallid dawn looked in with tearful eyes at the window, but Paragon, who was sleeping on the rug at her feet, started up and growled. She raised her head and listened, but only the ticking of the clock was audible, and the wailing of the wind through the leafless poplars.
"Down, Paragon! hush, sir!"
She patted his head soothingly, and he sank back a few seconds in quiet, then sprang up with a loud bark. This time she heard an indistinct sound of steps in the hall, and thought: "Nellie sees my light through the window, and is coming to coax me upstairs." Something stumbled near the threshold, a hand struck the knob as if in hunting for it, the door opened softly, and, muffled in his heavy cloak, holding his hat in one hand, Russell Aubrey stood in the room. Neither spoke, but he looked at her with such mournful earnestness, such eager yet grieved compassion, that she read some terrible disaster in his eyes. The years of estrangement, all that had passed since their childhood, was forgotten; studied conventionalities fell away at the sight of him standing there, for the first time, in her home. She crossed the room with a quick, uncertain step, and put out her hands toward him--vague, horrible apprehension blanching the beautiful lips, which asked shiveringly-- "What is it, Russell? What is it?"
He took the cold little hands tremblingly in his, and endeavoured to draw her back to the hearth, but she repeated-- "What has happened? Is it father, or Hugh?"
"Your father is well, I believe; I passed him on the road yesterday. Sit down, Miss Huntingdon; you look pale and faint."
Her fingers closed tightly over his; he saw an ashen hue settle on her face, and in an unnaturally calm low tone, she asked-- "Is Hugh dead? Oh, my God! why don't you speak, Russell?"
"He did not suffer much; his death was too sudden."
Her face had such a stony look that he would have passed his arm around her, but could not disengage his hand; she seemed to cling to it as if for strength.
"Won't you let me carry you to your room, or call a servant? You are not able to stand."
She neither heeded nor heard him.
"Was it that horse; or how was it?"
"One of the bridges had been swept away by the freshet, and, in trying to cross, he missed the ford. The horse must have been frightened and unmanageable, the buggy was overturned in the creek, and your cousin, stunned by the fall, drowned instantly; life was just extinct when I reached him."
Something like a moan escaped her as she listened.
"Was anything done?"
"We tried every means of resuscitation, but they were entirely ineffectual."
She relaxed her clasp of his fingers, and moved toward the door.
"Where are you going, Miss Huntingdon? Indeed, you must sit down."
"Russell, you have brought him home; where is he?"
Without waiting for an answer, she walked down the hall, and paused suddenly at the sight of the still form resting on a grey travelling-blanket, with a lantern at its head, and an elderly man, a stranger, sitting near, keeping watch. Russell came to her side, and, drawing his arm around her, made her lean upon him. He felt the long, long lingering shudder which shook the elegant, queenly figure; then she slipped down beside the rigid sleeper, and smoothed back from the fair brow the dripping, curling, auburn hair.
"Hugh, my cousin! my playmate! Snatched away in an hour from the life you loved so well. Ah! the curse of our house has fallen upon you. It is but the beginning of the end. Only two of us are left, and we, too, shall soon be caught up to join you."
She kissed the icy lips which a few hours ago had pressed hers so warmly, and, rising, walked up and down the long hall. Russell once more approached her.
"Are you entirely alone?"
"Yes, except the servants. Oh, Russell! how am I to break this to my father? He loves that boy better than everything else; infinitely better than he ever loved me. How shall I tell him that Hugh is dead--dead?"
"A messenger has already gone to inform him of what has happened, and this distressing task will not be yours. Herbert Blackwell and I were riding together, on our return from T----, when we reached the ford where the disaster occurred. Finding that all our efforts to resuscitate were useless, he turned back, and went to your father's plantation to break the sad intelligence to him."
His soothing, tender tone touched some chord deep in her strange nature, and unshed tears gathered for the first time in her eyes.
"As you have no friend near enough to call upon at present, I will, if you desire it, wake the servants, remain, and do all that is necessary until morning."
"If you please, Russell; I shall thank you very much."
As her glance fell upon her cousin's gleaming face, her lip fluttered, and she turned away and sat down on one of the sofas in the parlour, dropping her face in her hands. A little while after, the light of a candle streamed in, and Russell came with a cushion from the library lounge, and his warm cloak. He wrapped the latter carefully about the drooping form, and would have placed her head on the silken pillow; but she silently resisted without looking up, and he left her. It was a vigil which she never forgot.
The fire had died out entirely, the curtains were drawn back to let in the day; on the library table the startling glare of white linen showed the outlines of the cold young sleeper, and Russell slowly paced the floor, his arms crossed, as was their habit, and his powerful form unweariedly erect. She stood by the table half-irresolute, then folded down the sheet, and exposed the handsome, untroubled face. She studied it long and quietly, and with no burst of emotion laid her flowers against his cheek and mouth, and scattered the geraniums over his pulseless heart.
"I begged him not to start yesterday, and he answered that he would go, if the stars fell and judgment day overtook him. Sometimes we are prophets unawares. His star has set--his day has risen! Have mercy on his soul! oh, my God!"
The voice was low and even, but wonderfully sweet, and in the solemn morning light her face showed itself grey and bloodless; no stain of colour on the still lips, only the blue cord standing out between the brow, sure signs of a deep distress which found no vent. Russell felt a crushing weight lifted from his heart; he saw that she had "loved her cousin cousinly--no more"; and his face flushed when she looked across the table at him, with grateful but indescribably melancholy eyes, which had never been closed during that night of horror.
"I must now relieve you, Russell, from your friendly watch. Few would have acted as you have done, and for all your generous kindness to poor Hugh I thank you most earnestly as well for my father as myself. The day may come, perhaps, when I shall be able to prove my gratitude, and the sincerity of my friendship, which has never wavered since we were children together. Until that day, farewell Russell; but believe that I rejoice to hear of your successes."
She held out her hand, and as he took it in his, which trembled violently, he felt, even then, that there was no quiver in the icy-white fingers, and that his name rippled over her lips as calmly as that of the dead had done just before. She endured his long, searching gaze, like any other Niobe, and he dropped the little pearly hand and quitted the room. At ten o'clock Mr. Huntingdon returned, and, with his hat drawn over his eyes, went straight to the library. He kissed the face of the dead passionately and his sob and violent burst of sorrow told his child of his arrival. She lifted her rigid face, and extended her arms pleadingly.
"Father! father! here, at least, you will forgive me!"
He turned from her sternly, and answered, with bitter emphasis-- "I will not! But for _you_, he would have been different, and this would never have happened."
"Father, I have asked for love and pardon for the last time."
She bent down and kissed her cousin, and, with a hard, bitter expression in her countenance, went up to her own room, locking out Paragon and old Nellie, who followed cautiously at her heels.
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{
"id": "27811"
}
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23
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THE FEVER
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It was a cold afternoon in November-- "And Autumn, laying here and there A fiery finger on the leaves," had kindled her forest conflagration. Golden maples and amber-hued cherries, crimson dog-woods and scarlet oaks shook out their flame-foliage and waved their glowing boughs, all dashed and speckled, flecked and rimmed with orange and blood, ghastly green, and tawny brown. The smoky atmosphere, which had hung all day in purple folds around the distant hills, took a golden haze as the sun sank rapidly; and to Irene's gaze river and woodland, hill-side and valley, were brimmed with that weird "light which never was on sea or land." Her almost "Brahminical" love of nature had grown with her years, but a holier element mingled with her adoration now; she looked beyond the material veil of beauty, and bowed reverently before the indwelling Spiritual Presence. Since Hugh's death, nearly a year before, she had become a recluse, availing herself of her mourning dress to decline all social engagements, and during these months a narrow path opened before her feet, she became a member of the church which she had attended from infancy, and her hands closed firmly over her life-work.
Sorrow and want hung out their signs among the poor of W----, and here, silently, but methodically, she had become, not a ministering angel certainly, but a generous benefactress, a noble, sympathetic friend--a counsellor whose strong good sense rendered her advice and guidance valuable indeed. By a system of rigid economy she was enabled to set apart a small portion of money, which she gave judiciously, superintending its investment; kind, hopeful words she scattered like sunshine over every threshold; and here and there, where she detected smouldering aspiration, or incipient appreciation of learning, she fanned the spark with some suitable volume from her own library, which, in more than one instance, became the germ, the spring of "joy for ever." Frequently her father threw obstacles in her way, sneering all the while at her "sanctimonious freaks." Sometimes she affected not to notice the impediments, sometimes frankly acknowledged their magnitude and climbed right over them, on to her work. Among the factory operatives she found the greatest need of ameliorating touches of every kind. Improvident, illiterate, in some cases, almost brutalized, she occasionally found herself puzzled as to the proper plan to pursue; but her womanly heart, like the hidden jewelled levers of a watch, guided the womanly hands unerringly.
This evening, as she approached the row of low white-washed houses, a crowd of children swarmed out, as usual, to stare at her. She rode up to a doorstep where a boy of some fourteen years sat sunning himself, with an open book on his knee and a pair of crutches beside him. At sight of her a bright smile broke over his sickly face and he tried to rise.
"Good evening, Philip; don't get up. How are you to-day?"
"Better, I thank you, ma'am; but very stiff yet."
"The stiffness will pass off gradually, I hope. I see you have not finished your book yet; how do you like it?"
"Oh! I could bear to be a cripple always, if I had plenty like it to read."
"You need not be a cripple; but there are plenty more, just as good and better, which you shall have in time. Do you think you could hold my horse for me a little while? I can't find a suitable place to tie him. He is gentle enough if you will only hold the reins."
"Certainly, ma'am; I shall be glad to hold him as long as you like."
She dismounted, and passed into the adjoining house. Sick-rooms, where poverty stands grim and gaunt on the hearth, are rarely enticing, and to this dreary class belonged the room where Bessie Davis had suffered for months, watching the sands of life run low, and the shadow of death growing longer across the threshold day by day. The dust and lint of the cotton-room had choked the springs of life, and on her hollow cheeks glowed the autograph of consumption. She stretched out her wasted hand, and said-- "Ah, Miss Irene! I heard your voice outside, and it was pleasant to my ears as the sound of the bell when work-hours are over. I am always glad to see your face, but this evening I was longing for you, hoping and praying that you would come. I am in trouble."
"About what, Mrs. Davis? Nothing serious, I hope; tell me."
"I don't know how serious it is going to be. Johnnie is sick in the next room, taken yesterday; and about noon to-day Susan had to knock off work and come home. Hester is the only one left, and you know she is but a baby to work. I don't like to complain of my lot, God knows, but it seems hard if we are all to be taken down."
"I hope they will not be sick long. What is the matter with Johnnie?"
"Dear knows! I am sure I don't; he complains of the headache and has fever, and Susan here seems ailing the same way. She is as stupid as can be--sleeps all the time. My children have had measles and whooping-cough, and chicken-pox and scarlet fever, and I can't imagine what they are trying to catch now. I hear that there is a deal of sickness showing itself in the Row."
"Have you sent for the doctor?" asked Irene, walking around to the other side of the bed, and examining Susan's pulse.
"Yes, I sent Hester; but she said he told her he was too busy to come."
"Why did you not apply to some other physician?"
"Because Dr. Brandon has always attended me, and, as I sent for him first, I didn't know whether any other doctor would like to come. You know some of them have very curious notions about their dignity."
"And sometimes, while they pause to discuss etiquette, humanity suffers. Susan, let me see your tongue. Who else is sick in the Row, Mrs. Davis?"
"Three of Tom Brown's children, two of Dick Spencer's, and Lucy Hall, and Mary Moorhead. Miss Irene, will you be good enough to give me a drink of water. Hester has gone to try to find some wood, and I can't reach the pitcher."
"I brought you some jelly; would you like a little now, or shall I put it away in the closet?"
"Thank you; I will save it for my Johnnie, he is so fond of sweet things; and, poor child! he sees 'em so seldom nowadays."
"There is enough for you and Johnnie too. Eat this, while I look after him, and see whether he ought to have any this evening."
She placed a saucer filled with the tempting amber-hued delicacy on the little pine table beside the bed, and went into the next room. The boy, who looked about seven or eight years old, lay on a pallet in one corner, restless and fretful, his cheeks burning, and his large brown eyes sparkling with fever.
"Johnnie, boy! what is the matter? Tell me what hurts you."
"My head aches so badly," and tears came to the beautiful childish eyes.
"It feels hot. Would you like to have it bathed in cold water?"
"If you please, ma'am. I have been calling Hettie, and she won't hear."
"Because she has gone out. Let me see if I can't do it just as well as Hettie."
She hunted about the room for a cloth, but, finding nothing suitable, took her cambric handkerchief, and, after laving his forehead gently for ten or fifteen minutes, laid the wet folds upon it, and asked smilingly-- "Doesn't that feel pleasant?"
"Ever so nice, ma'am--if I had some to drink."
She put the dripping gourd to his parched lips, and, after shaking up his pillow and straightening the covering of his pallet, she promised to see him again soon, and returned to his mother.
"How does he appear to be, Miss Irene? I had him moved out of this room because he said my coughing hurt his head, and his continual fretting worried me. I am so weak now, God help me!" and she covered her eyes with one hand.
"He has some fever, Mrs. Davis, but not more than Susan. I will ask Dr. Arnold to come and see them this evening. This change in the weather is very well calculated to make sickness. Are you entirely out of wood?"
"Very nearly, ma'am; a few sticks left."
"When Hester comes, keep her at home. I will send you some wood. And now, how are you?"
"My cough is not quite so bad; the pectoral holds it a little in check; but I had another hemorrhage last night, and I am growing weaker every day. Oh, Miss Irene! what will become of my poor little children when I am gone? That is such an agonizing thought." She sobbed as she spoke.
"Do not let that grieve you now. I promise you that your children shall be taken care of. I will send a servant down to stay here to-night, and perhaps some of the women in the Row will be willing to come in occasionally and help Hester till Susan gets able to cook. I left two loaves of bread in the closet, and will send more in the morning, which Hester can toast. I shall go by town, and send Dr. Arnold out."
"I would rather have Dr. Brandon, if you please."
"Why?"
"I have always heard that Dr. Arnold was so gruff and unfeeling, that I am afraid of him. I hate to be snapped up when I ask a question."
"That is a great mistake, Mrs. Davis. People do him injustice. He has one of the kindest, warmest hearts I ever knew, though sometimes he is rather abrupt in his manner. If you prefer it, however, I will see your doctor. Good-bye; I will come again to-morrow."
As she took her bridle from Philip's hand, the boy looked up at her with an expression bordering on adoration.
"Thank you, Philip; how did he behave?"
"Not very well; but he is beautiful enough to make up for his wildness."
"That is bad doctrine; beauty never should excuse bad behaviour. Is your mother at home?"
"No, ma'am."
"When she comes, ask her I say please to step in now and then, and overlook things for Mrs. Davis; Susan is sick. Philip, if it is not asking too much of you, Johnnie would like to have you sit by him till his little sister comes home, and wet that cloth which I left on his head. Will you?"
"Indeed, I will; I am very glad you told me. Certainly I will."
"I thought so. Don't talk to him; let him sleep if he will. Good-bye."
She went first to a woodyard on the river, and left an order for a cord of wood to be sent immediately to No. 13, Factory Row; then took the street leading to Doctor Brandon's office. A servant sat on the step whistling merrily; and, in answer to her questions, he informed her that his master had just left town, to be absent two days. She rode on for a few squares, doubling her veil in the hope of shrouding her features, and stopped once more in front of the door where stood Dr. Arnold's buggy.
"Cyrus, is the doctor in his office?"
"Yes, Miss Irene."
"Hold my horse for me."
She gathered the folds of her riding-habit over her arm, and went upstairs. Leaning far back in his chair, with his feet on the fender of the grate, sat Dr. Arnold, watching the blue smoke of his meerschaum curl lazily in faint wreaths over his head; and as she entered, a look of pleasant surprise came instantly into his cold, clear eyes.
"Bless me! Irene; I am glad to see you. It is many a day since you have shown your face here; sit down. Now, then, what is to pay? You are in trouble, of course; you never think of me except when you are. Has old Nellie treated herself to another spell of rheumatism, or Paragon broke his leg, or smallpox broke out anywhere; or, worse than all, have the hawks taken to catching your pigeons?"
"None of these catastrophes has overtaken me; but I come, as usual, to ask a favour. If you please, I want you to go up to the Factory Row this evening. Mrs. Davis, No. 13, has two children very sick, I am afraid. I don't like the appearance of their tongues."
"Humph! what do you know about tongues, I should like to be informed?"
"How to use my own, sir, at least, when there is a necessity for it. They are what you medical _savans_ call typhoid tongues; and from what I heard to-day, I am afraid there will be a distressing amount of sickness among the operatives. Of course you will go, sir?"
"How do you know that so well? Perhaps I will and perhaps I won't. Nobody ever looks after me, or cares about the condition of my health; I don't see why I must adopt the whole human race. See here, my child! do not let me hear of you at the Row again soon; it is no place for you, my lily. Ten to one it is some low, miserable typhus fever showing itself, and I will take care of your precious pets only on condition that you keep away, so that I shall not be haunted with the dread of having you, also, on my hands. If I lay eyes on you at the Row, I swear I will write to Leonard to chain you up at home. Do you hear?"
"I shall come every day; I promise you that."
"Oh! you are ambitious of martyrdom? But typhus fever is not the style, Queen. There is neither _éclat_ nor glory in such a death."
A sad smile curved her mouth, as she answered slowly-- "That is problematical, Doctor. But it is getting late, and I wish, if you please, you would go at once to the Row."
"Stop! if any good is accomplished among those semi-savages up yonder, who is to have the credit? Tell me that."
"God shall have the thanks; you all the credit as the worthy instrument, and I as much of the gratification as I can steal from you. Are you satisfied with your wages, my honoured Shylock? Good night."
"Humph! it is strange what a hold that queer motherless child took upon my heart in her babyhood, and it tightens as she grows older."
He shook the ashes from his pipe, put it away behind the clock, and went down to his buggy. Before breakfast the following morning, while Irene was in the poultry-yard feeding her chickens and pigeons, pheasants and peafowls, she received a note from Dr. Arnold containing these few scrawling words:-- "If you do not feel quite ready for the day of judgment, avoid the Row as you would the plagues of Egypt. I found no less than six developed cases of rank typhus.
"Yours, "HIRAM ARNOLD."
She put the note in her pocket, and, while the pigeons fluttered and perched on her shoulders and arms, cooing and pecking at her fingers, she stood musing--calculating the chances of contagion and death if she persisted. Raising her eyes to the calm blue sky, the perplexed look passed from her countenance, and, fully decided regarding her course, she went in to breakfast. Mr. Huntingdon was going to a neighbouring county with Judge Peterson, to transact some business connected with Hugh's estate, and, as the buggy came to the door, he asked, carelessly-- "What did Cyrus want?"
"He came to bring me a note from the doctor, concerning some sick people whom I asked him to see."
"Oh! John, put my overcoat in the buggy. Come, Judge; I am ready."
As he made no inquiry about the sick, she volunteered no explanation, and he bade her good-bye with manifest cold indifference. She could not avoid congratulating herself that, since he must take this journey soon, he had selected the present occasion to be absent, for she was well aware that he would violently oppose her wishes in the matter of the Row. When Dr. Arnold met her late in the afternoon of the same day, at little Johnnie's side, his surprise and chagrin found vent, first in a series of oaths, then, scowling at her like some thunder-cloud with the electricity expended, he said-- "Do you consider me a stark idiot, or a shallow quack?"
"Neither, sir, I assure you."
"Then, if I know anything about my business, I wrote you the truth this morning, and you treat my advice with cool contempt. You vex me beyond all endurance! Do you want to throw yourself into the jaws of death?"
"You forget, Doctor: 'Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.'"
She slipped her hand into his, and looked up, smiling and calm, into his harsh, swarthy face.
"My child, you made a mistake; your life belongs to me, for I saved it in your infancy. I cradled you in my arms, lest death should snatch you. I have a better right to you than anybody else in this world. I don't want to see you die; I wish to go first."
"I know what I owe you, Doctor; but I am not going to die, and you have scolded me enough for one time. Do make peace."
"Remember, I warned you, and you would not heed."
From that hour she kept faithful vigil in No. 13, passing continually from one bedside to another. Susan's attack proved comparatively light, and she was soon pronounced convalescent; but little Johnnie was desperately ill, and for several nights Irene sat at his pillow, fearing that every hour would be his last. While his delirium was at its height, Hester was taken violently, and on the morning when Irene felt that her labour was not in vain, and that the boy would get well, his little sister, whom she had nursed quite as assiduously, grew rapidly worse, and died at noon. As is frequently observed in such diseases, this increased in virulence with every new case. It spread with astonishing celerity through the Row, baffling the efforts of the best physicians in W----; and finally, the day after Hester's death, as Irene sat trying to comfort the poor mother, a neighbour came in exclaiming-- "Oh, Miss Irene! Philip Martin is down too. He caught the fever from his mother, and his father says won't you please come over?"
She went promptly, though so wearied she could scarcely stand, and took a seat by the bed where tossed the poor boy in whom she had taken such an interest.
"You must go home, Miss Huntingdon; you are worn out. His father can watch him till his mother gets stronger," said Dr. Brandon, who was fully acquainted with the unremitting attendance at the next house.
"No, I must stay with Philip; perhaps he will know me when he wakes."
A hope doomed to disappointment, for he raved for four days and nights, calling frantically for the serene, sad woman who sat at his pillow, bending over him and laying her cold hand on his scorched brow. On the fifth day, being free from fever and utterly prostrated, he seemed sinking rapidly; but she kept her fingers on his pulse, and, without waiting for the doctor's advice, administered powerful stimulants. So passed two hours of painful anxiety; then Philip opened his eyes languidly, and looked at her.
"Philip, do you know me?"
"Yes--Miss Irene."
She sank back as if some strong supporting hand had suddenly been withdrawn from her; and observing that she looked ghastly, Mr. Martin hastily brought her a glass of water. Just then Dr. Brandon entered, and examined his patient with evident surprise.
"What have you done to him, Miss Huntingdon?"
"Since daylight I have been giving him ammonia and brandy; his pulse was so feeble and thready, I thought he needed it, and was afraid to wait for you."
"Right! and you saved his life by it. I could not get here any earlier, and if you had delayed it until I came, it would probably have been too late. You may call him your patient after this."
She waited no longer, but staggered to the door; and Andrew, seeing how faint she was, came to meet her, and led her to the carriage. The ten days of watching had told upon her; and when she reached home, and Nellie brought her wrapper and unlaced her shoes, she fell back on her lounge in a heavy, deathlike sleep. Mr. Huntingdon had been expected two days before, but failed to arrive at the time designated; and having her fears fully aroused, Nellie despatched a messenger for Dr. Arnold.
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{
"id": "27811"
}
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24
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IRENE'S ILLNESS
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"Do you see any change, Hiram?"
"None for the better."
Mr. Huntingdon dropped his head upon his hand again, and Dr. Arnold resumed his slow walk up and down the carpet. The blue damask curtains had been looped back from the western window, and the broad band of yellow belting in the sky threw a mellow light over the bed where lay the unconscious heiress of the grand old Hill. Fever rouged the polished cheeks usually pure as alabaster, and touched the parted lips with deeper scarlet, lending a brilliant and almost unearthly beauty to the sculptured features. Her hair, partially escaping from confinement, straggled in crumpled rings and folds across the pillow, a mass of golden netting; and the sparkling eyes wandered from one object to another, as if in anxious search. The disease had assumed a different type, and instead of raving paroxysms, her illness was characterized by a silent, wakeful unconsciousness, while opiates produced only the effect of increasing her restlessness. A week had passed thus, during which time she had recognized no one; and though numerous lady friends came to offer assistance, all were refused permission to see her. Mr. Huntingdon was utterly ignorant of the duties of a nurse; and though he haunted the room like an unlifting shadow, Dr. Arnold and Nellie took entire charge of the patient. The former was unremitting in his care, sitting beside the pillow through the long winter nights, and snatching a few hours' sleep during the day. Watching her now, as he walked to and fro, he noticed that her eyes followed him earnestly, and he paused at the bedside and leaned over her.
"Irene, what do you want? Does my walking annoy you?"
No answer.
"Won't you shut your eyes, my darling, and try to sleep?"
The deep, brilliant eyes only looked into his with mocking intentness. He put his fingers on the lids and pressed them gently down, but she struggled, and turned away her face. Her hands crept constantly along the snowy quilt as if seeking for something, and taking them both, he folded them in his and pressed them to his lips, while tears, which he did not attempt to restrain, fell over them.
"You don't think she is any worse, do you?" asked the father, huskily.
"I don't know anything, except that she can't lie this way much longer."
His harsh voice faltered and his stern mouth trembled. He laid the hands back, went to the window and stood there till the room grew dusky and the lamp was brought in. As Nellie closed the door after her, the doctor came to the hearth, and said sharply-- "I would not be in your place for John Jacob Astor's fortune."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I mean that, if you have any conscience left, you must suffer the pains of purgatory for the manner in which you have persecuted that child."
"In all that I have ever done I have looked only to her good, to her ultimate happiness. I know that she----" "Hush, Leonard! hush! You are no more fit to be a father than I am to be a saint! You have tyrannized and fretted her poor innocent soul nearly out of her ever since she was big enough to crawl. Why the d----l could not you let the child have a little peace? There are ninety-nine chances to one that she has come to her rest at last. You will feel pleasantly when you see her in her shroud."
His hard face worked painfully, and tears glided down the wrinkled cheek and hid themselves in his grey beard. Mr. Huntingdon was much agitated, but an angry flush crossed his brow as he answered hastily,-- "I am the best judge of my family matters. You are unjust and severe. Of course I love my child better than anybody else."
"Heaven preserve her from such love as you have lavished on her! She is very dear to me. I understand her character; you either cannot or will not. She is the only thing in this world that I do really love. My pet, my violet-eyed darling!"
He shaded his face and swallowed a sob, and for some moments neither spoke. After a while the doctor buttoned up his coat and took his hat.
"I am going down to my office to get a different prescription. I will be back soon."
Contrary to his phlegmatic habit, the doctor had taken counsel of his fears until he was completely unnerved, and he went home more than usually surly and snappish. As he entered his office, Russell advanced to meet him from the window whence, for nearly an hour, he had been watching for his arrival.
"Good evening, doctor."
"What do you want?"
"How is Miss Huntingdon?"
"What is Miss Huntingdon to you?"
"She was one of my mother's best friends, though only a little girl at the time."
"And you love her for your mother's sake, I suppose? Truly filial."
"How is she to-night? Rumours are so unreliable, that I came to you to find out the truth."
"She is going to die, I am afraid."
A sudden pallor overspread Russell's face, but he sat erect and motionless, and, fastening his keen eyes upon him, the doctor added-- "She is about to be transplanted to a better world, if there is such a place. She is too good and pure for this cursed, pestiferous earth."
"Is the case so utterly hopeless? I cannot, I will not, believe it!" came indistinctly from the young man's bloodless lips.
"I tell you I know better! She stands on a hair stretched across her grave. If I don't succeed to-night in making her sleep (which I have been trying to accomplish for two days), she can't possibly live. And what is that whole confounded crew of factory savages in comparison with her precious life?"
"Is it true that her illness is attributable to nursing those people?"
"Yes. D----l take the Row! I wish the river would swallow it up."
"If I could only see her!" exclaimed Russell, and an expression of such intense agony settled on his features, usually so inflexible, that his companion was startled and astonished. The doctor regarded him a moment with perplexity and compassion mingled in his own face; then light broke upon him, and, rising, he laid his hand heavily on Russell's shoulder.
"Where are you going, Aubrey?"
"Back to my office."
"Is there any message which you would like for me to deliver to her, if she should recover consciousness? You may trust me, young man."
"Thank you; I have no message to send. I merely called to ask after her. I trust she will yet recover. Good night."
He walked on rapidly till he reached the door of his office. The gas was burning brightly over his desk, and red tape and legal-cap beckoned him in; but fathomless blue eyes, calm as mid-ocean, looked up at him, and, without entering, he turned, and went through the cold and darkness to the cemetery, to his mother's tomb. She had been his comfort in boyish sorrows, and habit was strong; he went to her grave for it still.
When Russell left him, Dr. Arnold carefully weighed out the powder and rode back to the Hill. He could perceive no change, unless it were a heightening of the carmine on cheeks and lips, and an increased twitching of the fingers, which hunted so pertinaciously about the bed-clothes.
"That everlasting picking, picking at everything is such an awful bad sign!" said poor Nellie, who was crying bitterly at the foot of the bed; and she covered her face with her apron to shut out the sight.
"You 'pick' yourself off to bed, Nellie! I don't want you snubbing and groaning around day and night."
"I am afraid to leave her a minute. I am afraid when my poor baby shuts her eyes she will never open 'em again till she opens 'em in heaven."
"Oh, go along to sleep! you eternal old stupid. I will wake you up, I tell you, if she gets worse."
He mixed one of the powders and stooped down.
"Irene--Irene, take this for me, won't you, dear?"
She gave no intimation of having heard him till he placed the wineglass to her mouth and raised her head tenderly; then she swallowed the contents mechanically. At the expiration of an hour he repeated the dose, and at ten o'clock, while he sat watching her intently, he saw the eyelids begin to droop, the long, silky lashes quivered and touched her cheeks. When he listened to her breathing, and knew that at last she slept, his grey head sank on his chest, and he murmured, inaudibly, "Thank God!" Patient as a woman, he kept his place at her side, fearing to move lest he should wake her; the dreary hours of night wore away; morning came, gloriously bright, and still she slept. The flush had faded, leaving her wan as death, and the little hands were now at rest. She looked like the figures which all have seen on cenotaphs, and anxiously and often the doctor felt the slow pulse, that seemed weary of its mission. He kept the room quiet, and maintained his faithful watch, refusing to leave her for a moment. Twelve o'clock rolled round, and it appeared, indeed, as if Nellie's prognostication would prove true, the sleeper was so motionless. At three o'clock the doctor counted the pulse, and, reassured, threw his head back against the velvet lining of the chair, and shut his aching eyes. Before five minutes had elapsed, he heard a faint, sweet voice say, "Paragon." Springing to his feet, he saw her put out her hand to pat the head of her favourite, who could not be kept out of the room, and howled so intolerably when they chained him, that they were forced to set him free. Now he stood with his paws on the pillow and his face close to hers whining with delight. Tears of joy almost blinded the doctor as he pushed Paragon aside, and said eagerly-- "Irene, one dog is as good as another! You know Paragon, do you know me, Queen?"
"Certainly--I know you, Doctor."
"God bless you, beauty! You haven't known me for a week."
"I am so thirsty--please give me some water."
He lifted her head, and she drank eagerly, till he checked her.
"There--we haven't all turned hydropathists since you were taken sick. Nellie! I say, Nellie! you witch of Endor! bring some wine-whey here. Irene, how do you feel, child?"
"Very tired and feeble, sir. My head is confused. Where is father?"
"Here I am, my daughter."
He bent down with trembling lips and kissed her, for the first time since the day of their estrangement, nearly three years before. She put her arms feebly around his neck, and as he held her to his heart, she felt a tear drop on her forehead.
"Father, have you forgiven me?"
He either could not or would not answer, but kissed her again warmly; and, as he disengaged her arms and left the room, she felt assured that at last she had been forgiven. She took the whey silently, and, after some moments, said-- "Doctor, have you been sitting by me a long time?"
"I rather think I have! --losing my sleep for nearly ten days, you unconscionable young heathen."
"Have I been so ill as to require that? I have a dim recollection of going on a long journey, and of your being by my side all the way."
"Well, I hope you travelled to your entire satisfaction, and found what, you wanted--for you were feeling about as if hunting for something, the whole time. Oh! I am so thankful that you know me once more. Child, you have cost me a deal of sorrow. Now be quiet, and go to sleep again; at least, don't talk to Nellie or Paragon. I shall take a nap on the sofa in the library."
She regained her strength very slowly, and many days elapsed before she was able to leave her room. One bright sunny morning she sat before the open window, looking down on the lawn where the pigeons flashed in and out of the hedges, and now and then glancing at the bouquet of choice hot-house flowers in the vase beside her. In her lap lay a letter just received from Harvey Young--a letter full of fond remembrance, grave counsel, and gentle encouragement--and the unbent lines about her mouth showed that her mind was troubled.
The doctor came in and drew up a chair.
"I should like to know who gave you leave to ride yesterday?"
"Father thought that I was well enough, and the carriage was close and warm. I hope, sir, that I shall not be on your hands much longer."
"What did I tell you? Next time don't be so hard-headed when you are advised by older and wiser persons. I trust you are quite satisfied with the result of your eleemosynary performances at the Row."
"Far from it, Doctor. I am fully acclimated now, and have nothing to fear in future. I am very sorry, sir, that I caused you all so much trouble and anxiety; I did not believe that I should take the fever. If Philip had not been so ill, I should have come out safely; but I suppose my uneasiness about him unnerved me in some way--for, when I saw that he would get well, all my strength left me in an instant. How is he, sir?"
"Oh! the young dog is as well as ever. Comes to my office every day to ask after his blessed Lady Bountiful."
Leaning forward carelessly, but so as to command a full view of her face, he added,-- "You stirred up quite an excitement in town, and introduced me generally to society. People who never inflicted themselves on me before thought it was incumbent on them to hang around my door to make inquiries concerning my fair patient. One night I found even that statue of bronze and steel, Russell Aubrey, waiting at my office to find out whether you really intended translation."
A change certainly passed swiftly over her countenance; but it was inexplicable, indescribable--an anomalous lightening of the eye and darkening of the brow. Before he could analyse it, her features resumed their wonted serenity, and he found her voice unfluttered.
"I was not aware that I had so many friends; it is a pleasant discovery, and almost compensates for the pain of illness. Take care, Doctor! You are tilting my flowers out of their vase."
"Confound the flowers, Queen! They are always in the way. It is a great pity there is such Theban-brother affection between your father and Aubrey. He has an amount of fine feeling hid away under that dark, Jesuitical, non-committal face of his. He has not forgotten your interest in his mother, and when I told him that I thought you had determined to take your departure from this world, he seemed really hurt about it. I always liked the boy, but I think he is a heretic in politics."
The doctor had scarcely taken his departure when Nellie's turbaned head showed itself at the door.
"That factory-boy, Philip, is downstairs; he brought back a book, and wants to see you. He seems in trouble; but you don't feel like being bothered to-day, do you?"
"Did he ask to see me?"
"Not exactly; but showed very plainly he wanted to see you."
"Let him come up."
As, he entered, she rose and held out her hand.
"Good morning, Philip; I am glad you are well enough to be out again."
He looked at her reverently, and, as he noticed the change her illness had wrought, his lips quivered and his eyes filled.
"Oh, Miss Irene! I am so glad you are better. I prayed for you all the time while you were so very ill."
"Thank you. Sit down, and tell me about the sick."
"They are all better, I believe, ma'am, except Mrs. Davis. She was wishing yesterday that she could see you again."
"I shall go there in a day or two. You are walking pretty well without your crutches. Have you resumed your work."
"I shall begin again to-morrow."
"It need not interfere with your studies. The nights are very long now, and you can accomplish a great deal if you feel disposed to do so. I think it possible I can obtain a situation for your father as carpenter on a plantation in the country, if he will promise to abstain from drinking. I have heard that he was a very good mechanic, and in the country he would not meet with such constant temptation. Do you suppose that he will be willing to leave town?"
"Oh, yes, ma'am! I think so. If you please, Miss Irene, I should be so glad if you would talk to him, and persuade him to take the pledge before he starts. I believe he would join the Temperance society if you asked him to do it. Oh! then I should have some heart to work."
"You and your mother must try to influence him and in a few days I will talk to him. In the meantime I will see about the situation, which is a very desirable one. Brighter days will soon come, I trust."
He took his cap from the carpet, rose, and looked at her with swimming eyes.
"Oh, Miss Irene! I wish I could tell you all I feel. I thank you more than I can ever express, and so does mother."
"You have finished your book, I see; don't you want another? Nellie will show you the library, and on the lower book-shelf, on the right-hand side of the door, you will find a large volume in leather binding--'Plutarch.' Take it with you, and read it carefully. Good-bye. I shall come down to the Row to-morrow or next day."
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{
"id": "27811"
}
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25
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RECONCILED
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"Well, Irene, what is your decision about the party at Mrs. Churchill's to-night?"
"I will go with you, father, if it is a matter of so much interest to you, though, as I told you yesterday, I should prefer declining the invitation as far as I am concerned."
"It is full time for you to go into society again. You have moped at home long enough." " 'Moped' is scarcely the right word, father."
"It matters little what you call it, the fact is the same. You have shut yourself in till you have grown to look like a totally different woman. Indeed, Irene, I won't permit it any longer; you must come out into the world once more. I am, sick of your black looks; let me see you in colours to-night."
"Will not pure white content you, father?"
"No, I am tired of it. Wear something bright."
"I have a favour to ask at your hands, father, will you give me that large beautiful vacant lot with the old willow tree, on the corner of Pine Street and Huntingdon Avenue, opposite the court-house?"
"Upon my word! I must say you are very modest in your request! What the deuce do you want with it?"
"I know that I am asking a good deal, sir; but I want it as a site for an orphan asylum. Will you give it to me?"
"No! I'll be hanged if I do! Are you going entirely deranged? What business have you with asylums, I should like to know? Put all of that ridiculous stuff out of your head. Here is something for which I sent to Europe. Eric selected it in Paris, and it arrived yesterday. Wear it to-night."
He drew a velvet case from his pocket and laid it before her. Touching the spring, the lid flew open, and on the blue satin lining lay the blazing coils of a magnificent diamond necklace and bracelets.
"How beautiful! how splendidly beautiful!"
She bent over the flashing mass in silent admiration for some time, examining the delicate setting, then looked up at her father.
"What did they cost?"
"Why do you want to know that?"
"I am pardonably curious on the subject."
"Well, then, I was silly enough to give seven thousand dollars for them."
"And what was the value of that lot I asked for?"
"Five thousand dollars."
"Father, these diamonds are the finest I ever saw. They are superbly beautiful; a queen might be proud of them, and I thank you most earnestly for such a gorgeous present; but if you will not be offended, I will be candid with you--I would a thousand times rather have the lot than the jewels."
The expression of blank astonishment with which these words were received would have been ludicrous but for the ominous thickening of his brows.
She laid her fingers on his arm, but he shook off the touch, and, scowling sullenly, snatched the velvet case from her hand.
He went to town, and she met him no more till she was attired for the party. Standing before the mirror in her own room she arranged the flowers in her hair, and, when the leaves were disposed to suit her fastidious taste, she took up a pearl set which he had given her years before, intending to wear it. But just then raising her eyes, she saw her father's image reflected in the glass. Without turning she put up her arms, and, laying her head back on his shoulder, said eagerly-- "My dear, dear father, do let us be reconciled."
Clouds and moodiness melted from his handsome features as he bent over her an instant, kissing her fondly; then his hands passed swiftly over her neck, an icy shower fell upon it, and she was clothed with light.
"My beautiful child, wear your diamonds as a seal of peace. I can't let you have the Pine Street lot--I want it for a different purpose; but I will give you three acres on the edge of town, near the depôt, for your asylum whim. It is a better location every way for your project."
"Thank you, father. Oh! thank you more than words can express."
She turned her lips to one of the hands still lingering on her shoulder.
"Irene, look at yourself. Diana of Ephesus! what a blaze of glory!"
Two days before the marriage of Charles Harris and Maria Henderson had been celebrated with considerable pomp, and the party to-night was given in honour of the event by Mrs. Churchill, a widowed sister of Judge Harris. She had spent several years in Paris superintending the education of a daughter, whom she had recently brought home to reside near her uncle, and dazzle all W---- with her accomplishments.
At ten o'clock there stood beneath the gas-lights in her elegant parlour a human fleshy antithesis, upon which all eyes were riveted--Salome Churchill--a dark imperious beauty, of the Cleopatra type, with very full crimson lips, passionate or pouting as occasion demanded; brilliant black eyes that, like August days, burned dewless and unclouded, a steady blaze; thick, shining, black hair elaborately curled, and a rich tropical complexion, clear and glowing as the warm blood that pulsed through her rounded graceful form. She wore a fleecy fabric, topaz-coloured, with black lace trimmings; yellow roses gemmed her hair, and topaz and ruby ornaments clasped her throat and arms. An Eastern queen she looked, exacting universal homage, and full of fiery jealousy whenever her eyes fell upon one who stood just opposite. Irene's dress was an airy blue _tulle_, flounced to the waist, and without trimming, save the violet and clematis clusters. Never had her rare beauty been more resplendent--more dazzlingly chilly; it seemed the glitter of an arctic ice-berg lit by some low midnight sun, and turn whither she would fascinated groups followed her steps. Salome's reputation as a brilliant _belle_ had become extended since Irene's long seclusion, yet to-night, on the reappearance of the latter, it was apparent to even the most obtuse that she had resumed her sway--the matchless cynosure of that social system. Fully conscious of the intense admiration she excited, she moved slowly from room to room, smiling once or twice when she met her father's proud look of fond triumph fixed upon her.
Leaning against the window to rest, while Charles Harris went in search of a glass of water, she heard Aubrey's name pronounced by some one on the gallery.
"Well, the very latest report is that, after all, Aubrey never fancied Grace Harris, as the quidnuncs asserted--never addressed her, or anybody else--but is now, sure enough, about to bear off _belle_ Salome, the new prize, right in the face of twenty rivals. I should really like to hear of something which that man could not do, if he set himself to work in earnest. I wonder whether it ever occurs to him that he once stood behind Jacob Watson's counter?"
"But Aubrey is not here to-night. Does not affect parties, I believe?"
"Rarely shows himself. But you mistake: he came in not twenty minutes ago; and you should have seen what I saw--the rare-ripe red deepen on Salome's cheeks when he spoke to her."
Irene moved away from the window, and soon after was about to accompany Charlie to the hall, when a Mr. Bainbridge came up and claimed her hand for the cotillion forming in the next room. As they took their places on the floor, she saw that Salome and Russell would be _vis-à-vis_.
Irene moved mechanically through the airy mazes of the dance, straining her ear to catch the mellow voice which uttered such graceful, fascinating nothings to Salome. Several times in the course of the cotillion Russell's hand clasped her, but even then he avoided looking at her, and seemed engrossed in conversation with his gay partner. Once Irene looked up steadily, and as she noted the expression with which he regarded his companion she wondered no longer at the rumour she had heard, and acknowledged to herself that they were, indeed, a handsome couple.
The dance ended; Irene declined to dance again. She looked about for Dr. Arnold, but he had disappeared; her father was deep in a game of euchre; and as she crossed the hall she was surprised to see Philip leaning against the door-facing, and peering curiously into the parlours.
"Philip, what are you doing here?"
"Oh, Miss Irene! I have been hunting for you ever so long. Mrs. Davis is dying, and Susan sent me after you. I went to your house two hours ago, and they said you were here. Will you come, ma'am!"
"Of course. Philip, find Andrew and the carriage, and I will meet you at the side door in five minutes."
She went to the dressing-room, asked for pencil and paper, and wrote a few lines, which she directed the servant to hand immediately to her father--found her shawl, and stole down to the side door. She saw the dim outline of a form sitting on the step, in the shadow of clustering vines, and asked-- "Is that you, Philip? I am ready."
The figure rose, came forward into the light, hat in hand, and both started visibly.
"Pardon me, Mr. Aubrey. I mistook you in the darkness for another."
Here Philip ran up the steps.
"Miss Irene, Andrew says he can't get to the side gate for the carriages. He is at the front entrance."
"Can I assist you, Miss Huntingdon?"
"I thank you; no."
"May I ask if you are ill?"
"Not in the least--but I am suddenly called away."
She passed him, and accompanied Philip to the carriage. A few minutes' rapid driving brought them to the Row, and, directing Andrew to return and wait for her father, Irene entered the low small chamber, where a human soul was pluming itself for its final flight home. The dying woman knew her even then in the fierce throes of dissolution, and the sunken eyes beamed as she bent over the pillow.
"God bless you! I knew you would come. My children--what will become of them? Will you take care of them? Tell me quick."
"Put your mind at rest, Mrs. Davis. I will see that your children are well cared for in every respect."
"Promise me!" gasped the poor sufferer, clutching the jewelled arm.
"I do promise you most solemnly that I will watch over them constantly. They shall never want so long as I live. Will you not believe me, and calm yourself?"
A ghastly smile trembled over the distorted features, and she bowed her head in assent.
"Mrs. Davis, don't you feel that you will soon be at rest with God?"
"Yes--I am going home happy--happy."
She closed her eyes and whispered-- "Sing my--hymn--once--more."
Making a great effort to crush her own feelings, Irene sang the simple but touching words of "Home Again," and though her voice faltered now and then, she sang it through--knowing, from the expression of the sufferer's face, that the spirit was passing to its endless rest.
A passionate burst of sorrow from Johnnie followed the discovery of the melancholy truth, and rising from the floor Irene seated herself on a chair, taking the child on her lap, and soothing his violent grief. Too young to realize his loss, he was easily comforted, and after a time grew quiet. She directed Susan to take him into the next room and put him on his pallet; and when she had exchanged a few words with Philip's mother about the disposition of the rigid sleeper, she turned to quit the apartment, and saw Russell standing on the threshold. Had the dead mother suddenly stepped before her she would scarcely have been more astonished and startled.
He extended one hand, and hastily taking hers, drew her to the door of the narrow, dark hall, where the newly-risen moon shone in.
"Come out of this charnel-house into the pure air once more. Do not shrink back--trust yourself with me this once at least." The brick walls of the factory rose a hundred yards off, in full view of the Row, and leading her along the river bank he placed her on one of the massive stone steps of the building.
"What brought you here to-night, Mr. Aubrey?"
"An unpardonable curiosity concerning your sudden departure--an unconquerable desire to speak to you once more. I came here overmastered by an irresistible desire to see you alone, to look at you, to tell you what I have almost sworn should never pass my lips--what you may consider unmanly weakness--nay, insanity, on my part. We are face to face at last, man and woman, with the golden bars of conventionality and worldly distinction snapped asunder. I am no longer the man whom society would fain flatter, in atonement for past injustice; and I choose to forget for the time, that you are the daughter of my bitterest deadly foe--my persistent persecutor. I remember nothing now but the crowned days of our childhood, the rosy dawn of my manhood, where your golden head shone my Morning Star. I hurl away all barriers and remember only the one dream of my life--my deathless, unwavering love for you. Oh, Irene! Irene! why have you locked that rigid cold face of yours against me? In the hallowed days of old you nestled your dear hands into mine, and pressed your curls against my cheek, and gave me comfort in your pure, warm, girlish affection; how can you snatch your frozen fingers from mine now, as though my touch were contamination? Be yourself once more--give me one drop from the old overflowing fountain. I am a lonely man; and my proud, bitter heart hungers for one of your gentle words, one of your sweet, priceless smiles. Irene, look at me! Give it to me?"
He sat down on the step at her feet, and raised his dark magnetic face, glowing with the love which had so long burned undimmed, his lofty full forehead wearing a strange flush.
She dared not meet his eye, and drooped her head on her palms, shrinking from the scorching furnace of trial, whose red jaws yawned to receive her. He waited a moment, and his low mellow voice rose to a stormy key.
"Irene, you are kind and merciful to the poor wretches in the Row. Poverty--nay, crime, does not frighten away your compassion for them! Why are you hard and cruelly haughty only to me?"
"You do not need my sympathy, Mr. Aubrey, and congratulations on your great success would not come gracefully from my lips. Most unfortunate obstacles long since rendered all intercourse between us impossible still; my feeling for you has undergone no change. I am, I assure you, still your friend."
It cost her a powerful effort to utter these words, and her voice took a metallic tone utterly foreign to it. Her heart writhed, bled and moaned in the grip of her steely purpose, but she endured all calmly--relaxing not one jot of her bitter resolution.
"My friend? Mockery! God defend me from such henceforth. Irene, you loved me once--nay, don't deny it! You need not blush for the early folly, which, it seems, you have interred so deeply; and though you scorn to meet me even as an equal, I know, I feel, that I am worthy of your love--that I comprehend your strange nature as no one else ever will--that, had such a privilege been accorded me, I could have kindled your heart, and made you supremely happy. Cursed barriers have divided us always; fate denied me my right. I have suffered many things; but does it not argue, at least, in favour of my love, that it has survived all the trials to which your father's hate had subjected me? To-night I could forgive him all! all! if I knew that he had not so successfully hardened, closed your heart against me. My soul is full of bitterness which would move you, if one trait of your girlish nature remained. But you are not my Irene! The world's queen, the dazzling idol of the ball-room, is not my blue-eyed, angelic Irene of old! I will intrude upon you no longer. Try at least not to despise me for my folly; I will crush it; and if you deign to remember me at all in future, think of a man who laughs at his own idiocy, and strives to forget that he ever believed there lived one woman who would be true to her own heart, even though the heavens fell and the world passed away!"
He rose partially, but her hand fell quickly upon his shoulder, and the bowed face lifted itself, stainless as starry jasmines bathed in equatorial dews.
"Mr. Aubrey, you are too severe upon yourself, and very unjust to me. The circumstances which conspired to alienate us were far beyond my control; I regret them as sincerely as you possibly can, but as unavailably. If I have individually occasioned you sorrow or disappointment, God knows it was no fault of mine! We stand on the opposite shores of a dark, bridgeless gulf; but before we turn away to be henceforth strangers, I stretch out my hand to you in friendly farewell--deeply regretting the pain which I may have innocently caused you, and asking your forgiveness. Mr. Aubrey, remember me as I was, not as I am. Good-bye, my friend. May God bless you in coming years, and crown your life with the happiness you merit, is the earnest prayer of my heart."
The rare blue cord on her brow told how fiercely the lava-flood surged under its icy bands, and the blanched lip matched her cheek in colourlessness; save these tokens of anguish, no other was visible.
Russell drew down the hand from his shoulder, and folded it in both his own.
"Irene, are we to walk different paths henceforth--utter strangers? Is such your will?"
"Such is the necessity, which must be as apparent to you as to me. Do not doubt my friendship, Mr. Aubrey; but doubt the propriety of my parading it before the world."
He bent his cheek down on her cold hand, then raised it to his lips once, twice--laid it back on her lap, and taking his hat, walked away toward town.
For some time she remained just as Russell had left her; then the white arms and dry eyes were raised to the midnight sky.
"My God! my God! strengthen me in my desolation!"
She put back the folds of hair that, damp with dew, clung to her gleaming temples, and recrossing the wide road or street, approached the chamber of death.
Irene met at the door Dr. Arnold's buggy.
"Irene, are you ready to go home?"
"Yes. Mrs. Davis is dead."
"As I was leaving Mrs. Churchill's, your father told me where you were, and I thought I would come after you. Put on your shawl and jump in. You are in a pretty plight, truly, to stand over a deathbed! 'Vanity of vanities! all is vanity!' Here, let me wrap that gauze cloud around your head. Now then!"
The top of the buggy had been lowered, and as they rode homeward she leaned her head back, turning her face to the sickly moonlight.
They went into the house, and as he filled and lighted his pipe, his cavernous eyes ran curiously over her.
"How you have blazed to-night! Your diamonds are superb."
"Yes, sir."
"Go to sleep at once, child. You look as if you had seen a ghost. What has knotted up your forehead in that style?"
"I have looked upon a melancholy death to-night, and have seen two helpless children orphaned. Come and see me soon; I want to consult you about an orphan asylum for which father has given me a lot. Good night, sir; I am very much obliged to you for your kindness in bringing me home. Nobody else is half so considerate and thoughtful."
In her own room she took off the jewels, withered violets and moist _tulle_--and drawing on her dressing-gown, went up to the observatory, and sat down on the threshold of one of the glass doors looking eastward.
"Think of a man who laughs at his own idiocy, and strives to forget that he ever believed there lived one woman who would be true to her own heart, though the heavens fell and the world passed away!"
These words of scorn were the burning shares over which her bare feet trod, and his bitter accents wailed up and down her lonely heart. Through the remainder of that cloudless night she wrestled silently. At last, when the sky flushed rosily, like an opal smitten with light, and holy Resignation--the blessing born only of great trial like hers--shed its heavenly chrism over the worn and weary, bruised and bleeding spirit, she gathered up the mangled hopes that might have gladdened, and gilded, and glorified her earthly career, and pressing the ruins to her heart, laid herself meekly down, offering all upon the God-built altar of Filial Obedience.
In the " ... early morning, when the air Was delicate with some last starry touch," she opened the door of her father's room and approached the bed. The noise wakened him, and raising himself on his elbow, he looked wonderingly at her.
"What is the matter, Irene? You look as if you had not closed your eyes."
"Father, you took me in your arms last night, and kissed me as you have not done before for years. Oh, father! my father! do not cast me off again! Whom have I in the world but you? By the memory of my sainted mother I ask--I claim your love!"
"You are a strange girl, Irene; I never did understand you. But I don't want to drive you from me, if you prefer to live here single. There shall be peace between us, my dear daughter."
He leaned forward, and laid his hand caressingly on her head, as she knelt at his bedside, pleading with uplifted arms.
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{
"id": "27811"
}
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26
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CIVIL WAR
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The treacherous four year's lull was broken at last by the mutter of the storm which was so soon to sweep over the nation, prostrating all interests, and bearing desolation to almost every hearthstone in our once happy, smiling land of constitutional freedom. Aubrey was deeply impressed with the vital consequences of the impending election; and as the conviction forced itself upon his mind that, through the demoralization of the Northern wing of Democracy, Lincoln would be elected, he endeavoured to prepare the masses for that final separation which he foresaw was inevitable. Lincoln was elected. Abolitionism, so long adroitly cloaked, was triumphantly clad in robes of state--shameless now, and hideous, and while the North looked upon the loathsome face of its political Mokanna, the South prepared for resistance.
No surer indication of the purpose of the Southern people could have been furnished, than the temper in which the news was received. No noisy outbursts, expending resolve in empty words--no surface excitement--but a stern calm gloom, set lips, heavy bent brows, appropriate in men who realized that they had a revolution on their hands; not indignation meetings, with fruitless resolutions--that they stood as body-guard for the liberty of the Republic, and would preserve the trust at all hazards. It would seem that, for a time at least, party animosities would have been crushed; but bitter differences sprang up at the very threshold on the _modus operandi_ of Southern release from Yankee-Egyptic bondage. Separate "State action" or "co-operation" divided the people, many of whom were earnestly impressed by the necessity and expediency of deliberate, concerted, simultaneous action on the part of all the Southern States, while others vehemently advocated this latter course solely because the former plan was advanced and supported by their old opponents. In this new issue, as if fate persistently fanned the flame of hate between Mr. Huntingdon and Russell Aubrey, they were again opposed as candidates for the State Convention.
W---- was once more convulsed, and strenuous efforts were made by both sides. Russell was indefatigable in his labours for prompt, immediate State action, proclaiming his belief that co-operation was impracticable before secession; and it was now that his researches in the dusty regions of statistics came admirably into play, as he built up his arguments on solid foundations of indisputable calculation.
The contest was close and heated, and resulted somewhat singularly in the election of a mixed ticket--two Secessionists being returned, and one Co-operationist, Mr. Huntingdon, owing to personal popularity.
While the entire South was girding for the contest, South Carolina, ever the _avant courier_ in the march of freedom, seceded; and if doubt had existed before, it vanished now from every mind--for all felt that the gallant State must be sustained. Soon after, Russell and Mr. Huntingdon stood face to face on the floor of their own State convention, and wrestled desperately. The latter headed the opposition, and so contumacious did it prove, that for some days the fate of the State lay in dangerous equilibrium. Finally, the vigilance of the Secessionists prevailed, and, late in the afternoon of a winter day, the ordinance was signed.
Electricity flashed the decree to every portion of the State, and the thunder of artillery and blaze of countless illuminations told that the people gratefully and joyfully accepted the verdict. W---- was vociferous; and as Irene gazed from the colonnade on the distant but brilliant rows of lights flaming along the streets, she regretted that respect for her father's feelings kept the windows of her own home dark and cheerless.
The 12th and 13th of April were days of unexampled excitement throughout the Southern States. The discharge of the first gun from Fort Moultrie crushed the last lingering vestiges of "Unionism," and welded the entire Confederacy in one huge homogeneous mass of stubborn resistance to despotism. With the explosion of the first shell aimed by General Beauregard against Fort Sumter burst the frail painted bubble of "Reconstruction," which had danced alluringly upon the dark, surging billows of revolution. W---- was almost wild with anxiety; and in the afternoon of the second day of the bombardment, as Irene watched the avenue, she saw her father driving rapidly homeward. Descending the steps, she met him at the buggy.
"Beauregard has taken Sumter. Anderson surrendered unconditionally. No lives lost."
"Thank God!"
They sat down on the steps, and a moment after the roar of guns shook the atmosphere, and cheer after cheer went up the evening sky.
"Act I, of a long and bloody civil war," said Mr. Huntingdon gravely. "To-day I have come to a determination which will doubtless surprise you."
He paused, and eyed her a moment.
"No, father; I am not surprised that you have determined to do your duty."
"How, Irene? What do you suppose that it is?"
"To use Nelson's words, the Confederacy 'expects that every man will do his duty'; and you are going into the army."
"Who told you that?"
"My own heart, father; which tells me what I should do were I in your place."
"Well, I have written to Montgomery, to Clapham, to tender my services. We were at West Point together; I served under him at Contreras and Chapultepec, and he will no doubt press matters through promptly. The fact is, I could not possibly stay at home now. My blood has been at boiling heat since yesterday morning, when I read Beauregard's first dispatch."
"Did you specify any branch of the service?"
"Yes; told him I preferred artillery. What is the matter? Your lips are as white as cotton. By the way what shall I do with you? It won't do to leave you here all alone."
"Why not, father? Home is certainly the proper place for me, if you cannot take me with you."
"What! with nobody but the servants?"
"They will take better care of me than anybody else. Nellie, and Andrew, and John are the only guardians I want in your absence. They have watched over me all my life, and they will do it to the end. Give yourself no trouble, sir, on my account."
"I suppose your Uncle Eric will be home before long; he can stay here till I come back--or--till the troubles are over. In the meantime, you could be with the Harrises, or Hendersons, or Mrs. Churchill."
"No, sir; I can stay here, which is infinitely preferable on many accounts. I will, with your permission, invite Mrs. Campbell to shut up the parsonage in her husband's absence, and remain with me till Uncle Eric returns. I have no doubt that she will be glad to make the change. Do you approve the plan?"
"Yes. That arrangement will answer for the present, and Arnold will be here to take care of you."
At the close of a week a telegraphic dispatch was received, informing Mr. Huntingdon of his appointment as major in the provisional army of the Confederacy and containing an order to report immediately for duty.
Having completed his arrangements, and ordered the carriage to be in readiness at daylight next morning to convey him to the depôt, he bade her good night much as usual, and retired to his own room.
But thought was too busy to admit of sleep. He turned restlessly on his pillow, rose, and smoked a second cigar, and returned, to find himself more wakeful than ever. The clock downstairs in the library struck one; his door opened softly, and, by the dim moonlight struggling through the window, he saw Irene glide to his bedside.
"Why don't you go to sleep, Irene?"
"Because I can't. I am too miserable."
Her voice was dry, but broken, faltering.
"Father, the future is dark and uncertain; and I feel that I want an assurance of your entire reconciliation and affection before you go. I came here to say to you that I deeply regret all the unfortunate circumstances of my life which caused you to treat me so coldly for a season--that if in anything I have ever seemed obstinate or undutiful, it was not because I failed in love for you, but from an unhappy difference of opinion as to my duty under very trying circumstances. Father, my heart ached very bitterly under your estrangement--the very memory is unutterably painful. I want your full, free forgiveness now, for all the trouble I have ever occasioned you. Oh, father! give it to me!"
He drew her close to him, and kissed her twice.
"You have my forgiveness, my daughter--though I must tell you that your treatment of poor Hugh has been a continual source of sorrow and keen disappointment to me. I never can forget your disobedience in that matter. I do not believe you will ever be happy, you have such a strange disposition; but since you took matters so completely in your own hands, you have only yourself to reproach. Irene, I very often wonder whether you have any heart--for it seems to me that if you have, it would have been won by the devotion which has been lavished on you more than once. You are the only woman I ever knew who appeared utterly incapable of love; and I sometimes wonder what will become of you when I am dead."
"God will protect me. I look continually to His guardianship. I won't keep you awake any longer, as you have a tedious journey before you. Good night, my dear father."
She kissed him tenderly and left him, closing the door softly behind her.
A spectral crescent moon flickered in the sky, and stars still burned in the violet East, when the carriage drove to the door, and Irene followed her father to the steps.
Even in that dim, uncertain grey light he could see that her face was rigid and haggard, and tears filled his cold, brilliant eyes as he folded her to his heart.
"Good-bye, Beauty. Cheer up, my brave child! and look on the bright side. After all, I may come back a brigadier-general, and make you one of my staff-officers! You shall be my adjutant, and light up my office with your golden head. Take care of yourself till Eric comes, and write to me often. Good-bye, my dear, my darling daughter."
She trembled convulsively, pressing her lips repeatedly to his.
"Oh, may God bless you, my father, and bring you safely back to me!"
He unwound her arms, put her gently aside, and stepped into the carriage.
William, the cook, who was to accompany him, stood sobbing near the door, and now advancing, grasped her hand.
"Good-bye, Miss Irene. May the Lord protect you all till we come back."
"William, I look to you to take care of father, and let me know at once if anything happens."
"I will, Miss Irene. I promise you I will take good care of master, and telegraph you if he is hurt."
He wrung her hand, the carriage rolled rapidly away, and the sorrow-stricken, tearless woman sat down on the steps and dropped her head in her hands.
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{
"id": "27811"
}
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27
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HOSPITAL STORES
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To those who reside at the convulsed throbbing heart of a great revolution, a lifetime seems compressed into the compass of days and weeks; and men and women are conscious of growing prematurely old while watching the rushing, thundering tramp of events, portentous with the fate of nations. W---- presented the appearance of a military camp, rather than the peaceful manufacturing town of yore. Every vacant lot was converted into a parade-ground--and the dash of cavalry, the low, sullen rumbling of artillery, and the slow, steady tread of infantry, echoed through its wide, handsome streets. Flag-staffs were erected from public buildings, private residences, and at the most frequent corners, and from these floated banners of all sizes, tossing proudly to the balmy breeze the new-born ensign of freedom--around which clustered the hopes of a people who felt that upon them, and them only, now devolved the sacred duty of proving to the world the capacity of a nation for self-government.
W---- gave her young men liberally; company after company was equipped, furnished with ample funds by the munificence of citizens who remained, and sent forward to Virginia, to make their breasts a shield for the proud old "Mother of Presidents." The battle of Bethel was regarded as part of an overture to the opera of Blood, yclept "Subjugation," and people watched in silence for the crimson curtain to rise on the banks of the Potomac. Russell Aubrey had succeeded in raising a fine full company for the war, as contra-distinguished from twelve-months volunteers; and to properly drill and discipline it, he bent all the energy of his character. It was made the nucleus of a new regiment; recruits gathered rapidly, and when the regiment organized, preparatory to starting for Virginia, he was elected colonel, with Herbert Blackwell for lieutenant-colonel, and Charles Harris was appointed adjutant. They were temporarily encamped on the common between the railroad depôt and Mr. Huntingdon's residence, and from the observatory or colonnade Irene could look down on the gleaming tents and the flag-staff that stood before the officers' quarters. _Reveille_ startled her at dawn, and _tattoo_ regularly warned her of the shortness of summer nights. As the fiery carriage-horses would not brook the sight of the encampment, she discarded them for a time, and when compelled to leave home rode Erebus at no slight risk of her life--for he evinced the greatest repugnance to the sound of drum or fife.
One afternoon she went over to the Row, and thence to the factory. A new company had been named in honour of her father; uniforms and haversacks were to be furnished, and Mr. Huntingdon had entrusted her with the commission. Selecting the cloth and accomplishing her errand, she returned by way of the orphan asylum, whose brick walls were rapidly rising under her supervision. One of the workmen took her horse, and she went over the building, talking to the principal mechanic about some additional closets which she desired to have inserted. Dr. Arnold chanced to be passing, but saw Erebus at the gate, stopped, and came in.
"I was just going up the Hill to see you, Queen--glad I am saved the trouble. Here, sit down a minute; I will clear the shavings away. When did you hear from Leonard?"
"I had a letter yesterday. He was well, and on outpost duty near Manassas."
"Well, I shall join him very soon."
"Sir?"
"I say I shall join him very soon; don't you believe it? Why shouldn't I serve my country as well as younger men? The fact is, I am going as surgeon of Aubrey's regiment."
She looked at him, betraying neither surprise nor regret.
"When will you leave W----?"
"Day after to-morrow morning; can't get transportation any sooner. Aubrey has received orders to report at once to General Beauregard. Child, have you been sick?"
"No, sir. I am glad you are going with the regiment; very glad. Every good surgeon in the Confederacy should hasten to the front line of our armies. Since you leave home, I am particularly glad that you are going to Manassas, where you can be near father."
He mused a moment, watching her furtively.
"I suppose you have heard of the performance for to-morrow?"
"No, sir. To what do you allude?"
"The daughter of Herodias is preparing to dance."
"I don't understand you, Doctor."
"Oh, don't you, indeed? Well, then, she intends to present a splendid regimental flag with her own brown hands; and as Aubrey is to receive it, the regiment will march to Mrs. Churchill's, where the speeches will be delivered. Will you attend?"
"Scarcely, I presume, as I am not invited. I knew that Salome was having an elegant flag made, but was not aware that to-morrow was appointed for the ceremony of presentation. When will you come to see me? I want you to take a parcel to father for me; and then I want to have a long talk."
"I know what the long talk amounts to. I am coming, of course, after the flag ceremonies, where I am expected. At one o'clock I will be at the Hill--perhaps earlier. Where now?"
"I must go by Mrs. Baker's, to see about giving out some sewing for the 'Huntingdon Rifles.' I can't do it all at home, and several families here require work. I shall expect you at one o'clock--shall have lunch ready for you. By the way, Doctor, is there anything I can do for you in the sewing line? It would give me genuine pleasure to make something for you, if you will only tell me what you need. Think over your wants."
She had caught up her reins, but paused, looking at him. He averted his head quickly.
"I will tell you to-morrow. Good evening."
As she went homeward a shadow fell upon her face--a shadow darker than that cast by the black plume in her riding-hat--and once or twice her lips writhed from their ordinary curves of beauty. Nearing the encampment she lowered her veil, but saw that dress parade had been dismissed, and as she shook the reins and Erebus quickened his gallop, she found herself face to face with the colonel, who had just mounted his horse and was riding toward town. She looked at him and bowed; but, in passing, he kept his eyes fixed on the road before him, and in the duskiness his face seemed colder and more inflexible than ever. Such had been the manner of their occasional meetings since the interview at the factory, and she was not surprised that this, her first greeting, was disregarded. The public believed that an engagement existed between him and Salome, and the attentions heaped upon him by the family of the latter certainly gave colour to the report. But Irene was not deceived; she had learned to understand his nature, and knew that his bitterness of feeling and studied avoidance of herself betokened that the old affection had not been crushed. Struggling with the dictates of her heart, and a sense of the respect due to her father's feelings, she passed a sleepless night in pacing the gallery of the observatory. It was a vigil of almost intolerable perplexity and anguish. Under all its painful aspects she patiently weighed the matter, and at sunrise next morning, throwing open the blinds of her room, she drew her rosewood desk to the window, and wrote these words-- "COL. AUBREY,-- "Before you leave W---- allow me to see you for a few moments. If your departure is positively fixed for to-morrow, come to me this afternoon, at any hour which may be most convenient.
"Respectfully, "IRENE HUNTINGDON."
As the regiment prepared to march to Mrs. Churchill's residence, the note was received from Andrew's hands. Returning his sword to its scabbard, the colonel read the paper twice, three times--a heavy frown gathered on his forehead, his swarthy cheek fired, and, thrusting the note into his pocket, he turned toward his regiment, saying hastily to the servant-- "You need not wait. No answer is expected."
At the breakfast-table Irene opened a hasty missive from Salome, inviting her to be present at the presentation of the flag, and begging a few choice flowers for the occasion. Smiling quietly, she filled the accompanying basket with some of the rarest treasures of the greenhouse, added a bowl of raspberries which the gardener had just brought in, and sent all, with a brief line excusing herself from attending.
The morning was spent in writing to her father, preparing a parcel for him, and in superintending the making of a large quantity of blackberry jelly and cordial for the use of the hospitals.
About noon Dr. Arnold came, and found her engaged in sealing up a number of the jars, all neatly labelled. The day was warm; she had pushed back her hair from her brow, as she bent over her work; the full sleeves were pinned up above the elbow, and she wore a white check-muslin apron to protect her dress from the resin and beeswax.
"In the name of Medea and her Colchian cauldron! what are you about, Irene?"
"Fixing a box of hospital stores for you to take with you. I have finished, sir. Let me wash my hands, and I will give you some lunch in the dining-room."
"No; I lunched with the Israelites. Salome was brilliant as a Brazilian fire-fly, and presented her banner quite gracefully. Aubrey looked splendid in his uniform; was superbly happy in his speech--always is. Madam did the honours inimitably, and, in fine--give me that fan on the table--everything was decidedly _comme il faut_. You were expected, and you ought to have gone; it looked spiteful to stay away. I should absolutely like to see you subjected to 212° Fahrenheit, in order to mark the result. Here I am almost suffocating with the heat, which would be respectable in Soudan, and you sit there bolt upright, looking as cool as a west wind in March. Beauty, you should get yourself patented as a social refrigerator, 'Warranted proof against the dog-days.' What rigmarole do you want me to repeat to Leonard?"
"I wish, if you please, when you get to Manassa, that you would persuade father to allow me to come, at least, as far as Richmond. You have some influence with him; will you use it in my favour?"
"You are better off at home; you could possibly do no good."
"Still I want to go. Remember, my father is all I have in this world."
"And what have you elsewhere, Irene?"
"My mother, my Saviour, and my God."
"Are you, then, so very anxious to go to Virginia?" he repeated, after a pause.
"I am. I want to be near father."
"Well, I will see what I can do with him. If I fail, recollect that he is not proverbial for pliability. Look here--are you nervous? Your fingers twitch, and so do your eyelids, occasionally, and your pulse is twenty beats too quick."
"I believe I am rather nervous to-day."
"Why so?"
"I did not sleep last night; that is one cause, I suppose."
"And the reason why you did not sleep? Be honest with me."
"My thoughts, sir, were very painful. Do you wonder at it in the present state of the country?"
"Irene, answer me one question, dear child: what does the future contain for you? What hope have you? --what do you live for?"
"I have much to be grateful for--much that makes me happy, and I hope to do some good in the world while I live. I want to be useful--to feel that I have gladdened some hearts, strengthened some desponding spirits, carried balm to some hearth-stones, shed some happiness on the paths of those who walk near me through life."
"Have you, then, fully resolved to remain single?"
"Why do you ask me that, Dr. Arnold?"
"Because you are dear to me, Queen; and I should like to see you happily married before I am laid in my grave."
"You will never see it. Be sure I shall live and die Irene Huntingdon."
"What has induced you to doom yourself to a----" "Ask me no more, Doctor. If I am content with my lot, who else has the right to question?"
He looked into that fair chiselled face, and wondered whether she could be truly "content"; and the purity and peace in her deep, calm eyes baffled him sorely. She rose, and laid her hand on his shoulder.
"Dr. Arnold, promise me that if there is a battle, and father should be hurt, you will telegraph me at once. Do not hesitate--let me know the truth immediately. Will you?"
"I promise."
"And now, sir, what can I make or have made for you which will conduce to your comfort?"
"Have you any old linen left about the house that could be useful among the wounded?"
"I have sent off a good deal, but have some left. In what form do you want it? As lint, or bandages?"
"Neither; pack it just as it is, and send it on by express. I can't carry the world on my shoulders."
"Anything else?"
"Write to the overseer's wife to sow all the mustard-seed she can lay her hands on, and save all the sage she can. And, Irene, be sure to send me every drop of honey you can spare. That is all, I believe. If I think of anything else, I will write you."
He stooped, kissed her forehead, and hurried out to his buggy.
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{
"id": "27811"
}
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28
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A CONFESSION
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The summer day was near its death when Colonel Aubrey rode up the stately avenue, whose cool green arches were slowly filling with shadows. Fastening his spirited horse to the iron post, he ascended the marble steps, and John received his card, and ushered him into the front parlour. The next moment Irene stood at the door; he turned his head, and they were face to face once more.
Never had her extraordinary beauty so stirred his heart; a faint flush tinged his cheek, but he bowed frigidly, and haughtily his words broke the silence.
"You sent for me, Miss Huntingdon, and I obeyed your command. Nothing less would have brought me to your presence."
She crossed the room and stood before him, holding out both hands, while her scarlet lips fluttered perceptibly. Instead of receiving the hands he drew back a step, and crossed his arms proudly over his chest. She raised her fascinating eyes to his, folded her palms together, and, pressing them to her heart, said, slowly and distinctly-- "I heard that you were ordered to Virginia, to the post of danger; and knowing to what risks you will be exposed, I wished to see you at least once more in this world. Perhaps the step I am taking may be condemned by some as a deviation from the delicacy of my sex--I trust I am not wanting in proper appreciation of what is due to my own self-respect--but the feelings which I have crushed back so long now demand utterance. Russell, I have determined to break the seal of many years' silence--to roll away the stone from the sepulchre--to tell you all. I feel that you and I must understand each other before we part for all time, and, therefore, I sent for you."
She paused, drooping her head, unable to meet his searching, steady black eyes riveted upon hers; and, drawing his tall athletic figure to its utmost height, he asked defiantly-- "You sent for me through compassionate compunctions, then--intending, at the close, to be magnanimous, and, in lieu of disdain, tell me that you pity me?"
"Pity you? No, Russell; I do not pity you."
"It is well. I neither deserve nor desire it."
"What motive do you suppose prompted me to send for you on the eve of your departure?"
"I am utterly at a loss to conjecture. I once thought you too generous to wish to inflict pain unnecessarily on any one; but God knows this interview is inexpressibly painful to me."
A numbing suspicion crossed her mind, blanching lip and cheek to the hue of death, and hardening her into the old statue-like expression. Had he, indeed, ceased to love her? Had Salome finally won her place in his heart? He saw, without comprehending, the instantaneous change which swept over her features, and regarded her with mingled impatience and perplexity.
"If such be the truth, Colonel Aubrey, the interview is ended."
He bowed, and turned partially away, but paused irresolute, chained by that electrical pale face, which no man, woman, or child ever looked at without emotion.
"Before we part, probably for ever, I should like to know why you sent for me."
"Do you remember that, one year ago to-night, we sat on the steps of the factory, and you told me of the feeling you had cherished for me from your boyhood?"
"It was a meeting too fraught with pain and mortification to be soon forgotten."
"I believe you thought me cold, heartless, and unfeeling then?"
"There was no room to doubt it. Your haughty coldness carried its own interpretation."
"Because I knew that such was the harsh opinion you had entertained for twelve months, I sought this opportunity to relieve myself of an unjust imputation. If peace had been preserved, and you had always remained quietly here, I should never have undeceived you--for the same imperative reasons, the same stern necessity, which kept me silent on the night to which I allude, would have sealed my lips through life. But all things are changed; you are going into the very jaws of death, with what result no human foresight can predict; and now, after long suffering, I feel that I have earned and may claim the right to speak to you of that which I have always expected to bury with me in my grave."
Again her crowned head bowed itself.
Past bitterness and wounded pride were instantly forgotten; hope kindled in his dark, stern face, a beauty that rarely dwelt there, and, throwing down his hat, he stepped forward and took her folded hands in his strong grasp.
"Irene, do you intend me to understand--are you willing that I shall believe that, after all, I have an interest in your heart--that I am more to you than you ever before deigned to let me know? If it, indeed, be so, oh! give me the unmistakable assurance."
Her lips moved; he stooped his haughty head to catch the low fluttering words.
"You said that night: 'I could forgive your father all! all if I knew that he had not so successfully hardened, closed your heart against me.' Forgive him, Russell. You never can know all that you have been to me from my childhood. Only God, who sees my heart, knows what suffering our long alienation has cost me."
An instant he wavered, his strong frame quivered, and then he caught her exultingly in his arms, resting her head upon his bosom, leaning his swarthy hot cheek on hers, cold and transparent as alabaster.
"At last I realize the one dream of my life! I hold you to my heart, acknowledged all my own! Who shall dare dispute the right your lips have given me? Hatred is powerless now; none shall come between me and my own. O Irene! my beautiful darling! not all my ambitious hopes, not all the future holds, not time, nor eternity, could purchase the proud, inexpressible joy of this assurance."
"Instead of cherishing your affection for me, you struggled against it with all the energy of your character. I have seen, for some time, that you were striving to crush it out--to forget me entirely."
"I do not deny it; and certainly you ought not to blame me. You kept me at a distance with your chilling, yet graceful, fascinating _hauteur_. I had nothing to hope--everything to suffer. I diligently set to work to expel you utterly from my thoughts; and I tell you candidly, I endeavoured to love another, who was brilliant, and witty, and universally admired. But her fitful, stormy, exacting temperament was too much like my own to suit me. I tried faithfully to become attached to her, intending to make her my wife, but I failed signally. My heart clung stubbornly to its old worship; my restless, fiery spirit could find no repose, no happiness, save in the purity, the profound marvellous calm of your nature. You became the synonym of peace, rest; and, because you gave me no friendly word or glance, locking your passionless face against me, I grew savage toward you. Did you believe that I would marry Salome?"
"No! I had faith that, despite your angry efforts, your heart would be true to me."
"Why did you inflict so much pain on us both, when a word would have explained all? When the assurance you have given me to-day would have sweetened the past years of trial?"
"Because I knew it would not have that effect. A belief of my indifference steeled you against me--nerved you to endurance. But a knowledge of the truth would have increased your acrimony of feeling toward him whom you regarded as the chief obstacle, and this, at all hazards, I was resolved to avoid. Because I realized so fully the necessity of estrangement, I should never have acquainted you with my own feelings had I not known that a long, and perhaps final, separation now stretches before us. In the painful course which duty imposed on me, I have striven to promote your ultimate happiness, rather than my own."
"Irene, how can you persuade yourself that it is your duty to obey an unjust and tyrannical decree, which sacrifices the happiness of two to the unreasonable vindictiveness of one?"
"Russell, do not urge me; it is useless. Spare me the pain of repeated refusals, and be satisfied with what I have given you. Believe that my heart is, and ever will be, yours entirely, though my hand you can never claim. I know what I owe my father, and I will pay to the last iota; and I know as well what I owe myself, and, therefore, I shall live true to my first and only love, and die Irene Huntingdon. More than this you have no right to ask--I no right to grant. Be patient, Russell; be generous."
"Do you intend to send me from you? To meet me henceforth as a stranger?"
"Circumstances, which I cannot control, make it necessary."
"At least you will let me hear from you sometimes? You will give me the privilege of writing to you?"
"Impossible, Russell; do not ask that of me."
"Oh, Irene! you are cruel! Why withhold that melancholy comfort from me?"
"Simply for the reason that it would unavoidably prove a source of pain to both. I judge you by myself. I want neither your usefulness in life nor mine impaired by continual weak repining. If your life is spared I shall anxiously watch your career, rejoicing in all your honours, and your noble use of the talents which God gave you for the benefit of your race and the advancement of truth."
"I am not as noble as you think me; my ambition is not as unselfish as you suppose. Under your influence other aims and motives might possess me."
"You mistake your nature. Your intellect and temperament stamp you one of the few who receive little impression from extraneous influences; and it is because of this stern, obstinate individuality of character that I hope an extended sphere of usefulness for you, if you survive this war. Our country will demand your services, and I shall be proud and happy in the knowledge that you are faithfully and conscientiously discharging the duties of a statesman."
He shook his head sadly, placing his palm under her chin, and tenderly raising the face, in order to scan it fully.
"Irene, give me a likeness of yourself as you stand now; or, if you prefer it, have a smaller one photographed to-morrow from that portrait on the wall, and send it to me by express. I shall be detained in Richmond several days, and it will reach me safely. Do not, I beg of you, refuse me this. It is the only consolation I can have, and God knows it is little enough! Oh, Irene, think of my loneliness, and grant this last request!"
His large brilliant eyes were full of tears, the first she had ever seen dim their light, and, moved by the grief which so transformed his lineaments she answered hastily-- "Of course, if you desire it so earnestly, though it were much better that you had nothing to remind you of me."
"Will you have it taken to-morrow?"
"Yes."
She covered her face with her hands for some seconds, as if striving to overcome some impulse; then, turning quickly to him, she wound her arms about his neck, and drew his face down to hers.
"Oh, Russell! Russell! I want your promise that you will so live and govern yourself that, if your soul is summoned from the battlefield, you can confront Eternity without a single apprehension. If you must yield up your life for freedom, I want the assurance that you have gone to your final home at peace with God; that you wait there for me; and that, when my work is done, and I, too, lay my weary head to rest, we shall meet soul to soul, and spend a blessed eternity together, where strife and separation are unknown."
His black locks lay upon her forehead as he struggled for composure, and, after a moment, he answered solemnly-- "I will try, my darling."
She put into his hand the Bible, which she had carefully marked and which bore on the blank leaf, in her handwriting, "Colonel Russell Aubrey, with the life-long prayers of his best friend."
The shadow fled from her countenance, which grew radiant as some fleecy vapour suddenly smitten with a blaze of sunlight, and clearer and sweeter than chiming bells her voice rang through the room.
"Thank God for that promise! I shall lean my heart upon it till the last pulsations are stilled in my coffin. And now I will keep you no longer from your regiment. I know that you have many duties there to claim your time. Turn your face toward the window; I want to look at it, to be able to keep its expression always before me."
She put up her waxen hand, brushed the hair from his pale, dome-like brow, and gazed earnestly at the noble features, which even the most fastidious could find no cause to carp at.
"Of old, when Eurystheus threatened Athens, Macaria, in order to save the city and the land from invasion and subjugation, willingly devoted herself a sacrifice upon the altar of the gods. Ah, Russell! that were an easy task, in comparison with the offering I am called upon to make. I cannot, like Macaria, by self-immolation, redeem my country--from that great privilege I am debarred--but I yield up more than she ever possessed. I give my all on earth--my father and yourself--to our beloved and suffering country. My God! accept the sacrifice, and crown the South a sovereign, independent nation!"
She smothered a moan, and her head sank on his shoulder; but lifting it instantly, with her fathomless affection beaming in her face, she added-- "To the mercy and guidance of Almighty God I commit you, dear Russell, trusting all things in His hands. May He shield you from suffering, strengthen you in the hour of trial, and reunite us eternally in His kingdom, is, and ever shall be, my constant prayer. Good-bye, Russell. Do your duty nobly; win deathless glory on the battlefield in defence of our sacred cause; and remember that your laurels will be very precious to my lonely heart."
He watched the wonderful loveliness of face and form, till his pride was utterly melted, and, sinking on his knees, he threw one arm around her waist exclaiming-- "O Irene, you have conquered! With God's grace I will so spend the residue of my life as to merit your love, and the hope of reunion beyond the grave."
She laid her hand lightly on his bowed head as he knelt beside her, and, in a voice that knew no faltering, breathed out a fervent prayer, full of pathos and sublime faith--invoking blessings upon him--life-long guardianship, and final salvation through Christ. The petition ended, she rose, smiling through the mist that gathered over her eyes, and he said-- "I now ask something which I feel that you will not refuse me. Electra will probably soon come home, and she may be left alone in the world. Will you sometimes go to her for my sake, and give her your friendship?"
"I will, Russell, for her sake, as well as for yours. She shall be the only sister I have ever known."
She drew his hand to her lips, but he caught it away, and pressed a last kiss upon them.
"Good-bye, my own darling! my life angel!"
She heard his step across the hall; a moment after, the tramp of his horse, as he galloped down the avenue, and she knew that the one happy hour of her life had passed--that the rent sepulchre of silence must be re-sealed.
Pressing her hand over her desolate heart, she murmured sadly-- "Thy will, not mine, O Father! Give me strength to do my work; enable me to be faithful even to the bitter end."
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{
"id": "27811"
}
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29
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A DYING MESSAGE
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In July, 1861, when the North, blinded by avarice and hate, rang with the cry of "On to Richmond," our Confederate Army of the Potomac was divided between Manassa and Winchester, watching at both points the glittering coils of the Union boa-constrictor, which writhed in its efforts to crush the last sanctuary of freedom. The stringency evinced along the Federal lines prevented the transmission of dispatches by the Secessionists of Maryland, and for a time Generals Beauregard and Johnston were kept in ignorance of the movements of the enemy. Patterson hung dark and lowering around Winchester, threatening daily descent; while the main column of the grand army under McDowell proceeded from Washington, confident in the expectation of overwhelming the small army stationed at Manassa. The friends of liberty who were compelled to remain in the desecrated old capital appreciated the urgent necessity of acquainting General Beauregard with the designs of McDowell, and the arch-apostate, Scott; but all channels of egress seemed sealed; all roads leading across the Potomac were vigilantly guarded, to keep the great secret safely; and painful apprehensions were indulged for the fate of the Confederate army. But the Promethean spark of patriotic devotion burned in the hearts of Secession women; and, resolved to dare all things in a cause so holy, a young lady of Washington, strong in heroic faith, offered to encounter any perils, and pledged her life to give General Beauregard the necessary information. Carefully concealing a letter in the twist of her luxuriant hair, which would escape detection even should she be searched, she disguised herself effectually, and, under the mask of a market-woman, drove a cart through Washington, across the Potomac, and deceived the guard by selling vegetables and milk as she proceeded. Once beyond Federal lines, and in friendly neighbourhood, it was but a few minutes' work to "off ye lendings," and secure a horse and riding-habit. With a courage and rapidity which must ever command the admiration of a brave people she rode at hard gallop that burning July afternoon to Fairfax Court-house, and telegraphed to General Beauregard, then at Manassa's Junction, the intelligence she had risked so much to convey. Availing himself promptly of the facts, he flashed them along electric wires to Richmond, and to General Johnston; and thus, through womanly devotion, a timely junction of the two armies was effected, ere McDowell's banners flouted the skies of Bull Run.
The artillery duel of the 18th of July ended disastrously for the advance guard of the Federals--a temporary check was given.
A pure Sabbath morning kindled on the distant hill-tops, wearing heavenly credentials of rest and sanctity on its pearly forehead--credentials which the passions of mankind could not pause to recognize; and with the golden glow of summer sunshine came the tramp of infantry, the clatter of cavalry, the sullen growl of artillery. Major Huntingdon had been temporarily assigned to a regiment of infantry after leaving Richmond, and was posted on the right of General Beauregard's lines, commanding one of the lower fords. Two miles higher up the stream, in a different brigade, Colonel Aubrey's regiment guarded another of the numerous crossings. As the day advanced, and the continual roar of cannon toward Stone-Bridge and Sudley's ford indicated that the demonstrations on McLean's, Blackford's and Mitchell's fords were mere feints to hold our right and centre, the truth flashed on General Beauregard that the main column was hurled against Evans' little band on the extreme left. Hour after hour passed, and the thunder deepened on the Warrenton road; then the General learned, with unutterable chagrin, that his order for an advance on Centreville had miscarried, that a brilliant plan had been frustrated, and that new combinations and dispositions must now be resorted to. The regiment to which Major Huntingdon was attached was ordered to the support of the left wing, and reached the distant position in an almost incredibly short time, while two regiments of the brigade to which Colonel Aubrey belonged were sent forward to the same point as a reserve.
Like incarnations of victory, Beauregard and Johnston swept to the front where the conflict was most deadly; everywhere, at sight of them, our thin ranks dashed forward, and were mowed down by the fire of Rickett's and Griffin's batteries, which crowned the position they were so eager to regain. At half-past two o'clock the awful contest was at its height; the rattle of musketry, the ceaseless whistle of rifle balls, the deafening boom of artillery, the hurtling hail of shot, the explosion of shell, dense volumes of smoke shrouding the combatants, and clouds of dust boiling up on all sides, lent unutterable horror to a scene which, to cold, dispassionate observers, might have seemed sublime. As the vastly superior numbers of the Federals forced our stubborn bands to give back slowly, an order came from General Beauregard for the right of his line, except the reserves, to advance, and recover the long and desperately disputed plateau. With a shout, the shattered lines sprang upon the foe and forced them temporarily back. Major Huntingdon's horse was shot under him; he disengaged himself and marched on foot, waving his sword and uttering words of encouragement. He had proceeded but a few yards when a grape-shot entered his side, tearing its way through his body, and he fell where the dead lay thickest. For a time the enemy retired, but heavy reinforcements pressed in, and they returned, reoccupying the old ground. Not a moment was to be lost; General Beauregard ordered forward his reserves for a second effort, and with magnificent effect, led the charge in person. Then Russell Aubrey first came actively upon the field. At the word of command he dashed forward with his splendid regiment, and, high above all, towered his powerful form, with the long black plume of his hat drifting upon the wind as he led his admiring men.
As he pressed on, with thin nostril dilated, and eyes that burned like those of a tiger seizing his prey, he saw, just in his path, leaning on his elbow, covered with blood, and smeared with dust, the crushed, withering form of his bitterest enemy. His horse's hoofs were almost upon him; he reined him back an instant, and glared down at his old foe. It was only for an instant, and as Major Huntingdon looked on the stalwart figure and at the advancing regiment, life-long hatred and jealousy were forgotten--patriotism throttled all the past in her grasp--he feebly threw up his hand, cheered faintly, and, with his eyes on Russell's, smiled grimly, saying, with evident difficulty-- "Beat them back, Aubrey! Give them the bayonet."
The shock was awful--beggaring language. On, on they swept, while ceaseless cheers mingled with the cannonade; the ground was recovered, to be captured no more. The Federals were driven back across the turnpike, and now dark masses of reinforcements debouched on the plain, and marched toward our left. Was it Grouchy or Blucher? Some moments of painful suspense ensued, while General Beauregard strained his eyes to decipher the advancing banner. Red and white and blue, certainly; but was it the ensign of Despotism or of Liberty? Nearer and nearer came the rushing column, and lo! upon the breeze streamed, triumphant as the Labarum of Constantine, the Stars and Bars. Kirby Smith and Elzey--God be praised! The day was won, and Victory nestled proudly among the folds of our new-born banner. One more charge along our whole line, and the hireling hordes of oppression fled panic-stricken. Russell had received a painful wound from a minnie ball, which entered his shoulder and ranged down toward the elbow, but he maintained his position, and led his regiment a mile in the pursuit. When it became evident that the retreat was a complete rout, he resigned the command to Lieutenant-Colonel Blackwell, and rode back to the battlefield.
Picking his way to avoid trampling the dead, Russell saw Major Huntingdon at a little distance, trying to drag himself toward a neighbouring tree. The memory of his injuries crowded upon the memory of all that he had endured and lost through that man's prejudice--the sorrow that might have been averted from his blind mother--and his vindictive spirit rebelled at the thought of rendering him aid. But as he paused and struggled against his better nature, Irene's holy face, as he saw it last, lifted in prayer for him, rose, angel-like, above all that mass of death and horrors. The sufferer was Irene's father; she was hundreds of miles away. Russell set his lips firmly, and, riding up to the prostrate figure, dismounted. Exhausted by his efforts, Major Huntingdon had fallen back in the dust, and an expression of intolerable agony distorted his features as Russell stooped over him, and asked in a voice meant to be gentle-- "Can I do anything for you? Could you sit up, if I placed you on my horse?"
The wounded man scowled as he recognized the voice and face, and turned his head partially away, muttering-- "What brought you here?"
"There has never been any love between us, Major Huntingdon; but we are fighting in the same cause for the first time in our lives. You are badly wounded, and, as a fellow-soldier, I should be glad to relieve your sufferings, if possible. Once more, for humanity's sake, I ask, can you ride my horse to the rear, if I assist you to mount?"
"No. But, for God's sake, give me some water!"
Russell knelt, raised the head, and unbuckling his canteen, put it to his lips, using his own wounded arm with some difficulty. Half of the contents was eagerly swallowed, and the remainder Russell poured slowly on the gaping, ghastly wound in his side. The proud man eyed him, steadily till the last cool drop was exhausted, and said sullenly-- "You owe me no kindness, Aubrey. I hate you, and you know it. But you have heaped coals of fire on my head. You are more generous than I thought you. Thank you, Aubrey; lay me under that tree yonder, and let me die."
"I will try to find a surgeon. Who belongs to your regiment?"
"Somebody whom I never saw till last week. I won't have him hacking about me. Leave me in peace."
"Do you know anything of your servant? I saw him as I came on the field."
"Poor William! he followed me so closely that he was shot through the head. He is lying three hundred yards to the left, yonder. Poor fellow! he was faithful to the last."
A tear dimmed the master's eagle eye as he muttered, rather than spoke, these words.
"Then I will find Dr. Arnold at once, and send him to you."
It was no easy matter, on that crowded, confused Aceldama, and the afternoon was well-nigh spent before Russell, faint and weary, descried Dr. Arnold busily using his instruments in a group of wounded. He rode up, and, having procured a drink of water and refilled his canteen, approached the surgeon.
"Doctor, where is your horse? I want you."
"Ho, Cyrus! bring him up. What is the matter, Aubrey? You are hurt."
"Nothing serious, I think. But Major Huntingdon is desperately wounded--mortally, I am afraid. See what you can do for him."
"You must be mistaken! I have asked repeatedly for Leonard, and they told me he was in hot pursuit, and unhurt. I hope to Heaven you are mistaken."
"Impossible; I tell you I lifted him out of a pool of his own blood. Come; I will show you the way."
At a hard gallop they crossed the intervening woods, and, without difficulty, Russell found the spot where the mangled form lay still. He had swooned, with his face turned up to the sky, and the ghastliness of death had settled on his strongly marked, handsome features.
"God pity Irene!" said the doctor, as he bent down and examined the horrid wound, striving to press the red lips together.
The pain caused from handling him roused the brave spirit to consciousness, and opening his eyes he looked around wonderingly.
"Well, Hiram! it is all over with me, old fellow."
"I hope not, Leonard; can't you turn a little, and let me feel for the ball?"
"It is of no use; I am torn all to pieces. Take me out of this dirt, on the fresh grass somewhere."
"I must first extract the ball. Aubrey, can you help me raise him a little?"
Administering some chloroform, he soon succeeded in taking out the ball, and, with Russell's assistance, passed a bandage round the body.
"There is no chance for me, Hiram; I know that. I have few minutes to live. Some water."
Russell put a cup to his white lips, and calling in the assistance of Cyrus, who had followed his master, they carried him several yards farther, and made him comfortable, while orders were despatched for an ambulance.
A horrible convulsion seized him at this moment, and so intense was the agony that a groan burst through his set teeth, and he struggled to rise. Russell knelt down and rested the haughty head against his shoulder, wiping off the cold drops that beaded the pallid brow. After a little while, lifting his eyes to the face bending over him, Major Huntingdon gazed into the melancholy black eyes, and said, almost in a whisper-- "I little thought I should ever owe you thanks. Aubrey, forgive me all my hate; you can afford to do so now. I am not a brute; I know magnanimity when I see it. Perhaps I was wrong to visit Amy's sins on you; but I could not forgive her. Aubrey, it was natural that I should hate Amy's son."
Again the spasm shook his lacerated frame, and twenty minutes after his fierce, relentless spirit was released from torture; the proud, ambitious, dauntless man was with his God.
Dr. Arnold closed the eyes with trembling fingers, and covered his face with his hands to hide the tears that he could not repress.
For some moments silence reigned; then Dr. Arnold said suddenly-- "Come in, and let me see your arm. Your sleeve is full of blood."
An examination discovered a painful flesh-wound--the minnie ball having glanced from the shoulder and passed out through the upper part of the arm. In removing the coat to dress the wound, the doctor exclaimed-- "Here is a bullet-hole in the breast, which must have just missed your heart! Was it a spent ball?"
A peculiar smile disclosed Russell's faultless teeth an instant, but he merely took the coat, laid it over his uninjured arm, and answered-- "Don't trouble yourself about spent balls--finish your job. I must look after my wounded."
As soon as the bandages were adjusted he walked away and took from the inside pocket of the coat a heavy square morocco case containing Irene's ambrotype. When the coat was buttoned as on that day, it rested over his heart; and during the second desperate charge of General Beauregard's lines, Russell felt a sudden thump, and, above all the roar of that scene of carnage, heard the shivering of the glass which covered the likeness. The morocco was torn and indented, but the ball was turned aside harmless, and now, as he touched the spring, the fragments of glass fell at his feet. It was evident that his towering form had rendered him a conspicuous target; some accurate marksman had aimed at his heart, and the ambrotype-case had preserved his life. With a countenance pale from physical suffering, but beaming with triumphant joy for the Nation's first great victory, he went out among the dead and dying, striving to relieve the wounded, and to find the members of his own command.
But all of intolerable torture centred not there, awful as was the scene. Throughout the length and breadth of the Confederacy telegraphic despatches told that the battle was raging; and an army of women spent that 21st upon their knees, in agonizing prayer for husbands and sons who wrestled for their birthright on the far-off field of blood.
The people of W---- were subjected to painful suspense as hour after hour crept by, and a dense crowd collected in front of the telegraph office, whence floated an ominous red flag. Andrew waited on horseback to carry to Irene the latest intelligence, and during the entire afternoon she paced the colonnade, with her eyes fixed on the winding road. At half-past five o'clock the solemn stillness of the sultry day was suddenly broken by a wild, prolonged shout from the town; cheer after cheer was caught up by the hills, echoed among the purple valleys, and finally lost in the roar of the river. Andrew galloped up the avenue with an extra, yet damp from the printing-press, containing the joyful tidings that McDowell's army had been completely routed, and was being pursued toward Alexandria. Meagre was the account--our heroes, Bee and Bartow, had fallen. No other details were given, but the premonition, "Heavy loss on our side," sent a thrill of horror to every womanly heart, dreading to learn the price of victory. Irene's white face flashed as she read the despatch, and raising her hands, exclaimed-- "Oh, thank God! thank God!"
"Shall I go back to the office?"
"Yes; I shall certainly get a despatch from father some time to-night. Go back and wait for it. Tell Mr. Rogers, the operator, what you came for, and ask him I say please to let you have it as soon as it arrives. And, Andrew, bring me any other news that may come before my despatch."
As the night advanced, her face grew haggard, and the wan lips fluttered ceaselessly. Russell she regarded as already dead to her in this world, but for her father she wrestled desperately in spirit. Mrs. Campbell joined her, uttering hopeful, encouraging words, and Nellie came out, with a cup of tea on a waiter.
"Please drink your tea, just to please me, Queen. I can't bear to look at you. In all your life I never saw you worry so. Do sit down and rest; you have walked fifty miles since morning."
"Take it away, Nellie. I don't want it."
"But, child, it will be time enough to fret when you know Mas' Leonard is hurt. Don't run to meet trouble; it will face you soon enough. If you won't take the tea, for pity's sake let me get you a glass of wine."
"No; I tell you I can't swallow anything. If you want to help me, pray for father."
She resumed her walk, with her eyes strained in the direction of the town.
Thus passed three more miserable hours; then the clang of the iron gate at the foot of the avenue fell on her aching ear; the tramp of horses' hoofs and roll of wheels came up the gravelled walk.
The carriage stopped; Judge Harris and his wife came up the steps, followed slowly by Andrew, whose hat was slouched over his eyes. As they approached Irene put out her hands wistfully.
"We have won a glorious victory, Irene, but many of our noble soldiers are wounded. I knew you would be anxious, and we came----" "Is my father killed!"
"Your father was wounded. He led a splendid charge."
"Wounded! No! he is killed! Andrew, tell me the truth--is father dead?"
The faithful negro could no longer repress his grief, and sobbed convulsively, unable to reply.
"Oh, my God! I knew it!" she gasped.
The gleaming arms were thrown up despairingly, and a low, dreary cry wailed through the stately old mansion as the orphan turned her eyes upon Nellie and Andrew--the devoted two who had petted her from childhood.
Judge Harris led her into the library, and his weeping wife endeavoured to offer consolation, but she stood rigid and tearless, holding out her hand for the despatch. Finally they gave it to her and she read:-- "CHARLES T. HARRIS-- "Huntingdon was desperately wounded at three o'clock to-day, in making a charge. He died two hours ago. I was with him. The body leaves to-morrow for W----.
"HIRAM ARNOLD."
The paper fell from her fingers; with a dry sob she turned from them, and threw herself on the sofa, with her face of woe to the wall. So passed the night.
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{
"id": "27811"
}
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30
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THE BLOCKADE RUNNER
|
"I intend to trust you with important despatches, Miss Grey--for I have great confidence in female ingenuity, as well as female heroism. The meekest of women are miniature Granvelles; nature made you a race of schemers. Pardon me if I ask, how you propose to conceal the despatches? It is no easy matter now to run the blockade of a Southern port, especially on the Gulf; and you must guard against being picked up by the Philistines."
"I am fully aware of all the risk attending my trip; but if you will give me the papers, prepared as I directed in my note from Paris, I will pledge my life that they shall reach Richmond safely. If I am captured and carried North, I have friends who will assist me in procuring a passport to the South, and little delay will occur. If I am searched, I can bid them defiance. Give me the despatches, and I will show you how I intend to take them."
Electra opened her trunk, took out a large portfolio, and selected from the drawings one in crayon representing the heads of Michael Angelo's Fates. Spreading it out, face downward, on the table, she laid the closely-written tissue paper of despatches smoothly on the back of the thin pasteboard; then fitted a square piece of oil-silk on the tissue missive, and having, with a small brush, coated the silk with paste, covered the whole with a piece of thick drawing paper, the edges of which were carefully glued to those of the pasteboard. Taking a hot iron from the grate, she passed it repeatedly over the paper, till all was smooth and dry; then in the centre wrote with a pencil: "Michael Angelo's _Fates_, in the Pitti Palace. Copied May 8th, 1861." From a list of figures in a small note-book she added the dimensions of the picture, and underneath all, a line from Euripides.
Her eyes sparkled as she bent over her work, and at length, lifting it for inspection, she exclaimed triumphantly-- "There, sir! I can baffle even the Paris detective, much more the lynx-eyed emissaries of Lincoln, Seward & Co. Are you satisfied? Examine it with your own hands."
"Perfectly satisfied, my dear young lady. But suppose they should seize your trunk? Confiscation is the cry all over the North."
"Finding nothing suspicious or 'contraband' about me, except my Southern birth and sympathies, they would scarcely take possession of the necessary tools of my profession. I have no fear, sir; the paper is fated to reach its destination."
"Are your other despatches sealed up pictorially?"
She laughed heartily.
"Of course not. We women are too shrewd to hazard all upon one die."
"Well--well! You see that we trust important data to your cunning fingers. You leave London to-morrow for Southampton; will arrive just in time for the steamer. Good-bye, Miss Grey. When I get back to the Confederacy, I shall certainly find you out. I want you to paint the portraits of my wife and children. From the enviable reputation you have already acquired I am proud to claim you for my countrywoman. God bless you, and lead you safely home. Good-bye, Mr. Mitchell. Take care of her and let me hear from you on your arrival."
From the hour when tidings of the fall of Sumter reached Europe, Electra had resolved to cut short the studies which she had pursued so vigorously since her removal to Florence, and return to the South. But the tide of travel set toward, not from European shores, and it was not until after repeated attempts to find some one homeward-bound, that she learned of Eric Mitchell's presence in Paris, and his intention of soon returning to W----. She wrote at once, requesting his permission to place herself under his care. It was cordially accorded; and, bidding adieu to Italy, she joined him without delay, despite the pleadings of Mr., Mrs. Young, and Louisa, who had recently arrived at Florence, and sincerely mourned a separation under such painful circumstances.
Eric was detained in Paris by a severe attack of the old disease, but finally reached London--whence, having completed their arrangements, they set off for Southampton, and took passage in the _Trent_, which was destined subsequently to play a prominent part in the tangled rôle of Diplomacy, and to furnish the most utterly humiliating of many chapters of the pusillanimity, sycophancy, and degradation of the Federal government.
The voyage proved pleasant and prosperous; and, once at Havana, Eric anxiously sought an opportunity of testing the vaunted efficiency of the blockade. Unfortunately, two steamers had started the week previous, one to New Orleans, the other to Charleston; only sailing vessels were to be found, and about the movements of these, impenetrable mystery seemed wrapped. On the afternoon of the third day after their arrival, Eric, wearied with the morning's fruitless inquiry, was resting on the sofa at the hotel, while Electra watched the tide of passers-by, when Willis, Eric's servant, came in quickly, and walked up to the sofa.
"Master, Captain Wright is here. I asked him to come and see you, and he is waiting downstairs."
"Captain Wright?"
"Yes, sir; the captain you liked so much at Smyrna--the one who gave you that pipe, sir."
"Oh, I remember! Yes--yes; and he is here? Well, show him up."
"Master, from the way he watches the clouds, I believe he is about to run out. Maybe he can take us?"
"Willis is invaluable to you, Mr. Mitchell," said Electra, as the negro left the room.
"He is indeed. He is eyes, ears, crutches, everything to me, and never forgets anything or anybody. He has travelled over half the world with me--could desert me, and be free at any moment he felt inclined to do so--but is as faithful now as the day on which I first left home with him."
"Ah, Captain! this is an unexpected pleasure. I am heartily glad to see you. Miss Grey--Captain Wright. Take a seat."
The captain looked about thirty, possibly older; wore a grey suit and broad straw hat, and, when the latter was tossed on the floor, showed a handsome, frank, beaming face, with large, clear, smiling blue eyes, whose steady light nothing human could dim. His glossy reddish-brown hair was thrust back from a forehead white and smooth as a woman's, but the lower portion of the face was effectually bronzed by exposure to the vicissitudes of climate and weather; and Electra noticed a peculiar nervous restlessness of manner, as though he were habitually on the watch.
"I am astonished to see you in Havana, Mitchell. Where did you come from?"
"Just from Paris, where bad health drove me, after I bade you good-bye at Smyrna. Have you a vessel here, captain?"
"Of course I have! Don't you suppose that I would be in the army if I could not serve my country better by carrying in arms and ammunition? I have already made two successful trips with my schooner--ran in, despite the blockaders. I am negotiating for a steamer, but until I can get one ready I intend to sail on."
"When did you arrive here last?"
"About ten days ago. They chased me for nearly fifteen miles, but I stole out of sight before morning."
"When do you expect to leave here?"
The captain darted a swift, searching glance at Electra, rose and closed the door, saying, with a light laugh-- "Take care, man! You are not exactly deer-hunting or crab-catching in a free country! Mind that, and talk softly. I am watched here; the Federal agents all know me, and there are several Federal vessels in port. When do I expect to leave? Well, to-night, if the weather thickens up, as I think it will, and there is evident sign of a storm. Most sailors wait for fair weather; we blockade runners for foul."
"Oh, Captain! do take us with you!" said Electra eagerly.
"What! In a rickety schooner, in the teeth of a gale? Besides, Miss, I am taking a cargo of powder this trip, and if I am hard pressed I shall blow up vessel and all, rather than suffer it to fall into Yankee clutches. You would not relish going up to heaven after the fashion of a rocket, would you?"
"I am willing, sir, to risk everything you threaten, rather than wait here indefinitely."
"Can't you take us, Wright--Miss Grey, Willis, and myself? We are very impatient to get home."
"But I have no accommodation for passengers."
"But I suppose, sir, we could contrive to live a few days without eating at a regular table. I will take some cheese and crackers and fruit along in a basket, if that will ease your mind. Do waive your scruples, and consent to take charge of us."
"I add my prayers to hers. Wright, do take us. We shall not mind privations or inconvenience."
"Well, then, understand distinctly that, if anything happens, you are not to blame me. If the young lady gets sea-sick, or freckled, or sunburnt, or starved to death, or blown up, or drowned, or, worse than all, if the Yankee thieves by the wayside take her as a prize, it will be no fault of mine whatever, and I tell you now I shall not lay it on my conscience."
"Wright, to what part are you bound?"
"Ah! that is more than I can tell you. The winds must decide it. I can't try the Carolinas again this trip; they are watching for me too closely there. New Orleans is rather a longer run than I care to make, and I shall keep my eyes on Apalachicola and Mobile."
"What object have you in starting to-night, particularly in the face of a gale?"
Again the captain's eyes swept round the room, to guard against any doors that might be ajar.
"As I told you before, I am watched here. The Federals have a distinguished regard for me, and I have to elude suspicion, as well as run well, when I do get out. Two hours ago a Federal armed steamer which has been coaling here, weighed anchor, and has probably left the harbour, to cruise between this place and Key West. As they passed, one of the crew yelled out to me that they would wait outside, and catch me certainly this time; that I had made my last jaunt to Dixie, etc. I have carefully put out the impression that I need some repairs, which cannot be finished this week; and have told one or two confidentially that I could not leave until the arrival of a certain cargo from Nassau which is due to-morrow. That Puritanical craft which started off at noon does not expect me for several days, and to-night I shall rub my fingers and sail out right in her wake. Ha! ha! how they will howl! What gnashing of teeth there will be, when they hear of me in a Confederate port! And now about your baggage. Have everything ready; I will show Willis the right wharf, and at dark he must bring the trunks down; I will be on the watch, and send a boat ashore. About sunset you and Miss Grey can come aboard, as if for a mere visit. I must go and make what little preparation I can for your comfort."
Nothing occurred to frustrate the plan; Eric and Electra were cordially received, and at dusk Willis and the baggage arrived punctually. The schooner was lying some distance from the wharf, all sails down, and apparently contemplating no movement. With darkness came a brisk, stiffening wind, and clouds shutting out even dim starlight. At ten o'clock, all things being in readiness, the captain went on deck; very soon after the glimmering lights of the city, then the frowning walls of Moro, were left behind, and the _Dixie_ took her way silently and swiftly seaward.
About two o'clock, being unable to sleep, from the rocking of the vessel, Electra, knowing that Eric was still on deck, crept up the steps in the darkness, for the lights had been extinguished. The captain was passing, but paused, saying in a whisper-- "Is that you, Miss Grey? Come this way and I will show you something."
He grasped her hand, led her to the bow, where Eric was sitting on a coil of rope, and, pointing straightforward, added in the same suppressed tone-- "Look right ahead--you see a light? The Philistines are upon us! Look well, and you will see a dark, irregular, moving mass; that is the steamer of which I told you. They have found out at last that there is going to be all sorts of a gale, and as they can't ride it like my snug, dainty little egg-shell, they are putting back with all possible speed. Twenty minutes ago they were bearing down on me; now you see that they will pass to our left. What a pity they don't know their neighbours!"
"Do you think that they will not see you?"
"Certainly! with sails down, and lights out, there is nothing to be seen on such a night as this. There! don't you hear her paddles?"
"No. I hear nothing but the roar of the wind and water."
"Ah! that is because your ears are not trained like mine. Great Neptune! how she labours already! Now! be silent."
On came the steamer, which Electra's untrained eyes, almost blinded by spray, could barely discern; and her heart beat like a muffled drum as it drew nearer and nearer. Once she heard a low, chuckling laugh of satisfaction escape the captain; then, with startling distinctness, the ringing of a bell was borne from the steamer's deck.
"Four bells--two o'clock. How chagrined they will be to-morrow, when they find out they passed me without paying their respects!" whispered the captain.
Gradually the vessel receded, the dark mass grew indistinct, the light flickered, and was soon lost to view, and the sound of the labouring machinery was drowned in the roar of the waves.
Before he went back on deck, the captain made a comfortable place for her on the sofa in the little cabin. The storm increased until it blew a perfect hurricane, and the schooner rolled and creaked, now and then shivering in every timber. It was utterly impossible to sleep, and Eric, who was suffering from a headache, passed a miserable night. In the white sickly dawn the captain looked in again, and Electra thought that no ray of sunshine could be more radiant or cheering than his joyous, noble face.
About noon the fury of the gale subsided, the sun looked out through rifts in the scudding clouds, and toward night fields of quiet blue were once more visible. By next morning the weather had cleared up, with a brisk westerly wind; but the sea still rolled heavily; and Eric, unable to bear the motion, kept below, loth to trust himself on his feet. Electra strove to while away the tedious time by reading aloud to him; but many a yearning look was cast toward the deck, and finally she left him with a few books, and ran up to the open air.
On the afternoon of the third day after leaving Havana the captain said-- "Well, Miss Grey, I shall place you on Confederate soil to-morrow, God willing."
"Then you are going to Mobile?"
"Yes; I shall try hard to get in there early in the morning. You will know your fate before many hours."
"Do you regard this trial as particularly hazardous?"
"Of course; the blockading squadrons grow more efficient and expert every day, and some danger necessarily attends every trial. Mobile ought to be pretty well guarded by this time."
The wind was favourable, and the schooner ploughed its way swiftly through the autumn night. The captain did not close his eyes; and just about daylight Electra and Eric, aroused by a sudden running to and fro, rose, and simultaneously made their appearance on deck.
"What is the matter, Wright?"
"Matter! why, look ahead, my dear fellow, and see where we are. Yonder is Sand Island lighthouse, and a little to the right is Fort Morgan. But the fleet to the left is hardly six miles off, and it will be a tight race if I get in."
There was but a glimmering light, rimming the East, where two or three stars burned with indescribable brilliance and beauty, and in the grey haze and wreaths of mist which curled over the white-capped waves, Electra could distinguish nothing. The air was chill, and she said, with a slight shiver-- "I can't see any lighthouse."
"There is, of course, no light there, these war-times; but you see that tall, white tower, don't you? There, look through my glass. That low dark object yonder is the outline of the fort; you will see it more distinctly after a little. Now, look right where my finger points; that is the flag-staff. Look up overhead--I have hoisted our flag, and pretty soon it will be a target for those dogs.
"Ha! Mitchell! Hutchinson! they see us! There is some movement among them. They are getting ready to cut us off this side of the Swash channel! We shall see."
He had crowded on all sail, and the little vessel dashed through the light fog as if conscious of her danger, and resolved to sustain herself gallantly. Day broke fully, sea and sky took the rich orange tint which only autumn mornings give, and in this glow a Federal frigate and sloop slipped from their moorings, and bore down threateningly on the graceful bounding schooner.
"But for the fog, which puzzled me about three o'clock, I should have run by unseen, and they would never have known it till I was safe in Navy cove. We will beat them, though, as it is, by about twenty minutes. An hour ago I was afraid I should have to beach her. Are you getting frightened, Miss Grey?"
"Oh, no! I would not have missed this for any consideration. How rapidly the Federal vessels move! They are gaining on us."
Her curling hair, damp with mist, clustered around her forehead; she had wrapped a scarlet crape shawl about her shoulders, and stood with her red lips apart and trembling, watched the exciting race.
"Look at the frigate!"
There was a flash at her bow, a curl of white smoke rolled up, then a heavy roar, and a thirty-two pounder round shot fell about a hundred yards to the right of the vessel.
A yell of defiance rent the air from the crew of the _Dixie_--hats were waved--and, snatching off her shawl, Electra shook its bright folds to the stiffening breeze, while her hot cheeks matched them in depth of colour.
Another and another shot was fired in quick succession, and so accurate had they become, that the last whizzed through the rigging, cutting one of the small ropes.
"Humph! they are getting saucy," said the captain looking up coolly, when the yells of his crew ceased for a moment; and, with a humorous twinkle in his fine eyes, he added-- "Better go below, Miss Grey; they might clip one of your curls next time. The Vandals see you, I dare say, and your red flag stings their Yankee pride a little."
"Do you suppose they can distinguish me?"
"Certainly. Through my glass I can see the gunners at work, and of course they see you. Should not be surprised if they aimed specially at you. That is the style of New England chivalry."
Whiz--whiz; both sloop and frigate were firing now in good earnest, and one shell exploded a few yards from the side of the little vessel, tossing the foam and water over the group on deck.
The boom of a columbiad from the fort shook the air like thunder, and gave to the blockaders the unmistakable assurance, "Thus far, and no farther."
The schooner strained on its way; a few shot fell behind, and soon, under the frowning bastions of the fort, whence the Confederate banner floated so proudly on the balmy Gulf breeze, spreading its free folds like an ægis, the gallant little vessel passed up the channel, and came to anchor in Mobile Bay, amid the shouts of crew and garrison, and welcomed by a salute of five guns.
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{
"id": "27811"
}
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31
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RESULTS OF SECESSION
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Immediately after her arrival in Mobile, Electra prepared to forward her despatches by Captain Wright, whose business called him to Richmond before his return to Cuba; and an examination of them proved that the expedient resorted to was perfectly successful. By moistening the edges of the drawing-paper, the tissue missive was drawn out uninjured, and, to Eric's surprise, she removed the carefully-stitched blue silk which lined the tops of her travelling gauntlets, and extracted similar despatches, all of which were at once transmitted to the seat of government. While waiting for a boat, they heard the painful tidings of Major Huntingdon's death, which increased Eric's impatience to reach W----. The remainder of the journey was sad, and four days after leaving the Gulf City the lights of W---- and roar of the Falls simultaneously greeted the spent travellers. Having telegraphed of his safe arrival, the carriage was waiting at the depôt, and Andrew handed to Electra a note from his mistress, requesting her to come at once to her house instead of going to the hotel. Eric added earnest persuasion, and with some reluctance the artist finally consented. They were prepared for the silent, solemn aspect of the house, and for the mourning dress of the orphan, but not for the profound calm, the melancholy, tearless composure with which she received them. Mental and physical suffering had sadly changed her. The oval face was thinner, and her form had lost its roundness, but the countenance retained its singular loveliness, and the mesmeric splendour of the large eyes seemed enhanced. Of her father she did not speak, but gave her uncle a written statement of all the facts which she had been able to gather concerning the circumstances of his death; and thus a tacit compact was formed; to make no reference to the painful subject.
As she accompanied Electra to the room prepared for her, on the night of her arrival, the latter asked, with ill-concealed emotion-- "Irene, can you tell me anything about Russell? I am very anxious to hear something of him."
Irene placed the silver lamp on the table, and standing in its glow, answered quietly-- "He was wounded in the arm at Manassa, but retains command of his regiment, and is doing very well. Dr. Arnold is the regimental surgeon, and in one of his letters to me he mentioned that your cousin's wound was not serious."
"I am going to him immediately."
"Unfortunately, you will not be allowed to do so. The wounded were removed to Richmond as promptly as possible, but your cousin remained at Manassa, where ladies are not permitted."
"Then I will write to him to meet me in Richmond."
Irene made no reply, and, watching her all the while, Electra asked-- "When did you see him last? How did he look?"
"The day before he started to Richmond. He was very well, I believe, but looked harassed and paler than usual. He is so robust, however, that I think you need entertain no apprehension concerning his health."
The inflexible features, the low, clear, firm voice were puzzling, and Electra's brow thickened and darkened as she thought-- "Her father is dead now; there is no obstacle remaining. She must love him, and yet she gives no sign of interest."
Two days later, they sat together before one of the parlour windows. Electra was engaged in tearing off and rolling bandages, while Irene slowly scraped lint from a quantity of old linen, which filled a basket at her side. Neither had spoken for some time; the sadness of their occupation called up gloomy thoughts; but finally Electra laid down a roll of cloth, and, interlacing her slight fingers, said-- "Irene, the women of the South must exercise an important influence in determining our national destiny; and because I felt this so fully, I hurried home to share the perils, and privations, and trials of my countrywomen. It is not my privilege to enter the army, and wield a sword or musket; but I am going to true womanly work--into the crowded hospitals, to watch faithfully over sick and wounded."
"I approve your plan, think it your duty, and wish that I could start to Richmond with you to-morrow--for I believe that in this way we may save valuable lives. You should, as you have said, go on at once; you have nothing to keep you; your work is waiting for you there. But my position is different; I have many things to arrange here before I can join you. I want to see the looms at work on the plantation; and am going down next week with Uncle Eric, to consult with the overseer about several changes which I desire made concerning the negroes. When all this is accomplished, I too shall come into the hospitals."
"About what time may I expect you?"
"Not until you see me; but at the earliest practicable day."
"Your uncle objects very strenuously to such a plan, does he not?"
"He will acquiesce at the proper time. Take care! you are making your bandages too wide."
"A long dark vista stretches before the Confederacy. I cannot, like many persons, feel sanguine of a speedy termination of the war."
"Yes--a vista lined with the bloody graves of her best sons; but beyond glimmers Freedom--Independence."
"But do you still cling to a belief in the possibility of Republican forms of Government? This is a question which constantly disquiets me."
"My faith in that possibility is unshaken. We shall yet teach the world that self-government is feasible."
"But in Europe, where the subject is eagerly canvassed, the impression obtains that, in the great fundamental principle of our government, will be found the germ of its dissolution. This war is waged to establish the right of Secession, and the doctrine that 'all just governments rest on the consent of the governed.' With such a precedent, it would be worse than stultification to object to the secession of any State or States now constituting the Confederacy, who at a future day may choose to withdraw from the present compact. Granting our independence, which Europe regards as a foregone conclusion, what assurance have you (say they, gloating, in anticipation over the prospect) that, so soon as the common dangers of war, which for a time cemented you so closely, are over, entire disintegration will not ensue, and all your boasts end in some dozen anarchical pseudo-republics, like those of South America and Mexico?"
"That is an evil which our legislators must guard against by timely provision. We are now, thank God! a thoroughly homogeneous people, with no antagonistic systems of labour necessitating conflicting interests. As States, we are completely identified in commerce and agriculture, and no differences need arise. Purified from all connection with the North, and with no vestige of the mischievous element of New England Puritanism, we can be a prosperous and noble people."
Electra had finished the bandages, and was walking slowly before the windows, and, without looking up from the lint, which she was tying into small packages, Irene said-- "Electra, my friend, are you sure that you realize your personal responsibility? Your profession will give, you vast influence in forming public taste and I hope much from its judicious use. Be careful that you select only the highest, purest types to offer to your countrymen and women, when Peace enables us to turn our attention to the great work of building up a noble school of Southern Art. We want no feeble, sickly sentimentality, nor yet the sombre austerity which seems to pervade your mind, judging from the works you have shown me."
A slight quiver crossed the mobile features of the artist as she bit her full lip, and asked-- "What would you pronounce the distinguishing characteristic of my works? I saw, yesterday, that you were not fully satisfied."
"A morbid melancholy, which you seem to have fostered tenderly instead of crushing vigorously. A disposition to dwell upon the stern and gloomy aspects of the physical world, and to intensify and reproduce abnormal and unhappy phases of character. Your breezy, sunshiny, joyous moods you have kept under lock and key while in your studio."
"I admit the truth of your criticism, and I have struggled against the spirit which hovers with clouding wings over all that I do; but the shadow has not lifted--God knows whether it ever will. You have finished your work; come to my room for a few minutes."
They went upstairs together; and as Electra unlocked and bent over a large square trunk, her companion noticed a peculiar curl about the lines of the mouth, and a heavy scowl on the broad brow.
"I want to show you the only bright, shining face I ever painted."
She unwrapped an oval portrait, placed it on the mantelpiece, and, stepping back, fixed her gaze on Irene. She saw a tremor cross the quiet mouth, and for some seconds the sad eyes dwelt upon the picture as if fascinated.
"It must have been a magnificent portrait of your cousin, years ago; but he has changed materially since it was painted. He looks much older, sterner, now."
"Irene, I value this portrait above everything else save the original; and, as I may be called to pass through various perils, I want you to take care of it for me until I come back to W----. It is a precious trust, which I would be willing to leave in no hands but yours."
"You forget that, before long, I, too, shall go to Virginia."
"Then pack it away carefully among your old family pictures, where it will be secure. I left my large and best paintings in Italy, with Aunt Ruth, who promised to preserve and send them to me as soon as the blockade should be raised."
"What are Mr. Young's views concerning this war?"
"He utterly abhors the party who inaugurated it, and the principles upon which it is waged. Says he will not return to America at least for the present; and as soon as he can convert his property into money, intends to move to the South. He opposed and regretted Secession until he saw the spirit of the Lincoln dynasty, and from that time he acknowledged that all hope of Union or reconstruction was lost. Have you heard anything from Harvey since the troubles began?"
"It is more than a year since I received a line from him. He was then still in the West, but made no allusion to the condition of the country."
"Irene, I hope to see Russell soon. You were once dear friends; have you any message for him--any word of kind remembrance?"
One of Irene's hands glided to her side, but she answered composedly-- "He knows that he always has my best wishes; but will expect no message."
On the following day Electra started to Richmond, taking with her a large supply of hospital stores, which the ladies of W---- had contributed.
Eric had proposed to his niece the expediency of selling the Hill, and becoming an inmate of his snug, tasteful, bachelor home; but she firmly refused to consent to this plan: said that she would spend her life in the house of her birth; and it was finally arranged that her uncle should reserve such of the furniture as he valued particularly, and offer the residue for sale, with the pretty cottage, to which he was warmly attached. During the remainder of autumn Irene was constantly engaged in superintending work for the soldiers, in providing for several poor families in whom she was much interested, and in frequent visits to the plantation, where she found more than enough to occupy her mind; and Eric often wondered at the admirable system and punctuality she displayed--at the grave composure with which she discharged her daily duties, and the invariable reticence she observed with regard to her past life.
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{
"id": "27811"
}
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32
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WOMANLY USEFULNESS
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"Did you ring, Mas' Eric?"
"Yes. Has Irene come home?"
"Not yet, sir."
"Bring some more wood."
Owing to the scarcity of coal, the grate had been removed, and massive brass andirons substituted. John piled them with oak wood, swept the hearth, and retired. After a time, the door opened and the mistress came in.
"Irene! you must be nearly frozen. What kept you out so late?"
"I had more than usual to attend to at the Asylum this afternoon."
"What was the matter?"
"We have a new matron, and I was particularly anxious that she should start right in one or two respects. I waited, too, in order to see the children at supper, and satisfy myself about the cooking."
"How many orphans are there in the Asylum?"
"Thirty-four. I admitted two this evening--children of one of our soldiers, who died from a wound received at Leesburg."
"Poor little things! I am afraid you will find numbers of similar instances before this war is at an end."
"We will try to find room for all such cases. The building will accommodate one hundred."
"You must be very cold; I will make John bring you a glass of wine."
"No, sir; I do not need it. My shawl was thick and warm."
"Irene."
She turned her head slightly, and raised her eyes.
"Did you receive a letter which I sent to your room?"
"Yes, sir. It was from Dr. Arnold."
"He has established himself in Richmond."
"Yes, sir; his recent attack of rheumatism unfitted him for service in the field."
"I had a letter from Colonel Aubrey to-day. He wants to buy my house."
She made no comment, and her eyes drooped again to the perusal of the strange shapes which danced and flickered on the burnished andirons.
"What use do you suppose he had for it?"
"I cannot imagine, unless he intends it as a home for Electra."
"What a witch you are at guessing; that is exactly it. He says, in this letter, that he may not survive the war, and wishes to have the assurance that his cousin is comfortably provided for, before he goes into another battle. His offer is liberal, and I shall accept it."
"Well, I am glad she will own it--for I have often heard her speak of those old poplar trees in the front yard. She has always admired the place."
At this juncture the tea-bell summoned them to the dining-room, and she allowed her uncle no opportunity of renewing the conversation. When the meal was concluded, and they had returned to the library, Irene drew her table and basket near the lamp, and resumed her knitting. The invalid frowned, and asked impatiently-- "Can't you buy as many of those coarse things as you want, without toiling night and day?"
"In the first place, I do not toil; knitting is purely mechanical, very easy, and I like it. In the second place, I cannot buy them, and our men need them when they are standing on guard. It is cold work holding a musket in the open air, such weather as this."
He looked annoyed, and dived deeper among his cushions.
"Don't you feel as well as usual this evening, Uncle Eric?"
"Oh! I am well enough--but I hate the everlasting motion of those steel needles."
She rolled up the glove, put it in her basket, and rose.
"Shall I read to you? Or, how would you like a game of chess?"
"I do not expect you to humour my whims. Above all things, my child, I dread the thought of becoming troublesome to you."
"You can never be that, Uncle Eric; and I shall always be glad if you will tell me how I can make your time pass more pleasantly. I know this house must seem gloomy enough at best. Let us try a game of chess; we have not played since you came from Europe."
She brought the board, and they sat down to the most quiet and absorbing of all games. Both played well, and when Eric was finally vanquished, he was surprised to find, from the hands of the clock, that the game had lasted nearly two hours. As she carefully replaced the ivory combatants in their box, Irene said-- "Uncle, you know that I have long desired and intended to go to Richmond, but various circumstances combined to keep me at home. I felt that I had duties here which must first be discharged; now the time has come when I can accomplish my long-cherished plan. Dr. Arnold has taken charge of the hospital in Richmond which was established with the money we sent from W---- for the relief of our regiments. Mrs. Campbell is about to be installed as matron, and I have to-day decided to join them. In his letter received this afternoon he orders me not to come, but I know that he will give me a ward when he finds me at his elbow. I am aware that you have always opposed this project, but I hope, sir, that you will waive your objections, and go on with me next week."
"It is a strange and unreasonable freak, which, I must say, I do not approve of. There are plenty of nurses to be hired, who have more experience, and are every way far more suitable for such positions."
"Uncle, the men in our armies are not hired to fight our battles; and the least the women of the land can do is to nurse them when sick or wounded."
She laid her hand gently on his whitening hair, and added pleadingly-- "Do not oppose me, Uncle Eric. I want your sanction in all that I do. There are only two of us left; go with me as my adviser--protector. I could not be happy if you were not with me."
His eyes filled instantly, and drawing her close to him, he exclaimed tremulously-- "My dear Irene! there is nothing I would not do to make you happy. Happy I fear you never will be. Ah! don't smile and contradict me; I know the difference between happiness and resignation. Patience, uncomplaining endurance, never yet stole the garments of joy. I will go with you to Virginia, or anywhere else that you wish."
"Thank you, Uncle Eric. I will try to make you forget the comforts of home, and give you no reason to regret that you sacrificed your wishes and judgment to mine. I must not keep you up any later."
The army of the Potomac had fallen back to Yorktown when Irene reached Richmond; and the preparations which were being made for the reception of the wounded gave melancholy premonition of impending battles.
Dr. Arnold had been entrusted with the supervision of several hospitals, but gave special attention to one established with the funds contributed by the citizens of W----, and thither Irene repaired on the day of her arrival.
In reply to her inquiries, she was directed to a small room, and found the physician seated at a table examining a bundle of papers. He saw only a form darkening the doorway, and, without looking up, called out gruffly-- "Well, what is it? What do you want?"
"A word of welcome."
He sprang to his feet instantly, holding out both hands.
"Dear child! Queen! God bless you! How are you? Pale as a cloud, and thin as a shadow. Sit down here by me. Where is Eric?"
"He was much fatigued, and I left him at the hotel."
"You have been ill a long time, Irene, and have kept it from me. That was not right; you should have been honest in your letters. A pretty figure you will cut nursing sick folks! Work in my sight, indeed! If you say work to me again, I will clap you into a lunatic asylum and keep you there till the war is over. Turn your face to the light."
"I am well enough in body; it is my mind only that is ill at ease; my heart only that is sick--sorely sick. Here I shall find employment, and, I trust, partial forgetfulness. Put me to work at once; that will be my best medicine."
"And you really missed me, Queen?"
"Yes, inexpressibly; I felt my need of you continually. You must know how I cling to you now."
Again he drew her little hands to his granite mouth, and seemed to muse for a moment.
"Doctor, how is Electra?"
"Very well--that is, as well as such an anomalous, volcanic, torrid character ought to be. At first she puzzled me (and that is an insult I find it hard to forgive), but finally I found the clue. She is indefatigable and astonishingly faithful as a nurse; does all her duty, and more, which is saying a good deal--for I am a hard taskmaster. Aren't you afraid that I will work you more unmercifully than a Yankee factory-child, or a Cornwall miner? See here, Queen; what do you suppose brought Electra to Richmond?"
"A desire to render some service to the sick and suffering, and also to be comparatively near her cousin."
"Precisely; only the last should be first, and the first last. Russell is a perverse, ungrateful dog."
As he expected, she glanced up at him, but refrained from comment.
"Yes, Irene--he is a soulless scamp. Here is his cousin entirely devoted to him, loving him above everything else in this world, and yet he has not even paid her a visit, except in passing through to Yorktown with his command. He might be a happy man if he would but open his eyes and see what is as plain as the nose on my face--which, you must admit, requires no microscope. She is a gifted woman, and would suit him exactly--even better than my salamander, Salome."
A startled, incredulous expression came into Irene's large eyes, and gradually a look of keen pain settled on her features.
"Aha! did that idea never occur to you before?"
"Never, sir; and you must be mistaken."
"Why, child? The fact is patent. You women profess to be so quick-witted, too, in such matters--I am amazed at your obtuseness. She idolizes Aubrey."
"It is scarcely strange that she should; she has no other relatives near her, and it is natural that she should love her cousin."
"I tell you I know what I say! she will never love anybody else as she loves Aubrey. Besides, what is it to you whether he marries her or not?"
"I feel attached to her, and want to see her happy."
"As Russell's wife?"
"No, sir. The marriage of cousins was always revolting to me."
She did not flinch from his glittering grey eye, and her grieved look deepened.
"Is she here? Can I see her?"
"She is not in this building, but I will inform her of your arrival. I have become much interested in her. She is a brilliant, erratic creature, and has a soul! which cannot safely be predicated of all the sex nowadays. Where are you going?"
"Back to Uncle Eric. Will you put me in the same hospital with Electra and Mrs. Campbell?"
"I will put you in a strait-jacket! I promise you that."
Electra was agreeably surprised at the unusual warmth with which Irene received her some hours later, but little suspected why the lips lingered in their pressure of hers, or understood the wistful tenderness of the eyes which dwelt so fondly on her face. The icy wall of reserve had suddenly melted, as if in the breath of an August noon, and dripped silently down among things long past. Russell's name was casually mentioned more than once, and Electra fell asleep that night wholly unconscious that the torn and crumpled pages of her heart had been thoroughly perused by the woman from whom she was most anxious to conceal the truth.
Having engaged a suite of rooms near the hospital, a few days sufficed for preliminary arrangements, and Irene was installed in a ward of the building to which she had requested Dr. Arnold to appoint her.
Thus, by different, by devious thorny paths, two sorrowing women emerged upon the broad highway of Duty, and, clasping hands, pressed forward to the divinely appointed goal--Womanly Usefulness.
Only those who have faithfully ministered in a hospital can fully appreciate the onerous nature of the burdens thus assumed--can realize the crushing anxiety, the sleepless apprehension, the ceaseless tension of brain and nerve, the gnawing, intolerable sickness and aching of heart over sufferings which no human skill can assuage; and the silent blistering tears which are shed over corpses of men whose families kneel in far distant homes, praying God's mercy on dear ones lying at that moment stark and cold on hospital cots with strangers' hands about the loved limbs.
Day by day, week after week, those tireless women-watchers walked the painful round from patient to patient, administering food and medicine to diseased bodies, and words of hope and encouragement to souls, who shrank not from the glare and roar and carnage of battle, but shivered and cowered before the daring images which deathless memory called from the peaceful, happy Past. It was not wonderful that the home-sick sufferers regarded them with emotions which trenched on adoration, or that often, when the pale thin faces lighted with a smile of joy at their approach, Irene and Electra felt that they had a priceless reward.
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{
"id": "27811"
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33
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IN THE HOSPITAL
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It was a long, low, rather narrow room, lined with rows of cots, which stretched on either side to the door, now left open to admit free circulation of air. A muffled clock ticked on the mantelpiece. Two soldiers, who had been permitted to visit their sick comrades, slumbered heavily, one with head drooped on his chest, the other with chair tilted against the window-facing, and dark-bearded face thrown back. The quivering flame of the candle gleamed fitfully along the line of features--some youthful, almost childish; others bearing the impress of accumulated years; some crimsoned with fever, others wan and glistening with the dew of exhaustion; here a forehead bent and lowering, as in fancy the sleeper lived over the clash and shock of battle; and there a tremulous smile, lighting the stern manly mouth, as the dreamer heard again the welcome bay of watchdog on the doorstep at home, and saw once more the loved forms of wife and children springing joyfully from the cheery fireside to meet his outstretched arms. A few tossed restlessly, and frequent incoherent mutterings wandered, waif-like up and down the room, sometimes rousing Andrew, who once or twice lifted his head to listen, and then sank back to slumber.
Before a small pine table, where stood numerous vials, Irene drew her chair, and, leaning forward, opened her pocket-Bible, and rested her head on her hand.
A wounded boy started up, twirling one arm, as if in the act of cheering, and then fell back, groaning with pain which the violent effort cost him.
Irene stooped over him, and softly unbuttoning his shirt-collar, removed the hot, bloody cloths from his lacerated shoulder, and replaced them with fresh folds of linen, cold and dripping. She poured out a glass of water, and lifted his head, but he frowned, and exclaimed-- "I won't have it in a tumbler. Mother, make Harry bring me a gourdful fresh from the spring. I say, send Buddie for some."
She humoured the whim, walked out of the room, and paused in the passage. As she did so, a dark form glided unperceived into a dim corner, and when she re-entered the room with the gourd of water the figure passed through the hall-door out into the night.
"Here is your gourd, Willie, fresh and cold."
He swallowed the draught eagerly, and his handsome face wore a touching expression as he smiled and whispered-- "Hush! Jessie is singing under the old magnolia down by the spring. Listen! 'Fairy Belle!' We used to sing that in camp; but nobody sings like Jessie. So sweet! so sweet!"
He set his teeth hard and shuddered violently, and taking his fingers in hers she found them clenched.
"Andrew!"
"Here I am, Miss Irene."
"Go upstairs and ask the doctor to come here."
The surgeon came promptly.
"I am afraid he is going into convulsions. What shall I do for him?"
"Yes; just what I have been trying to guard against. I fear nothing will do any good; but you might try that mixture which acted like a charm on Leavans."
"Here is the bottle. How much shall I give?"
"A spoonful every half-hour while the convulsions last, if he can swallow it; it can't possibly do any harm, and may ease his suffering. Poor fellow! may the vengeance of a righteous God seek out his murderer! I would stay here with you, Miss Huntingdon, if I could render any service. As it is, I am more needed upstairs."
The paroxysms were short, but so severe that occasionally she required Andrew's assistance to hold the sufferer on his cot, and as they grew less frequent, she saw that his strength failed rapidly. Finally he fell into a troubled sleep, with one hand clutching her arm.
Nearly an hour passed thus, and the nurse knelt softly beside her charge, and prayed long and fervently that the soul of the young martyr might find its home with God, and that his far-off mourning mother might be strengthened to bear this heavy burden of woe.
As she knelt with her face upturned, a soft, warm palm was laid upon her forehead, and a low, sweet, manly voice pronounced in benediction-- "May the Lord bless you, Irene, and abundantly answer all your prayers."
She rose quickly, and put out her disengaged hand.
"Oh, Harvey, dear friend! Thank God, I have found you once more."
He lifted the candle and held it near her face, scanning the sculptured features, then stooped and kissed her white cheek.
"I felt that I could not be mistaken. I heard our soldiers blessing a pale woman in black, with large eyes bluer than summer skies, and hair that shone like rays of a setting sun; and I knew the silent, gentle, tireless watcher, before they told me her name. For many years I have prayed that you might become an instrument of good to your fellow-creatures, and to-night I rejoice to find you, at last, an earnest co-worker."
"Where have you been this long time, Harvey? And how is it that you wear a Confederate uniform?"
"I am chaplain in a Texas regiment, and have been with the army from the beginning of these days of blood. At first it was a painful step for me; my affections, my associations, the hallowed reminiscences of my boyhood, all linked my heart with New York. My relatives and friends were there, and I knew not how many of them I might meet among the war-wolves that hung in hungry herds along the borders of the South. Moreover, I loved and revered the Union--had been taught to regard it as the synonym of national prosperity. Secession I opposed and regretted at the time as unwise; but to the dogma of consolidated government I could yield no obedience; and when every sacred constitutional barrier had been swept away by Lincoln--when the _habeas corpus_ was abolished, and freedom of speech and press denied--when the Washington conclave essayed to coerce freemen, to 'crush Secession' through the agency of the sword and cannon--then I swore allegiance to the 'Seven States' where all of republican liberty remained. Henceforth my home is with the South; my hopes and destiny hers; her sorrows and struggles mine."
His white, scholarly hands were sunburnt now; his bronzed complexion, and long, untrimmed hair and beard gave a grim, grizzled aspect to the noble face; and the worn and faded uniform showed an acquaintance with the positive hardships and exposure of an active campaign.
"I expected nothing less from you, my brother. You were dear to me before; but, ah, Harvey! how much dearer now in these dark days of trial, which you have voluntarily chosen to share, with a young, brave, struggling Nation!"
His eyes dwelt upon her face as she looked gladly at him, and over her waving hair his hands passed tenderly, as they had done long years before, when she was an invalid in his father's house.
"You have found your work, and learned contentment in usefulness. Irene, the peaceful look of your childhood has come back to your face. With my face pressed against the window-pane, I have been watching you for more than an hour--ever since Colonel Aubrey came out--and I know all the sadness of the circumstances that surround you; how painful it is for you to see those men die."
"Colonel Aubrey? He has not been here."
"Yes; I passed him on the steps; we rode up together from camp. He came on special business, and returns at daylight; but I shall remain several days, and hope to be with you as much as the nature of your engagements will permit. Aubrey is from W----; you know him, of course?"
"Yes, I know him."
He saw a shade of regret drift over her countenance, and added-- "I have many things to say to you, and much to learn concerning your past; but this is not the time or place for such interchange of thought and feeling. To-morrow we will talk; to-night I could not repress my impatience to see you, though but for a few moments."
She drew a chair near young Walton, the wounded boy, and seating herself, continued-- "When independence is obtained, and white-robed Peace spreads her stainless hands in blessing over us, let history proclaim, and let our people reverently remember, that to the uncomplaining fortitude and sublime devotion of the private soldiers of the Confederacy, not less than to the genius of our generals and the heroism of our subordinate officers, we are indebted for Freedom."
She laid her head close to the boy's mouth to listen to his low breathing, and the minister saw her tears fall on his pillow and gleam on his auburn locks. The delirium seemed to have given place to the dreamless sleep of exhaustion, and folding one of her hands around his fingers, with the other she softly stroked the silky hair from his fair, smooth forehead.
"Irene, will my presence here aid or comfort you? If so I will remain till morning."
"No; you can do no good. It is midnight now, and you must be wearied with your long ride. You cannot help me here, but to-morrow I shall want you to go with me to the cemetery. I wish his family to have the sad consolation of knowing that a minister knelt at his grave, when we laid the young patriot in his last resting-place. Good-bye, my brother, till then. Electra is in the next room; will you go in and speak to her?"
"No; I will see her early in the morning."
He left her to keep alone her solemn vigil; and through the remaining hours of that starry June night she stirred not from the narrow cot--kept her fingers on the sufferer's fleeting pulse, her eyes on his whitening face. About three o'clock he moaned, struggled slightly, and looked intently at her. She gave him some brandy, and found that he swallowed with great difficulty.
Slowly a half-hour rolled away; Irene could barely feel the faint pulsation at Willie Walton's wrist, and as she put her ear to his lips, a long, last shuddering sigh escaped him--the battle of life was ended. Willie's Relief had come. The young sentinel passed to his Eternal Rest.
"The picket's off duty for ever."
Tears dropped on the still face as the nurse cut several locks of curling hair that clustered round the boyish temples, and took from the motionless heart the loved picture which had been so often and so tenderly kissed in the fitful light of camp-fires. Irene covered the noble head, the fair, handsome features, with her handkerchief, and, waking Andrew, pointed to the body--left her own ward, and entered one beyond the passage.
It was smaller, but similar in arrangement to the room where she had passed the night. A candle was sputtering in its socket, and the cold, misty, white dawn stared in at the eastern window upon rows of cots and unquiet, muttering sleepers. There, in the centre of the room, with her head bowed on the table, sat, or rather leaned, Electra, slumbering soundly, with her scarlet shawl gathered about her shoulders--her watch grasped in one hand, and the other holding a volume open at "Hesperid-Æglé."
Irene lifted the black curls that partially veiled the flushed neck, and whispered-- "Electra, wake up! I am going home."
"Is it light yet, out of doors? Ah, yes--I see! I have been asleep exactly fifteen minutes--gave the last dose of medicine at four o'clock. How is the boy? I am almost afraid to ask."
"Dead. Willie lived till daylight."
"Oh! how sad! how discouraging! I went to your door twice and looked in, but once you were praying, and the last time you had your face down on Willie's pillow, and as I could do nothing, I came back. Dr. Whitmore told me he would die, and it only made me suffer to look at what I could not relieve. I am thankful my cases are all doing well; that new prescription has acted magically on Mr. Hadley yonder, who has pneumonia. Just feel his skin--soft and pleasant as a child's."
"I have some directions to leave with Martha, about giving quinine before the doctor comes down, and then I shall go home. Are you ready?"
"Yes. I have a singular feeling about my temples, and an oppression when I talk--shouldn't wonder if I have caught cold."
"Electra, did you see Harvey last night?"
"No. Where did he come from?"
"He is chaplain in a regiment near Richmond, and said he would see us both this morning. Was Russell here last night?"
"Russell? No. Why do you ask? Is he in the city? Have you seen him?"
She rose quickly, laid her hand on Irene's, and looked searchingly at her.
"I have not seen him, but your cousin Harvey mentioned that Colonel Aubrey came up with him, on some very important errand, and had but a few hours to remain. I will get my shawl and join you in five minutes. Electra, you must stay at home and rest for a day or two; you are feverish, and worn out with constant watching."
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{
"id": "27811"
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34
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MORTALLY WOUNDED
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"It is a mercy that she is delirious; otherwise her unavoidable excitement and anxiety would probably prove fatal. She is very ill, of course; but, with careful nursing, I think you have little to apprehend. Above all things, Irene, suffer nobody to bolt into that room with the news--keep her as quiet as possible. I have perfect confidence in Whitmore's skill; he will do all that I could, though I would not leave her if I did not feel it my duty to hurry to the battlefield. Queen, you look weary; but it is not strange, after all that you have passed through."
"Doctor, when will you start?"
"In twenty minutes."
"Has any intelligence been received this morning?"
"Nothing but confirmation of last night's news. Hill holds Mechanicsville, and the enemy have fallen back in the direction of Powhite Swamp. A general advance will be made all along our lines to-day, and I must be off. What is the matter? Surely you are not getting frightened."
"Frightened--Dr. Arnold? No. I have no fears about the safety of Richmond; defeat is not written in Lee's lexicon; but I shudder in view of the precious human hecatombs to be immolated on yonder hills before McClellan is driven back. No doubt of victory disquiets me, but the thought of its awful price."
She paused, and her whole face quivered as she laid her clasped hands on his arm.
"Well--what is it? Dear child, what moves you so?"
"Doctor, promise me that if Colonel Aubrey is mortally wounded you will send instantly for me. I must see him once more."
Her head went down on her hands, and she trembled as white asters do in an early autumn gale. Compassionately the old man drew one arm around her.
"After all, then, you do care for him--despite your life-long reserve and apparent indifference? I have suspected as much, several times, but that imperturbable sphinx-face of yours always baffled me. My child, you need not droop your head; he is worthy of your love; he is the only man I know whom I would gladly see you marry. Irene, look up--tell me--did Leonard know this? Conscious of your affection for Aubrey, did he doom you to your lonely lot?"
"No. My father died in ignorance of what would have pained and mortified him beyond measure. Knowing him as well as you do, can you suppose that I would ever have allowed him to suspect the truth? I realized my duty and fulfilled it; that is the only consolation I have left. It never caused him one throb of regret, or furnished food for bitter reflection; and the debt of respect I owe to his memory shall be as faithfully discharged. If Colonel Aubrey lives to enjoy the independence for which he is fighting--if he should be spared to become a useful, valued member of society--one of the pure and able statesmen whom his country will require when these dark days of strife are ended, I can be content, though separated from him, and watching his brilliant career afar off. But if he must give his life for that which he holds dearer still, I ask the privilege of seeing him again, of being with him in his last moments. This consolation the brave spirit of my father would not withhold from me, were communion allowed between living and dead; this none can have the right to deny me."
"I promise that you shall know all as early as possible. If you receive no tidings, believe that he is uninjured. As yet, his regiment has not moved forward, but I know not how soon it may. Heaven preserve you! my precious child."
He pressed a kiss on the drooped head, and left her to resume her watch in the darkened room where Electra had been ill with typhoid-fever for nearly three weeks. It was thought that she contracted the disease in the crowded hospital; and when delirium ensued, Irene temporarily relinquished her ward to other nurses, and remained at the boarding-house, in attendance on her friend. It was a season of unexampled anxiety, yet all was singularly quiet in the beleaguered city. Throughout the Confederacy hushed expectancy reigned. Gallant Vicksburg's batteries barred the Mississippi; Beauregard and Price, lion-hearted idols of the West, held the Federal army in Corinth at bay; Stonewall Jackson--synonym of victory--after sweeping like a whirlwind through the Valley, and scattering the columns that stealthily crept southward, had arrived at Richmond at the appointed time. A greater than Serrurier, at a grander than Castiglone, he gave the signal to begin; and as a sheet of flame flashed along the sombre forests of Chickahominy, the nation held its breath, and watched the brilliant Seven Days' conflict, which converted twenty-six miles of swamp and forest into a vast necropolis.
During Friday the wounded came slowly in, and at four in the afternoon the roar of artillery told that the Battle of Gaines Mill was raging: that the enemy were fighting desperately, behind entrenchments which none but Confederate soldiers could successfully have assaulted. Until eight at night the houses trembled at every report of cannon, and then McClellan's grand army, crippled and bleeding, dragged itself away, under cover of darkness, to the south bank of the Chickahominy. Saturday saw a temporary lull in the iron storm; but the wounded continued to arrive, and the devoted women of the city rose from their knees to minister to the needs of these numerous sufferers. Sunday found our troops feeling about the swamps for the retreating foe; and once more, late in the afternoon, distant thunder resounded from the severely contested field of Savage's Station, whence the enemy again retreated.
On Sabbath morning Irene learned that Russell's command had joined in the pursuit; and during that day and night, as the conflict drifted farther southward, and details became necessarily more meagre, her anxiety increased. Continually her lips moved in prayer, as she glided from Electra's silent room to aid in dressing the wounds of those who had been disabled for further participation in the strife; and, as Monday passed without the receipt of tidings from Dr. Arnold, she indulged in the hope that Russell would escape uninjured. During Tuesday morning Electra seemed to have recovered her consciousness, but in the afternoon she relapsed into incoherent muttering of "Cuyp," "Correggio," "Titian's Bella," and "my best great picture left in Florence."
Irene was sitting at her bedside, rolling bandages, when the sudden, far-distant, dull boom of cannon, followed by the quick rattling of the window-panes, gave intimation that the long contest was fiercely renewed. A courier had arrived from Malvern Mill with intelligence that here the enemy's forces were very strongly posted, were making desperate resistance; and though no doubt of the result was entertained, human nature groaned over the carnage.
At ten o'clock, having given a potion, and renewed the folds of wet linen on Electra's head, Irene stole back to the window, and, turning the shutters, looked down the street. Here and there an anxious group huddled on the corners, with ears strained to catch every sound, and, while she watched, a horseman clattered at a hard gallop over the paving-stones, reined up at the door of the boarding-house, swung himself to the sidewalk, and an instant after the sharp clang of the bell rang startlingly through the still mansion.
"Oh, my God! it has come at last!"
Irene groaned, and leaned heavily against the window-facing, and quick steps came up the stairway. Martha entered, and held out a slip of paper.
"Miss Irene, Cyrus has just brought this."
Her mistress' icy fingers clutched it, and she read-- "Come at once. Aubrey is badly wounded. Cyrus will show the way.
"HIRAM ARNOLD."
"You are going to faint, Miss Irene! Drink some of this cordial."
"No. Tell Andrew to go after the carriage as quick as possible, and have it brought here immediately; and ask Uncle Eric to come to my room at once."
Irene went to her own apartment, which adjoined Electra's, put on her bonnet and veil, and, though the night was warm, wrapped a shawl about her.
Mr. Mitchell entered soon after, and started at sight of his niece's face.
"Irene, what does this mean? Where are you going at this hour?"
"To the battlefield! --to Malvern Hill. Colonel Aubrey is mortally wounded, and I must see him. Will you go with me? Oh, Uncle Eric! if you have any mercy in your soul ask me no questions now! only go with me."
"Of course, my dear child, I will go with you, if it is possible to procure a carriage of any kind. I will see----" "I have had one engaged for three days. Martha, stay with Electra till I come back; leave her on no account. If you notice any change, send for Dr. Whitmore. Here is my watch; count her pulse carefully, and as long as it is over one hundred, give her, every two hours, a spoonful of the medicine in that square vial on the table. I trust to you, Martha, to take care of her. If she should be rational, and ask for me, tell her nothing about the battles, and say I have gone to see a sick man, and will be back soon. Come, Uncle Eric."
They entered the close carriage which she had ordered reserved for her, and she called Cyrus to the door.
"Did you see Colonel Aubrey after he was wounded?"
"I only had a glimpse of him, as they brought him in. Miss Irene, he was shot in the breast."
"You know the way; ride outside; and, Cyrus, drive as fast as possible."
By the glimmer of the carriage lamps she could see the wagons going to and fro, some filled with empty coffins, some with mangled sufferers. Now and then weary, spent soldiers sat on the roadside, or struggled on toward the city which they had saved, with their arms in slings, or hands bound up, or bloody bandages across their stern faces. After another hour, when the increasing number of men showed proximity to the scene of danger, Cyrus turned away from the beaten track, and soon the flash of lights and the hum of voices told that they were near the place of destination. The carriage stopped, and Cyrus came to the door.
"We are at the lines, and I can't drive any nearer. If you will wait, I will go and find master."
The delay seemed intolerably long, and for the first time an audible moan escaped Irene just as Cyrus came back accompanied by a muffled figure.
"Irene, my child."
She leaned out till her face nearly touched Dr. Arnold's.
"Only tell me that he is alive, and I can bear all else."
"He is alive, and sleeping just now. Can you control yourself if I take you to him?"
"Yes; you need not fear that I will disturb him. Let me go to him."
He gave her his arm, and led her through the drizzling rain for some distance--avoiding, as much as possible, the groups of wounded, where surgeons were at their sad work. Finally, before a small tent, he paused, and whispered-- "Nerve yourself, dear child."
"Is there no hope?"
She swept aside her long mourning veil, and gazed imploringly into his face.
Tears filled his eyes, and hastily averting his head, he raised the curtain of the tent and drew her inside.
A candle burned dimly in one corner, and there, on a pallet of straw, over which a blanket had been thrown, lay the powerful form of the dauntless leader, whose deeds of desperate daring had so electrified his worshipping command but a few hours before. The noble head was pillowed on a knapsack; one hand pressed his heart, while the other drooped nerveless at his side, and the breast of his coat was saturated with blood, which at intervals oozed through the bandages and dripped upon the straw. The tent was silent as a cemetery, and not a sound passed Irene's white, fixed lips as she bent down and looked upon the loved face, strangely beautiful in its pallid repose. The shadowy wings of the bitter bygone hovered no longer over the features, darkening their chiselled perfection; a tranquil half-smile parted the lips, and unbent the lines between the finely-arched black brows.
Sinking softly on the floor of the tent, Irene rested her chin on her folded hands, and calmly watched the deep sleep. So passed three-quarters of an hour; then, as Dr. Arnold cautiously put his fingers on the pulse, the sufferer opened his eyes.
Irene was partially in the shade, but as she leaned forward, a sudden, bewildered smile lighted his countenance; he started up, and extended one arm.
"Irene! My darling! Do I dream, or are you indeed with me?"
"I have come to nurse you, Russell; but if you do not calm yourself, the doctor will send me away."
She took the outstretched hand in both of hers, and pressed her lips repeatedly upon it.
"Come close to me. I am helpless now, and cannot go to you."
She seated herself on the edge of the straw, laid her shawl in her lap, and lifting his head, rested it on the soft woollen folds. Dr. Arnold removed the warm cloth soaked with blood, placed a cold, dripping towel on the gaping wound, and after tightening the bandages to check the hæmorrhage, passed out of the tent, leaving the two alone.
"Oh, Irene! this is a joy I never hoped for. I went at night to the hospital in Richmond just to get a glimpse of you--to feast my eyes with another sight of your dear, dear face! I watched you ministering like an angel to sick and wounded soldiers, and I envied them the touch of your hand--the sound of your voice. I little expected to die in your arms. This reconciles me to my fate; this compensates for all."
Her fingers tenderly smoothed the black locks that clung to his temples, and bending down she kissed his forehead. His uninjured arm stole up around her neck, drew her face to his, and his lips pressed hers again and again.
"Dear Russell, you must be quiet, or you will exhaust yourself. Try to sleep--it will refresh, strengthen you."
"Nothing will strengthen me. I have but a short time to live; shall I sleep away the opportunity of my last earthly communion with you, my life-long idol! Oh, Irene! my beautiful treasure! This proof of your love sweetens death itself. There have been hours (ever since we parted a year ago) when I reproached you for the sorrow and pain you sternly meted out to me, and to yourself. When I said bitterly, _if_ she loved as she should, she would level all barriers--she would lay her hands in mine--glorify my name by taking it as my wife, and thus defy and cancel the past. I was selfish in my love; I wanted you in my home; I longed for the soft touch of your fingers, for your proud, dazzling smile of welcome when the day's work was ended; for the privilege of drawing you to my heart, and listening to your whispered words of encouragement and fond congratulation in my successes. I knew that this could never be; that your veneration for your father's memory would separate us in future, as in the past; that my pleadings would not shake your unfortunate and erroneous resolution; and it was hard to give up the dearest hope that ever brightened a lonely man's life. Now I know, I feel that your love is strong, deathless as my own, though long locked deep in your heart. I know it by the anguish in your face, by the quiver of your mouth, by your presence in this place of horrors. God comfort and bless you, my own darling! --my brave, patient, faithful Irene!"
He smiled triumphantly, and drew her hand caressingly across his cheek.
"Russell, it is useless now to dwell upon our sorrowful past; what suffering our separation has cost me, none but my God can ever know. To His hands I commit my destiny, and 'He doeth all things well.' In a little while you will leave me, and then--oh! then, I shall be utterly desolate indeed! But I can bear loneliness--I can walk my dreary earthly path uncomplainingly, I can give you up for the sake of my country, if I have the blessed assurance that you have only hastened home before me, waiting for me there--that, saved through Christ, we shall soon meet in Heaven, and spend Eternity together. Oh, Russell! can you give me this consolation, without which my future will be dark indeed? Have you kept your promise, to live so that you could at last meet the eyes of your God in peace?"
"I have. I have struggled against the faults of my character; I have earnestly endeavoured to crush the vindictive feelings of my heart; and I have conscientiously tried to do my duty to my fellow-creatures, to my command, and my country. I have read the Bible you gave me; and, dearest, in praying for you, I have learned to pray for myself. Through Jesus, I have a sure hope of happiness beyond the grave. There, though separated in life, you and I shall be united by death. Oh, Irene! but for your earnest piety this precious anticipation might never have been mine. But for you I would have forgotten my mother's precepts and my mother's prayers. Through your influence I shall soon join her, where the fierce waves of earthly trial can lash my proud soul no more."
"Thank God! Oh, Russell! this takes away the intolerable bitterness of parting; this will support me in coming years. I can brave all things in future."
She saw that a paroxysm of pain had seized him. His brow wrinkled, and he bit his lips hard, to suppress a groan. Just at this moment Dr. Arnold re-entered, and immediately after gave him another potion of morphine.
"Aubrey, you must be quiet, if you would not shorten your life."
He silently endured his sufferings for some moments, and raising his eyes again to Irene's said, in a tone of exhaustion-- "It is selfish for me to make you witness my torture; but I could not bear to have you leave me. There is something I want to say while I have strength left. How is Electra?"
"Partially delirious still, but the doctor thinks she will recover. What shall I tell her for you?"
"That I loved and remembered her in my dying hour. Kiss her for me, and tell her I fell where the dead lay thickest, in a desperate charge on the enemy's batteries--that none can claim a nobler, prouder death than mine--that the name of Aubrey is once more glorified--baptized with my blood upon the battlefield. Irene, she is alone in the world; watch over her and love her, for my sake. Doctor, give me some water."
As the hæmorrhage increased despite their efforts to stanch it, he became rapidly weaker, and soon after, with one hand locked in Irene's, he fell asleep.
She sat motionless, supporting his head, uttering no sound, keeping her eyes fixed on his upturned countenance. Dr. Arnold went noiselessly in and out, on various errands of mercy; occasionally anxious, weather-beaten soldiers softly lifted the curtain of the tent, gazed sadly, fondly, on the prostrate figure of the beloved commander, and turned away silently, with tears trickling down their bronzed faces. Slowly the night waned, and the shrill tones of _reveille_ told that another day had risen before the murky sky brightened. Hundreds, who had sprung up at that call twenty-four hours ago, now lay stiffening in their gore, sleeping their last sleep, where neither the sound of fife and drum, nor the battle-cry of comrades, would ever rouse them from their final rest before Malvern Hill--over which winds wailed a requiem, and trailing, dripping clouds settled like a pall.
The bustle and stir of camp increased as preparations were made to follow the foe, who had again taken up the line of retreat; but within the tent unbroken silence reigned. It was apparent that Russell was sinking fast, and at eight o'clock he awoke, looked uneasily around him, and said feebly-- "What is going on in front?"
"McClellan has evacuated Malvern Hill, and is in full retreat toward his gunboats," answered the doctor.
"Then there will be no more fighting. My shattered regiment will rest for a season. Poor fellows! they did their duty nobly yesterday."
He lifted his eyes toward heaven, and for some moments his lips moved inaudibly in prayer. Gradually a tranquil expression settled on his features, and as his eyes closed again he murmured faintly-- "Irene--darling--raise me a little."
They lifted him, and rested his head against her shoulder.
"Irene!"
"I am here, Russell; my arms are around you."
She laid her cheek on his, and listened to catch the words, but none came. The lips parted once, and a soft, fluttering breath swept across them. Dr. Arnold put his hand over the heart--no pulsation greeted him; and, turning away, the old man covered his face with his handkerchief.
"Russell, speak to me once more."
There was no sound, no motion. She knew that the soldier's spirit had soared to the shores of Everlasting Peace, and that not until she joined him there would the loved tones again make music in her heart. She tightened her arms around the still form, and nestled her cheek closer to his, now growing cold. No burst of grief escaped her, to tell of agony and despair.
* * * * * Electra's speedy convalescence repaid the care bestowed upon her, and one afternoon, ten days after quiet had again settled around the Confederate capital, she insisted on being allowed to sit up later than usual, protesting that she would no longer be regarded as an invalid.
"Irene, stand in the light where I can see you fully. How worn and weary you look! I suspect I am regaining my health at the expense of yours."
"No; I am as well in body as I could desire. But no doubt my anxiety has left its traces on my countenance."
She leaned over Electra's chair, and stroked back the artist's shining hair.
"I wish you would let me see the papers. My eyes are strong enough now, and I want to know exactly what has taken place everywhere during my sickness. It seems to me impossible that General Lee's army can face McClellan's much longer without bringing on a battle, and I am so anxious about Russell. If he should be hurt, of course, I must go to him. It is very strange that he has not written. Are you sure no letters came for me?"
"There are no letters, I am sure; but I have a message for you. I have seen him once since you were taken sick."
"Ah! what is it? He heard that I was ill, and came to see me, I suppose. When was he here?"
Irene bent down and kissed her companion tremulously, saying slowly-- "He desired me to kiss you for him. Electra, I have not told you before because I feared the effect upon you in your weak state; but there have been desperate battles around Richmond during your illness, and the Federals have been defeated--driven back to James river."
"Was Russell wounded? Yes--I understand it all now! Where is he? Oh! tell me that I may go to him."
She sprang up, but a deathlike pallor overspread her face and she tottered to the open window.
Irene followed the thin figure, and, putting her arms about her, made her lean against her.
"He was wounded on the last day, and I went to see him; you were then delirious."
"Let me go at once! I will not disturb him; I will control myself! Only let me see him to-day!"
"Electra, you cannot see him. He has gone to his God; but in his dying hour he spoke of you fondly, sent love, and----" The form reeled, drooped, shivered, and fell back insensible in Irene's arms.
So heavy was the swoon, that it seemed as if her spirit had fled to join her cousin's in endless union; but at length consciousness returned, and with it came the woeful realization of her loss. A long, low wail rose and fell upon the air, like the cry from lips of feeble, suffering, helpless children, and her head sank upon the shoulder of the sad-faced nurse, whose grief could find no expression in sobs, or moans, or tears.
"Dead! dead! and I shall see his dear face no more! Oh! why did you not let me die, too? What is my wretched life worth now? One grave might have held us both! My noble, peerless Russell! the light of my solitary life! O God! be merciful! take me with my idol! Take me now!"
Very tenderly and caressingly Irene endeavoured to soothe her--detailed the circumstances of her cousin's death, and pointed her despairing soul to a final reunion.
But no rift appeared in the artist's black sky of sorrow; she had not yet learned that, in drawing near the hand that holds the rod, the blow is lightened, and she bitterly demanded of her Maker to be released from the burden of life.
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{
"id": "27811"
}
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35
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"THE SANCTIFIED DEVOTION AND FULL WORK"
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The sunlight of a warm spring day flashed through the open window, and made golden arabesque tracery on the walls, and portraits of the parlour at Huntingdon Hill. The costly crimson damask curtains had long since been cut into shirts for the soldiers, and transported to the army of Tennessee, and air and sunshine entered unimpeded. Electra sat before her canvas in this room, absorbed in the design which now engaged every thought. The witchery of her profession had woven its spell about her, banishing for a time the spectral past.
The extension of the Conscription statute had, several months before, deprived Irene of a valued and trusty overseer; and to satisfy herself concerning the character of his successor, and the condition of affairs at home, she and her uncle had returned to W----, bringing Electra with them.
Irene was with Electra in the parlour.
"What progress are you making, Electra?"
"Very little. I shall not hurry myself; I intend that the execution shall be equal to my ideal--and that ideal entirely worthy of the theme. I want to lay my '_Modern Macaria_,' as the first offering of Southern art, upon my country's altar, as a nucleus around which nobler and grander pictures, from the hands of my countrymen and women, shall cluster."
"Electra, in order to effect this 'consummation devoutly to be wished,' it is necessary that the primary branches of Art should be popularized, and thrown open to the masses; and in order to open for them new avenues of support, I have determined to establish in W---- a School of Design for Women--similar in plan, though more extensive, than that founded some years ago by Mrs. Peter of Philadelphia. The upper portion of the building will be arranged for drawing classes, wood-engraving, and the various branches of Design; and the lower, corresponding in size and general appearance, I intend for a circulating library for our county. Over that School of Design I want you to preside; your talents, your education, your devotion to your Art fit you peculiarly for the position. The salary shall be such as to compensate you for your services; and, when calmer days dawn upon us, we may be able to secure some very valuable lecturers among our gentlemen-artists. I have a large lot on the corner of Pine Street and Huntingdon Avenue, opposite the court-house, which will be a fine location for it, and I wish to appropriate it to this purpose. While you are adorning the interior of the building, the walls of which are to contain frescoes of some of the most impressive scenes of our Revolution, I will embellish the grounds in front, and make them my special charge. I understand the cultivation of flowers, though the gift of painting them is denied me. Yesterday I sold my diamonds for a much larger amount than I supposed they would command, and this sum, added to other funds now at my disposal, will enable me to accomplish the scheme. Dr. Arnold and Uncle Eric cordially approve my plan, will aid me very liberally, and as soon as tranquillity is restored I shall succeed in erecting the building without applying to any one else for assistance. When your picture is finished, I wish you to make me a copy to be hung up in our School of Design, that the students may be constantly reminded of the debt of gratitude we owe our armies."
The canvas, which she leaned forward to inspect more closely, contained an allegorical design representing, in the foreground, two female figures. One stern, yet noble-featured, crowned with stars--triumph and exultation flashing in the luminous eyes. Independence, crimson-mantled, grasping the Confederate Banner of the Cross, whose victorious folds streamed above a captured battery, where a Federal flag trailed in the dust. At her side stood white-robed, angelic Peace with one hand over the touch-hole of the cannon against which she leaned, and the other extended in benediction. Vividly the faces contrasted--one all athrob with national pride, beaming with brilliant destiny; the other wonderfully serene and holy. In the distance, gleaming in the evening light which streamed from the West, tents dotted a hill-side; and, intermediate between Peace and the glittering tents, stretched a torn, stained battlefield, over which the roar and rush of conflict had just swept, leaving mangled heaps of dead in attestation of its fury.
"How many months do you suppose it will require to complete it?" asked Irene, whose interest in the picture was scarcely inferior to that of its creator.
"If I work steadily upon it, I can soon finish it; but if I go with you to a Tennessee hospital, I must, of course, leave it here until the war ends. After all, Irene, the joy of success does not equal that which attends the patient working. Perhaps it is because 'anticipation is the purest part of pleasure.' I love my work; no man or woman ever loved it better; and yet there is a painful feeling of isolation, of loneliness, which steals over me sometimes, and chills all my enthusiasm. It is so mournful to know that, when the labour is ended, and a new chaplet encircles my brow, I shall have no one but you to whom I can turn for sympathy in my triumph. If I feel this so keenly now, how shall I bear it when the glow of life fades into sober twilight shadows, and age creeps upon me?"
She threw down her brush and palette, and, turning towards her companion, leaned her purplish head against her.
"Electra, it is very true that single women have trials for which a thoughtless, happy world has little sympathy. But lonely lives are not necessarily joyless; they should be, of all others, most useful.
"Remember that the woman who dares to live alone, and be sneered at, is braver, and nobler, and better than she who escapes both in a loveless marriage. It is true that you and I are very lonely, and yet our future holds much that is bright. You have the profession you love so well, and our new School of Design to engage your thoughts; and I a thousand claims on my time and attention. I have Uncle Eric to take care of and to love, and Dr. Arnold, who is growing quite infirm, has promised me that, as soon as he can be spared from the hospitals, he will make his home with us. When this storm of war has spent itself, your uncle's family will return from Europe and reside here with you. Harvey, too, will come to W---- to live--will probably take charge of Mr. Campbell's church--and we shall have the pleasure and benefit of his constant counsel. If I could see you a member of that church I should be better satisfied--and you would be happier."
"I would join to-morrow, if thereby I could acquire your sublime faith, and strength, and resignation. Oh, Irene! my friend and comforter! I want to live differently in future. Once I was wedded to life and my Art--pre-eminence in my profession, fame, was all that I cared to attain; now I desire to spend my remaining years so that I may meet Russell beyond the grave. His death broke the ties that bound me to this world; I live now in hope of reunion in God's eternal kingdom. I have been selfish, and careless, and complaining; but, oh! I want to do my whole duty henceforth. Irene, my calm, sweet, patient guide, teach me to be more like you."
"Electra, take Christ for your model, instead of an erring human being like yourself, constantly falling short of her own duty. With Harvey to direct us, we ought to accomplish a world of good, here in sight of Russell's grave."
The eyes of the artist went back to the stainless robes and seraphic face of her pictured Peace in the loved "Modern Macaria," and, as she resumed her work, her brow cleared, the countenance kindled as in days of yore, bitter memories hushed their moans and fell asleep at the wizard touch of her profession, and the stormy, stricken soul found balm and rest in Heaven-appointed Labour.
Standing at the back of Electra's chair, with one hand resting on her shoulder, Irene raised her holy violet eyes, and looked through the window toward the cemetery, where glittered a tall marble shaft which the citizens of W---- had erected over the last quiet resting-place of Russell Aubrey. Sands of Time were drifting stealthily around the crumbling idols of the morning of life, levelling and tenderly shrouding the Past, but sorrow left its softening shadow on the orphan's countenance, and laid its chastening finger about the lips which meekly murmured: "Thy will be done." The rays of the setting sun gilded her mourning dress, gleamed in the white roses that breathed their perfume in her rippling hair, and lingered like a benediction on the placid pure face of the lonely woman who had survived every earthly hope; and who, calmly fronting her Altars of Sacrifice, here dedicated herself anew to the hallowed work of promoting the happiness and gladdening the paths of all who journeyed with her down the chequered aisles of Time.
_Printed in Great Britain by_ Butler & Tanner, _Frome and London_
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{
"id": "27811"
}
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1
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POLLY ARRIVES
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“IT'S time to go to the station, Tom.”
“Come on, then.”
“Oh, I'm not going; it's too wet. Should n't have a crimp left if I went out such a day as this; and I want to look nice when Polly comes.”
“You don't expect me to go and bring home a strange girl alone, do you?” And Tom looked as much alarmed as if his sister had proposed to him to escort the wild woman of Australia.
“Of course I do. It's your place to go and get her; and if you was n't a bear, you'd like it.”
“Well, I call that mean! I supposed I'd got to go; but you said you'd go, too. Catch me bothering about your friends another time! No, sir!” And Tom rose from the sofa with an air of indignant resolution, the impressive effect of which was somewhat damaged by a tousled head, and the hunched appearance of his garments generally.
“Now, don't be cross; and I'll get mamma to let you have that horrid Ned Miller, that you are so fond of, come and make you a visit after Polly's gone,” said Fanny, hoping to soothe his ruffled feelings.
“How long is she going to stay?” demanded Tom, making his toilet by a promiscuous shake.
“A month or two, maybe. She's ever so nice; and I shall keep her as long as she's happy.”
“She won't stay long then, if I can help it,” muttered Tom, who regarded girls as a very unnecessary portion of creation. Boys of fourteen are apt to think so, and perhaps it is a wise arrangement; for, being fond of turning somersaults, they have an opportunity of indulging in a good one, metaphorically speaking, when, three or four years later, they become the abject slaves of “those bothering girls.”
“Look here! how am I going to know the creature? I never saw her, and she never saw me. You'll have to come too, Fan,” he added, pausing on his way to the door, arrested by the awful idea that he might have to address several strange girls before he got the right one.
“You'll find her easy enough; she'll probably be standing round looking for us. I dare say she'll know you, though I'm not there, because I've described you to her.”
“Guess she won't, then;” and Tom gave a hasty smooth to his curly pate and a glance at the mirror, feeling sure that his sister had n't done him justice. Sisters never do, as “we fellows” know too well.
“Do go along, or you'll be too late; and then, what will Polly think of me?” cried Fanny, with the impatient poke which is peculiarly aggravating to masculine dignity.
“She'll think you cared more about your frizzles than your friends, and she'll be about right, too.”
Feeling that he said rather a neat and cutting thing, Tom sauntered leisurely away, perfectly conscious that it was late, but bent on not being hurried while in sight, though he ran himself off his legs to make up for it afterward.
“If I was the President, I'd make a law to shut up all boys till they were grown; for they certainly are the most provoking toads in the world,” said Fanny, as she watched the slouchy figure of her brother strolling down the street. She might have changed her mind, however, if she had followed him, for as soon as he turned the corner, his whole aspect altered; his hands came out of his pockets, he stopped whistling, buttoned his jacket, gave his cap a pull, and went off at a great pace.
The train was just in when he reached the station, panting like a race-horse, and as red as a lobster with the wind and the run.
“Suppose she'll wear a top-knot and a thingumbob, like every one else; and however shall I know her? Too bad of Fan to make me come alone!” thought Tom, as he stood watching the crowd stream through the depot, and feeling rather daunted at the array of young ladies who passed. As none of them seemed looking for any one, he did not accost them, but eyed each new batch with the air of a martyr. “That's her,” he said to himself, as he presently caught sight of a girl in gorgeous array, standing with her hands folded, and a very small hat perched on the top of a very large “chig-non,” as Tom pronounced it. “I suppose I've got to speak to her, so here goes;” and, nerving himself to the task, Tom slowly approached the damsel, who looked as if the wind had blown her clothes into rags, such a flapping of sashes, scallops, ruffles, curls, and feathers was there.
“I say, if you please, is your name Polly Milton?” meekly asked Tom, pausing before the breezy stranger.
“No, it is n't,” answered the young lady, with a cool stare that utterly quenched him.
“Where in thunder is she?” growled Tom, walking off in high dudgeon. The quick tap of feet behind him made him turn in time to see a fresh-faced little girl running down the long station, and looking as if she rather liked it. As she smiled, and waved her bag at him, he stopped and waited for her, saying to himself, “Hullo! I wonder if that's Polly?”
Up came the little girl, with her hand out, and a half-shy, half-merry look in her blue eyes, as she said, inquiringly, “This is Tom, is n't it?”
“Yes. How did you know?” and Tom got over the ordeal of hand-shaking without thinking of it, he was so surprised.
“Oh, Fan told me you'd got curly hair, and a funny nose, and kept whistling, and wore a gray cap pulled over your eyes; so I knew you directly.” And Polly nodded at him in the most friendly manner, having politely refrained from calling the hair “red,” the nose “a pug,” and the cap “old,” all of which facts Fanny had carefully impressed upon her memory.
“Where are your trunks?” asked Tom, as he was reminded of his duty by her handing him the bag, which he had not offered to take.
“Father told me not to wait for any one, else I'd lose my chance of a hack; so I gave my check to a man, and there he is with my trunk;” and Polly walked off after her one modest piece of baggage, followed by Tom, who felt a trifle depressed by his own remissness in polite attentions. “She is n't a bit of a young lady, thank goodness! Fan did n't tell me she was pretty. Don't look like city girls, nor act like'em, neither,” he thought, trudging in the rear, and eyeing with favor the brown curls bobbing along in front.
As the carriage drove off, Polly gave a little bounce on the springy seat, and laughed like a delighted child. “I do like to ride in these nice hacks, and see all the fine things, and have a good time, don't you?” she said, composing herself the next minute, as if it suddenly occurred to her that she was going a-visiting.
“Not much,” said Tom, not minding what he said, for the fact that he was shut up with the strange girl suddenly oppressed his soul.
“How's Fan? Why did n't she come, too?” asked Polly, trying to look demure, while her eyes danced in spite of her.
“Afraid of spoiling her crinkles;” and Tom smiled, for this base betrayal of confidence made him feel his own man again.
“You and I don't mind dampness. I'm much obliged to you for coming to take care of me.”
It was kind of Polly to say that, and Tom felt it; for his red crop was a tender point, and to be associated with Polly's pretty brown curls seemed to lessen its coppery glow. Then he had n't done anything for her but carry the bag a few steps; yet, she thanked him. He felt grateful, and in a burst of confidence, offered a handful of peanuts, for his pockets were always supplied with this agreeable delicacy, and he might be traced anywhere by the trail of shells he left behind him.
As soon as he had done it, he remembered that Fanny considered them vulgar, and felt that he had disgraced his family. So he stuck his head out of the window, and kept it there so long, that Polly asked if anything was the matter. “Pooh! who cares for a countrified little thing like her,” said Tom manfully to himself; and then the spirit of mischief entered in and took possession of him.
“He's pretty drunk; but I guess he can hold his horses,” replied this evil-minded boy, with an air of calm resignation.
“Is the man tipsy? Oh, dear! let's get out! Are the horses bad? It's very steep here; do you think it's safe?” cried poor Polly, making a cocked hat of her little beaver, by thrusting it out of the half-open window on her side.
“There's plenty of folks to pick us up if anything happens; but perhaps it would be safer if I got out and sat with the man;” and Tom quite beamed with the brilliancy of this sudden mode of relief.
“Oh, do, if you ain't afraid! Mother would be so anxious if anything should happen to me, so far away!” cried Polly, much distressed.
“Don't you be worried. I'll manage the old chap, and the horses too;” and opening the door, Tom vanished aloft, leaving poor victimized Polly to quake inside, while he placidly revelled in freedom and peanuts outside, with the staid old driver.
Fanny came flying down to meet her “darling Polly,” as Tom presented her, with the graceful remark, “I've got her!” and the air of a dauntless hunter, producing the trophies of his skill. Polly was instantly whisked up stairs; and having danced a double-shuffle on the door-mat, Tom retired to the dining-room, to restore exhausted nature with half a dozen cookies.
“Ain't you tired to death? Don't you want to lie down?” said Fanny, sitting on the side of the bed in Polly's room, and chattering hard, while she examined everything her friend had on.
“Not a bit. I had a nice time coming, and no trouble, except the tipsy coachman; but Tom got out and kept him in order, so I was n't much frightened,” answered innocent Polly, taking off her rough-and-ready coat, and the plain hat without a bit of a feather.
“Fiddlestick! he was n't tipsy; and Tom only did it to get out of the way. He can't bear girls,” said Fanny, with a superior air.
“Can't he? Why, I thought he was very pleasant and kind!” and Polly opened her eyes with a surprised expression.
“He's an awful boy, my dear; and if you have anything to do with him, he'll torment you to death. Boys are all horrid; but he's the horridest one I ever saw.”
Fanny went to a fashionable school, where the young ladies were so busy with their French, German, and Italian, that there was no time for good English. Feeling her confidence much shaken in the youth, Polly privately resolved to let him alone, and changed the conversation, by saying, as she looked admiringly about the large, handsome room, “How splendid it is! I never slept in a bed with curtains before, or had such a fine toilet-table as this.”
“I'm glad you like it; but don't, for mercy sake, say such things before the other girls!” replied Fanny, wishing Polly would wear ear-rings, as every one else did.
“Why not?” asked the country mouse of the city mouse, wondering what harm there was in liking other people's pretty things, and saying so. “Oh, they laugh at everything the least bit odd, and that is n't pleasant.” Fanny did n't say “countrified,” but she meant it, and Polly felt uncomfortable. So she shook out her little black silk apron with a thoughtful face, and resolved not to allude to her own home, if she could help it.
“I'm so poorly, mamma says I need n't go to school regularly, while you are here, only two or three times a week, just to keep up my music and French. You can go too, if you like; papa said so. Do, it's such fun!” cried Fanny, quite surprising her friend by this unexpected fondness for school.
“I should be afraid, if all the girls dress as finely as you do, and know as much,” said Polly, beginning to feel shy at the thought.
“La, child! you need n't mind that. I'll take care of you, and fix you up, so you won't look odd.”
“Am I odd?” asked Polly, struck by the word and hoping it did n't mean anything very bad.
“You are a dear, and ever so much prettier than you were last summer, only you've been brought up differently from us; so your ways ain't like ours, you see,” began Fanny, finding it rather hard to explain.
“How different?” asked Polly again, for she liked to understand things.
“Well, you dress like a little girl, for one thing.”
“I am a little girl; so why should n't I?” and Polly looked at her simple blue merino frock, stout boots, and short hair, with a puzzled air.
“You are fourteen; and we consider ourselves young ladies at that age,” continued Fanny, surveying, with complacency, the pile of hair on the top of her head, with a fringe of fuzz round her forehead, and a wavy lock streaming down her back; likewise, her scarlet-and-black suit, with its big sash, little pannier, bright buttons, points, rosettes, and, heaven knows what. There was a locket on her neck, ear-rings tinkling in her ears, watch and chain at her belt, and several rings on a pair of hands that would have been improved by soap and water.
Polly's eye went from one little figure to the other, and she thought that Fanny looked the oddest of the two; for Polly lived in a quiet country town, and knew very little of city fashions. She was rather impressed by the elegance about her, never having seen Fanny's home before, as they got acquainted while Fanny paid a visit to a friend who lived near Polly. But she did n't let the contrast between herself and Fan trouble her; for in a minute she laughed and said, contentedly, “My mother likes me to dress simply, and I don't mind. I should n't know what to do rigged up as you are. Don't you ever forget to lift your sash and fix those puffy things when you sit down?”
Before Fanny could answer, a scream from below made both listen. “It 's only Maud; she fusses all day long,” began Fanny; and the words were hardly out of her mouth, when the door was thrown open, and a little girl, of six or seven, came roaring in. She stopped at sight of Polly, stared a minute, then took up her roar just where she left it, and cast herself into Fanny's lap, exclaiming wrathfully, “Tom's laughing at me! Make him stop!”
“What did you do to set him going? Don't scream so, you'll frighten Polly!” and Fan gave the cherub a shake, which produced an explanation.
“I only said we had cold cweam at the party, last night, and he laughed!”
“Ice-cream, child!” and Fanny followed Tom's reprehensible example.
“I don't care! it was cold; and I warmed mine at the wegister, and then it was nice; only, Willy Bliss spilt it on my new Gabwielle!” and Maud wailed again over her accumulated woes.
“Do go to Katy! You're as cross as a little bear to-day!” said Fanny, pushing her away.
“Katy don't amoose me; and I must be amoosed, 'cause I'm fwactious; mamma said I was!” sobbed Maud, evidently laboring under the delusion that fractiousness was some interesting malady.
“Come down and have dinner; that will amuse you;” and Fanny got up, pluming herself as a bird does before its flight.
Polly hoped the “dreadful boy” would not be present; but he was, and stared at her all dinner-time, in a most trying manner. Mr. Shaw, a busy-looking gentleman, said, “How do you do, my dear? Hope you'll enjoy yourself;” and then appeared to forget her entirely. Mrs. Shaw, a pale, nervous woman, greeted her little guest kindly, and took care that she wanted for nothing. Madam Shaw, a quiet old lady, with an imposing cap, exclaimed on seeing Polly, “Bless my heart! the image of her mother a sweet woman how is she, dear?” and kept peering at the new-comer over her glasses, till, between Madam and Tom, poor Polly lost her appetite.
Fanny chatted like a magpie, and Maud fidgeted, till Tom proposed to put her under the big dish-cover, which produced such an explosion, that the young lady was borne screaming away, by the much-enduring Katy. It was altogether an uncomfortable dinner, and Polly was very glad when it was over. They all went about their own affairs; and after doing the honors of the house, Fan was called to the dressmaker, leaving Polly to amuse herself in the great drawing-room.
Polly was glad to be alone for a few minutes; and, having examined all the pretty things about her, began to walk up and down over the soft, flowery carpet, humming to herself, as the daylight faded, and only the ruddy glow of the fire filled the room. Presently Madam came slowly in, and sat down in her arm-chair, saying, “That's a fine old tune; sing it to me, my dear. I have n't heard it this many a day.” Polly did n't like to sing before strangers, for she had had no teaching but such as her busy mother could give her; but she had been taught the utmost respect for old people, and having no reason for refusing, she directly went to the piano, and did as she was bid.
“That's the sort of music it's a pleasure to hear. Sing some more, dear,” said Madam, in her gentle way, when she had done.
Pleased with this praise, Polly sang away in a fresh little voice, that went straight to the listener's heart and nestled there. The sweet old tunes that one is never tired of were all Polly's store; and her favorites were Scotch airs, such as, “Yellow-Haired Laddie,” “Jock o' Hazeldean,” “Down among the Heather,” and “Birks of Aberfeldie.” The more she sung, the better she did it; and when she wound up with “A Health to King Charlie,” the room quite rung with the stirring music made by the big piano and the little maid.
“By George, that's a jolly tune! Sing it again, please,” cried Tom's voice; and there was Tom's red head bobbing up over the high back of the chair where he had hidden himself.
It gave Polly quite a turn, for she thought no one was hearing her but the old lady dozing by the fire. “I can't sing any more; I'm tired,” she said, and walked away to Madam in the other room. The red head vanished like a meteor, for Polly's tone had been decidedly cool.
The old lady put out her hand, and drawing Polly to her knee, looked into her face with such kind eyes, that Polly forgot the impressive cap, and smiled at her confidingly; for she saw that her simple music had pleased her listener, and she felt glad to know it.
“You must n't mind my staring, dear,” said Madam, softly pinching her rosy cheek. “I have n't seen a little girl for so long, it does my old eyes good to look at you.”
Polly thought that a very odd speech, and could n't help saying, “Are n't Fan and Maud little girls, too?”
“Oh, dear, no! not what I call little girls. Fan has been a young lady this two years, and Maud is a spoiled baby. Your mother's a very sensible woman, my child.”
“What a very queer old lady!” thought Polly; but she said “Yes'm” respectfully, and looked at the fire.
“You don't understand what I mean, do you?” asked Madam, still holding her by the chin.
“No'm; not quite.”
“Well, dear, I'll tell you. In my day, children of fourteen and fifteen did n't dress in the height of the fashion; go to parties, as nearly like those of grown people as it's possible to make them; lead idle, giddy, unhealthy lives, and get blasé at twenty. We were little folks till eighteen or so; worked and studied, dressed and played, like children; honored our parents; and our days were much longer in the land than now, it seems to, me.”
The old lady appeared to forget Polly at the end of her speech; for she sat patting the plump little hand that lay in her own, and looking up at a faded picture of an old gentleman with a ruffled shirt and a queue.
“Was he your father, Madam?
“Yes, dear; my honored father. I did up his frills to the day of his death; and the first money I ever earned was five dollars which he offered as a prize to whichever of his six girls would lay the handsomest darn in his silk stockings.”
“How proud you must have been!” cried Polly, leaning on the old lady's knee with an interested face.
“Yes, and we all learned to make bread, and cook, and wore little chintz gowns, and were as gay and hearty as kittens. All lived to be grandmothers and fathers; and I'm the last, seventy, next birthday, my dear, and not worn out yet; though daughter Shaw is an invalid at forty.”
“That's the way I was brought up, and that's why Fan calls me old-fashioned, I suppose. Tell more about your papa, please; I like it,” said Polly.
“Say'father.' We never called him papa; and if one of my brothers had addressed him as'governor,' as boys do now, I really think he'd have him cut off with a shilling.”
Madam raised her voice in saying this, and nodded significantly; but a mild snore from the other room seemed to assure her that it was a waste of shot to fire in that direction.
Before she could continue, in came Fanny with the joyful news that Clara Bird had invited them both to go to the theatre with her that very evening, and would call for them at seven o'clock. Polly was so excited by this sudden plunge into the dissipations of city life, that she flew about like a distracted butterfly, and hardly knew what happened, till she found herself seated before the great green curtain in the brilliant theatre. Old Mr. Bird sat on one side, Fanny on the other, and both let her alone, for which she was very grateful, as her whole attention was so absorbed in the scene around her, that she could n't talk.
Polly had never been much to the theatre; and the few plays she had seen were the good old fairy tales, dramatized to suit young beholders, lively, bright, and full of the harmless nonsense which brings the laugh without the blush. That night she saw one of the new spectacles which have lately become the rage, and run for hundreds of nights, dazzling, exciting, and demoralizing the spectator by every allurement French ingenuity can invent, and American prodigality execute. Never mind what its name was, it was very gorgeous, very vulgar, and very fashionable; so, of course, it was much admired, and every one went to see it. At first, Polly thought she had got into fairy-land, and saw only the sparkling creatures who danced and sung in a world of light and beauty; but, presently, she began to listen to the songs and conversation, and then the illusion vanished; for the lovely phantoms sang negro melodies, talked slang, and were a disgrace to the good old-fashioned elves whom she knew and loved so well.
Our little girl was too innocent to understand half the jokes, and often wondered what people were laughing at; but, as the first enchantment subsided, Polly began to feel uncomfortable, to be sure her mother would n't like to have her there, and to wish she had n't come. Somehow, things seemed to get worse and worse, as the play went on; for our small spectator was being rapidly enlightened by the gossip going on all about her, as well as by her own quick eyes and girlish instincts. When four-and-twenty girls, dressed as jockeys, came prancing on to the stage, cracking their whips, stamping the heels of their topboots, and winking at the audience, Polly did not think it at all funny, but looked disgusted, and was glad when they were gone; but when another set appeared in a costume consisting of gauze wings, and a bit of gold fringe round the waist, poor unfashionable Polly did n't know what to do; for she felt both frightened and indignant, and sat with her eyes on her play-bill, and her cheeks getting hotter and hotter every minute.
“What are you blushing so for?” asked Fanny, as the painted sylphs vanished.
“I'm so ashamed of those girls,” whispered Polly, taking a long breath of relief.
“You little goose, it's just the way it was done in Paris, and the dancing is splendid. It seems queer at first; but you'll get used to it, as I did.”
“I'll never come again,” said Polly, decidedly; for her innocent nature rebelled against the spectacle, which, as yet, gave her more pain than pleasure. She did not know how easy it was to “get used to it,” as Fanny did; and it was well for her that the temptation was not often offered. She could not explain the feeling; but she was glad when the play was done, and they were safe at home, where kind grandma was waiting to see them comfortably into bed.
“Did you have a good time, dear?” she asked, looking at Polly's feverish cheeks and excited eyes.
“I don't wish to be rude, but I did n't,” answered Polly. “Some of it was splendid; but a good deal of it made me want to go under the seat. People seemed to like it, but I don't think it was proper.”
As Polly freed her mind, and emphasized her opinion with a decided rap of the boot she had just taken off, Fanny laughed, and said, while she pirouetted about the room, like Mademoiselle Therese, “Polly was shocked, grandma. Her eyes were as big as saucers, her face as red as my sash, and once I thought she was going to cry. Some of it was rather queer; but, of course, it was proper, or all our set would n't go. I heard Mrs. Smythe Perkins say, 'It was charming; so like dear Paris;' and she has lived abroad; so, of course, she knows what is what.”
“I don't care if she has. I know it was n't proper for little girls to see, or I should n't have been so ashamed!” cried sturdy Polly, perplexed, but not convinced, even by Mrs. Smythe Perkins.
“I think you are right, my dear; but you have lived in the country, and have n't yet learned that modesty has gone out of fashion.” And with a good-night kiss, grandma left Polly to dream dreadfully of dancing in jockey costume, on a great stage; while Tom played a big drum in the orchestra; and the audience all wore the faces of her father and mother, looking sorrowfully at her, with eyes like saucers, and faces as red as Fanny's sash.
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{
"id": "2787"
}
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2
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NEW FASHIONS
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“I'M going to school this morning; so come up and get ready,” said Fanny, a day or two after, as she left the late breakfast-table.
“You look very nice; what have you got to do?” asked Polly, following her into the hall.
“Prink half an hour, and put on her wad,” answered the irreverent Tom, whose preparations for school consisted in flinging his cap on to his head, and strapping up several big books, that looked as if they were sometimes used as weapons of defence.
“What is a wad?” asked Polly, while Fanny marched up without deigning any reply.
“Somebody's hair on the top of her head in the place where it ought not to be;” and Tom went whistling away with an air of sublime indifference as to the state of his own “curly pow.”
“Why must you be so fine to go to school?” asked Polly, watching Fan arrange the little frizzles on her forehead, and settle the various streamers and festoons belonging to her dress.
“All the girls do; and it's proper, for you never know who you may meet. I'm going to walk, after my lessons, so I wish you'd wear your best hat and sack,” answered Fanny, trying to stick her own hat on at an angle which defied all the laws of gravitation.
“I will, if you don't think this is nice enough. I like the other best, because it has a feather; but this is warmer, so I wear it every day.” And Polly ran into her own room, to prink also, fearing that her friend might be ashamed of her plain costume. “Won't your hands be cold in kid gloves?” she said, as they went down the snowy street, with a north wind blowing in their faces.
“Yes, horrid cold; but my muff is so big, I won't carry it. Mamma won't have it cut up, and my ermine one must be kept for best;” and Fanny smoothed her Bismark kids with an injured air.
“I suppose my gray squirrel is ever so much too big; but it's nice and cosy, and you may warm your hands in it if you want to,” said Polly, surveying her new woollen gloves with a dissatisfied look, though she had thought them quite elegant before.
“Perhaps I will, by and by. Now, Polly, don't you be shy. I'll only introduce two or three of the girls; and you need n't mind old Monsieur a bit, or read if you don't want to. We shall be in the anteroom; so you 'll only see about a dozen, and they will be so busy, they won't mind you much.”
“I guess I won't read, but sit and look on. I like to watch people, everything is so new and queer here.”
But Polly did feel and look very shy, when she was ushered into a room full of young ladies, as they seemed to her, all very much dressed, all talking together, and all turning to examine the new-comer with a cool stare which seemed to be as much the fashion as eye-glasses. They nodded affably when Fanny introduced her, said something civil, and made room for her at the table round which they sat waiting for Monsieur. Several of the more frolicsome were imitating the Grecian Bend, some were putting their heads together over little notes, nearly all were eating confectionery, and the entire twelve chattered like magpies. Being politely supplied with caramels, Polly sat looking and listening, feeling very young and countrified among these elegant young ladies.
“Girls, do you know that Carrie has gone abroad? There has been so much talk, her father could n't bear it, and took the whole family off. Is n't that gay?” said one lively damsel, who had just come in.
“I should think they'd better go. My mamma says, if I'd been going to that school, she'd have taken me straight away,” answered another girl, with an important air.
“Carrie ran away with an Italian music-teacher, and it got into the papers, and made a great stir,” explained the first speaker to Polly, who looked mystified.
“How dreadful!” cried Polly.
“I think it was fun. She was only sixteen, and he was perfectly splendid; and she has plenty of money, and every one talked about it; and when she went anywhere, people looked, you know, and she liked it; but her papa is an old poke, so he's sent them all away. It's too bad, for she was the jolliest thing I ever knew.”
Polly had nothing to say to lively Miss Belle; but Fanny observed, “I like to read about such things; but it's so inconvenient to have it happen right here, because it makes it harder for us. I wish you could have heard my papa go on. He threatened to send a maid to school with me every day, as they do in New York, to be sure I come all right. Did you ever?” “That's because it came out that Carrie used to forge excuses in her mamma's name, and go promenading with her Oreste, when they thought her safe at school. Oh, was n't she a sly minx?” cried Belle, as if she rather admired the trick.
“I think a little fun is all right; and there's no need of making a talk, if, now and then, some one does run off like Carrie. Boys do as they like; and I don't see why girls need to be kept so dreadfully close. I'd like to see anybody watching and guarding me!” added another dashing young lady.
“It would take a policeman to do that, Trix, or a little man in a tall hat,” said Fanny, slyly, which caused a general laugh, and made Beatrice toss her head coquettishly.
“Oh, have you read 'The Phantom Bride'? It's perfectly thrilling! There 's a regular rush for it at the library; but some prefer 'Breaking a Butterfly.' Which do you like best?” asked a pale girl of Polly, in one of the momentary lulls which occurred.
“I have n't read either.”
“You must, then. I adore Guy Livingston's books, and Yates's. 'Ouida's' are my delight, only they are so long, I get worn out before I'm through.”
“I have n't read anything but one of the Muhlbach novels since I came. I like those, because there is history in them,” said Polly, glad to have a word to say for herself.
“Those are well enough for improving reading; but I like real exciting novels; don't you?”
Polly was spared the mortification of owning that she had never read any, by the appearance of Monsieur, a gray-headed old Frenchman, who went through his task with the resigned air of one who was used to being the victim of giggling school-girls. The young ladies gabbled over the lesson, wrote an exercise, and read a little French history. But it did not seem to make much impression upon them, though Monsieur was very ready to explain; and Polly quite blushed for her friend, when, on being asked what famous Frenchman fought in our Revolution, she answered Lamartine, instead of Lafayette.
The hour was soon over; and when Fan had taken a music lesson in another room, while Polly looked on, it was time for recess. The younger girls walked up and down the court, arm in arm, eating bread an butter; others stayed in the school-room to read and gossip; but Belle, Trix, and Fanny went to lunch at a fashionable ice-cream saloon near by, and Polly meekly followed, not daring to hint at the ginger-bread grandma had put in her pocket for luncheon. So the honest, brown cookies crumbled away in obscurity, while Polly tried to satisfy her hearty appetite on one ice and three macaroons.
The girls seemed in great spirits, particularly after they were joined by a short gentleman with such a young face that Polly would have called him a boy, if he had not worn a tall beaver. Escorted by this impressive youth, Fanny left her unfortunate friends to return to school, and went to walk, as she called a slow promenade down the most crowded streets. Polly discreetly fell behind, and amused herself looking into shop-windows, till Fanny, mindful of her manners, even at such an interesting time, took her into a picture gallery, and bade her enjoy the works of art while they rested. Obedient Polly went through the room several times, apparently examining the pictures with the interest of a connoisseur, and trying not to hear the mild prattle of the pair on the round seat. But she could n't help wondering what Fan found so absorbing in an account of a recent German, and why she need promise so solemnly not to forget the concert that afternoon.
When Fanny rose at last, Polly's tired face reproached her; and taking a hasty leave of the small gentleman, she turned homeward, saying, confidentially, as she put one hand in Polly's muff, “Now, my dear, you must n't say a word about Frank Moore, or papa will take my head off. I don't care a bit for him, and he likes Trix; only they have quarrelled, and he wants to make her mad by flirting a little with me. I scolded him well, and he promised to make up with her. We all go to the afternoon concerts, and have a gay time, and Belle and Trix are to be there to-day; so just keep quiet, and everything will be all right.”
“I'm afraid it won't,” began Polly, who, not being used to secrets, found it very hard to keep even a small one.
“Don't worry, child. It's none of our business; so we can go and enjoy the music, and if other people flirt, it won't be our fault,” said Fanny, impatiently.
“Of course not; but, then, if your father don't like you to do so, ought you to go?”
“I tell mamma, and she don't care. Papa is fussy, and grandma makes a stir about every blessed thing I do. You will hold your tongue, won't you?”
“Yes; I truly will; I never tell tales.” And Polly kept her word, feeling sure Fan did n't mean to deceive her father, since she told her mother everything.
“Who are you going with?” asked Mrs. Shaw, when Fanny mentioned that it was concert-day, just before three o'clock.
“Only Polly; she likes music, and it was so stormy I could n't go last week, you know,” answered Fan; adding, as they left the house again, “If any one meets us on the way, I can't help it, can I?”
“You can tell them not to, can't you?”
“That's rude. Dear me! here's Belle's brother Gus he always goes. Is my hair all right, and my hat?”
Before Polly could answer, Mr. Gus joined them as a matter of course, and Polly soon found herself trotting on behind, feeling that things were not “all right,” though she did n't know how to mend them. Being fond of music, she ignorantly supposed that every one else went for that alone, and was much disturbed by the whispering that went on among the young people round her. Belle and Trix were there in full dress; and, in the pauses between different pieces, Messrs. Frank and Gus, with several other “splendid fellows,” regaled the young ladies with college gossip, and bits of news full of interest, to judge from the close attention paid to their eloquent remarks. Polly regarded these noble beings with awe, and they recognized her existence with the condescension of their sex; but they evidently considered her only “a quiet little thing,” and finding her not up to society talk, blandly ignored the pretty child, and devoted themselves to the young ladies. Fortunately for Polly, she forgot all about them in her enjoyment of the fine music, which she felt rather than understood, and sat listening with such a happy face, that several true music-lovers watched her smilingly, for her heart gave a blithe welcome to the melody which put the little instrument in tune. It was dusk when they went out, and Polly was much relieved to find the carriage waiting for them, because playing third fiddle was not to her taste, and she had had enough of it for one day.
“I'm glad those men are gone; they did worry me so talking, when I wanted to hear,” said Polly, as they rolled away.
“Which did you like best?” asked Fanny, with a languid air of superiority.
“The plain one, who did n't say much; he picked up my muff when it tumbled down, and took care of me in the crowd; the others did n't mind anything about me.”
“They thought you were a little girl, I suppose.”
“My mother says a real gentleman is as polite to a little girl as to a woman; so I like Mr. Sydney best, because he was kind to me.”
“What a sharp child you are, Polly. I should n't have thought you'd mind things like that,” said Fanny, beginning to understand that there may be a good deal of womanliness even in a little girl.
“I'm used to good manners, though I do live in the country,” replied Polly, rather warmly, for she did n't like to be patronized even by her friends.
“Grandma says your mother is a perfect lady, and you are just like her; so don't get in a passion with those poor fellows, and I'll see that they behave better next time. Tom has no manners at all, and you don't complain of him,” added Fan, with a laugh.
“I don't care if he has n't; he's a boy, and acts like one, and I can get on with him a great deal better than I can with those men.”
Fanny was just going to take Polly to task for saying “those men” in such a disrespectful tone, when both were startled by a smothered “Cock-a-doodle-doo!” from under the opposite seat.
“It's Tom!” cried Fanny; and with the words out tumbled that incorrigible boy, red in the face, and breathless with suppressed laughter. Seating himself, he surveyed the girls as if well satisfied with the success of his prank, and waiting to be congratulated upon it. “Did you hear what we were saying?” demanded Fanny, uneasily.
“Oh, did n't I, every word?” And Tom exulted over them visibly.
“Did you ever see such a provoking toad, Polly? Now, I suppose you'll go and tell papa a great story.”
“P'r'aps I shall, and p'r'aps I shan't. How Polly did hop when I crowed! I heard her squeal, and saw her cuddle up her feet.”
“And you heard us praise your manners, did n't you?” asked Polly, slyly.
“Yes, and you liked'em; so I won't tell on you,” said Tom, with a re-assuring nod.
“There's nothing to tell.”
“Ain't there, though? What do you suppose the governor will say to you girls going on so with those dandies? I saw you.”
“What has the Governor of Massachusetts to do with us?” asked Polly, trying to look as if she meant what she said.
“Pooh! you know who I mean; so you need n't try to catch me up, as grandma does.”
“Tom, I'll make a bargain with you,” cried Fanny, eagerly. “It was n't my fault that Gus and Frank were there, and I could n't help their speaking to me. I do as well as I can, and papa need n't be angry; for I behave ever so much better than some of the girls. Don't I, Polly?”
“Bargain?” observed Tom, with an eye to business.
“If you won't go and make a fuss, telling what you'd no right to hear it was so mean to hide and listen; I should think you'd be ashamed of it! I'll help you tease for your velocipede, and won't say a word against it, when mamma and granny beg papa not to let you have it.”
“Will you?” and Tom paused to consider the offer in all its bearings.
“Yes, and Polly will help; won't you?”
“I'd rather not have anything to do with it; but I'll be quiet, and not do any harm.”
“Why won't you?” asked Tom, curiously.
“Because it seems like deceiving.”
“Well, papa need n't be so fussy,” said Fan, petulantly.
“After hearing about that Carrie, and the rest, I don't wonder he is fussy. Why don't you tell right out, and not do it any more, if he don't want you to?” said Polly, persuasively.
“Do you go and tell your father and mother everything right out?”
“Yes, I do; and it saves ever so much trouble.”
“Ain't you afraid of them?”
“Of course I'm not. It's hard to tell sometimes; but it's so comfortable when it's over.”
“Let's!” was Tom's brief advice.
“Mercy me! what a fuss about nothing!” said Fanny, ready to cry with vexation.
“T is n't nothing. You know you are forbidden to go gallivanting round with those chaps, and that's the reason you're in a pucker now. I won't make any bargain, and I will tell,” returned Tom, seized with a sudden fit of moral firmness.
“Will you if I promise never, never to do so any more?” asked Fanny, meekly; for when Thomas took matters into his own hands, his sister usually submitted in spite of herself.
“I'll think about it; and if you behave, maybe I won't do it at all. I can watch you better than papa can; so, if you try it again, it's all up with you, miss,” said Tom, finding it impossible to resist the pleasure of tyrannizing a little when he got the chance.
“She won't; don't plague her any more, and she will be good to you when you get into scrapes,” answered Polly, with her arm round Fan.
“I never do; and if I did, I should n't ask a girl to help me out.”
“Why not? I'd ask you in a minute, if I was in trouble,” said Polly, in her confiding way.
“Would you? Well, I'd put you through, as sure as my name's Tom Shaw. Now, then, don't slip, Polly,” and Mr. Thomas helped them out with unusual politeness, for that friendly little speech gratified him. He felt that one person appreciated him; and it had a good effect upon manners and temper made rough and belligerent by constant snubbing and opposition.
After tea that evening, Fanny proposed that Polly should show her how to make molasses candy, as it was cook's holiday, and the coast would be clear. Hoping to propitiate her tormentor, Fan invited Tom to join in the revel, and Polly begged that Maud might sit up and see the fun; so all four descended to the big kitchen, armed with aprons, hammers, spoons, and pans, and Polly assumed command of the forces. Tom was set to cracking nuts, and Maud to picking out the meats, for the candy was to be “tip-top.” Fan waited on Polly cook, who hovered over the kettle of boiling molasses till her face was the color of a peony. “Now, put in the nuts,” she said at last; and Tom emptied his plate into the foamy syrup, while the others watched with deep interest the mysterious concoction of this well-beloved sweetmeat. “I pour it into the buttered pan, you see, and it cools, and then we can eat it,” explained Polly, suiting the action to the word.
“Why, it's all full of shells!” exclaimed Maud, peering into the pan.
“Oh, thunder! I must have put'em in by mistake, and ate up the meats without thinking,” said Tom, trying to conceal his naughty satisfaction, as the girls hung over the pan with faces full of disappointment and despair.
“You did it on purpose, you horrid boy! I'll never let you have anything to do with my fun again!” cried Fan, in a passion, trying to catch and shake him, while he dodged and chuckled in high glee.
Maud began to wail over her lost delight, and Polly gravely poked at the mess, which was quite spoilt. But her attention was speedily diverted by the squabble going on in the corner; for Fanny, forgetful of her young-ladyism and her sixteen years, had boxed Tom's ears, and Tom, resenting the insult, had forcibly seated her in the coal-hod, where he held her with one hand while he returned the compliment with the other. Both were very angry, and kept twitting one another with every aggravation they could invent, as they scolded and scuffled, presenting a most unlovely spectacle.
Polly was not a model girl by any means, and had her little pets and tempers like the rest of us; but she did n't fight, scream, and squabble with her brothers and sisters in this disgraceful way, and was much surprised to see her elegant friend in such a passion. “Oh, don't! Please, don't! You'll hurt her, Tom! Let him go, Fanny! It's no matter about the candy; we can make some more!” cried Polly, trying to part them, and looking so distressed, that they stopped ashamed, and in a minute sorry that she should see such a display of temper.
“I ain't going to be hustled round; so you'd better let me alone, Fan,” said Tom, drawing off with a threatening wag of the head, adding, in a different tone, “I only put the shells in for fun, Polly. You cook another kettleful, and I'll pick you some meats all fair. Will you?”
“It's pretty hot work, and it's a pity to waste things; but I'll try again, if you want me to,” said Polly, with a patient sigh, for her arms were tired and her face uncomfortably hot.
“We don't want you; get away!” said Maud, shaking a sticky spoon at him.
“Keep quiet, cry-baby. I'm going to stay and help; may n't I, Polly?”
“Bears like sweet things, so you want some candy, I guess. Where is the molasses? We've used up all there was in the jug,” said Polly, good-naturedly, beginning again.
“Down cellar; I'll get it;” and taking the lamp and jug, Tom departed, bent on doing his duty now like a saint.
The moment his light vanished, Fanny bolted the door, saying, spitefully, “Now, we are safe from any more tricks. Let him thump and call, it only serves him right; and when the candy is done, we'll let the rascal out.”
“How can we make it without molasses?” asked Polly, thinking that would settle the matter.
“There's plenty in the store-room. No; you shan't let him up till I'm ready. He's got to learn that I'm not to be shaken by a little chit like him. Make your candy, and let him alone, or I'll go and tell papa, and then Tom will get a lecture.”
Polly thought it was n't fair; but Maud clamored for her candy, and finding she could do nothing to appease Fan, Polly devoted her mind to her cookery till the nuts were safely in, and a nice panful set in the yard to cool. A few bangs at the locked door, a few threats of vengeance from the prisoner, such as setting the house on fire, drinking up the wine, and mashing the jelly-pots, and then all was so quiet that the girls forgot him in the exciting crisis of their work.
“He can't possibly get out anywhere, and as soon we've cut up the candy, we'll unbolt the door and run. Come and get a nice dish to put it in,” said Fan, when Polly proposed to go halves with Tom, lest he should come bursting in somehow, and seize the whole.
When they came down with the dish in which to set forth their treat, and opened the back-door to find it, imagine their dismay on discovering that it was gone, pan, candy, and all, utterly and mysteriously gone!
A general lament arose, when a careful rummage left no hopes; for the fates had evidently decreed at candy was not to prosper on this unpropitious night.
“The hot pan has melted and sunk in the snow perhaps,” said Fanny, digging into the drift where it was left.
“Those old cats have got it, I guess,” suggested Maud, too much overwhelmed by this second blow to howl as usual.
“The gate is n't locked, and some beggar has stolen it. I hope it will do him good,” added Polly, turning from her exploring expedition.
“If Tom could get out, I should think he'd carried it off; but not being a rat, he can't go through the bits of windows; so it was n't him,” said Fanny, disconsolately, for she began to think this double loss a punishment for letting angry passions rise, “Let's open the door and tell him about it,” proposed Polly.
“He'll crow over us. No; we'll open it and go to bed, and he can come out when he likes. Provoking boy! if he had n't plagued us so, we should have had a nice time.”
Unbolting the cellar door, the girls announced to the invisible captive that they were through, and then departed much depressed. Half-way up the second flight, they all stopped as suddenly as if they had seen a ghost; for looking over the banisters was Tom's face, crocky but triumphant, and in either hand a junk of candy, which he waved above them as he vanished, with the tantalizing remark, “Don't you wish you had some?”
“How in the world did he get out?” cried Fanny, steadying herself after a start that nearly sent all three tumbling down stairs.
“Coal-hole!” answered a spectral voice from the gloom above.
“Good gracious! He must have poked up the cover, climbed into the street, stole the candy, and sneaked in at the shed-window while we were looking for it.”
“Cats got it, did n't they?” jeered the voice in a tone that made Polly sit down and laugh till she could n't laugh any longer.
“Just give Maud a bit, she's so disappointed. Fan and I are sick of it, and so will you be, if you eat it all,” called Polly, when she got her breath.
“Go to bed, Maudie, and look under your pillow when you get there,” was the oracular reply that came down to them, as Tom's door closed after a jubilant solo on the tin pan.
The girls went to bed tired out; and Maud slumbered placidly, hugging the sticky bundle, found where molasses candy is not often discovered. Polly was very tired, and soon fell asleep; but Fanny, who slept with her, lay awake longer than usual, thinking about her troubles, for her head ached, and the dissatisfaction that follows anger would not let her rest with the tranquillity that made the rosy face in the little round nightcap such a pleasant sight to see as it lay beside her. The gas was turned down, but Fanny saw a figure in a gray wrapper creep by her door, and presently return, pausing to look in. “Who is it?” she cried, so loud that Polly woke.
“Only me, dear,” answered grandma's mild voice. “Poor Tom has got a dreadful toothache, and I came down to find some creosote for him. He told me not to tell you; but I can't find the bottle, and don't want to disturb mamma.”
“It's in my closet. Old Tom will pay for his trick this time,” said Fanny, in a satisfied tone.
“I thought he'd get enough of our candy,” laughed Polly; and then they fell asleep, leaving Tom to the delights of toothache and the tender mercies of kind old grandma.
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{
"id": "2787"
}
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3
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POLLY'S TROUBLES
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POLLY soon found that she was in a new world, a world where the manners and customs were so different from the simple ways at home, that she felt like a stranger in a strange land, and often wished that she had not come. In the first place, she had nothing to do but lounge and gossip, read novels, parade the streets, and dress; and before a week was gone, she was as heartily sick of all this, as a healthy person would be who attempted to live on confectionery. Fanny liked it, because she was used to it, and had never known anything better; but Polly had, and often felt like a little wood-bird shut up in a gilded cage. Nevertheless, she was much impressed by the luxuries all about her, enjoyed them, wished she owned them, and wondered why the Shaws were not a happier family. She was not wise enough to know where the trouble lay; she did not attempt to say which of the two lives was the right one; she only knew which she liked best, and supposed it was merely another of her “old-fashioned” ways.
Fanny's friends did not interest her much; she was rather afraid of them, they seemed so much older and wiser than herself, even those younger in years. They talked about things of which she knew nothing and when Fanny tried to explain, she did n't find them interesting; indeed, some of them rather shocked and puzzled her; so the girls let her alone, being civil when they met, but evidently feeling that she was too “odd” to belong to their set. Then she turned to Maud for companionship, for her own little sister was excellent company, and Polly loved her dearly. But Miss Maud was much absorbed in her own affairs, for she belonged to a “set” also; and these mites of five and six had their “musicals,” their parties, receptions, and promenades, as well as their elders; and, the chief idea of their little lives seemed to be to ape the fashionable follies they should have been too innocent to understand. Maud had her tiny card-case, and paid calls, “like mamma and Fan”; her box of dainty gloves, her jewel-drawer, her crimping-pins, as fine and fanciful a wardrobe as a Paris doll, and a French maid to dress her. Polly could n't get on with her at first, for Maud did n't seem like a child, and often corrected Polly in her conversation and manners, though little mademoiselle's own were anything but perfect. Now and then, when Maud felt poorly, or had a “fwactious” turn, for she had “nerves” as well as mamma, she would go to Polly to “be amoosed,” for her gentle ways and kind forbearance soothed the little fine lady better than anything else. Polly enjoyed these times, and told stories, played games, or went out walking, just as Maud liked, slowly and surely winning the child's heart, and relieving the whole house of the young tyrant who ruled it.
Tom soon got over staring at Polly, and at first did not take much notice of her, for, in his opinion, “girls did n't amount to much, anyway”; and, considering, the style of girl he knew most about, Polly quite agreed with him. He occasionally refreshed himself by teasing her, to see how she'd stand it, and caused Polly much anguish of spirit, for she never knew where he would take her next. He bounced out at her from behind doors, booed at her in dark entries, clutched her feet as she went up stairs, startled her by shrill whistles right in her ear, or sudden tweaks of the hair as he passed her in the street; and as sure as there was company to dinner, he fixed his round eyes on her, and never took them off till she was reduced to a piteous state of confusion and distress. She used to beg him not to plague her; but he said he did it for her good; she was too shy, and needed toughening like the other girls. In vain she protested that she did n't want to be like the other girls in that respect; he only laughed in her face, stuck his red hair straight up all over his head, and glared at her, till she fled in dismay.
Yet Polly rather liked Tom, for she soon saw that he was neglected, hustled out of the way, and left to get on pretty much by himself. She often wondered why his mother did n't pet him as she did the girls; why his father ordered him about as if he was a born rebel, and took so little interest in his only son. Fanny considered him a bear, and was ashamed of him; but never tried to polish him up a bit; and Maud and he lived together like a cat and dog who did not belong to a “happy family.” Grandma was the only one who stood by poor old Tom; and Polly more than once discovered him doing something kind for Madam, and seeming very much ashamed when it was found out. He was n't respectful at all; he called her “the old lady,” and told her he “would n't be fussed over”; but when anything was the matter, he always went to “the old lady,” and was very grateful for the “fussing.” Polly liked him for this, and often wanted to speak of it; but she had a feeling that it would n't do, for in praising their affection, she was reproaching others with neglect; so she held her tongue, and thought about it all the more. Grandma was rather neglected, too, and perhaps that is the reason why Tom and she were such good friends. She was even more old-fashioned than Polly; but people did n't seem to mind it so much in her, as her day was supposed to be over, and nothing was expected of her but to keep out of everybody's way, and to be handsomely dressed when she appeared “before people.” Grandma led a quiet, solitary life in her own rooms, full of old furniture, pictures, books, and relics of a past for which no one cared but herself. Her son went up every evening for a little call, was very kind to her, and saw that she wanted nothing money could buy; but he was a busy man, so intent on getting rich that he had no time to enjoy what he already possessed. Madam never complained, interfered, or suggested; but there was a sad sort of quietude about her, a wistful look in her faded eyes, as if she wanted something which money could not buy, and when children were near, she hovered about them, evidently longing to cuddle and caress them as only grandmothers can. Polly felt this; and as she missed the home-petting, gladly showed that she liked to see the quiet old face brighten, as she entered the solitary room, where few children came, except the phantoms of little sons and daughters, who, to the motherly heart that loved them, never faded or grew up. Polly wished the children would be kinder to grandma; but it was not for her to tell them so, although it troubled her a good deal, and she could only try to make up for it by being as dutiful and affectionate as if their grandma was her own.
Another thing that disturbed Polly was the want of exercise. To dress up and parade certain streets for an hour every day, to stand talking in doorways, or drive out in a fine carriage, was not the sort of exercise she liked, and Fan would take no other. Indeed, she was so shocked, when Polly, one day, proposed a run down the mall, that her friend never dared suggest such a thing again. At home, Polly ran and rode, coasted and skated, jumped rope and raked hay, worked in her garden and rowed her boat; so no wonder she longed for something more lively than a daily promenade with a flock of giddy girls, who tilted along in high-heeled boots, and costumes which made Polly ashamed to be seen with some of them. So she used to slip out alone sometimes, when Fanny was absorbed in novels, company, or millinery, and get fine brisk walks round the park, on the unfashionable side, where the babies took their airings; or she went inside, to watch the boys coasting, and to wish she could coast too, as she did at home. She never went far, and always came back rosy and gay.
One afternoon, just before dinner, she felt so tired of doing nothing, that she slipped out for a run. It had been a dull day; but the sun was visible now, setting brightly below the clouds. It was cold but still and Polly trotted down the smooth, snow-covered mall humming to herself, and trying not to feel homesick. The coasters were at it with all their might, and she watched them, till her longing to join the fun grew irresistible. On the hill, some little girls were playing with their sleds, real little girls, in warm hoods and coats, rubber boots and mittens, and Polly felt drawn toward them in spite of her fear of Fan.
“I want to go down, but I dars n't, it's so steep,” said one of these “common children,” as Maud called them.
“If you'll lend me your sled, and sit in my lap, I'll take you down all nice,” answered Polly, in a confidential tone.
The little girls took a look at her, seemed satisfied, and accepted her offer. Polly looked carefully round to see that no fashionable eye beheld the awful deed, and finding all safe, settled her freight, and spun away down hill, feeling all over the delightsome excitement of swift motion which makes coasting such a favorite pastime with the more sensible portion of the child-world. One after another, she took the little girls down the hill and dragged them up again, while they regarded her in the light of a gray-coated angel, descended for their express benefit. Polly was just finishing off with one delicious “go” all by herself, when she heard a familiar whistle behind her, and before she could get off, up came Tom, looking as much astonished as if he had found her mounted, on an elephant.
“Hullo, Polly! What'll Fan say to you?” was his polished salutation.
“Don't know, and don't care. Coasting is no harm; I like it, and I'm going to do it, now I've got a chance; so clear the lul-la!” And away went independent Polly, with her hair blowing in the wind, and an expression of genuine enjoyment, which a very red nose did n't damage in the least.
“Good for you, Polly!” And casting himself upon his sled, with the most reckless disregard for his ribs, off whizzed Tom after her, and came alongside just as she reined up “General Grant” on the broad path below. “Oh, won't you get it when we go home?” cried the young gentleman, even before he changed his graceful attitude.
“I shan't, if you don't go and tell; but of course you will,” added Polly, sitting still, while an anxious expression began to steal over her happy face.
“I just won't, then,” returned Tom, with the natural perversity of his tribe.
“If they ask me, I shall tell, of course; if they don't ask, I think there's no harm in keeping still. I should n't have done it, if I had n't known my mother was willing; but I don't wish to trouble your mother by telling of it. Do you think it was very dreadful of me?” asked Polly, looking at him.
“I think it was downright jolly; and I won't tell, if you don't want me to. Now, come up and have another,” said Tom, heartily.
“Just one more; the little girls want to go, this is their sled.”
“Let'em take it, it is n't good for much; and you come on mine. Mazeppa's a stunner; you see if he is n't.”
So Polly tucked herself up in front, Tom hung on behind in some mysterious manner, and Mazeppa proved that he fully merited his master's sincere if inelegant praise. They got on capitally now, for Tom was in his proper sphere, and showed his best side, being civil and gay in the bluff boy-fashion that was natural to him; while Polly forgot to be shy, and liked this sort of “toughening” much better than the other. They laughed and talked, and kept taking “just one more,” till the sunshine was all gone, and the clocks struck dinner-time.
“We shall be late; let's run,” said Polly, as they came into the path after the last coast.
“You just sit still, and I'll get you home in a jiffy;” and before she could unpack herself, Tom trotted off with her at a fine pace.
“Here's a pair of cheeks! I wish you'd get a color like this, Fanny,” said Mr. Shaw, as Polly came into the dining-room after smoothing her hair.
“Your nose is as red as that cranberry sauce,” answered Fan, coming out of the big chair where she had been curled up for an hour or two, deep in “Lady Audley's Secret.”
“So it is,” said Polly, shutting one eye to look at the offending feature. “Never mind; I've had a good time, anyway,” she added, giving a little prance in her chair.
“I don't see much fun in these cold runs you are so fond of taking,” said Fanny, with a yawn and a shiver.
“Perhaps you would if you tried it;” and Polly laughed as she glanced at Tom.
“Did you go alone, dear?” asked grandma, patting the rosy cheek beside her.
“Yes'm; but I met Tom, and we came home together.” Polly's eyes twinkled when she said that, and Tom choked in his soup.
“Thomas, leave the table!” commanded Mr. Shaw, as his incorrigible son gurgled and gasped behind his napkin.
“Please don't send him away, sir. I made him laugh,” said Polly, penitently.
“What's the joke?” asked Fanny, waking up at last.
“I should n't think you'd make him laugh, when he's always making you cwy,” observed Maud, who had just come in.
“What have you been doing now, sir?” demanded Mr. Shaw, as Tom emerged, red and solemn, from his brief obscurity.
“Nothing but coast,” he said, gruffly, for papa was always lecturing him, and letting the girls do just as they liked.
“So's Polly; I saw her. Me and Blanche were coming home just now, and we saw her and Tom widing down the hill on his sled, and then he dwagged her ever so far!” cried Maud, with her mouth full.
“You did n't?” and Fanny dropped her fork with a scandalized face.
“Yes, I did, and liked it ever so much,” answered Polly, looking anxious but resolute.
“Did any one see you?” cried Fanny.
“Only some little girls, and Tom.”
“It was horridly improper; and Tom ought to have told you so, if you did n't know any better. I should be mortified to death if any of my friends saw you,” added Fan, much disturbed.
“Now, don't you scold. It's no harm, and Polly shall coast if she wants to; may n't she, grandma?” cried Tom, gallantly coming to the rescue, and securing a powerful ally.
“My mother lets me; and if I don't go among the boys, I can't see what harm there is in it,” said Polly, before Madam could speak.
“People do many things in the country that are not proper here,” began Mrs. Shaw, in her reproving tone.
“Let the child do it if she likes, and take Maud with her. I should be glad to have one hearty girl in my house,” interrupted Mr. Shaw, and that was the end of it.
“Thank you, sir,” said Polly, gratefully, and nodded at Tom, who telegraphed back “All right!” and fell upon his dinner with the appetite of a young wolf.
“Oh, you sly-boots! you're getting up a flirtation with Tom, are you?” whispered Fanny to her friend, as if much amused.
“What!” and Polly looked so surprised and indignant, that Fanny was ashamed of herself, and changed the subject by telling her mother she needed some new gloves.
Polly was very quiet after that, and the minute dinner was over, she left the room to go and have a quiet “think” about the whole matter. Before she got half-way up stairs, she saw Tom coming after, and immediately sat down to guard her feet. He laughed, and said, as he perched himself on the post of the banisters, “I won't grab you, honor bright. I just wanted to say, if you'll come out to-morrow some time, we'll have a good coast.”
“No,” said Polly, “I can't come.”
“Why not? Are you mad? I did n't tell.” And Tom looked amazed at the change which had come over her.
“No; you kept your word, and stood by me like a good boy. I'm not mad, either; but I don't mean to coast any more. Your mother don't like it.”
“That is n't the reason, I know. You nodded to me after she'd freed her mind, and you meant to go then. Come, now, what is it?”
“I shan't tell you; but I'm not going,” was Polly's determined answer.
“Well, I did think you had more sense than most girls; but you have n't, and I would n't give a sixpence for you.”
“That's polite,” said Polly, getting ruffled.
“Well, I hate cowards.”
“I ain't a coward.”
“Yes, you are. You're afraid of what folks will say; ain't you, now?”
Polly knew she was, and held her peace, though she longed to speak; but how could she?
“Ah, I knew you'd back out.” And Tom walked away with an air of scorn that cut Polly to the heart.
“It's too bad! Just as he was growing kind to me, and I was going to have a good time, it's all spoilt by Fan's nonsense. Mrs. Shaw don't like it, nor grandma either, I dare say. There'll be a fuss if I go, and Fan will plague me; so I'll give it up, and let Tom think I'm afraid. Oh, dear! I never did see such ridiculous people.”
Polly shut her door hard, and felt ready to cry with vexation, that her pleasure should be spoilt by such a silly idea; for, of all the silly freaks of this fast age, that of little people playing at love is about the silliest. Polly had been taught that it was a very serious and sacred thing; and, according to her notions, it was far more improper to flirt with one boy than to coast with a dozen. She had been much amazed, only the day before, to hear Maud say to her mother, “Mamma, must I have a beau? The girls all do, and say I ought to have Fweddy Lovell; but I don't like him as well as Hawry Fiske.”
“Oh, yes; I'd have a little sweetheart, dear, it's so cunning,” answered Mrs. Shaw. And Maud announced soon after that she was engaged to “Fweddy, 'cause Hawry slapped her” when she proposed the match.
Polly laughed with the rest at the time; but when she thought of it afterward, and wondered what her own mother would have said, if little Kitty had put such a question, she did n't find it cunning or funny, but ridiculous and unnatural. She felt so now about herself; and when her first petulance was over, resolved to give up coasting and everything else, rather than have any nonsense with Tom, who, thanks to his neglected education, was as ignorant as herself of the charms of this new amusement for school-children. So Polly tried to console herself by jumping rope in the back-yard, and playing tag with Maud in the drying-room, where she likewise gave lessons in “nas-gim-nics,” as Maud called it, which did that little person good. Fanny came up sometimes to teach them a new dancing step, and more than once was betrayed into a game of romps, for which she was none the worse. But Tom turned a cold shoulder to Polly, and made it evident, by his cavalier manner that he really did n't think her “worth a sixpence.”
Another thing that troubled Polly was her clothes, for, though no one said anything, she knew they were very plain; and now and then she wished that her blue and mouse colored merinos were rather more trimmed, her sashes had bigger bows, and her little ruffles more lace on them. She sighed for a locket, and, for the first time in her life, thought seriously of turning up her pretty curls and putting on a “wad.” She kept these discontents to herself, however, after she had written to ask her mother if she might have her best dress altered like Fanny's, and received this reply: “No, dear; the dress is proper and becoming as it is, and the old fashion of simplicity the best for all of us. I don't want my Polly to be loved for her clothes, but for herself; so wear the plain frocks mother took such pleasure in making for you, and let the panniers go. The least of us have some influence in this big world; and perhaps my little girl can do some good by showing others that a contented heart and a happy face are better ornaments than any Paris can give her. You want a locket, deary; so I send one that my mother gave me years ago. You will find father's face on one side, mine on the other; and when things trouble you, just look at your talisman, and I think the sunshine will come back again.”
Of course it did, for the best of all magic was shut up in the quaint little case that Polly wore inside her frock, and kissed so tenderly each night and morning. The thought that, insignificant as she was, she yet might do some good, made her very careful of her acts and words, and so anxious to keep head contented and face happy, that she forgot her clothes, and made others do the same. She did not know it, but that good old fashion of simplicity made the plain gowns pretty, and the grace of unconsciousness beautified their little wearer with the charm that makes girlhood sweetest to those who truly love and reverence it. One temptation Polly had already yielded to before the letter came, and repented heartily of afterward.
“Polly, I wish you'd let me call you Marie,” said Fanny one day, as they were shopping together.
“You may call me Mary, if you like; but I won't have any ie put on to my name. I'm Polly at home and I'm fond of being called so; but Marie is Frenchified and silly.”
“I spell my own name with an ie, and so do all the girls.”
“And what a jumble of Netties, Nellies, Hatties, and Sallies there is. How 'Pollie' would look spelt so!”
“Well, never mind; that was n't what I began to say. There's one thing you must have, and that is, bronze boots,” said Fan, impressively.
“Why must I, when I've got enough without?”
“Because it's the fashion to have them, and you can't be finished off properly without. I'm going to get a pair, and so must you.”
“Don't they cost a great deal?”
“Eight or nine dollars, I believe. I have mine charged; but it don't matter if you have n't got the money. I can lend you some.”
“I've got ten dollars to do what I like with; but it's meant to get some presents for the children.” And Polly took out her purse in an undecided way.
“You can make presents easy enough. Grandma knows all sorts of nice contrivances. They'll do just as well; and then you can get your boots.”
“Well; I'll look at them,” said Polly, following Fanny into the store, feeling rather rich and important to be shopping in this elegant manner.
“Are n't they lovely? Your foot is perfectly divine in that boot, Polly. Get them for my party; you'll dance like a fairy,” whispered Fan.
Polly surveyed the dainty, shining boot with the scalloped top, the jaunty heel, and the delicate toe, thought her foot did look very well in it, and after a little pause, said she would have them. It was all very delightful till she got home, and was alone; then, on looking into her purse, she saw one dollar and the list of things she meant to get for mother and the children. How mean the dollar looked all alone! and how long the list grew when there was nothing to buy the articles.
“I can't make skates for Ned, nor a desk for Will; and those are what they have set their hearts upon. Father's book and mother's collar are impossible now; and I'm a selfish thing to go and spend all my money for myself. How could I do it?” And Polly eyed the new boots reproachfully, as they stood in the first position as if ready for the party. “They are lovely; but I don't believe they will feel good, for I shall be thinking about my lost presents all the time,” sighed Polly, pushing the enticing boots out of sight. “I'll go and ask grandma what I can do; for if I've got to make something for every one, I must begin right away, or I shan't get done;” and off she bustled, glad to forget her remorse in hard work.
Grandma proved equal to the emergency, and planned something for every one, supplying materials, taste, and skill in the most delightful manner. Polly felt much comforted; but while she began to knit a pretty pair of white bed-socks, to be tied with rose-colored ribbons, for her mother, she thought some very sober thoughts upon the subject of temptation; and if any one had asked her just then what made her sigh, as if something lay heavy on her conscience, she would have answered, “Bronze boots.”
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{
"id": "2787"
}
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4
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LITTLE THINGS
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“IT'S so wainy, I can't go out, and evwybody is so cwoss they won't play with me,” said Maud, when Polly found her fretting on the stairs, and paused to ask the cause of her wails.
“I'll play with you; only don't scream and wake your mother. What shall we play?”
“I don't know; I'm tired of evwything, 'cause my toys are all bwoken, and my dolls are all sick but Clawa,” moaned Maud, giving a jerk to the Paris doll which she held upside down by one leg in the most unmaternal manner.
“I'm going to dress a dolly for my little sister; would n't you like to see me do it?” asked Polly, persuasively, hoping to beguile the cross child and finish her own work at the same time.
“No, I should n't, 'cause she'll look nicer than my Clawa. Her clothes won't come off; and Tom spoilt'em playing ball with her in the yard.”
“Would n't you like to rip these clothes off, and have me show you how to make some new ones, so you can dress and undress Clara as much as you like?”
“Yes; I love to cut.” And Maud's, face brightened; for destructiveness is one of the earliest traits of childhood, and ripping was Maud's delight.
Establishing themselves in the deserted dining-room, the children fell to work; and when Fanny discovered them, Maud was laughing with all her heart at poor Clara, who, denuded of her finery, was cutting up all sorts of capers in the hands of her merry little mistress.
“I should think you'd be ashamed to play with dolls, Polly. I have n't touched one this ever so long,” said Fanny, looking down with a superior air.
“I ain't ashamed, for it keeps Maud happy, and will please my sister Kitty; and I think sewing is better than prinking or reading silly novels, so, now.” And Polly stitched away with a resolute air, for she and Fanny had had a little tiff; because Polly would n't let her friend do up her hair “like other folks,” and bore her ears.
“Don't be cross, dear, but come and do something nice, it's so dull to-day,” said Fanny, anxious to be friends again, for it was doubly dull without Polly.
“Can't; I'm busy.”
“You always are busy. I never saw such a girl. What in the world do you find to do all the time?” asked Fanny, watching with interest the set of the little red merino frock Polly was putting on to her doll.
“Lots of things; but I like to be lazy sometimes as much as you do; just lie on the sofa, and read fairy stories, or think about nothing. Would you have a white-muslin apron or a black silk?” added Polly, surveying her work with satisfaction.
“Muslin, with pockets and tiny blue bows. I'll show you how.” And forgetting her hate and contempt for dolls, down sat Fanny, soon getting as much absorbed as either of the others.
The dull day brightened wonderfully after that, and the time flew pleasantly, as tongues and needles went together. Grandma peeped in, and smiled at the busy group, saying, “Sew away, my dears; dollies are safe companions, and needlework an accomplishment that's sadly neglected nowadays. Small stitches, Maud; neat button-holes, Fan; cut carefully, Polly, and don't waste your cloth. Take pains; and the best needlewoman shall have a pretty bit of white satin for a doll's bonnet.”
Fanny exerted herself, and won the prize, for Polly helped Maud, and neglected her own work; but she did n't care much, for Mr. Shaw said, looking at the three bright faces at the tea-table, “I guess Polly has been making sunshine for you to-day.” “No, indeed, sir, I have n't done anything, only dress Maud's doll.”
And Polly did n't think she had done much; but it was one of the little things which are always waiting to be done in this world of ours, where rainy days come so often, where spirits get out of tune, and duty won't go hand in hand with pleasure. Little things of this sort are especially good work for little people; a kind little thought, an unselfish little act, a cheery little word, are so sweet and comfortable, that no one can fail to feel their beauty and love the giver, no matter how small they are. Mothers do a deal of this sort of thing, unseen, unthanked, but felt and remembered long afterward, and never lost, for this is the simple magic that binds hearts together, and keeps home happy. Polly had learned this secret.
She loved to do the “little things” that others did not see, or were too busy to stop for; and while doing them, without a thought of thanks, she made sunshine for herself as well as others. There was so much love in her own home, that she quickly felt the want of it in Fanny's, and puzzled herself to find out why these people were not kind and patient to one another. She did not try to settle the question, but did her best to love and serve and bear with each, and the good will, the gentle heart, the helpful ways and simple manners of our Polly made her dear to every one, for these virtues, even in a little child, are lovely and attractive.
Mr. Shaw was very kind to her, for he liked her modest, respectful manners; and Polly was so grateful for his many favors, that she soon forgot her fear, and showed her affection in all sorts of confiding little ways, which pleased him extremely. She used to walk across the park with him when he went to his office in the morning, talking busily all the way, and saying “Good-by” with a nod and a smile when they parted at the great gate. At first, Mr. Shaw did not care much about it; but soon he missed her if she did not come, and found that something fresh and pleasant seemed to brighten all his day, if a small, gray-coated figure, with an intelligent face, a merry voice, and a little hand slipped confidingly into his, went with him through the wintry park. Coming home late, he liked to see a curly, brown head watching at the window; to find his slippers ready, his paper in its place, and a pair of willing feet, eager to wait upon him. “I wish my Fanny was more like her,” he often said to himself, as he watched the girls, while they thought him deep in politics or the state of the money market. Poor Mr. Shaw had been so busy getting rich, that he had not found time to teach his children to love him; he was more at leisure now, and as his boy and girls grew up, he missed something. Polly was unconsciously showing him what it was, and making child-love so sweet, that he felt he could not do without it any more, yet did n't quite know how to win the confidence of the children, who had always found him busy, indifferent, and absentminded.
As the girls were going to bed one night, Polly kissed grandma, as usual, and Fanny laughed at her, saying, “What a baby you are! We are too old for such things now.”
“I don't think people ever are too old to kiss their fathers and mothers,” was the quick answer.
“Right, my little Polly;” and Mr. Shaw stretched out his hand to her with such a kindly look, that Fanny stared surprised, and then said, shyly, “I thought you did n't care about it, father.” “I do, my dear:” And Mr. Shaw put out the other hand to Fanny, who gave him a daughterly kiss, quite forgetting everything but the tender feeling that sprung up in her heart at the renewal of the childish custom which we never need outgrow.
Mrs. Shaw was a nervous, fussy invalid, who wanted something every five minutes; so Polly found plenty of small things to do for her and did, them so cheerfully, that the poor lady loved to have the quiet, helpful child near, to wait upon her, read to her, run errands, or hand the seven different shawls which were continually being put on or off.
Grandma, too, was glad to find willing hands and feet to serve her; and Polly passed many happy hours in the quaint rooms, learning all sorts of pretty arts, and listening to pleasant chat, never dreaming how much sunshine she brought to the solitary old lady.
Tom was Polly's rock ahead for a long time, because he was always breaking out in a new place, and one never knew where to find him. He tormented yet amused her; was kind one day, and a bear the next; at times she fancied he was never going to be bad again, and the next thing she knew he was deep in mischief, and hooted at the idea of repentance and reformation. Polly gave him up as a hard case; but was so in the habit of helping any one who seemed in trouble, that she was good to him simply because she could n't help it.
“What's the matter? Is your lesson too hard for you?” she asked one evening, as a groan made her look across the table to where Tom sat scowling over a pile of dilapidated books, with his hands in his hair, as if his head was in danger of flying asunder with the tremendous effort he was making.
“Hard! Guess it is. What in thunder do I care about the old Carthaginians? Regulus was n't bad; but I'm sick of him!” And Tom dealt “Harkness's Latin Reader” a thump, which expressed his feelings better than words.
“I like Latin, and used to get on well when I studied it with Jimmy. Perhaps I can help you a little bit,” said Polly, as Tom wiped his hot face and refreshed himself with a peanut.
“You? pooh! girls' Latin don't amount to much anyway,” was the grateful reply.
But Polly was used to him now, and, nothing daunted, took a look at the grimy page in the middle of which Tom had stuck. She read it so well, that the young gentleman stopped munching to regard her with respectful astonishment, and when she stopped, he said, suspiciously, “You are a sly one, Polly, to study up so you can show off before me. But it won't do, ma'am; turn over a dozen pages, and try again.”
Polly obeyed, and did even better than before, saying, as she looked up, with a laugh, “I've been through the whole book; so you won't catch me that way, Tom.”
“I say, how came you to know such a lot?” asked Tom, much impressed.
“I studied with Jimmy, and kept up with him, for father let us be together in all our lessons. It was so nice, and we learned so fast!”
“Tell me about Jimmy. He's your brother, is n't he?”
“Yes; but he's dead, you know. I'll tell about him some other time; you ought to study now, and perhaps I can help you,” said Polly, with a little quiver of the lips.
“Should n't wonder if you could.” And Tom spread the book between them with a grave and business-like air, for he felt that Polly had got the better of him, and it behooved him to do his best for the honor of his sex. He went at the lesson with a will, and soon floundered out of his difficulties, for Polly gave him a lift here and there, and they went on swimmingly, till they came to some rules to be learned. Polly had forgotten them, so they, both committed them to memory; Tom, with hands in his pockets, rocked to and fro, muttering rapidly, while Polly twisted the little curl on her forehead and stared at the wall, gabbling with all her might.
“Done!” cried Tom, presently.
“Done!” echoed Polly; and then they heard each other recite till both were perfect “That's pretty good fun,” said Tom, joyfully, tossing poor Harkness away, and feeling that the pleasant excitement of companionship could lend a charm even to Latin Grammar.
“Now, ma'am, we'll take a turn at algibbera. I like that as much as I hate Latin.”
Polly accepted the invitation, and soon owned that Tom could beat her here. This fact restored his equanimity; but he did n't crow over her, far from it; for he helped her with a paternal patience that made her eyes twinkle with suppressed fun, as he soberly explained and illustrated, unconsciously imitating Dominie Deane, till Polly found it difficult to keep from laughing in his face.
“You may have another go at it any, time you like,” generously remarked Tom, as he shied the algebra after the Latin Reader.
“I'll come every evening, then. I'd like to, for I have n't studied a bit since I came. You shall try and make me like algebra, and I'll try and make you like Latin, will you?”
“Oh, I'd like it well enough, if there was any one explain it to me. Old Deane puts us through double-quick, and don't give a fellow time to ask questions when we read.”
“Ask your father; he knows.”
“Don't believe he does; should n't dare to bother him, if he did.”
“Why not?”
“He'd pull my ears, and call me a'stupid,' or tell me not to worry him.”
“I don't think he would. He's very kind to me, and I ask lots of questions.”
“He likes you better than he does me.”
“Now, Tom! it's wrong of you to say so. Of course he loves you ever so much more than he does me,” cried Polly, reprovingly.
“Why don't he show it then?” muttered Tom, with a half-wistful, half-defiant glance toward the library door, which stood ajar.
“You act so, how can he?” asked Polly, after a pause, in which she put Tom's question to herself, and could find no better reply than the one she gave him.
“Why don't he give me my velocipede? He said, if I did well at school for a month, I should have it; and I've been pegging away like fury for most six weeks, and he don't do a thing about it. The girls get their duds, because they tease. I won't do that anyway; but you don't catch me studying myself to death, and no pay for it.”
“It is too bad; but you ought to do it because it's right, and never mind being paid,” began Polly, trying to be moral, but secretly sympathizing heartily with poor Tom.
“Don't you preach, Polly. If the governor took any notice of me, and cared how I got on, I would n't mind the presents so much; but he don't care a hang, and never even asked if I did well last declamation day, when I'd gone and learned 'The Battle of Lake Regillus,' because he said he liked it.”
“Oh, Tom! Did you say that? It's splendid! Jim and I used to say Horatius together, and it was such fun. Do speak your piece to me, I do so like 'Macaulay's Lays.'”
“It's dreadful long,” began Tom; but his face brightened, for Polly's interest soothed his injured feelings, and he was glad to prove his elocutionary powers. He began without much spirit; but soon the martial ring of the lines fired him, and before he knew it, he was on his legs thundering away in grand style, while Polly listened with kindling face and absorbed attention. Tom did declaim well, for he quite forgot himself, and delivered the stirring ballad with an energy that made Polly flush and tingle with admiration and delight, and quite electrified a second listener, who had heard all that went on, and watched the little scene from behind his newspaper.
As Tom paused, breathless, and Polly clapped her hands enthusiastically, the sound was loudly echoed from behind him. Both whirled round, and there was Mr. Shaw, standing in the doorway, applauding with all his might.
Tom looked much abashed, and said not a word; Polly ran to Mr. Shaw, and danced before him, saying, eagerly, “Was n't it splendid? Did n't he do well? May n't he have his velocipede now?”
“Capital, Tom; you'll be an orator yet. Learn another piece like that, and I'll come and hear you speak it. Are you ready for your velocipede, hey?”
Polly was right; and Tom owned that “the governor” was kind, did like him and had n't entirely forgotten his promise. The boy turned red with pleasure, and picked at the buttons on his jacket, while listening to this unexpected praise; but when he spoke, he looked straight up in his father's face, while his own shone with pleasure, as he answered, in one breath, “Thankee, sir. I'll do it, sir. Guess I am, sir!”
“Very good; then look out for your new horse tomorrow, sir.” And Mr. Shaw stroked the fuzzy red head with a kind hand, feeling a fatherly pleasure in the conviction that there was something in his boy after all.
Tom got his velocipede next day, named it Black Auster, in memory of the horse in “The Battle of Lake Regillus,” and came to grief as soon as he began to ride his new steed.
“Come out and see me go it,” whispered Tom to Polly, after three days' practice in the street, for he had already learned to ride in the rink.
Polly and Maud willingly went, and watched his struggles, with deep interest, till he got an upset, which nearly put an end to his velocipeding forever.
“Hi, there! Auster's coming!” shouted Tom, as came rattling down the long, steep street outside the park.
They stepped aside, and he whizzed by, arms and legs going like mad, with the general appearance of a runaway engine. It would have been a triumphant descent, if a big dog had not bounced suddenly through one of the openings, and sent the whole concern helter-skelter into the gutter. Polly laughed as she ran to view the ruin, for Tom lay flat on his back with the velocipede atop him, while the big dog barked wildly, and his master scolded him for his awkwardness. But when she saw Tom's face, Polly was frightened, for the color had all gone out of it, his eyes looked strange and dizzy, and drops of blood began to trickle from a great cut on his forehead. The man saw it, too, and had him up in a minute; but he could n't stand, and stared about him in a dazed sort of way, as he sat on the curbstone, while Polly held her handkerchief to his forehead, and pathetically begged to know if he was killed.
“Don't scare mother, I'm all right. Got upset, did n't I?” he asked, presently, eyeing the prostrate velocipede with more anxiety about its damages than his own.
“I knew you'd hurt yourself with that horrid thing just let it be, and come home, for your head bleeds dreadfully, and everybody is looking at us,” whispered Polly, trying to tie the little handkerchief over the ugly cut.
“Come on, then. Jove! how queer my head feels! Give us a boost, please. Stop howling, Maud, and come home. You bring the machine, and I'll pay you, Pat.” As he spoke, Tom slowly picked himself and steadying himself by Polly's shoulder, issued commands, and the procession fell into line. First, the big dog, barking at intervals; then the good-natured Irishman, trundling “that divil of a whirligig,” as he disrespectfully called the idolized velocipede; then the wounded hero, supported by the helpful Polly; and Maud brought up the rear in tears, bearing Tom's cap.
Unfortunately, Mrs. Shaw was out driving with grandma, and Fanny was making calls; so that there was no one but Polly to stand by Tom, for the parlor-maid turned faint at the sight of blood, and the chamber-maid lost her wits in the flurry. It was a bad cut, and must be sewed up at once, the doctor said, as soon as he came. “Somebody must hold his head;” he added, as he threaded his queer little needle.
“I'll keep still, but if anybody must hold me, let Polly. You ain't afraid, are you?” asked Tom, with imploring look, for he did n't like the idea of being sewed a bit.
Polly was just going to shrink away, saying, “Oh I can't!” when she remembered that Tom once called her a coward. Here was a chance to prove that she was n't; besides, poor Tom had no one else to help him; so she came up to the sofa where he lay, and nodded reassuringly, as she put a soft little hand on either side of the damaged head.
“You are a trump, Polly,” whispered Tom. Then he set his teeth, clenched his hands, lay quite still, and bore it like a man. It was all over in a minute or two, and when he had had a glass of wine, and was nicely settled on his bed, he felt pretty comfortable, in spite of the pain in his head; and being ordered to keep quiet, he said, “Thank you ever so much, Polly,” and watched her with a grateful face as she crept away.
He had to keep the house for a week, and laid about looking very interesting with a great black patch on his forehead. Every one'petted him;' for the doctor said, that if the blow had been an inch nearer the temple, it would have been fatal, and the thought of losing him so suddenly made bluff old Tom very precious all at once. His father asked him how he was a dozen times a day; his mother talked continually of “that dear boy's narrow escape”; and grandma cockered him up with every delicacy she could invent; and the girls waited on him like devoted slaves. This new treatment had an excellent effect; for when neglected Tom got over his first amazement at this change of base, he blossomed out delightfully, as sick people do sometimes, and surprised his family by being unexpectedly patient, grateful, and amiable. Nobody ever knew how much good it did him; for boys seldom have confidences of this sort except with their mothers, and Mrs. Shaw had never found the key to her son's heart. But a little seed was sowed then that took root, and though it grew very slowly, it came to something in the end. Perhaps Polly helped it a little. Evening was his hardest time, for want of exercise made him as restless and nervous as it was possible for a hearty lad to be on such a short notice.
He could n't sleep so the girls amused him; Fanny played and read aloud; Polly sung, and told stories; and did the latter so well, that it got to be a regular thing for her to begin as soon as twilight came, and Tom was settled in his favorite place on grandma's sofa.
“Fire away, Polly,” said the young sultan, one evening, as his little Scheherazade sat down in her low chair, after stirring up the fire till the room was bright and cosy.
“I don't feel like stories to-night, Tom. I've told all I know, and can't make up any more,” answered Polly, leaning her head on her hand with a sorrowful look that Tom had never seen before. He watched her a minute, and then asked, curiously, “What were you thinking about, just now, when you sat staring at the fire, and getting soberer and soberer every minute?
“I was thinking about Jimmy.”
“Would you mind telling about him? You know, you said you would some time; but don't, if you'd rather not,” said Tom, lowering his rough voice respectfully.
“I like to talk about him; but there is n't much to tell,” began Polly, grateful for his interest. “Sitting here with you reminded me of the way I used to sit with him when he was sick. We used to have such happy times, and it's so pleasant to think about them now.”
“He was awfully good, was n't he?”
“No, he was n't; but he tried to be, and mother says that is half the battle. We used to get tired of trying; but we kept making resolutions, and working hard to keep'em. I don't think I got on much; but Jimmy did, and every one loved him.”
“Did n't you ever squabble, as we do?”
“Yes, indeed, sometimes; but we could n't stay mad, and always made it up again as soon as we could. Jimmy used to come round first, and say, 'All serene, Polly,' so kind and jolly, that I could n't help laughing and being friends right away.”
“Did he not know a lot?”
“Yes, I think he did, for he liked to study, and wanted to get on, so he could help father. People used to call him a fine boy, and I felt so proud to hear it; but they did n't know half how wise he was, because he did n't show off a bit. I suppose sisters always are grand of their brothers; but I don't believe many girls had as much right to be as I had.”
“Most girls don't care two pins about their brothers; so that shows you don't know much about it.”
“Well, they ought to, if they don't; and they would if the boys were as kind to them as Jimmy was to me.”
“Why, what did he do?”
“Loved me dearly, and was n't ashamed to show it,” cried Polly, with a sob in her voice, that made her answer very eloquent.
“What made him die, Polly?” asked Tom, soberly, after little pause.
“He got hurt coasting, last winter; but he never told which boy did it, and he only lived a week. I helped take care of him; and he was so patient, I used to wonder at him, for he was in dreadful pain all time. He gave me his books, and his dog, and his speckled hens, and his big knife, and said, 'Good-by, Polly,' and kissed me the last thing and then O Jimmy! Jimmy! If he only could come back!”
Poor Polly's eyes had been getting fuller and fuller, lips trembling more and more, as she went on; when she came to that “good-by,” she could n't get any further, but covered up her face, and cried as her heart would break. Tom was full of sympathy, but did n't know how to show it; so he sat shaking up the camphor bottle, and trying to think of something proper and comfortable to say, when Fanny came to the rescue, and cuddled Polly in her arms, with soothing little pats and whispers and kisses, till the tears stopped, and Polly said, she “did n't mean to, and would n't any more. I've been thinking about my dear boy all the evening, for Tom reminds me of him,” she added, with a sigh.
“Me? How can I, when I ain't a bit like him?” cried Tom, amazed.
“But you are in some ways.”
“Wish I was; but I can't be, for he was good, you know.”
“So are you, when you choose. Has n't he been good and patient, and don't we all like to pet him when he's clever, Fan?”' said Polly, whose heart was still aching for her brother, and ready for his sake to find virtues even in tormenting Tom.
“Yes; I don't know the boy lately; but he'll be as bad as ever when he's well,” returned Fanny, who had n't much faith in sick-bed repentances.
“Much you know about it,” growled Tom, lying down again, for he had sat bolt upright when Polly made the astounding declaration that he was like the well-beloved Jimmy. That simple little history had made a deep impression on Tom, and the tearful ending touched the tender spot that most boys hide so carefully. It is very pleasant to be loved and admired, very sweet to think we shall be missed and mourned when we die; and Tom was seized with a sudden desire to imitate this boy, who had n't done anything wonderful, yet was so dear to his sister, that she cried for him a whole year after he was dead; so studious and clever, the people called him “a fine fellow”; and so anxious to be good, that he kept on trying, till he was better even than Polly, whom Tom privately considered a model of virtue, as girls go.
“I just wish I had a sister like you,” he broke out, all of a sudden.
“And I just wish I had a brother like Jim,” cried Fanny, for she felt the reproach in Tom's words, and knew she deserved it.
“I should n't think you'd envy anybody, for you've got one another,” said Polly, with such a wistful look, that it suddenly set Tom and Fanny to wondering why they did n't have better times together, and enjoy themselves, as Polly and Jim did.
“Fan don't care for anybody but herself,” said Tom.
“Tom is such a bear,” retorted Fanny.
“I would n't say such things, for if anything should happen to either of you, the other one would feel so sorry. Every cross word I ever said to Jimmy comes back now, and makes me wish I had n't.”
Two great tears rolled down Polly's cheeks, and were quietly wiped away; but I think they watered that sweet sentiment, called fraternal love, which till now had been neglected in the hearts of this brother and sister. They did n't say anything then, or make any plans, or confess any faults; but when they parted for the night, Fanny gave the wounded head a gentle pat (Tom never would have forgiven her if she had kissed him), and said, in a whisper, “I hope you'll have a good sleep, Tommy, dear.”
And Tom nodded back at her, with a hearty “Same to you, Fan.”
That was all; but it meant a good deal, for the voices were kind, and the eyes met full of that affection which makes words of little consequence. Polly saw it; and though she did n't know that she had made the sunshine, it shone back upon her so pleasantly, that she fell happily asleep, though her Jimmy was n't there to say “good-night.”
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{
"id": "2787"
}
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5
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SCRAPES
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AFTER being unusually good, children are apt to turn short round and refresh themselves by acting like Sancho. For a week after Tom's mishap, the young folks were quite angelic, so much so that grandma said she was afraid “something was going to happen to them.” The dear old lady need n't have felt anxious, for such excessive virtue does n't last long enough to lead to translation, except with little prigs in the goody story-books; and no sooner was Tom on his legs again, when the whole party went astray, and much tribulation was the consequence.
It all began with “Polly's stupidity,” as Fan said afterward. Just as Polly ran down to meet Mr. Shaw one evening, and was helping him off with his coat, the bell rang, and a fine bouquet of hothouse flowers was left in Polly's hands, for she never could learn city ways, and opened the door herself.
“Hey! what's this? My little Polly is beginning early, after all,” said Mr. Shaw, laughing, as he watched the girl's face dimple and flush, as she smelt the lovely nosegay, and glanced at a note half hidden in the heliotrope.
Now, if Polly had n't been “stupid,” as Fan said, she would have had her wits about her, and let it pass; but, you see, Polly was an honest little soul and it never occurred to her that there was any need of concealment, so she answered in her straightforward way, “Oh, they ain't for me, sir; they are for Fan; from Mr. Frank, I guess. She'll be so pleased.”
“That puppy sends her things of this sort, does he?” And Mr. Shaw looked far from pleased as he pulled out the note, and coolly opened it.
Polly had her doubts about Fan's approval of that “sort of thing,” but dared not say a word, and stood thinking how she used to show her father the funny valentines the boys sent her, and how they laughed over them together. But Mr. Shaw did not laugh when he had read the sentimental verses accompanying the bouquet, and his face quite scared Polly, as he asked, angrily, “How long has this nonsense been going on?”
“Indeed, sir, I don't know. Fan does n't mean any harm. I wish I had n't said anything!” stammered Polly, remembering the promise given to Fanny the day of the concert. She had forgotten all about it and had become accustomed to see the “big boys,” as she called Mr. Frank and his friends, with the girls on all occasions. Now, it suddenly occurred to her that Mr. Shaw did n't like such amusements, and had forbidden Fan to indulge in them. “Oh, dear! how mad she will be. Well, I can't help it. Girls should n't have secrets from their fathers, then there would n't be any fuss,” thought Polly, as she watched Mr. Shaw twist up the pink note and poke it back among the flowers which he took from her, saying, shortly, “Send Fanny to me in the library.”
“Now you've done it, you stupid thing!” cried Fanny, both angry and dismayed, when Polly delivered the message.
“Why, what else could I do?” asked Polly, much disturbed.
“Let him think the bouquet was for you; then there'd have been no trouble.”
“But that would have been doing a lie, which is most as bad as telling one.”
“Don't be a goose. You've got me into a scrape, and you ought to help me out.”
“I will if I can; but I won't tell lies for anybody!” cried Polly, getting excited.
“Nobody wants you to just hold, your tongue, and let me manage.”
“Then I'd better not go down,” began Polly, when a stern voice from below called, like Bluebeard, “Are you coming down?”
“Yes, sir,” answered a meek voice; and Fanny clutched Polly, whispering, “You must come; I'm frightened out of my wits when he speaks like that. Stand by me, Polly; there's a dear.”
“I will,” whispered “sister Ann”; and down they went with fluttering hearts.
Mr. Shaw stood on the rug, looking rather grim; the bouquet lay on the table, and beside it a note, directed to “Frank Moore, Esq.,” in a very decided hand, with a fierce-looking flourish after the “Esq.” Pointing to this impressive epistle, Mr. Shaw said, knitting his black eyebrows as he looked at Fanny, “I'm going to put a stop to this nonsense at once; and if I see any more of it, I'll send you to school in a Canadian convent.”
This awful threat quite took Polly's breath away; but Fanny had heard it before, and having a temper of her own, said, pertly, “I'm sure I have n't done anything so very dreadful. I can't help it if the boys send me philopena presents, as they do to the other girls.”
“There was nothing about philopenas in the note. But that's not the question. I forbid you to have anything to do with this Moore. He's not a boy, but a fast fellow, and I won't have him about. You knew this, and yet disobeyed me.”
“I hardly ever see him,” began Fanny.
“Is that true?” asked Mr. Shaw, turning suddenly to Polly.
“Oh, please, sir, don't ask me. I promised I would n't that is Fanny will tell you,” cried Polly, quite red with distress at the predicament she was in.
“No matter about your promise; tell me all you know of this absurd affair. It will do Fanny more good than harm.” And Mr. Shaw sat down looking more amiable, for Polly's dismay touched him.
“May I?” she whispered to Fanny.
“I don't care,” answered Fan, looking both angry and ashamed, as she stood sullenly tying knots in her handkerchief.
So Polly told, with much reluctance and much questioning, all she knew of the walks, the lunches, the meetings, and the notes. It was n't much, and evidently less serious than Mr. Shaw expected; for, as he listened, his eyebrows smoothed themselves out, and more than once his lips twitched as if he wanted to laugh, for after all, it was rather comical to see how the young people aped their elders, playing the new-fashioned game, quite unconscious of its real beauty, power, and sacredness.
“Oh, please, sir, don't blame Fan much, for she truly is n't half as silly as Trix and the other, girls. She would n't go sleigh-riding, though Mr. Frank teased, and she wanted to ever so much. She's sorry, I know, and won't forget what you say any more, if you'll forgive her this once,” cried Polly, very earnestly, when the foolish little story was told.
“I don't see how I can help it, when you plead so well for her. Come here, Fan, and mind this one thing; drop all this nonsense, and attend to your books, or off you go; and Canada is no joke in winter time, let me tell you.”
As he spoke, Mr. Shaw stroked his sulky daughter's cheek, hoping to see some sign of regret; but Fanny felt injured, and would n't show that she was sorry, so she only said, pettishly, “I suppose I can have my flowers, now the fuss is over.”
“They are going straight back where they came from, with a line from me, which will keep that puppy from ever sending you any more.” Ringing the bell, Mr. Shaw despatched the unfortunate posy, and then turned to Polly, saying, kindly but gravely, “Set this silly child of mine a good example and do your best for her, won't you?”
“Me? What can I do, sir?” asked Polly, looking ready, but quite ignorant how to begin.
“Make her as like yourself as possible, my dear; nothing would please me better. Now go, and let us hear no more of this folly.”
They went without a word, and Mr. Shaw heard no more of the affair; but poor Polly did, for Fan scolded her, till Polly thought seriously of packing up and going home next day. I really have n't the heart to relate the dreadful lectures she got, the snubs she suffered, or the cold shoulders turned upon her for several days after this. Polly's heart was full, but she told no one, and bore her trouble silently, feeling her friend's ingratitude and injustice deeply.
Tom found out what the matter was, and sided with Polly, which proceeding led to scrape number two.
“Where's Fan?” asked the young gentleman, strolling into his sister's room, where Polly lay on the sofa, trying to forget her troubles in an interesting book.
“Down stairs, seeing company.”
“Why did n't you go, too?”
“I don't like Trix, and I don't know her fine New York friends.”
“Don't want to, neither, why don't you say?”
“Not polite.”
“Who cares? I say, Polly, come and have some fun.”
“I'd rather read.”
“That is n't polite.”
Polly laughed, and turned a page. Tom whistled a minute, then sighed deeply, and put his hand to his forehead, which the black plaster still adorned.
“Does your head ache?” asked Polly.
“Awfully.”
“Better lie down, then.”
“Can't; I'm fidgety, and want to be'amoosed' as Pug says.”
“Just wait till I finish my chapter, and then I'll come,” said pitiful Polly.
“All right,” returned the perjured boy, who had discovered that a broken head was sometimes more useful than a whole one, and exulting in his base stratagem, he roved about the room, till Fan's bureau arrested him. It was covered with all sorts of finery, for she had dressed in a hurry, and left everything topsy-turvy. A well-conducted boy would have let things alone, or a moral brother would have put things to rights; being neither, Tom rummaged to his hearts content, till Fan's drawers looked as if some one had been making hay in them. He tried the effect of ear-rings, ribbons, and collars; wound up the watch, though it was n't time; burnt his inquisitive nose with smelling-salts; deluged his grimy handkerchief with Fan's best cologne; anointed his curly crop with her hair-oil; powdered his face with her violet-powder; and finished off by pinning on a bunch of false ringlets, which Fanny tried, to keep a profound secret. The ravages committed by this bad boy are beyond the power of language to describe, as he revelled in the interesting drawers, boxes, and cases, which held his sister's treasures.
When the curls had been put on, with much pricking of fingers, and a blue ribbon added, la Fan, he surveyed himself with satisfaction, and considered the effect so fine, that he was inspired to try a still greater metamorphosis. The dress Fan had taken off lay on a chair, and into it got Tom, chuckling with suppressed laughter, for Polly was absorbed, and the bed-curtains hid his iniquity. Fan's best velvet jacket and hat, ermine muff, and a sofa-pillow for pannier, finished off the costume, and tripping along with elbows out, Tom appeared before the amazed Polly just as the chapter ended. She enjoyed the joke so heartily, that Tom forgot consequences, and proposed going down into the parlor to surprise, the girls.
“Goodness, no! Fanny never would forgive us if you showed her curls and things to those people. There are gentlemen among them, and it would n't be proper,” said Polly, alarmed at the idea.
“All the more fun. Fan has n't treated you well, and it will serve her right if you introduce me as your dear friend, Miss Shaw. Come on, it will be a jolly lark.”
“I would n't for the world; it would be so mean. Take'em off, Tom, and I'll play anything else you like.”
“I ain't going to dress up for nothing; I look so lovely, someone must admire me. Take me down, Polly, and see if they don't call me'a sweet creature.'”
Tom looked so unutterably ridiculous as he tossed his curls and pranced, that Polly went off into another gale of merriment; but even while she laughed, she resolved not to let him mortify his sister.
“Now, then, get out of the way if you won't come; I'm going down,” said Tom.
“No, you're not.”
“How will you help it, Miss Prim?”
“So.” And Polly locked the door, put the key in her pocket, and nodded at him defiantly.
Tom was a pepper-pot as to temper, and anything like opposition always had a bad effect. Forgetting his costume, he strode up to Polly, saying, with a threatening wag of the head, “None of that. I won't stand it.”
“Promise not to plague Fan, and I'll let you out.”
“Won't promise anything. Give me that key, or I'll make you.”
“Now, Tom, don't be savage. I only want to keep you out of a scrape, for Fan will be raging if you go. Take off her things, and I'll give up.”
Tom vouchsafed no reply, but marched to the other door, which was fast, as Polly knew, looked out of the three-story window, and finding no escape possible, came back with a wrathful face. “Will you give me that key?”
“No, I won't,” said Polly, valiantly.
“I'm stronger than you are; so you'd better hand over.”
“I know you are; but it's cowardly for a great boy like you to rob a girl.”
“I don't want to hurt you; but, by George! I won't stand this!”
Tom paused as Polly spoke, evidently ashamed of himself; but his temper was up, and he would n't give in. If Polly had cried a little just here, he would have yielded; unfortunately she giggled, for Tom's fierce attitude was such a funny contrast to his dress that she could n't help it. That settled the matter. No girl that ever lived should giggle at him, much less lock him up like a small child. Without a word, he made a grab at Polly's arm, for the hand holding the key was still in her, pocket. With her other hand she clutched her frock, and for a minute held on stoutly. But Tom's strong fingers were irresistible; rip went the pocket, out came the hand, and with a cry of pain from Polly, the key fell on the floor.
“It's your own fault if you're hurt. I did n't mean to,” muttered Tom, as he hastily departed, leaving Polly to groan over her sprained wrist. He went down, but not into the parlor, for somehow the joke seemed to have lost its relish; so he made the girls in the kitchen laugh, and then crept up the back way, hoping to make it all right with Polly. But she had gone to grandma's room, for, though the old lady was out, it seemed a refuge. He had just time to get things in order, when Fanny came up, crosser than ever; for Trix had been telling her of all sorts of fun in which she might have had a share, if Polly had held her tongue.
“Where is she?” asked Fan, wishing to vent her vexation on her friend.
“Moping in her room, I suppose,” replied Tom, who was discovered reading studiously.
Now, while this had been happening, Maud had been getting into hot water also; for when her maid left her, to see a friend below, Miss Maud paraded into Polly's room, and solaced herself with mischief. In an evil hour Polly had let her play boat in her big trunk, which stood empty. Since then Polly had stored some of her most private treasures in the upper tray, so that she might feel sure they were safe from all eyes. She had forgotten to lock the trunk, and when Maud raised the lid to begin her voyage, several objects of interest met her eyes. She was deep in her researches when Fan came in and looked over her shoulder, feeling too cross with Polly to chide Maud.
As Polly had no money for presents, she had exerted her ingenuity to devise all sorts of gifts, hoping by quantity to atone for any shortcomings in quality. Some of her attempts were successful, others were failures; but she kept them all, fine or funny, knowing the children at home would enjoy anything new. Some of Maud's cast-off toys had been neatly mended for Kitty; some of Fan's old ribbons and laces were converted into dolls' finery; and Tom's little figures, whittled out of wood in idle minutes, were laid away to show Will what could be done with a knife.
“What rubbish!” said Fanny.
“Queer girl, is n't she?” added Tom, who had followed to see what was going on.
“Don't you laugh at Polly's things. She makes nicer dolls than you, Fan; and she can wite and dwar ever so much better than Tom,” cried Maud. “How do you know? I never saw her draw,” said Tom.
“Here's a book with lots of pictures in it. I can't wead the witing; but the pictures are so funny.”
Eager to display her friend's accomplishments, Maud pulled out a fat little book, marked “Polly's Journal,” and spread it in her lap.
“Only the pictures; no harm in taking a look at'em,” said Tom.
“Just one peep,” answered Fanny; and the next minute both were laughing at a droll sketch of Tom in the gutter, with the big dog howling over him, and the velocipede running away. Very rough and faulty, but so funny, that it was evident Polly's sense of humor was strong. A few pages farther back came Fanny and Mr. Frank, caricatured; then grandma, carefully done; Tom reciting his battle-piece; Mr. Shaw and Polly in the park; Maud being borne away by Katy; and all the school-girls turned into ridicule with an unsparing hand.
“Sly little puss, to make fun of us behind our backs,” said Fan, rather nettled by Polly's quiet retaliation for many slights from herself and friends.
“She does draw well,” said Tom, looking critically at the sketch of a boy with a pleasant face, round whom Polly had drawn rays like the sun, and under which was written, “My dear Jimmy.”
“You would n't admire her, if you knew what she wrote here about you,” said Fanny, whose eyes had strayed to the written page opposite, and lingered there long enough to read something that excited her curiosity.
“What is it?” asked Tom, forgetting his honorable resolves for a minute.
“She says, 'I try to like Tom, and when he is pleasant we do very well; but he don't stay so long. He gets cross and rough, and disrespectful to his father and mother, and plagues us girls, and is so horrid I almost hate him. It's very wrong, but I can't help it.' How do you like that?” asked Fanny.
“Go ahead, and see how she comes down on you, ma'am,” retorted Tom, who had read on a bit.
“Does she?” And Fanny continued, rapidly: “As for Fan, I don't think we can be friends any more; for she told her father a lie, and won't forgive me for not doing so too. I used to think her a very fine girl; but I don't now. If she would be as she was when I first knew her, I should love her just the same; but she is n't kind to me; and though she is always talking about politeness, I don't think it is polite to treat company as she does me. She thinks I am odd and countrified, and I dare say I am; but I should n't laugh at a girl's clothes because she was poor, or keep her out of the way because she did n't do just as other girls do here. I see her make fun of me, and I can't feel as I did; and I'd go home, only it would seem ungrateful to Mr. Shaw and grandma, and I do love them dearly.”
“I say, Fan, you've got it now. Shut the book and come away,” cried Tom, enjoying this broadside immensely, but feeling guilty, as well he might.
“Just one bit more,” whispered Fanny, turning on a page or two, and stopping at a leaf that was blurred here and there as if tears had dropped on it.
“Sunday morning, early. Nobody is up to spoil my quiet time, and I must write my journal, for I've been so bad lately, I could n't bear to do it. I'm glad my visit is most done, for things worry me here, and there is n't any one to help me get right when I get wrong. I used to envy Fanny; but I don't now, for her father and mother don't take care of her as mine do of me. She is afraid of her father, and makes her mother do as she likes. I'm glad I came though, for I see money don't give people everything; but I'd like a little all the same, for it is so comfortable to buy nice things. I read over my journal just now, and I'm afraid it's not a good one; for I have said all sorts of things about the people here, and it is n't kind. I should tear it out, only I promised to keep my diary, and I want to talk over things that puzzle me with mother. I see now that it is my fault a good deal; for I have n't been half as patient, and pleasant as I ought to be. I will truly try for the rest of the time, and be as good and grateful as I can; for I want them to like me, though I'm only'an old-fashioned country girl.'”
That last sentence made Fanny shut the book, with a face full of self-reproach; for she had said those words herself, in a fit of petulance, and Polly had made no answer, though her eyes filled and her cheeks burned. Fan opened her lips to say something, but not a sound followed, for there stood Polly looking at them with an expression they had never seen before.
“What are you doing with my things?” she demanded, in a low tone, while her eyes kindled and her color changed.
“Maud showed us a book she found, and we were just looking at the pictures,” began Fanny, dropping it as if it burnt her fingers.
“And reading my journal, and laughing at my presents, and then putting the blame on Maud. It's the meanest thing I ever saw; and I'll never forgive you as long as I live!”
Polly said, this all in one indignant breath, and then as if afraid of saying too much, ran out of the room with such a look of mingled contempt, grief, and anger, that the three culprits stood dumb with shame. Tom had n't even a whistle at his command; Maud was so scared at gentle Polly's outbreak, that she sat as still as a mouse; while Fanny, conscience stricken, laid back the poor little presents with a respectful hand, for somehow the thought of Polly's poverty came over her as it never had done before; and these odds and ends, so carefully treasured up for those at home, touched Fanny, and grew beautiful in her eyes. As she laid by the little book, the confessions in it reproached her more sharply that any words Polly could have spoken; for she had laughed at her friend, had slighted her sometimes, and been unforgiving for an innocent offence. That last page, where Polly took the blame on herself, and promised to “truly try” to be more kind and patient, went to Fanny's heart, melting all the coldness away, and she could only lay her head on the trunk, sobbing, “It was n't Polly's fault; it was all mine.”
Tom, still red with shame at being caught in such a scrape, left Fanny to her tears, and went manfully away to find the injured Polly, and confess his manifold transgressions. But Polly could n't be found. He searched high and low in every room, yet no sign of the girt appeared, and Tom began to get anxious. “She can't have run away home, can she?” he said to himself, as he paused before the hat-tree. There was the little round hat, and Tom gave it a remorseful smooth, remembering how many times he had tweaked it half off, or poked it over poor Polly's eyes. “Maybe she's gone down to the office, to tell pa. ' T is n't a bit like her, though. Anyway, I'll take a look round the corner.”
Eager to get his boots, Tom pulled open the door of a dark closet under the stairs, and nearly tumbled over backward with surprise; for there, on the floor, with her head pillowed on a pair of rubbers, lay Polly in an attitude of despair. This mournful spectacle sent Tom's penitent speech straight out of his head, and with an astonished “Hullo!” he stood and stared in impressive silence. Polly was n't crying, and lay so still, that Tom began to think she might be in a fit or a faint, and bent anxiously down to inspect the pathetic bunch. A glimpse of wet eyelashes, a round cheek redder than usual, and lips parted by quick, breathing, relieved his mind upon that point; so, taking courage, he sat down on the boot-jack, and begged pardon like a man.
Now, Polly was very angry, and I think she had a right to be; but she was not resentful, and after the first flash was over, she soon began to feel better about it. It was n't easy to forgive; but, as she listened to Tom's honest voice, getting gruff with remorse now and then, she could n't harden her heart against him, or refuse to make up when he so frankly owned that it “was confounded mean to read her book that way.” She liked his coming and begging pardon at once; it was a handsome thing to do; she appreciated it, and forgave him in her heart some time before she did with her lips; for, to tell the truth, Polly had a spice of girlish malice, and rather liked to see domineering Tom eat humble-pie, just enough to do him good, you know. She felt that atonement was proper, and considered it no more than just that Fan should drench a handkerchief or two with repentant tears, and that Tom should sit on a very uncomfortable seat and call himself hard names for five or ten minutes before she relented.
“Come, now, do say a word to a fellow. I'm getting the worst of it, anyway; for there's Fan, crying her eyes out upstairs, and here are you stowed away in a dark closet as dumb as a fish, and nobody but me to bring you both round. I'd have cut over to the Smythes and got ma home to fix things, only it looked like backing out of the scrape; so I did n't,” said Tom, as a last appeal.
Polly was glad to hear that Fan was crying. It would do her good; but she could n't help softening to Tom, who did seem in a predicament between two weeping damsels. A little smile began to dimple the cheek that was n't hidden, and then a hand came slowly out from under the curly head, and was stretched toward him silently. Tom was just going to give it a hearty shake, when he saw a red mark on the wrist, and knew what made it. His face changed, and he took the chubby hand so gently, that Polly peeped to see what it meant.
“Will you forgive that, too?” he asked, in a whisper, stroking the red wrist.
“Yes, it don't hurt much now.” And Polly drew her hand away, sorry he had seen it.
“I was a beast, that's what I was!” said Tom, in a tone of great disgust. And just at that awkward minute down tumbled his father's old beaver over his head and face, putting a comical quencher on his self-reproaches. Of course, neither could help laughing at that; and when he emerged, Polly was sitting up, looking as much better for her shower as he did for his momentary eclipse.
“Fan feels dreadfully. Will you kiss and be friends, if I trot her down?” asked Tom, remembering his fellow-sinner.
“I'll go to her.” And Polly whisked out of the closet as suddenly as she had whisked in, leaving Tom sitting on the boot-jack, with a radiant countenance.
How the girls made it up no one ever knew. But after much talking and crying, kissing and laughing, the breach was healed, and peace declared. A slight haze still lingered in the air after the storm, for Fanny was very humble and tender that evening; Tom a trifle pensive, but distressingly polite, and Polly magnanimously friendly to every one; for generous natures like to forgive, and Polly enjoyed the petting after the insult, like a very human girl.
As she was brushing her hair at bedtime there came a tap on her door and, opening it, she beheld nothing but a tall black bottle, with a strip of red flannel tied round it like a cravat, and a cocked-hat note on the cork. Inside were these lines, written in a sprawling hand with very black ink: DEAR POLLY, Opydilldock is first-rate for sprains. You put a lot on the flannel and do up your wrist, and I guess it will be all right in the morning. Will you come a sleigh-ride tomorrow? I'm awful sorry I hurt you.
TOM
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{
"id": "2787"
}
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6
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GRANDMA
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“WHERE'S Polly?” asked Fan one snowy afternoon, as she came into the dining-room where Tom was reposing on the sofa with his boots in the air, absorbed in one of those delightful books in which boys are cast away on desert islands, where every known fruit, vegetable and flower is in its prime all the year round; or, lost in boundless forests, where the young heroes have thrilling adventures, kill impossible beasts, and, when the author's invention gives out, suddenly find their way home, laden with tiger skins, tame buffaloes and other pleasing trophies of their prowess.
“Dun no,” was Tom's brief reply, for he was just escaping from an alligator of the largest size.
“Do put down that stupid book, and let's do something,” said Fanny, after a listless stroll round the room.
“Hi, they've got him!” was the only answer vouchsafed by the absorbed reader.
“Where's Polly?” asked Maud, joining the party with her hands full of paper dolls all suffering for ball-dresses.
“Do get along, and don't bother me,” cried Tom exasperated at the interruption.
“Then tell us where she is. I'm sure you know, for she was down here a little while ago,” said Fanny.
“Up in grandma's room, maybe.”
“Provoking thing! you knew it all the time, and did n't tell, just to plague us,” scolded Maud.
But Tom was now under water stabbing his alligator, and took no notice of the indignant departure of the young ladies.
“Polly's always poking up in grandma's room. I don't see what fun there is in it,” said Fanny as they went up stairs.
“Polly's a verwy queer girl, and gwandma pets her a gweat deal more than she does me,” observed Maud, with an injured air.
“Let's peek and see what they are doing,” whispered Fan, pausing at the half-open door.
Grandma was sitting before a quaint old cabinet, the doors of which stood wide open, showing glimpses of the faded relics treasured there. On a stool, at the old lady's feet, sat Polly, looking up with intent face and eager eyes, quite absorbed in the history of a high-heeled brocade shoe which lay in her lap.
“Well, my dear,” grandma was saying, “she had it on the very day that Uncle Joe came in as she sat at work, and said, 'Dolly, we must be married at once.' 'Very well, Joe,' says Aunt Dolly, and down she went to the parlor, where the minister was waiting, never stopping to change the dimity dress she wore, and was actually married with her scissors and pin-ball at her side, and her thimble on. That was in war times, 1812, my dear, and Uncle Joe was in the army, so he had to go, and he took that very little pin-ball with him. Here it is with the mark of a bullet through it, for he always said his Dolly's cushion saved his life.”
“How interesting that is!” cried Polly, as she examined the faded cushion with the hole in it.
“Why, grandma, you never told me that story,” said Fanny, hurrying in, finding the prospect was a pleasant one for a stormy afternoon.
“You never asked me to tell you anything, my dear, so I kept my old stories to myself,” answered grandma, quietly.
“Tell some now, please. May we stay and see the funny things?” said Fan and Maud, eyeing the open cabinet with interest.
“If Polly likes; she is my company, and I am trying to entertain her, for I love to have her come,” said grandma, with her old-time politeness.
“Oh, yes! do let them stay and hear the stories. I've often told them what good times we have up here, and teased them to come, but they think it's too quiet. Now, sit down, girls, and let grandma go on. You see I pick out something in the cabinet that looks interesting, and then she tells me about it,” said Polly, eager to include the girls in her pleasures, and glad to get them interested in grandma's reminiscences, for Polly knew how happy it made the lonely old lady to live over her past, and to have the children round her.
“Here are three drawers that have not been opened yet; each take one, and choose something from it for me to tell about,” said Madam, quite excited at the unusual interest in her treasures.
So the girls each opened a drawer and turned over the contents till they found something they wanted to know about. Maud was ready first, and holding up an oddly shaped linen bag, with a big blue F embroidered on it, demanded her story. Grandma smiled as she smoothed the old thing tenderly, and began her story with evident pleasure.
“My sister Nelly and I went to visit an aunt of ours, when we were little girls, but we did n't have a very good time, for she was extremely strict. One afternoon, when she had gone out to tea, and old Debby, the maid, was asleep in her room, we sat on the doorstep, feeling homesick, and ready for any thing to amuse us.
“'What shall we do?' said Nelly.
“Just as she spoke, a ripe plum dropped bounce on the grass before us, as if answering her question. It was all the plum's fault, for if it had n't fallen at that minute, I never should have had the thought which popped into my mischievous mind.
“'Let's have as many as we want, and plague Aunt Betsey, to pay her for being so cross,' I said, giving Nelly half the great purple plum.
“'It would be dreadful naughty,' began Nelly, 'but I guess we will,' she added, as the sweet mouthful slipped down her throat.
“'Debby's asleep. Come on, then, and help me shake,' I said, getting up, eager for the fun.
“We shook and shook till we got red in the face, but not one dropped, for the tree was large, and our little arms were not strong enough to stir the boughs. Then we threw stones, but only one green and one half-ripe one came down, and my last stone broke the shed window, so there was an end of that.
“'It's as provoking as Aunt Betsey herself,' said Nelly, as we sat down, out of breath.
“'I wish the wind would come and blow'em down for us,' panted I, staring up at the plums with longing eyes.
“'If wishing would do any good, I should wish'em in my lap at once,' added Nelly.
“'You might as well wish'em in your mouth and done with it, if you are too lazy to pick'em up. If the ladder was n't too heavy we could try that,' said I, determined to have them.
“'You know we can't stir it, so what is the use of talking about it? You proposed getting the plums, now let's see you do it,' answered Nelly, rather crossly, for she had bitten the green plum, and it puckered her mouth.
“'Wait a minute, and you will see me do it,' cried I, as a new thought came into my naughty head.
“'What are you taking your shoes and socks off for? You can't climb the tree, Fan.'” 'Don't ask questions, but be ready to pick'em up when they fall, Miss Lazybones.' “With this mysterious speech I pattered into the house bare-footed and full of my plan. Up stairs I went to a window opening on the shed roof. Out I got, and creeping carefully along till I came near the tree, I stood up, and suddenly crowed like the little rooster. Nelly looked up, and stared, and laughed, and clapped her hands when she saw what I was going to do.
“'I'm afraid you'll slip and get hurt.'” 'Don't care if I do; I'll have those plums if I break my neck doing it,' and half sliding, half walking I went down the sloping roof, till the boughs of the tree were within my reach.
“Hurrah!” cried Nelly, dancing down below, as my first shake sent a dozen plums rattling round her.
“'Hurrah!” cried I, letting go one branch and trying to reach another. But as I did so my foot slipped, I tried to catch something to hold by, but found nothing, and with a cry, down I fell, like a very big plum on the grass below.
“Fortunately the shed was low, the grass was thick and the tree broke my fall, but I got a bad bump and a terrible shaking. Nelly thought I was killed, and began to cry with her mouth full. But I picked myself up in a minute, for I was used to such tumbles; and did n't mind the pain half as much as the loss of the plums.
“'Hush! Debby will hear and spoil all the fun. I said I'd get'em and I have. See what lots have come down with me.'” So there had, for my fall shook the tree almost as much as it did me, and the green and purple fruit lay all about us.
“By the time the bump on my forehead had swelled as big as a nut, our aprons were half full, and we sat down to enjoy ourselves. But we did n't. O dear, no! for many of the plums were not ripe, some were hurt by the birds, some crushed in falling, and many as hard as stones. Nelly got stung by a wasp, my head began to ache, and we sat looking at one another rather dismally, when Nelly had a bright idea.
“'Let's cook'em, then they'll be good, and we can put some away in our little pails for to-morrow.'” 'That will be splendid! There's a fire in the kitchen, Debby always leaves the kettle on, and we can use her saucepan, and I know where the sugar is, and we'll have a grand time.' “In we went, and fell to work very quietly. It was a large, open fire-place, with the coals nicely covered up, and the big kettle simmering on the hook. We raked open the fire, put on the saucepan, and in it the best of our plums, with water enough to spoil them. But we did n't know that, and felt very important as we sat waiting for it to boil, each armed with a big spoon, while the sugar box stood between us ready to be used.
“How slow they were, to be sure! I never knew such obstinate things, for they would n't soften, though they danced about in the boiling water, and bobbed against the cover as if they were doing their best.
“The sun began to get low, we were afraid Debby would come down, and still those dreadful plums would n't look like sauce. At last they began to burst, the water got a lovely purple, we put lots of sugar in, and kept tasting till our aprons and faces were red, and our lips burnt with the hot spoons.
“'There's too much juice,' said Nelly, shaking her head wisely. 'It ought to be thick and nice like mamma's.' “'I'll pour off some of the juice, and we can drink it,' said I, feeling that I'd made a mistake in my cooking.
“So Nelly got a bowl, and I got a towel and lifted the big saucepan carefully off. It was heavy and hot, and I was a little afraid of it, but did n't like to say so. Just as I began to pour, Debby suddenly called from the top of the stairs, 'Children, what under the sun are you doing?' It startled us both. Nelly dropped the bowl and ran. I dropped the saucepan and did n't run, for a part of the hot juice splashed upon my bare feet, and ankles, and made me scream with dreadful pain.
“Down rushed Debby to find me dancing about the kitchen with a great bump on my forehead, a big spoon in my hand, and a pair of bright purple feet. The plums were lying all over the hearth, the saucepan in the middle of the room, the basin was broken, and the sugar swimming about as if the bowl had turned itself over trying to sweeten our mess for us.
“Debby was very good to me, for she never stopped to scold, but laid me down on the old sofa, and bound up my poor little feet with oil and cotton wool. Nelly, seeing me lie white and weak, thought I was dying, and went over to the neighbor's for Aunt Betsey, and burst in upon the old ladies sitting primly at, their tea, crying, distractedly, 'Oh, Aunt Betsey, come quick! for the saucepan fell off the shed, and Fan's feet are all boiled purple!' Nobody laughed at this funny message, and Aunt Betsey ran all the way home with a muffin in her hand and her ball in her pocket, though the knitting was left behind.
“I suffered a great deal, but I was n't sorry afterward, for I learned to love Aunt Betsey, who nursed me tenderly, and seemed to forget her strict ways in her anxiety for me.
“This bag was made for my special comfort, and hung on the sofa where I lay all those weary days. Aunt kept it full of pretty patchwork or, what I liked better, ginger-nuts, and peppermint drops, to amuse me, though she did n't approve of cosseting children up, any more than I do now.”
“I like that vewy well, and I wish I could have been there,” was Maud's condescending remark, as she put back the little bag, after a careful peep inside, as if she hoped to find an ancient ginger-nut, or a well-preserved peppermint drop still lingering in some corner.
“We had plums enough that autumn, but did n't seem to care much about them, after all, for our prank became a household joke, and, for years, we never saw the fruit, but Nelly would look at me with a funny face, and whisper, 'Purple stockings, Fan!'”
“Thank you, ma'am,” said Polly. “Now, Fan, your turn next.”
“Well, I've a bundle of old letters, and I'd like to know if there is any story about them,” answered Fanny, hoping some romance might be forthcoming.
Grandma turned over the little packet tied up with a faded pink ribbon; a dozen yellow notes written on rough, thick paper, with red wafers still adhering to the folds, showing plainly that they were written before the day of initial note-paper and self-sealing envelopes.
“They are not love-letters, deary, but notes from my mates after I left Miss Cotton's boarding-school. I don't think there is any story about them,” and grandma turned them over with spectacles before the dim eyes, so young and bright when they first read the very same notes.
Fanny was about to say, “I'll choose again,” when grandma began to laugh so heartily that the girls felt sure she had caught some merry old memory which would amuse them.
“Bless my heart, I have n't thought of that frolic this forty years. Poor, dear, giddy Sally Pomroy, and she's a great-grandmother now!” cried the old lady, after reading one of the notes, and clearing the mist off her glasses.
“Now, please tell about her; I know it's something funny to make you laugh so,” said Polly and Fan together.
“Well, it was droll, and I'm glad I remembered it for it's just the story to tell you young things.
“It was years ago,” began grandma, briskly, “and teachers were very much stricter than they are now. The girls at Miss Cotton's were not allowed lights in their rooms after nine o'clock, never went out alone, and were expected to behave like models of propriety from morning till night.
“As you may imagine, ten young girls, full of spirits and fun, found these rules hard to keep, and made up for good behavior in public by all sorts of frolics in private.
“Miss Cotton and her brother sat in the back parlor after school was over, and the young ladies were sent to bed. Mr. John was very deaf, and Miss Priscilla very near-sighted, two convenient afflictions for the girls on some occasions, but once they proved quite the reverse, as you shall hear.
“We had been very prim for a week, and our bottled up spirits could no longer be contained; so we planed a revel after our own hearts, and set our wits to work to execute it.
“The first obstacle was surmounted in this way. As none of us could get out alone, we resolved to lower Sally from the window, for she was light and small, and very smart.
“With our combined pocket-money she was to buy nuts and candy, cake and fruit, pie, and a candle, so that we might have a light, after Betsey took ours away as usual. We were to darken the window of the inner chamber, set a watch in the little entry, light up, and then for a good time.
“At eight o'clock on the appointed evening, several of us professed great weariness, and went to our room, leaving the rest sewing virtuously with Miss Cotton, who read Hannah More's Sacred Dramas aloud, in a way that fitted the listeners for bed as well as a dose of opium would have done.
“I am sorry to say I was one of the ringleaders; and as soon as we got up stairs, produced the rope provided for the purpose, and invited Sally to be lowered. It was an old-fashioned house, sloping down behind, and the closet window chosen by us was not many feet from the ground.
“It was a summer evening, so that at eight o'clock it was still light; but we were not afraid of being seen, for the street was a lonely one, and our only neighbors two old ladies, who put down their curtains at sunset, and never looked out till morning.
“Sally had been bribed by promises of as many'goodies' as she could eat, and being a regular madcap, she was ready for anything.
“Tying the rope round her waist she crept out, and we let her safely down, sent a big basket after her, and saw her slip round the corner in my big sun bonnet and another girl's shawl, so that she should not be recognized.
“Then we put our night-gowns over our dresses, and were laid peacefully in bed when Betsey came up, earlier than usual; for it was evident that Miss Cotton felt a little suspicious at our sudden weariness.
“For half an hour we lay laughing and whispering, as we waited for the signal from Sally. At last we heard a cricket chirp shrilly under the window, and flying up, saw a little figure below in the twilight.
“'O, quick! quick!' cried Sally, panting with haste. 'Draw up the basket and then get me in, for I saw Mr. Cotton in the market, and ran all the way home, so that I might get in before he came.' Up came the heavy basket, bumping and scraping on the way, and smelling, O, so nice! Down went the rope, and with a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull all together, we hoisted poor Sally half-way up to the window, when, sad to tell, the rope slipped and down she fell, only being saved from broken bones by the hay-cock under the window.
“'He's coming! he's coming! O pull me up, for mercy sake!' cried Sally, scrambling to her feet unhurt, but a good deal shaken.
“We saw a dark figure approaching, and dragged her in with more bumping and scraping, and embraced her with rapture, for we had just escaped being detected by Mr. John, whose eyes were as sharp as his ears were dull.
“We heard the front-door shut, then a murmur of voices, and then Betsey's heavy step coming up stairs.
“Under the bed went the basket, and into the beds went the conspirators, and nothing could have been more decorous than the appearance of the room when Betsey popped her head in.
“'Master's an old fidget to send me travelling up again, just because he fancied he saw something amiss at the window. Nothing but a curtain flapping, or a shadder, for the poor dears is sleeping like lambs.' We heard her say this to herself, and a general titter agitated the white coverlets as she departed.
“Sally was in high feather at the success of her exploit, and danced about like an elf, as she put her night-gown on over her frock, braided her hair in funny little tails all over her head, and fastened the great red pin-cushion on her bosom for a breast-pin in honor of the feast.
“The other girls went to their rooms as agreed upon, and all was soon dark and still up stairs, while Miss Cotton began to enjoy herself below, as she always did when'her young charges' were safely disposed of.
“Then ghosts began to walk, and the mice scuttled back to their holes in alarm, for white figures glided from room to room, till all were assembled in the little chamber.
“The watch was set at the entry door, the signal agreed upon, the candle lighted, and the feast spread forth upon a newspaper on the bed, with the coverlet arranged so that it could be whisked over the refreshments at a moment's notice.
“How good everything was, to be sure! I don't think I've eaten any pies since that had such a delicious flavor as those broken ones, eaten hastily, in that little oven of a room, with Sally making jokes and the others enjoying stolen sweets with true girlish relish. Of course it was very wicked, but I must tell the truth.
“We were just beginning on the cake when the loud scratching of a rat disturbed us.
“'The signal! fly! run! hide! Hush, don't laugh!' cried several voices, and we scuttled into bed as rapidly and noiselessly as possible, with our mouths and hands full.
“A long pause, broken by more scratching; but as no one came, we decided on sending to inquire what it meant. I went and found Mary, the picket guard half asleep, and longing for her share of the feast.
“'It was a real rat; I've not made a sound. Do go and finish; I'm tired of this,' said Mary, slapping away at the mosquitoes.
“Back I hurried with the good news. Every one flew up, briskly. We lighted the candle again, and returned to our revel. The refreshments were somewhat injured by Sally's bouncing in among them, bit we did n't care, and soon finished the cake.
“'Now let's have the nuts,' I said, groping for the paper bag.
“'They are almonds and peanuts, so we can crack them with our teeth. Be sure you get the bag by the right end,' said Sally.
“'I know what I'm about,' and to show her that it was all right, I gave the bag a little shake, when out flew the nuts, rattling like a hail-storm all over the uncarpeted floor.
“'Now you've done it,' cried Sally, as Mary scratched like a mad rat, and a door creaked below, for Miss Cotton was not deaf.
“Such a flurry as we were in! Out went the candle, and each one rushed away with as much of the feast as she could seize in her haste. Sally dived into her bed, recklessly demolishing the last pie, and scattering the candy far and wide.
“Poor Mary was nearly caught for Miss Cotton was quicker than Betsey, and our guard had to run for her life.
“Our room was the first, and was in good order, though the two flushed faces on the pillows were rather suspicious. Miss Cotton stood staring about her, looking so funny, without her cap, that my bedfellow would have gone off in a fit of laughter, if I had not pinched her warningly.
“'Young ladies, what is this unseemly noise?' No answer from us but a faint snore. Miss Cotton marched into the next room, put the same question and received the same reply.
“In the third chamber lay Sally, and we trembled as the old lady went in. Sitting up, we peeped and listened breathlessly.
“'Sarah, I command you to tell me what this all means?' But Sally only sighed in her sleep, and muttered, wickedly, 'Ma, take me home. I'm starved at Cotton's.' 'Mercy on me! is the child going to have a fever?' cried the old lady, who did not observe the tell tale nuts at her feet.
“'So dull, so strict! O take me home!' moaned Sally, tossing her arms and gurgling, like a naughty little gypsy.
“That last bit of acting upset the whole concern, for as she tossed her arms she showed the big red cushion on her breast. Near-sighted as she was, that ridiculous object could not escape Miss Cotton, neither did the orange that rolled out from the pillow, nor the boots appearing at the foot of the bed.
“With sudden energy the old lady plucked off the cover, and there lay Sally with her hair dressed, la Topsy, her absurd breast-pin and her dusty boots, among papers of candy, bits of pie and cake, oranges and apples, and a candle upside down burning a hole in the sheet.
“At the sound of Miss Cotton's horrified exclamation Sally woke up, and began laughing so merrily that none of us could resist following her example, and the rooms rang with merriment far many minutes. I really don't know when we should have stopped if Sally had not got choked with the nut she had in her mouth, and so frightened us nearly out of our wits.”
“What became of the things, and how were you punished?” asked Fan, in the middle of her laughter.
“The remains of the feast went to the pig, and we were kept on bread and water for three days.”
“Did that cure you?”
“Oh, dear, no! we had half a dozen other frolics that very summer; and although I cannot help laughing at the remembrance of this, you must not think, child, that I approve of such conduct, or excuse it. No, no, my dear, far from it.”
“I call that a tip-top story! Drive on, grandma, and tell one about boys,” broke in a new voice, and there was Tom astride of a chair listening and laughing with all his might, for his book had come to an end, and he had joined the party unobserved.
“Wait for your turn, Tommy. Now, Polly, dear, what will you have?” said grandma, looking, so lively and happy, that it was very evident “reminiscing” did her good.
“Let mine come last, and tell one for Tom next,” said Polly, looking round, and beckoning him nearer.
He came and sat himself cross-legged on the floor, before the lower drawer of the cabinet, which grandma opened for him, saying, with a benign stroke of the curly head, “There, dear, that's where I keep the little memorials of my brother Jack. Poor lad, he was lost at sea, you know. Well, choose anything you like, and I'll try to remember a story about it.”
Tom made a rapid rummage, and fished up a little broken pistol.
“There, that's the chap for me! Wish it was n't spoilt, then we'd have fun popping away at the cats in the yard. Now, then, grandma.”
“I remember one of Jack's pranks, when that was used with great effect,” said grandma, after a thoughtful pause, during which Tom teased the girls by snapping the lock of the pistol in their faces.
“Once upon a time,” continued Madam, much flattered by the row of interested faces before her, “my father went away on business, leaving mother, aunt, and us girls to Jack's care. Very proud he was, to be sure, of the responsibility, and the first thing he did was to load that pistol and keep it by his bed, in our great worriment, for we feared he 'd kill himself with it. For a week all went well; then we were startled by the news that robbers were about. All sorts of stories flew through the town (we were living in the country then); some said that certain houses were marked with a black cross, and those were always robbed; others, that there was a boy in the gang, for windows, so small that they were considered safe, were entered by some little rogue. At one place the thieves had a supper, and left ham and cake in the front yard. Mrs. Jones found Mrs. Smith's shawl in her orchard, with a hammer and an unknown teapot near it. One man reported that some one tapped at his window, in the night, saying, softly, 'Is anyone here?' and when he looked out, two men were seen to run down the road.
“We lived just out of town, in a lonely place; the house was old, with convenient little back windows, and five outside doors. Jack was the only man about the place, and he was barely thirteen. Mother and aunt were very timid, and the children weren't old enough to be of any use, so Jack and I were the home-guard, and vowed to defend the family manfully.”
“Good for you! Hope the fellows came!” cried Tom, charmed with this opening.
“One day, an ill-looking man came in and asked for food,” continued grandma, with a mysterious nod; “and while he ate, I saw him glance sharply about from the wooden buttons on the back-doors, to the silver urn and tankards on the dining-room sideboard. A strong suspicion took possession of me, and I watched him as a cat does a mouse.
“'He came to examine the premises, I'm sure of it, but we will be ready for him,' I said, fiercely, as I told the family about him.
“This fancy haunted us all, and our preparations were very funny. Mother borrowed a rattle, and kept it under her pillow. Aunt took a big bell to bed with her; the children had little Tip, the terrier, to sleep in their room; while Jack and I mounted guard, he with the pistol, and I with a hatchet, for I did n't like fire-arms. Biddy, who slept in the attic, practised getting out on the shed roof, so that she might run away at the first alarm. Every night we arranged pit-falls for the robbers, and all filed up to bed, bearing plate, money, weapons, and things to barricade with, as if we lived in war times.
“We waited a week and no one came, so we began to feel rather slighted, for other people got'a scare,' as Tom says, and after all our preparations we really felt a trifle disappointed that we had had no chance to show our courage. At last a black mark was found upon our door, and a great panic ensued, for we felt that now our time had come.
“That night we put a tub of water at the bottom of the back-stairs, and a pile of tin pans at the top of the front stairs, so that any attempt to come up would produce a splash or a rattle. Bells were hung on door handles, sticks of wood piled up in dark corners for robbers to fall over, and the family retired, all armed and all provided with lamps and matches.
“Jack and I left our doors open, and kept asking one another if we did n't hear something, till he fell asleep. I was wakeful and lay listening to the crickets till the clock struck twelve; then I got drowsy, and was just dropping off when the sound of steps outside woke me up staring wide awake. Creeping to the window I was in time to see by the dim moonlight a shadow glide round the corner and disappear. A queer little thrill went over me, but I resolved to keep quiet till I was sure something was wrong, for I had given so many false alarms, I did n't want Jack to laugh at me again. Popping my head out of the door, I listened, and presently heard a scraping sound near the shed.
“'There they are; but I won't rouse the house till the bell rings or the pans fall. The rogues can't go far without a clatter of some sort, and if we could only catch one of them we should get the reward and a deal of glory,' I said to myself, grasping my hatchet firmly.
“A door closed softly below, and a step came creeping towards the back-stairs. Sure now of my prey, I was just about to scream 'Jack!' when something went splash into the tub at the foot of the back-stairs.
“In a minute every one was awake and up, for Jack fired his pistol before he was half out of bed, and roared 'Fire!' so loud it roused the house. Mother sprung her rattle, aunt rang her bell, Jip barked like mad, and we all screamed, while from below came up a regular Irish howl.
“Some one brought a lamp, and we peeped anxiously down, to see our own stupid Biddy sitting in the tub wringing her hands and wailing dismally.
“'Och, murther, and it's kilt I am! The saints be about us! how iver did I come forninst this say iv wather, just crapin in quiet afther a bit iv sthroll wid Mike Mahoney, me own b'y, that's to marry me intirely, come Saint Patrick's day nixt.' We laughed so we could hardly fish the poor thing up, or listen while she explained that she had slipped out of her window for a word with Mike, and found it fastened when she wanted to come back, so she had sat on the roof, trying to discover the cause of this mysterious barring out, till she was tired, when she prowled round the house till she found a cellar window unfastened, after all our care, and got in quite cleverly, she thought; but the tub was a new arrangement which she knew nothing about; and when she fell into the'say,' she was bewildered and could only howl.
“This was not all the damage either, for aunt fainted with the fright, mother cut her hand with a broken lamp, the children took cold hopping about on the wet stairs, Jip barked himself sick, I sprained my ankle, and Jack not only smashed a looking-glass with his bullets, but spoilt his pistol by the heavy charge put in it. After the damages were repaired and the flurry was well over, Jack confessed that he had marked the door for fun, and shut Biddy out as a punishment for'gallivanting,' of which he did n't approve. Such a rogue as that boy was!'”
“But did n't the robbers ever come?” cried Tom, enjoying the joke, but feeling defrauded of the fight.
“Never, my dear; but we had our'scare,' and tested our courage, and that was a great satisfaction, of course,” answered grandma, placidly.
“Well, I think you were the bravest of the lot. I'd like to have seen you flourishing round there with your hatchet,” added Tom, admiringly, and the old lady looked as much pleased with the compliment as if she had been a girl.
“I choose this,” said Polly, holding up a long white kid glove, shrunken and yellow with time, but looking as if it had a history.
“Ah, that now has a story worth telling!” cried grandma; adding, proudly, “Treat that old glove respectfully, my children, for Lafayette's honored hand has touched it.”
“Oh, grandma, did you wear it? Did you see him? Do tell us all about it, and that will be the best of the whole,” cried Polly, who loved history, and knew a good deal about the gallant Frenchman and his brave life.
Grandma loved to tell this story, and always assumed her most imposing air to do honor to her theme. Drawing herself up, therefore, she folded her hands, and after two or three little “hems,” began with an absent look, as if her eyes beheld a far-away time, which brightened as she gazed.
“The first visit of Lafayette was before my time, of course, but I heard so much about it from my grandfather that I really felt as if I'd seen it all. Our Aunt Hancock lived in the Governor's house, on Beacon Hill, at that time.” Here the old lady bridled up still more, for she was very proud of “our aunt.” “Ah, my dears, those were the good old times!” she continued, with a sigh. “Such dinners and tea parties, such damask table cloths and fine plate, such solid, handsome furniture and elegant carriages; aunt's was lined with red silk velvet, and when the coach was taken away from her at the Governor's death, she just ripped out the lining, and we girls had spencers made of it. Dear heart, how well I remember playing in aunt's great garden, and chasing Jack up and down those winding stairs; and my blessed father, in his plum-colored coat and knee buckles, and the queue I used to tie up for him every day, handing aunt in to dinner, looking so dignified and splendid.”
Grandma seemed to forget her story for a minute, and become a little girl again, among the playmates dead and gone so many years. Polly motioned the others to be quiet, and no one spoke till the old lady, with a long sigh, came back to the present, and went on.
“Well, as I was saying, the Governor wanted to give a breakfast to the French officers, and Madam, who was a hospitable soul, got up a splendid one for them. But by some mistake, or accident, it was discovered at the last minute that there was no milk.
“A great deal was needed, and very little could be bought or borrowed, so despair fell upon the cooks and maids, and the great breakfast would have been a failure, if Madam, with the presence of mind of her sex, had not suddenly bethought herself of the cows feeding on the Common.
“To be sure, they belonged to her neighbors, and there was no time to ask leave, but it was a national affair; our allies must be fed; and feeling sure that her patriotic friends would gladly lay their cows on the altar of their country, Madam Hancock covered herself with glory, by calmly issuing the command, 'Milk'em!' It was done, to the great astonishment of the cows, and the entire satisfaction of the guests, among whom was Lafayette.
“This milking feat was such a good joke, that no one seems to have remembered much about the great man, though one of his officers, a count, signalized himself by getting very tipsy, and going to bed with his boots and spurs on, which caused the destruction of aunt's best yellow damask coverlet, for the restless sleeper kicked it into rags by morning.
“Aunt valued it very much, even in its tattered condition, and kept it a long while, as a memorial of her distinguished guests.
“The time when I saw Lafayette was in 1825, and there were no tipsy counts then. Uncle Hancock (a sweet man, my dears, though some call him mean now-a-days) was dead, and aunt had married Captain Scott.
“It was not at all the thing for her to do; however, that's neither here nor there. She was living in Federal Street at the time, a most aristocratic street then, children, and we lived close by.
“Old Josiah Quincy was mayor of the city, and he sent aunt word that the Marquis Lafayette wished to pay his respects to her.
“Of course she was delighted, and we all flew about to make ready for him. Aunt was an old lady, but she made a grand toilet, and was as anxious to look well as any girl.”
“What did she wear?” asked Fan, with interest.
“She wore a steel-colored satin, trimmed with black lace, and on her cap was pinned a Lafayette badge of white satin.
“I never shall forget how b-e-a-utifully she looked as she sat in state on the front parlor sophy, right under a great portrait of her first husband; and on either side of her sat Madam Storer and Madam Williams, elegant to behold, in their stiff silks, rich lace, and stately turbans. We don't see such splendid old ladies now-a-days.”
“I think we do sometimes,” said Polly, slyly.
Grandma shook her head, but it pleased her very much to be admired, for she had been a beauty in her day.
“We girls had dressed the house with flowers; old Mr. Coolidge sent in a clothes-basket full. Joe Joy provided the badges, and aunt got out some of the Revolutionary wine from the old Beacon Street cellar.
“I wore my green and white palmyrine, my hair bowed high, the beautiful leg-o'-mutton sleeves that were so becoming, and these very gloves.
“Well, by-and-by the General, escorted by the Mayor, drove up. Dear me, I see him now! a little old man in nankeen trousers and vest, a long blue coat and ruffled shirt, leaning on his cane, for he was lame, and smiling and bowing like a true Frenchman.
“As he approached, the three old ladies rose, and courtesied with the utmost dignity. Lafayette bowed first to the Governor's picture, then to the Governor's widow, and kissed her hand.
“That was droll; for on the back of her glove was stamped Lafayette's likeness, and the gallant old gentleman kissed his own face.
“Then some of the young ladies were presented, and, as if to escape any further self-salutations, the marquis kissed the pretty girls on the cheek.
“Yes, my dears, here is just the spot where the dear old man saluted me. I'm quite as proud of it now as I was then, for he was a brave, good man, and helped us in our trouble.
“He did not stay long, but we were very merry, drinking his health, receiving his compliments, and enjoying the honor he did us.
“Down in the street there was a crowd, of course, and when he left they wanted to take out the horses and drag him home in triumph. But he did n't wish it; and while that affair was being arranged, we girls had been pelting him with the flowers which we tore from the vases, the walls, and our own topknots, to scatter over him.
“He liked that, and laughed, and waved his hand to us, while we ran, and pelted, and begged him to come again.
“We young folks quite lost our heads that night, and I have n't a very clear idea of how I got home. The last thing I remember was hanging out of the window with a flock of girls, watching the carriage roll away, while the crowd cheered as if they were mad.
“Bless my heart, it seems as if I heard'em now! 'Hurrah for Lafayette and Mayor Quincy! Hurrah for Madam Hancock and the pretty girls! Hurrah for Col. May!' 'Three cheers for Boston! Now, then! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!'”
And here the old lady stopped, out of breath, with her cap askew, her spectacles on the end of her nose, and her knitting much the worse for being waved enthusiastically in the air, while she hung over the arm of her chair, shrilly cheering an imaginary Lafayette. The girls clapped their hands, and Tom hurrahed with all his might, saying, when he got his breath, “Lafayette was a regular old trump; I always liked him.”
“My dear! what a disrespectful way to speak of that great man,” said grandma, shocked at Young America's irreverence.
“Well, he was a trump, anyway, so why not call him one?” asked Tom, feeling that the objectionable word was all that could be desired.
“What queer gloves you wore then,” interrupted Fanny, who had been trying on the much-honored glove, and finding it a tight fit.
“Much better and cheaper than we have now,” returned grandma, ready to defend “the good old times” against every insinuation. “You are an extravagant set now-a-days, and I really don't know what you are coming to. By the way, I've got somewhere two letters written by two young ladies, one in 1517, and the other in 1868. The contrast between the two will amuse you, I think.”
After a little search, grandma produced an old portfolio, and selecting the papers, read the following letter, written by Anne Boleyn before her marriage to Henry VIII, and now in the possession of a celebrated antiquarian: DEAR MARY, I have been in town almost a month, yet I cannot say I have found anything in London extremely agreeable. We rise so late in the morning, seldom before six o'clock, and sit up so late at night, being scarcely in bed before ten, that I am quite sick of it; and was it not for the abundance of fine things I am every day getting I should be impatient of returning into the country.
My indulgent mother bought me, yesterday, at a merchant's in Cheapside, three new shifts, that cost fourteen pence an ell, and I am to have a pair of new stuff shoes, for my Lord of Norfolk's ball, which will be three shillings.
The irregular life I have led since my coming to this place has quite destroyed my appetite. You know I could manage a pound of bacon and a tankard of good ale for my breakfast, in the country, but in London I find it difficult to get through half the quantity, though I must own I am generally eager enough for the dinner hour, which is here delayed till twelve, in your polite society.
I played at hot cockles, last night, at my Lord of Leicester's. The Lord of Surrey was there, a very elegant young man, who sung a song of his own composition, on the “Lord of Kildare's Daughter.” It was much approved, and my brother whispered me that the fair Geraldine, for so my Lord of Surrey calls his sweetheart, is the finest woman of the age. I should be glad to see her, for I hear she is good as she is beautiful.
Pray take care of the poultry during my absence. Poor things! I always fed them myself; and if Margery has knitted me the crimson worsted mittens, I should be glad if they were sent up the first opportunity.
Adieu, dear Mary. I am just going to mass, and you shall speedily have the prayers, as you have now the kindest love of your own ANNE BOLEYN.
“Up before six, and think it late to go to bed at ten! What a countrified thing Anne must have been. Bacon and ale for breakfast, and dinner at twelve; how very queer to live so!” cried Fanny. “Lord Surrey and Lord Leicester sound fine, but hot cockles, and red mittens, and shoes for three shillings, are horrid.”
“I like it,” said Polly, thoughtfully, “and I'm glad poor Anne had a little fun before her troubles began. May I copy that letter some time, grandma?”
“Yes, dear, and welcome. Now, here's the other, by a modern girl on her first visit to London. This will suit you better, Fan,” and grandma read what a friend had sent her as a pendant to Anne's little picture of London life long ago: MY DEAREST CONSTANCE, After three months of intense excitement I snatch a leisure moment to tell you how much I enjoy my first visit to London. Having been educated abroad, it really seems like coming to a strange city. At first the smoke, dirt and noise were very disagreeable, but I soon got used to these things, and now find all I see perfectly charming.
We plunged at once into a whirl of gayety and I have had no time to think of anything but pleasure. It is the height of the season, and every hour is engaged either in going to balls, concerts, theatres, fetes and church, or in preparing for them. We often go to two or three parties in an evening, and seldom get home till morning, so of course we don't rise till noon next day. This leaves very little time for our drives, shopping, and calls before dinner at eight, and then the evening gayeties begin again.
At a ball at Lady Russell's last night, I saw the Prince of Wales, and danced in the set with him. He is growing stout, and looks dissipated. I was disappointed in him, for neither in appearance nor conversation was he at all princely. I was introduced to a very brilliant and delightful young gentleman from America. I was charmed with him, and rather surprised to learn that he wrote the poems which were so much admired last season, also that he is the son of a rich tailor. How odd these Americans are, with their money, and talent, and independence!
O my dear, I must not forget to tell you the great event of my first season. I am to be presented at the next Drawing Room! Think how absorbed I must be in preparation for this grand affair. Mamma is resolved that I shall do her credit, and we have spent the last two weeks driving about from milliners to mantua-makers, from merchants to jewellers. I am to wear white satin and plumes, pearls and roses. My dress will cost a hundred pounds or more, and is very elegant.
My cousins and friends lavish lovely things upon me, and you will open your unsophisticated eyes when I display my silks and laces, trinkets and French hats, not to mention billet deux, photographs, and other relics of a young belle's first season.
You ask if I ever think of home. I really have n't time, but I do sometimes long a little for the quiet, the pure air and the girlish amusements I used to enjoy so much. One gets pale, and old, and sadly fagged out, with all this dissipation, pleasant as it is. I feel quite blasé already.
If you could send me the rosy cheeks, bright eyes, and gay spirits I always had at home, I'd thank you. As you cannot do that, please send me a bottle of June rain water, for my maid tells me it is better than any cosmetic for the complexion, and mine is getting ruined by late hours.
I fancy some fruit off our own trees would suit me, for I have no appetite, and mamma is quite desolate about me. One cannot live on French cookery without dyspepsia, and one can get nothing simple here, for food, like everything else, is regulated by the fashion.
Adieu, ma chere, I must dress for church. I only wish you could see my new hat and go with me, for Lord Rockingham promised to be there.
Adieu, yours eternally, FLORENCE.
“Yes, I do like that better, and I wish I had been in this girl's place, don't you, Polly?” said Fan, as grandma took off her glasses.
“I should love to go to London, and have a good time, but I don't think I should care about spending ever so much money, or going to Court. Maybe I might when I got there, for I do like fun and splendor,” added honest Polly, feeling that pleasure was a very tempting thing.
“Grandma looks tired; let's go and play in the dwying-woom,” said Maud, who found the conversation getting beyond her depth.
“Let us all kiss and thank grandma, for amusing us so nicely, before we go,” whispered Polly. Maud and Fanny agreed, and grandma looked so gratified by their thanks, that Tom followed suit, merely waiting till “those girls” were out of sight, to give the old lady a hearty hug, and a kiss on the very cheek Lafayette had saluted.
When he reached the play-room Polly was sitting in the swing, saying, very earnestly, “I always told you it was nice up in grandma's room, and now you see it is. I wish you'd go oftener; she admires to have you, and likes to tell stories and do pleasant things, only she thinks you don't care for her quiet sort of fun. I do, anyway, and I think she's the kindest, best old lady that ever lived, and I love her dearly!”
“I did n't say she was n't, only old people are sort of tedious and fussy, so I keep out of their way,” said Fanny.
“Well, you ought not to, and you miss lots of pleasant times. My mother says we ought to be kind and patient and respectful to all old folks just because they are old, and I always mean to be.”
“Your mother's everlastingly preaching,” muttered Fan, nettled by the consciousness of her own shortcomings with regard to grandma.
“She don't preach!” cried Polly, firing up like a flash; “she only explains things to us, and helps us be good, and never scolds, and I 'd rather have her than any other mother in the world, though she don't wear velvet cloaks and splendid bonnets, so now!”
“Go it, Polly!” called Tom, who was gracefully hanging head downward from the bar put up for his special benefit.
“Polly's mad! Polly's mad!” sung Maud, skipping rope round the room.
“If Mr. Sydney could see you now he would n't think you such an angel any more,” added Fanny, tossing a bean-bag and her head at the same time.
Polly was mad, her face was very red, her eyes very bright and her lips twitched, but she held her tongue and began to swing as hard as she could, fearing to say something she would be sorry for afterward. For a few minutes no one spoke, Tom whistled and Maud hummed but Fan and Polly were each soberly thinking of something, for they had reached an age when children, girls especially, begin to observe, contrast, and speculate upon the words, acts, manners, and looks of those about them. A good deal of thinking goes on in the heads of these shrewd little folks, and the elders should mind their ways, for they get criticised pretty sharply and imitated very closely.
Two little things had happened that day, and the influence of a few words, a careless action, was still working in the active minds of the girls.
Mr. Sydney had called, and while Fanny was talking with him she saw his eye rest on Polly, who sat apart watching the faces round her with the modest, intelligent look which many found so attractive. At that minute Madam Shaw came in, and stopped to speak to the little girl. Polly rose at once, and remained standing till the old lady passed on.
“Are you laughing at Polly's prim ways?” Fanny had asked, as she saw Mr. Sydney smile.
“No, I am admiring Miss Polly's fine manners,” he answered in a grave, respectful tone, which had impressed Fanny very much, for Mr. Sydney was considered by all the girls as a model of good breeding, and that indescribable something which they called “elegance.”
Fanny wished she had done that little thing, and won that approving look, for she valued the young man's good opinion, because it was so hard to win, by her set at least. So, when Polly talked about old people, it recalled this scene and made Fan cross.
Polly was remembering how, when Mrs. Shaw came home that day in her fine visiting costume, and Maud ran to welcome her with unusual affection, she gathered up her lustrous silk and pushed the little girl away saying, impatiently, “Don't touch me, child, your hands are dirty.” Then the thought had come to Polly that the velvet cloak did n't cover a right motherly heart, that the fretful face under the nodding purple plumes was not a tender motherly face, and that the hands in the delicate primrose gloves had put away something very sweet and precious. She thought of another woman, whose dress never was too fine for little wet cheeks to lie against, or loving little arms to press; whose face, in spite of many lines and the gray hairs above it, was never sour or unsympathetic when children's eyes turned towards it; and whose hands never were too busy, too full or too nice to welcome and serve the little sons and daughters who freely brought their small hopes and fears, sins and sorrows, to her, who dealt out justice and mercy with such wise love. “Ah, that's a mother!” thought Polly, as the memory came warm into her heart, making her feel very rich, and pity Maud for being so poor.
This it was that caused such sudden indignation at Fanny's dreadful speech, and this it was that made quick-tempered Polly try to calm her wrath before she used toward Fanny's mother the disrespectful tone she so resented toward her own. As the swing came down after some dozen quick journeys to and fro, Polly seemed to have found a smile somewhere up aloft, for she looked toward Fan, saying pleasantly, as she paused a little in her airy exercise, “I'm not mad now, shall I come and toss with you?”
“No, I'll come and swing with you,” answered Fanny, quick to feel the generous spirit of her friend.
“You are an angel, and I'll never be so rude again,” she added, as Polly's arm came round her, and half the seat was gladly offered.
“No, I ain't; but if I ever get at all like one, it will be'mother's preaching' that did it,” said Polly, with a happy laugh.
“Good for you, Polly Peacemaker,” cried Tom, quoting his father, and giving them a grand push as the most appropriate way of expressing his approbation of the sentiment.
Nothing more was said; but from that day there slowly crept into the family more respect for grandma, more forbearance with her infirmities, more interest in her little stories, and many a pleasant gossip did the dear old lady enjoy with the children as they gathered round her fire, solitary so long.
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{
"id": "2787"
}
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7
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GOOD-BY
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“OH, dear! Must you really go home Saturday?” said Fan, some days after what Tom called the “grand scrimmage.”
“I really must; for I only came to stay a month and here I've been nearly six weeks,” answered Polly, feeling as if she had been absent a year.
“Make it two months and stay over Christmas. Come, do, now,” urged Tom, heartily.
“You are very kind; but I would n't miss Christmas at home for anything. Besides, mother says they can't possibly do without me.”
“Neither can we. Can't you tease your mother, and make up your mind to stay?” began Fan.
“Polly never teases. She says it's selfish; and I don't do it now much,” put in Maud, with a virtuous air.
“Don't you bother Polly. She'd rather go, and I don't wonder. Let's be just as jolly as we can while she stays, and finish up with your party, Fan,” said Tom, in a tone that settled the matter.
Polly had expected to be very happy in getting ready for the party; but when the time came, she was disappointed; for somehow that naughty thing called envy took possession of her, and spoiled her pleasure. Before she left home, she thought her new white muslin dress, with its fresh blue ribbons, the most elegant and proper costume she could have; but now, when she saw Fanny's pink silk, with a white tarlatan tunic, and innumerable puffings, bows, and streamers, her own simple little toilet lost all its charms in her eyes, and looked very babyish and old-fashioned.
Even Maud was much better dressed than herself, and looked very splendid in her cherry-colored and white suit, with a sash so big she could hardly carry it, and little white boots with red buttons. They both had necklaces and bracelets, ear-rings and brooches; but Polly had no ornament, except the plain locket on a bit of blue velvet. Her sash was only a wide ribbon, tied in a simple bow, and nothing but a blue snood in the pretty curls. Her only comfort was the knowledge that the modest tucker drawn up round the plump shoulders was real lace, and that her bronze boots cost nine dollars.
Poor Polly, with all her efforts to be contented, and not to mind looking unlike other people, found it hard work to keep her face bright and her voice happy that night. No one dreamed what was going an under the muslin frock, till grandma's wise old eyes spied out the little shadow on Polly's spirits, and guessed the cause of it. When dressed, the three girls went up to show themselves to the elders, who were in grandma's room, where Tom was being helped into an agonizingly stiff collar.
Maud pranced like a small peacock, and Fan made a splendid courtesy as every one turned to survey them; but Polly stood still, and her eyes went from face to face, with an anxious, wistful air, which seemed to say, “I know I'm not right; but I hope I don't look very bad.”
Grandma read the look in a minute; and when Fanny said, with a satisfied smile, “How do we look?” she answered, drawing Polly toward her so kindly.
“Very like the fashion-plates you got the patterns of your dresses from. But this little costume suits me best.”
“Do you really think I look nice?” and Polly's face brightened, for she valued the old lady's opinion very much.
“Yes, my dear; you look just as I like to see a child of your age look. What particularly pleases me is that you have kept your promise to your mother, and have n't let anyone persuade you to wear borrowed finery. Young things like you don't need any ornaments but those you wear to-night, youth, health, intelligence, and modesty.”
As she spoke, grandma gave a tender kiss that made Polly glow like a rose, and for a minute she forgot that there were such things as pink silk and coral ear-rings in the world. She only said, “Thank you, ma'am,” and heartily returned the kiss; but the words did her good, and her plain dress looked charming all of a sudden.
“Polly's so pretty, it don't matter what she wears,” observed Tom, surveying her over his collar with an air of calm approval.
“She has n't got any bwetelles to her dwess, and I have,” said Maud, settling her ruffled bands over her shoulders, which looked like cherry-colored wings on a stout little cherub.
“I did wish she'd just wear my blue set, ribbon is so very plain; but, as Tom says, it don't much matter;” and Fanny gave an effective touch to the blue bow above Polly's left temple.
“She might wear flowers; they always suit young girls,” said Mrs. Shaw, privately thinking that her own daughters looked much the best, yet conscious that blooming Polly had the most attractive face. “Bless me! I forgot my posies in admiring the belles. Hand them out, Tom;” and Mr. Shaw nodded toward an interesting looking box that stood on the table.
Seizing them wrong side-up, Tom produced three little bouquets, all different in color, size, and construction.
“Why, papa! how very kind of you,” cried Fanny, who had not dared to receive even a geranium leaf since the late scrape.
“Your father used to be a very gallant young gentleman, once upon a time,” said Mrs. Shaw, with a simper.
“Ah, Tom, it's a good sign when you find time to think of giving pleasure to your little girls!” And grandma patted her son's bald head as if he was n't more than eighteen.
Thomas Jr. had given a somewhat scornful sniff at first; but when grandma praised his father, the young man thought better of the matter, and regarded the flowers with more respect, as he asked, “Which is for which?”
“Guess,” said Mr. Shaw, pleased that his unusual demonstration had produced such an effect.
The largest was a regular hothouse bouquet, of tea-rosebuds, scentless heath, and smilax; the second was just a handful of sweet-peas and mignonette, with a few cheerful pansies, and one fragrant little rose in the middle; the third, a small posy of scarlet verbenas, white feverfew, and green leaves.
“Not hard to guess. The smart one for Fan, the sweet one for Polly, and the gay one for Pug. Now, then, catch hold, girls.” And Tom proceeded to deliver the nosegays, with as much grace as could be expected from a youth in a new suit of clothes and very tight boots.
“That finishes you off just right, and is a very pretty attention of papa's. Now run down, for the bell has rung; and remember, not to dance too often, Fan; be as quiet as you can, Tom; and Maud, don't eat too much supper. Grandma will attend to things, for my poor nerves won't allow me to come down.”
With that, Mrs. Shaw dismissed them, and the four descended to receive the first batch of visitors, several little girls who had been asked for the express purpose of keeping Maud out of her sister's way. Tom had likewise been propitiated, by being allowed to bring his three bosom friends, who went by the school-boy names of Rumple, Sherry, and Spider.
“They will do to make up sets, as gentlemen are scarce; and the party is for Polly, so I must have some young folks on her account,” said Fanny, when sending out her invitations.
Of course, the boys came early, and stood about in corners, looking as if they had more arms and legs than they knew what to do with. Tom did his best to be a good host; but ceremony oppressed his spirits, and he was forced to struggle manfully with the wild desire to propose a game of leap-frog, for the long drawing-rooms, cleared for dancing, tempted him sorely.
Polly sat where she was told, and suffered bashful agonies as Fan introduced very fine young ladies and very stiff young gentlemen, who all said about the same civil things, and then appeared to forget all about her. When the first dance was called, Fanny cornered Tom, who had been dodging her, for he knew what she wanted, and said, in an earnest whisper: “Now, Tom, you must dance this with Polly. You are the young gentleman of the house, and it's only proper that you should ask your company first.”
“Polly don't care for manners. I hate dancing; don't know how. Let go my jacket, and don't bother, or I'll cut away altogether,” growled Tom, daunted by the awful prospect of opening the ball with Polly.
“I'll never forgive you if you do. Come, be clever, and help me, there 's a dear. You know we both were dreadfully rude to Polly, and agreed that we'd be as kind and civil to her as ever we could. I shall keep my word, and see that she is n't slighted at my party, for I want her to love me, and go home feeling all right.”
This artful speech made an impression on the rebellious Thomas, who glanced at Polly's happy face, remembered his promise, and, with a groan, resolved to do his duty.
“Well, I'll take her; but I shall come to grief, for I don't know anything about your old dances.”
“Yes, you do. I've taught you the steps a dozen times. I'm going to begin with a redowa, because the girls like it, and it's better fun than square dances. Now, put on your gloves, and go and ask Polly like a gentleman.”
“Oh, thunder!” muttered Tom. And having split the detested gloves in dragging them on, he nerved himself for the effort, walked up to Polly, made a stiff bow, stuck out his elbow, and said, solemnly, “May I have the pleasure, Miss Milton?”
He did it as much like the big fellows as he could, and expected that Polly would be impressed. But she was n't a bit; for after a surprised look she laughed in his face, and took him by the hand, saying, heartily, “Of course you may; but don't be a goose, Tommy.”
“Well, Fan told me to be elegant, so I tried to,” whispered Tom, adding, as he clutched his partner with a somewhat desperate air, “Hold on tight, and we'll get through somehow.”
The music struck up, and away they went; Tom hopping one way and Polly the other, in a most ungraceful manner.
“Keep time to the music,” gasped Polly.
“Can't; never could,” returned Tom.
“Keep step with me, then, and don't tread on my toes,” pleaded Polly.
“Never mind; keep bobbing, and we'll come right by and by,” muttered Tom, giving his unfortunate partner a sudden whisk, which nearly landed both on the floor.
But they did not “get right by and by”; for Tom, In his frantic efforts to do his duty, nearly annihilated poor Polly. He tramped, he bobbed, he skated, he twirled her to the right, dragged her to the left, backed her up against people and furniture, trod on her feet, rumpled her dress, and made a spectacle of himself generally. Polly was much disturbed; but as everyone else was flying about also, she bore it as long as she could, knowing that Tom had made a martyr of himself, and feeling grateful to him for the sacrifice.
“Oh, do stop now; this is dreadful!” cried Polly, breathlessly, after a few wild turns.
“Is n't it?” said Tom, wiping his red face with such an air of intense relief, that Polly had not the heart to scold him, but said, “Thank you,” and dropped into a chair exhausted.
“I know I've made a guy of myself; but Fan insisted on it, for fear you'd be offended if I did n't go the first dance with you,” said Tom, remorsefully, watching Polly as she settled the bow of her crushed sash, which Tom had used as a sort of handle by which to turn and twist her; “I can do the Lancers tip-top; but you won't ever want to dance with me any more,” he added, as he began to fan her so violently, that her hair flew about as if in a gale of wind.
“Yes, I will. I'd like to; and you shall put your name down here on the sticks of my fan. That's the way, Trix says, when you don't have a ball-book.”
Looking much gratified, Tom produced the stump of a lead-pencil, and wrote his name with a flourish, saying, as he gave it back, “Now I'm going to get Sherry, or some of the fellows that do the redowa well, so you can have a real good go before the music stops.”
Off went Tom; but before he could catch any eligible partner, Polly was provided with the best dancer in the room. Mr. Sydney had seen and heard the whole thing; and though he had laughed quietly, he liked honest Tom and good-natured Polly all the better for their simplicity. Polly's foot was keeping time to the lively music, and her eyes were fixed wistfully on the smoothly-gliding couples before her, when Mr. Sydney came to her, saying, in the pleasant yet respectful way she liked so much, “Miss Polly, can you give me a turn?”
“Oh, yes; I'm dying for another.” And Polly jumped up, with both hands out, and such a grateful face, that Mr. Sydney resolved she should have as many turns as she liked.
This time all went well; and Tom, returning from an unsuccessful search, was amazed to behold Polly circling gracefully about the room, guided by a most accomplished partner.
“Ah, that's something like,” he thought, as he watched the bronze boots retreating and advancing in perfect time to the music. “Don't see how Sydney does the steering so well; but it must be fun; and, by Jupiter! I 'll learn it!” added Shaw, Jr., with an emphatic gesture which burst the last button off his gloves.
Polly enjoyed herself till the music stopped; and before she had time to thank Mr. Sydney as warmly as she wished, Tom came up to say, with his most lordly air, “You dance splendidly, Polly. Now, you just show me any one you like the looks of, and I'll get him for you, no matter who he is.”
“I don't want any of the gentlemen; they are so stiff, and don't care to dance with me; but I like those boys over there, and I'll dance with any of them if they are willing,” said Polly, after a survey.
“I'll trot out the whole lot.” And Tom gladly brought up his friends, who all admired Polly immensely, and were proud to be chosen instead of the “big fellows.”
There was no sitting still for Polly after that, for the lads kept her going at a great pace; and she was so happy, she never saw or suspected how many little manoeuvres, heart-burnings, displays of vanity, affectation, and nonsense were going on all round her. She loved dancing, and entered into the gayety of the scene with a heartiness that was pleasant to see. Her eyes shone, her face glowed, her lips smiled, and the brown curls waved in the air, as she danced, with a heart as light as her feet.
“Are you enjoying yourself, Polly?” asked Mr. Shaw, who looked in, now and then, to report to grandma that all was going well.
“Oh, such a splendid time!” cried Polly, with an enthusiastic little gesture, as she chassed into the corner where he stood.
“She is a regular belle among the boys,” said Fanny, as she promenaded by.
“They are so kind in asking me and I'm not afraid of them,” explained Polly, prancing, simply because she could n't keep still.
“So you are afraid of the young gentlemen, hey?” and Mr. Shaw held her by one curl.
“All but Mr. Sydney. He don't put on airs and talk nonsense; and, oh! he does'dance like an angel,' as Trix says.”
“Papa, I wish you'd come and waltz with me. Fan told me not to go near her, 'cause my wed dwess makes her pink one look ugly; and Tom won't; and I want to dwedfully.”
“I've forgotten how, Maudie. Ask Polly; she'll spin you round like a teetotum.” “Mr. Sydney's name is down for that,” answered Polly, looking at her fan with a pretty little air of importance. “But I guess he would n't mind my taking poor Maud instead. She has n't danced hardly any, and I've had more than my share. Would it be very improper to change my mind?” And Polly looked up at her tall partner with eye which plainly showed that the change was a sacrifice.
“Not a bit. Give the little dear a good waltz, and we will look on,” answered Mr. Sydney, with a nod and smile.
“That is a refreshing little piece of nature,” said Mr. Shaw, as Polly and Maud whirled away.
“She will make a charming little woman, if she is n't spoilt.”
“No danger of that. She has got a sensible mother.”
“I thought so.” And Sydney sighed, for he had lately lost his own good mother.
When supper was announced, Polly happened to be talking, or trying to talk, to one of the “poky” gentlemen whom Fan had introduced. He took Miss Milton down, of course, put her in a corner, and having served her to a dab of ice and one macaroon, he devoted himself to his own supper with such interest, that Polly would have fared badly, if Tom had not come and rescued her.
“I've been looking everywhere for you. Come with me, and don't sit starving here,” said Tom, with a scornful look from her empty plate to that of her recreant escort, which was piled with good things.
Following her guide, Polly was taken to the big china closet, opening from the dining-room to the kitchen, and here she found a jovial little party feasting at ease. Maud and her bosom friend, “Gwace,” were seated on tin cake-boxes; Sherry and Spider adorned the refrigerator; while Tom and Rumple foraged for the party.
“Here's fun,” said Polly, as she was received with a clash of spoons and a waving of napkins.
“You just perch on that cracker-keg, and I'll see that you get enough,” said Tom, putting a dumbwaiter before her, and issuing his orders with a fine air of authority.
“We are a band of robbers in our cave, and I'm the captain; and we pitch into the folks passing by, and go out and bring home plunder. Now, Rumple, you go and carry off a basket of cake, and I'll watch here till Katy comes by with a fresh lot of oysters; Polly must have some. Sherry, cut into the kitchen, and bring a cup of coffee. Spider, scrape up the salad, and poke the dish through the slide for more. Eat away, Polly, and my men will be back with supplies in a jiffy.”
Such fun as they had in that closet; such daring robberies of jelly-pots and cake-boxes; such successful raids into the dining-room and kitchen; such base assaults upon poor Katy and the colored waiter, who did his best, but was helpless in the hands of the robber horde. A very harmless little revel; for no wine was allowed, and the gallant band were so busy skirmishing to supply the ladies, that they had not time to eat too much. No one missed them; and when they emerged, the feast was over, except for a few voracious young gentlemen, who still lingered among the ruins.
“That's the way they always do; poke the girls in corners, give'em just one taste of something, and then go and stuff like pigs,” whispered Tom, with a superior air, forgetting certain private banquets of his own, after company had departed.
The rest of the evening was to be devoted to the German; and, as Polly knew nothing about it, she established herself in a window recess to watch the mysteries. For a time she enjoyed it, for it was all new to her, and the various pretty devices were very charming; but, by and by, that bitter weed, envy, cropped up again, and she could not feel happy to be left out in the cold, while the other girls were getting gay tissue-paper suits, droll bonbons, flowers, ribbons, and all manner of tasteful trifles in which girlish souls delight. Everyone was absorbed; Mr. Sydney was dancing; Tom and his friends were discussing base-ball on the stairs; and Maud's set had returned to the library to play.
Polly tried to conquer the bad feeling; but it worried her, till she remembered something her mother once said to her, “When you feel out of sorts, try to make some one else happy, and you will soon be so yourself.”
“I will try it,” thought Polly, and looked round to see what she could do. Sounds of strife in the library led her to enter. Maud and the young ladies were sitting on the sofa, talking about each other's clothes, as they had seen their mammas do.
“Was your dress imported?” asked Grace.
“No; was yours?” returned Blanche.
“Yes; and it cost oh, ever so much.”
“I don't think it is as pretty as Maud's.”
“Mine was made in New York,” said Miss Shaw, smoothing her skirts complacently.
“I can't dress much now, you know, 'cause mamma's in black for somebody,” observed Miss Alice Lovett, feeling the importance which affliction conferred upon her when it took the form of a jet necklace.
“Well, I don't care if my dress is n't imported; my cousin had three kinds of wine at her party; so, now,” said Blanche.
“Did she?” And all the little girls looked deeply impressed, till Maud observed, with a funny imitation of her father's manner, “My papa said it was scan-dill-us; for some of the little boys got tipsy, and had to be tooked home. He would n't let us have any wine; and gwandma said it was vewy impwoper for childwen to do so.”
“My mother says your mother's coup, is n't half so stylish as ours,” put in Alice.
“Yes, it is, too. It's all lined with gween silk, and that's nicer than old wed cloth,” cried Maud, ruffling up like an insulted chicken.
“Well, my brother don't wear a horrid old cap, and he's got nice hair. I would n't have a brother like Tom. He's horrid rude, my sister says,” retorted Alice.
“He is n't. Your brother is a pig.”
“You're a fib!”
“So are you!”
Here, I regret to say, Miss Shaw slapped Miss Lovett, who promptly returned the compliment, and both began to cry.
Polly, who had paused to listen to the edifying chat, parted the belligerents, and finding the poor things tired, cross, and sleepy, yet unable to go home till sent for, proposed to play games. The young ladies consented, and “Puss in the corner” proved a peacemaker. Presently, in came the boys; and being exiles from the German, gladly joined in the games, which soon were lively enough to wake the sleepiest. “Blind-man's-buff” was in full swing when Mr. Shaw peeped in, and seeing Polly flying about with band-aged eyes, joined in the fun to puzzle her. He got caught directly; and great merriment was caused by Polly's bewilderment, for she could n't guess who he was, till she felt the bald spot on his head.
This frolic put every one in such spirits, that Polly forgot her trouble, and the little girls kissed each other good-night as affectionately as if such things as imported frocks, coups, and rival brothers did n't exist “Well, Polly, do you like parties?” asked Fan when the last guest was gone.
“Very much; but I don't think it would be good for me to go to many,” answered Polly, slowly.
“Why not?”
“I should n't enjoy them if I did n't have a fine dress, and dance all the time, and be admired, and all the rest of it.”
“I did n't know you cared for such things,” cried Fanny, surprised.
“Neither did I till to-night; but I do; and as I can't have'em, it's lucky I'm going home tomorrow.”
“Oh, dear! So you are! What shall I do without my'sweet P.,' as Sydney calls you?” sighed Fanny, bearing Polly away to be cuddled.
Every one echoed the exclamation next day; and many loving eyes followed the little figure in the drab frock as it went quietly about, doing for the last time the small services which would help to make its absence keenly felt. Polly was to go directly after an early dinner, and having packed her trunk, all but one tray, she was told to go and take a run while grandma finished. Polly suspected that some pleasant surprise was going to be put in; for Fan did n't offer to go with her, Maud kept dodging about with something under her apron, and Tom had just whisked into his mother's room in a mysterious manner. So Polly took the hint and went away, rejoicing in the thought of the unknown treasures she was to carry home.
Mr. Shaw had not said he should come home so early, but Polly thought he might, and went to meet him. Mr. Shaw did n't expect to see Polly, for he had left her very busy, and now a light snow was falling; but, as he turned into the mall there was the round hat, and under it the bright face, looking all the rosier for being powdered with snow-flakes, as Polly came running to meet him.
“There won't be any one to help the old gentleman safely home to-morrow,” he said, as Polly took his hand in both hers with an affectionate squeeze.
“Yes, there will; see if there is n't,” cried Polly, nodding and smiling, for Fan had confided to her that she meant to try it after her friend had gone.
“I'm glad of it. But, my dear, I want you to promise that you will come and make us a visit every winter, a good long one,” said Mr. Shaw, patting the blue mittens folded round his hand.
“If they can spare me from home, I'd love to come dearly.”
“They must lend you for a little while, because you do us all good, and we need you.”
“Do I? I don't see how; but I'm glad to hear you say so,” cried Polly, much touched.
“I can't tell you how, exactly; but you brought something into my house that makes it warmer and pleasanter, and won't quite vanish, I hope, when you go away, my child.”
Polly had never heard Mr. Shaw speak like that before, and did n't know what to say, she felt so proud and happy at this proof of the truth of her mother's words, when she said that “even a little girl could exert an influence, and do some good in this big, busy world.” She only gave her friend a grateful look sweeter than any words, and they went on together, hand in hand, through the “soft-falling snow.”
If Polly could have seen what went into that top tray, she would have been entirely overcome; for Fanny had told grandma about the poor little presents she had once laughed at, and they had all laid their heads together to provide something really fine and appropriate for every member of the Milton family. Such a mine of riches! and so much good-will, affection, and kindly forethought was packed away in the tempting bundles, that no one could feel offended, but would find an unusual charm about the pretty gifts that made them doubly welcome. I only know that if Polly had suspected that a little watch was ticking away in a little case, with her name on it, inside that trunk, she never could have left it locked as grandma advised, or have eaten her dinner so quietly. As it was, her heart was very full, and the tears rose to her eyes more than once, everyone was so kind, and so sorry to have her go.
Tom did n't need any urging to play escort now; and both Fan and Maud insisted on going too. Mrs. Shaw forgot her nerves, and put up some ginger-bread with her own hands; Mr. Shaw kissed Polly as if she had been his dearest daughter; and grandma held her close, whispering in a tremulous tone, “My little comfort, come again soon”; while Katy waved her apron from the nursery window, crying, as they drove, away, “The saints bless ye, Miss Polly, dear, and sind ye the best of lucks!”
But the crowning joke of all was Tom's good-by, for, when Polly was fairly settled in the car, the last “All aboard!” uttered, and the train in motion, Tom suddenly produced a knobby little bundle, and thrusting it in at the window, while he hung on in some breakneck fashion, said, with a droll mixture of fun and feeling in his face, “It's horrid; but you wanted it, so I put it in to make you laugh. Good-by, Polly; good-by, good-by!”
The last adieu was a trifle husky, and Tom vanished as it was uttered, leaving Polly to laugh over his parting souvenir till the tears ran down her cheeks. It was a paper bag of peanuts, and poked down at the very bottom a photograph of Tom. It was “horrid,” for he looked as if taken by a flash of lightning, so black, wild, and staring was it; but Polly liked it, and whenever she felt a little pensive at parting with her friends, she took a peanut, or a peep at Tom's funny picture, which made her merry again.
So the short journey came blithely to an end, and in the twilight she saw a group of loving faces at the door of a humble little house, which was more beautiful than any palace in her eyes, for it was home.
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{
"id": "2787"
}
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8
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SIX YEARS AFTERWARD
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“WHAT do you think Polly is going to do this winter?” exclaimed Fanny, looking up from the letter she had been eagerly reading.
“Going to deliver lectures on Woman's Rights,” said the young gentleman who was carefully examining his luxuriant crop of decidedly auburn hair, as he lounged with both elbows on the chimney-piece.
“Going to set her cap for some young minister and marry him in the spring,” added Mrs. Shaw, whose mind ran a good deal upon match-making just now.
“I think she is going to stay at home, and do all the work, 'cause servants cost so much; it would be just like her,” observed Maud, who could pronounce the letter R now.
“It's my opinion she is going to open a school, or something of that sort, to help those brothers of hers along,” said Mr. Shaw, who had put down his paper at the sound of Polly's name.
“Every one of you wrong, though papa comes nearest the truth,” cried Fanny; “she is going to give music lessons, and support herself, so that Will may go to college. He is the studious one, and Polly is very proud of him. Ned, the other brother, has a business talent, and don't care for books, so he has gone out West, and will make his own way anywhere. Polly says she is n't needed at home now, the family is so small, and Kitty can take her place nicely; so she is actually going to earn her own living, and hand over her share of the family income to Will. What a martyr that girl does make of herself,” and Fanny looked as solemn as if Polly had proposed some awful self-sacrifice.
“She is a sensible, brave-hearted girl, and I respect her for doing it,” said Mr. Shaw, emphatically. “One never knows what may happen, and it does no harm for young people to learn to be independent.”
“If she is as pretty as she was last time I saw her, she'll get pupils fast enough. I would n't mind taking lessons myself,” was the gracious observation of Shaw, Jr., as he turned from the mirror, with the soothing certainty that his objectionable hair actually was growing darker.
“She would n't take you at any price,” said Fanny, remembering Polly's look of disappointment and disapproval when she came on her last visit and found him an unmistakable dandy.
“You just wait and see,” was the placid reply.
“If Polly does carry out her plan, I wish Maud to take lessons of her; Fanny can do as she likes, but it would please me very much to have one of my girls sing as Polly sings. It suits old people better than your opera things, and mother used to enjoy it so much.”
As he spoke, Mr. Shaw's eye turned toward the corner of the fire where grandma used to sit. The easy-chair was empty now, the kind old face was gone, and nothing but a very tender memory remained.
“I'd like to learn, papa, and Polly is a splendid teacher, I know; she 's always so patient, and makes everything so pleasant. I do hope she will get scholars enough to begin right away,” said Maud.
“When is she coming?” asked Mrs. Shaw, quite willing to help Polly, but privately resolving that Maud should be finished off by the most fashionable master in the city.
“She does n't say. She thanks me for asking her here, as usual, but says she shall go right to work and had better begin with her own little room at once. Won't it seem strange to have Polly in town, and yet not with us?”
“We'll get her somehow. The little room will cost something, and she can stay with us just as well as not, even if she does teach. Tell her I say so,” said Mr. Shaw.
“She won't come, I know; for if she undertakes to be independent, she 'll do it in the most thorough manner,” answered Fanny, and Mrs. Shaw sincerely hoped she would. It was all very well to patronize the little music-teacher, but it was not so pleasant to have her settled in the family.
“I shall do what I can for her among my friends, and I dare say she will get on very well with young pupils to begin with. If she starts right, puts her terms high enough, and gets a few good names to give her the entre into our first families, I don't doubt she will do nicely, for I must say Polly has the manners of a lady,” observed Mrs. Shaw.
“She's a mighty taking little body, and I'm glad she's to be in town, though I'd like it better if she did n't bother about teaching, but just stayed here and enjoyed herself,” said Tom, lazily.
“I've no doubt she would feel highly honored to be allowed to devote her time to your amusement; but she can't afford expensive luxuries, and she don't approve of flirting, so you will have to let her go her own way, and refresh herself with such glimpses of you as her engagements permit,” answered Fanny, in the sarcastic tone which was becoming habitual to her.
“You are getting to be a regular old maid, Fan; as sharp as a lemon, and twice as sour,” returned Tom, looking down at her with an air of calm superiority.
“Do be quiet, children; you know I can't bear anything like contention. Maud, give me my Shetland shawl, and put a cushion at my back.”
As Maud obeyed her mother, with a reproving look at her erring brother and sister, a pause followed, for which every one seemed grateful. They were sitting about the fire after dinner, and all looked as if a little sunshine would do them good. It had been a dull November day, but all of a sudden the clouds lifted, and a bright ray shot into the room. Every one turned involuntarily to welcome it, and every one cried out, “Why, Polly!” for there on the threshold stood a bright-faced girl, smiling as if there was no such thing as November weather in the world.
“You dear thing, when did you come?” cried Fanny, kissing both the blooming checks with real affection, while the rest hovered near, waiting for a chance.
“I came yesterday, and have been getting my nest in order; but I could n't keep away any longer, so I ran up to say 'How do you do?'” answered Polly, in the cheery voice that did one's heart good to hear.
“My Polly always brings the sunshine with her,” and Mr. Shaw held out his hands to his little friend, for she was his favorite still.
It was good to see her put both arms about his neck, and give him a tender kiss, that said a great deal, for grandma had died since Polly met him last and she longed to comfort him, seeing how gray and old he had grown.
If Tom had had any thoughts of following his father's example, something in Polly's manner made him change his mind, and shake hands with a hearty “I'm very glad to see you, Polly,” adding to himself, as he looked at the face in the modest little bonnet: “Prettier than ever, by Jove!”
There was something more than mere prettiness in Polly's face, though Tom had not learned to see it yet. The blue eyes were clear and steady, the fresh mouth frank and sweet, the white chin was a very firm one in spite of the dimple, and the smooth forehead under the little curls had a broad, benevolent arch; while all about the face were those unmistakable lines and curves which can make even a plain countenance comely, by breathing into it the beauty of a lovely character. Polly had grown up, but she had no more style now than in the days of the round hat and rough coat, for she was all in gray, like a young Quakeress, with no ornament but a blue bow at the throat and another in the hair. Yet the plain suit became her excellently, and one never thought of the dress, looking at the active figure that wore it, for the freedom of her childhood gave to Polly that good gift, health, and every movement was full of the vigor, grace, and ease, which nothing else can so surely bestow. A happy soul in a healthy body is a rare sight in these days, when doctors flourish and every one is ill, and this pleasant union was the charm which Polly possessed without knowing it.
“It does seem so good to have you here again,” said Maud, cuddling Polly's cold hand, as she sat at her feet, when she was fairly established between Fanny and Mr. Shaw, while Tom leaned on the back of his mother's chair, and enjoyed the prospect.
“How do you get on? When do you begin? Where is your nest? Now tell all about it,” began Fanny, who was full of curiosity about the new plan.
“I shall get on very well, I think, for I've got twelve scholars to begin with, all able to pay a good price, and I shall give my first lesson on Monday.”
“Don't you dread it?” asked Fanny.
“Not much; why should I?” answered Polly, stoutly.
“Well, I don't know; it's a new thing, and must be a little bit hard at first,” stammered Fanny, not liking to say that working for one's living seemed a dreadful hardship to her.
“It will be tiresome, of course, but I shall get used to it; I shall like the exercise, and the new people and places I must see will amuse me. Then the independence will be delightful, and if I can save a little to help Kitty along with, that will be best of all.”
Polly's face shone as if the prospect was full of pleasure instead of work, and the hearty good will with which she undertook the new task, seemed to dignify her humble hopes and plans, and make them interesting in the sight of others.
“Who have you got for pupils?” asked Mrs. Shaw, forgetting her nerves for a minute.
Polly named her list, and took a secret satisfaction in seeing the impression which certain names made upon her hearers.
“How in the world did you get the Davenports and the Greys, my dear?” said Mrs. Shaw, sitting erect in her surprise.
“Mrs. Davenport and mother are relations, you know.”
“You never told us that before!” “The Davenports have been away some years, and I forgot all about them. But when I was making my plan, I knew I must have a good name or two to set me going, so I just wrote and asked Mrs. D. if she would help me. She came and saw us and was very kind, and has got these pupils for me, like a dear, good woman as she is.”
“Where did you learn so much worldly wisdom, Polly?” asked Mr. Shaw, as his wife fell back in her chair, and took out her salts, as if this discovery had been too much for her.
“I learnt it here, sir,” answered Polly, laughing. “I used to think patronage and things of that sort very disagreeable and not worth having, but I've got wiser, and to a certain extent I'm glad to use whatever advantages I have in my power, if they can be honestly got.”
“Why did n't you let us help you in the beginning? We should have been very glad to, I'm sure,” put in Mrs. Shaw, who quite burned to be known as a joint patroness with Mrs. Davenport.
“I know you would, but you have all been so kind to me I did n't want to trouble you with my little plans till the first steps were taken. Besides, I did n't know as you would like to recommend me as a teacher, though you like me well enough as plain Polly.”
“My dear, of course I would, and we want you to take Maud at once, and teach her your sweet songs. She has a fine voice, and is really suffering for a teacher.”
A slight smile passed over Polly's face as she returned her thanks for the new pupil, for she remembered a time when Mrs. Shaw considered her “sweet songs” quite unfit for a fashionable young lady's repertoire. “Where is your room?” asked Maud.
“My old friend Miss Mills has taken me in, and I am nicely settled. Mother did n't like the idea of my going to a strange boarding-house, so Miss Mills kindly made a place for me. You know she lets her rooms without board, but she is going to give me my dinners, and I'm to get my own breakfast and tea, quite independently. I like that way, and it 's very little trouble, my habits are so simple; a bowl of bread and milk night and morning, with baked apples or something of that sort, is all I want, and I can have it when I like.”
“Is your room comfortably furnished? Can't we lend you anything, my dear? An easy-chair now, or a little couch, so necessary when one comes in tired,” said Mrs. Shaw, taking unusual interest in the affair.
“Thank you, but I don't need anything, for I brought all sorts of home comforts with me. Oh, Fan, you ought to have seen my triumphal entry into the city, sitting among my goods and chattels, in a farmer's cart.” Polly's laugh was so infectious that every one smiled and forgot to be shocked at her performance. “Yes,” she added, “I kept wishing I could meet you, just to see your horrified face when you saw me sitting on my little sofa, with boxes and bundles all round me, a bird-cage on one side, a fishing basket, with a kitten's head popping in and out of the hole, on the other side, and jolly old Mr. Brown, in his blue frock, perched on a keg of apples in front. It was a lovely bright day, and I enjoyed the ride immensely, for we had all sorts of adventures.”
“Oh, tell about it,” begged Maud, when the general laugh at Polly's picture had subsided.
“Well, in the first place, we forgot my ivy, and Kitty came running after me, with it. Then we started again, but were soon stopped by a great shouting, and there was Will racing down the hill, waving a pillow in one hand and a squash pie in the other. How we did laugh when he came up and explained that our neighbor, old Mrs. Dodd, had sent in a hop-pillow for me, in case of headache, and a pie to begin housekeeping with. She seemed so disappointed at being too late that Will promised to get them to me, if he ran all the way to town. The pillow was easily disposed of, but that pie! I do believe it was stowed in every part of the wagon, and never staid anywhere. I found it in my lap, then on the floor, next, upside down among the books, then just on the point of coasting off a trunk into the road, and at last it landed in my rocking-chair. Such a remarkable pie as it was, too, for in spite of all its wanderings, it never got spilt or broken, and we finally ate it for lunch, in order to be left in peace. Next, my kitty got away, and I had a chase over walls and brooks before I got her, while Mr. Brown sat shaking with fun, to see me run. We finished off by having the book-shelves tumble on our heads as we went down a hill, and losing my chair off behind, as we went up a hill. A shout made us pause, and, looking back, there was the poor little chair rocking all by itself in the middle of the road, while a small boy sat on the fence and whooped. It was great fun, I do assure you.”
Polly had run on in her lively way, not because she thought her adventures amounted to much, but from a wish to cheer up her friends, who had struck her as looking rather dull and out of sorts, especially Mr. Shaw; and when she saw him lean back in his chair with the old hearty laugh, she was satisfied, and blessed the unlucky pie for amusing him.
“Oh, Polly, you do tell such interesting things!” sighed Maud, wiping her eyes.
“I wish I'd met you, I'd have given you three cheers and a tiger, for it must have been an imposing spectacle,” said Tom.
“No, you would n't; you'd have whisked round the corner when you saw me coming or have stared straight before you, utterly unconscious of the young woman in the baggage wagon.”
Polly laughed in his face just as she used to do, when she said that, and, in spite of the doubt cast upon his courtesy, Tom rather liked it, though he had nothing to say for himself but a reproachful, “Now, Polly, that's too bad.”
“True, nevertheless. You must come and see my pets, Maud, for my cat and bird live together as happily as brother and sister,” said Polly, turning to Maud, who devoured every word she said.
“That's not saying much for them,” muttered Tom, feeling that Polly ought to address more of her conversation to him.
“Polly knows what she's talking about; her brothers appreciate their sisters,” observed Fanny, in her sharp tone.
“And Polly appreciates her brothers, don't forget to add that, ma'am,” answered Tom.
“Did I tell you that Will was going to college?” broke in Polly, to avert the rising storm.
“Hope he'll enjoy himself,” observed Tom, with the air of a man who had passed through all the mysteries, and reached that state of sublime indifference which juniors seem to pride themselves upon.
“I think he will, he is so fond of study, and is so anxious to improve every opportunity. I only hope he won't overwork and get sick, as so many boys do,” said simple Polly, with such a respectful belief in the eager thirst for knowledge of collegians as a class, that Tom regarded the deluded girl with a smile of lofty pity, from the heights of his vast and varied experience.
“Guess he won't hurt himself. I'll see that he don't study too hard.” And Tom's eyes twinkled as they used to do, when he planned his boyish pranks.
“I'm afraid you can't be trusted as a guide, if various rumors I 've heard are true,” said Polly, looking up at him with a wistful expression, that caused his face to assume the sobriety of an owl's.
“Base slanders; I'm as steady as a clock, an ornament to my class, and a model young man, ain't I, mother?” And Tom patted her thin cheek with a caressing hand, sure of one firm friend in her; for when he ceased to be a harum-scarum boy, Mrs. Shaw began to take great pride in her son, and he, missing grandma, tried to fill her place with his feeble mother.
“Yes, dear, you are all I could ask,” and Mrs. Shaw looked up at him with such affection and confidence in her eyes, that Polly gave Tom the first approving look she had vouchsafed him since she came.
Why Tom should look troubled and turn grave all at once, she could n't understand, but she liked to see him stroke his mother's cheek so softly, as he stood with his head resting on the high back of her chair, for Polly fancied that he felt a man's pity for her weakness, and was learning a son's patient love for a mother who had had much to bear with him.
“I'm so glad you are going to be here all winter, for we are to be very gay, and I shall enjoy taking you round with me,” began Fanny, forgetting Polly's plan for a moment.
Polly shook her head decidedly. “It sounds very nice, but it can't be done, Fan, for I've come to work, not play; to save, not spend; and parties will be quite out of the question for me.”
“You don't intend to work all the time, without a bit of fun, I hope,” cried Fanny, dismayed at the idea.
“I mean to do what I've undertaken, and not to be tempted away from my purpose by anything. I should n't be fit to give lessons if I was up late, should I? And how far would my earnings go towards dress, carriages, and all the little expenses which would come if I set up for a young lady in society? I can't do both, and I'm not going to try, but I can pick up bits of fun as I go along, and be contented with free concerts and lectures, seeing you pretty often, and every Sunday Will is to spend with me, so I shall have quite as much dissipation as is good for me.”
“If you don't come to my parties, I'll never forgive you,” said Fanny, as Polly paused, while Tom chuckled inwardly at the idea of calling visits from a brother “dissipation.”
“Any small party, where it will do to wear a plain black silk, I can come to; but the big ones must n't be thought of, thank you.”
It was charming to see the resolution of Polly's face when she said that; for she knew her weakness, and beyond that black silk she had determined not to go. Fanny said no more, for she felt quite sure that Polly would relent when the time came, and she planned to give her a pretty dress for a Christmas present, so that one excuse should be removed.
“I say, Polly, won't you give some of us fellows music lessons? Somebody wants me to play, and I'd rather learn of you than any Senor Twankydillo,” said Tom, who did n't find the conversation interesting.
“Oh, yes; if any of you boys honestly want to learn, and will behave yourselves, I'll take you; but I shall charge extra,” answered Polly, with a wicked sparkle of the eye, though her face was quite sober, and her tone delightfully business-like.
“Why, Polly, Tom is n't a boy; he's twenty, and he says I must treat him with respect. Besides, he's engaged, and does put on such airs,” broke in Maud who regarded her brother as a venerable being.
“Who is the little girl?” asked Polly taking the news as a joke.
“Trix; why, did n't you know it?” answered Maud, as if it had been an event of national importance.
“No! is it true, Fan?” and Polly turned to her friend with a face full of surprise, while Tom struck an imposing attitude, and affected absence of mind.
“I forgot to tell you in my last letter; it's just out, and we don't like it very well,” observed Fanny, who would have preferred to be engaged first herself.
“It's a very nice thing, and I am perfectly satisfied,” announced Mrs. Shaw, rousing from a slight doze.
“Polly looks as if she did n't believe it. Have n't I the appearance of'the happiest man alive'?” asked Tom, wondering if it could be pity which he saw in the steady eyes fixed on him.
“No, I don't think you have,” she said, slowly.
“How the deuce should a man look, then?” cried Tom, rather nettled at her sober reception of the grand news.
“As if he had learned to care for some one a great deal more than for himself,” answered Polly, with sudden color in her cheeks, and a sudden softening of the voice, as her eyes turned away from Tom, who was the picture of a complacent dandy, from the topmost curl of his auburn head to the tips of his aristocratic boots.
“Tommy's quenched; I agree with you, Polly; I never liked Trix, and I hope it's only a boy-and-girl fancy, that will soon die a natural death,” said Mr. Shaw, who seemed to find it difficult to help falling into a brown study, in spite of the lively chatter going on about him.
Shaw, Jr., being highly incensed at the disrespectful manner in which his engagement was treated, tried to assume a superb air of indifference, and finding that a decided failure, was about to stroll out of the room with a comprehensive nod, when his mother called after him: “Where are you going, dear?”
“To see Trix, of course. Good-by, Polly,” and Mr. Thomas departed, hoping that by the skillful change of tone, from ardent impatience to condescending coolness, he had impressed one hearer at least with the fact that he regarded Trix as the star of his existence, and Polly as a presuming little chit.
If he could have heard her laugh, and Fanny's remarks, his wrath would have boiled over; fortunately he was spared the trial, and went away hoping that the coquetries of his Trix would make him forget Polly's look when she answered his question.
“My dear, that boy is the most deluded creature you ever saw,” began Fanny, as soon as the front door banged. “Belle and Trix both tried to catch him, and the slyest got him; for, in spite of his airs, he is as soft-hearted as a baby. You see Trix has broken off two engagements already, and the third time she got jilted herself. Such a fuss as she made! I declare, it really was absurd. But I do think she felt it very much, for she would n't go out at all, and got thin, and pale, and blue, and was really quite touching. I pitied her, and had her here a good deal, and Tom took her part; he always does stand up for the crushed ones, and that's good of him, I allow. Well, she did the forsaken very prettily; let Tom amuse her, and led him on till the poor fellow lost his wits, and finding her crying one day (about her hat, which was n't becoming), he thought she was mourning for Mr. Banks, and so, to comfort her, the goose proposed. That was all she wanted; she snapped him up at once, and there he is in a nice scrape; for since her engagement she is as gay as ever, flirts awfully with any one who comes along, and keeps Tom in a fume all the time. I really don't think he cares for her half as much as he makes believe, but he'll stand by her through thick and thin, rather than do as Banks did.”
“Poor Tom!” was all Polly said, when Fan had poured the story into her ear, as they sat whispering in the sofa corner.
“My only consolation is that Trix will break off the affair before spring; she always does, so that she may be free for the summer campaign. It won't hurt Tom, but I hate to have him make a fool of himself out of pity, for he is more of a man than he seems, and I don't want any one to plague him.”
“No one but yourself,” said Polly, smiling.
“Well, that's all fair; he is a torment sometimes, but I'm rather fond of him in spite of it. I get so tired of the other fellows, they are such absurd things and when Tom is in his good mood he is very nice and quite refreshing.”
“I'm glad to hear it,” said Polly, making a mental note of the fact.
“Yes, and when grandma was ill he was perfectly devoted. I did n't know the boy had so much gentleness in him. He took her death sadly to heart, for, though he did n't say much, he was very grave and steady for a long time. I tried to comfort him, and we had two or three real sweet little talks together, and seemed to get acquainted for the first time. It was very nice, but it did n't last; good times never do with us. We soon got back into the old way, and now we hector one another just as before.”
Fanny sighed, then yawned, and fell into her usual listless attitude, as if the brief excitement of Polly's coming had begun to subside.
“Walk home with me and see my funny little room. It's bright now, and the air will do you good. Come, both of you, and have a frolic as we used to,” said Polly, for the red sunset now burning in the west seemed to invite them out.
They agreed, and soon the three were walking briskly away to Polly's new home, in a quiet street, where a few old trees rustled in the summer, and the morning sun shone pleasantly in winter time.
“The way into my parlor Is up a winding stair,” sang Polly, running up two flights of broad, old-fashioned steps, and opening the door of a back room, out of which streamed the welcome glow of firelight.
“These are my pets, Maud,” she added, pausing on the threshold, and beckoning the girls to look in quietly.
On the rug, luxuriously basking in the warmth, lay a gray kitten, and close by, meditatively roosting on one leg, stood a plump canary, who cocked his bright eye at the new-comers, gave a loud chirp as if to wake his comrade, and then flew straight to Polly's shoulder, where he broke into a joyful song to welcome his mistress home.
“Allow me to introduce my family,” said Polly; “this noisy little chap the boys named Nicodemus; and this dozy cat is called Ashputtel, because the joy of her life is to get among the cinders. Now, take off your things, and let me do the honors, for you are to stop to tea, and the carriage is to come for you at eight. I arranged it with your mother while you were upstairs.”
“I want to see everything,” said Maud, when the hats were off, and the hands warmed.
“So you shall; for I think my housekeeping arrangements will amuse you.”
Then Polly showed her kingdom, and the three had a merry time over it. The big piano took up so much room there was no place for a bed; but Polly proudly displayed the resources of her chintz-covered couch, for the back let down, the seat lifted up, and inside were all the pillows and blankets. “So convenient, you see, and yet out of the way in the daytime, for two or three of my pupils come to me,” explained Polly.
Then there was a bright drugget over the faded carpet, the little rocking-chair and sewing-table stood at one window, the ivy ran all over the other, and hid the banqueting performances which went on in that corner. Book-shelves hung over the sofa, a picture or two on the walls, and a great vase of autumn leaves and grasses beautified the low chimney-piece. It was a very humble little room, but Polly had done her best to make it pleasant, and it already had a home-like look, with the cheery fire, and the household pets chirping and purring confidingly on the rug.
“How nice it is!” exclaimed Maud, as she emerged from the big closet where Polly kept her stores. “Such a cunning teakettle and saucepan, and a tete-a-tete set, and lots of good things to eat. Do have toast for tea, Polly, and let me make it with the new toasting fork; it's such fun to play cook.”
Fanny was not so enthusiastic as her sister, for her eyes saw many traces of what seemed like poverty to her; but Polly was so gay, so satisfied with her small establishment, so full of happy hopes and plans, that her friend had not the heart to find a fault or suggest an improvement, and sat where she was told, laughing and talking while the others got tea.
“This will be a country supper, girls,” said Polly, bustling about. “Here is real cream, brown bread, home-made cake, and honey from my own beehives. Mother fitted me out with such a supply, I'm glad to have a party, for I can't eat it all quick enough. Butter the toast, Maudie, and put that little cover over it. Tell me when the kettle boils, and don't step on Nicodemus, whatever you do.”
“What a capital house-keeper you will make some day,” said Fanny, as she watched Polly spread her table with a neatness and despatch which was pleasant to behold.
“Yes, it's good practice,” laughed Polly, filling her tiny teapot, and taking her place behind the tray, with a matronly air, which was the best joke of the whole.
“This is the most delicious party I ever went to,” observed Maud, with her mouth full of honey, when the feast was well under way. “I do wish I could have a nice room like this, and a cat and a bird that would n't eat each other up, and a dear little teakettle, and make just as much toast as I like.”
Such a peal of laughter greeted Maud's pensive aspiration, that Miss Mills smiled over her solitary cup of tea, and little Nick burst into a perfect ecstasy of song, as he sat on the sugar-bowl helping himself.
“I don't care for the toast and the kettle, but I do envy you your good spirits, Polly,” said Fanny, as the merriment subsided. “I'm so tired of everybody and everything, it seems sometimes as if I should die of ennui. Don't you ever feel so?”
“Things worry me sometimes, but I just catch up a broom and sweep, or wash hard, or walk, or go at something with all my might, and I usually find that by the time I get through the worry is gone, or I've got courage enough to bear it without grumbling,” answered Polly, cutting the brown loaf energetically.
“I can't do those things, you know; there's no need of it, and I don't think they'd cure my worrying,” said Fanny, languidly feeding Ashputtel, who sat decorously beside her, at the table, winking at the cream pot.
“A little poverty would do you good, Fan; just enough necessity to keep you busy till you find how good work is; and when you once learn that, you won't complain of ennui any more,” returned Polly, who had taken kindly the hard lesson which twenty years of cheerful poverty had taught her.
“Mercy, no, I should hate that; but I wish some one would invent a new amusement for rich people. I'm dead sick of parties, and flirtations, trying to out-dress my neighbors, and going the same round year after year, like a squirrel in a cage.”
Fanny's tone was bitter as well as discontented, her face sad as well as listless, and Polly had an instinctive feeling that some trouble, more real than any she had ever known before, was lying heavy at her friend's heart. That was not the time to speak of it, but Polly resolved to stand ready to offer sympathy, if nothing more, whenever the confidential minute came; and her manner was so kind, so comfortable, that Fanny felt its silent magic, grew more cheerful in the quiet atmosphere of that little room, and when they said good-night, after an old-time gossip by the fire, she kissed her hostess warmly, saying, with a grateful look, “Polly, dear, I shall come often, you do me so much good.”
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{
"id": "2787"
}
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9
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LESSONS
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THE first few weeks were hard ones, for Polly had not yet outgrown her natural shyness and going among so many strangers caused her frequent panics. But her purpose gave her courage, and when the ice was once broken, her little pupils quickly learned to love her. The novelty soon wore off, and though she thought she was prepared for drudgery, she found it very tedious to go on doing the same thing day after day. Then she was lonely, for Will could only come once a week, her leisure hours were Fanny's busiest, and the “bits of pleasure” were so few and far between that they only tantalized her. Even her small housekeeping lost its charms, for Polly was a social creature, and the solitary meals were often sad ones. Ashputtel and Nick did their best to cheer her, but they too, seemed to pine for country freedom and home atmosphere. Poor Puttel, after gazing wistfully out of the window at the gaunt city cats skulking about the yard, would retire to the rug, and curl herself up as if all hope of finding congenial society had failed; while little Nick would sing till he vibrated on his perch, without receiving any response except an inquisitive chirp from the pert sparrows, who seemed to twit him with his captivity. Yes, by the time the little teakettle had lost its brightness, Polly had decided that getting one's living was no joke, and many of her brilliant hopes had shared the fate of the little kettle.
If one could only make the sacrifice all at once, and done with it, then it would seem easier; but to keep up a daily sacrifice of one's wishes, tastes, and pleasures, is rather a hard task, especially when one is pretty, young, and gay. Lessons all day, a highly instructive lecture, books over a solitary fire, or music with no audience but a sleepy cat and a bird with his head tucked under his wing, for evening entertainment, was not exactly what might be called festive; so, in spite of her brave resolutions, Polly did long for a little fun sometimes, and after saying virtuously to herself at nine: “Yes, it is much wiser and better for me to go to bed early, and be ready for work tomorrow,” she would lie awake hearing the carriages roll to and fro, and imagining the gay girls inside, going to party, opera, or play, till Mrs. Dodd's hop pillow might as well have been stuffed with nettles, for any sleep it brought, or any use it was, except to catch and hide the tears that dropped on it when Polly's heart was very full.
Another thorn that wounded our Polly in her first attempt to make her way through the thicket that always bars a woman's progress, was the discovery that working for a living shuts a good many doors in one's face even in democratic America. As Fanny's guest she had been, in spite of poverty, kindly received wherever her friend took her, both as child and woman. Now, things were changed; the kindly people patronized, the careless forgot all about her, and even Fanny, with all her affection, felt that Polly the music teacher would not be welcome in many places where Polly the young lady had been accepted as “Miss Shaw's friend.”
Some of the girls still nodded amiably, but never invited her to visit them; others merely dropped their eyelids, and went by without speaking, while a good many ignored her as entirely as if she had been invisible. These things hurt Polly more than she would confess, for at home every one worked, and every one was respected for it. She tried not to care, but girls feel little slights keenly, and more than once Polly was severely tempted to give up her plan, and run away to the safe shelter at home.
Fanny never failed to ask her to every sort of festivity in the Shaw mansion; but after a few trials, Polly firmly declined everything but informal visits when the family were alone. She soon found that even the new black silk was n't fine enough for Fanny's smallest party, and, after receiving a few of the expressive glances by which women convey their opinion of their neighbor's toilet, and overhearing a joke or two “about that inevitable dress,” and “the little blackbird,” Polly folded away the once treasured frock, saying, with a choke in her voice: “I 'll wear it for Will, he likes it, and clothes can't change his love for me.”
I am afraid the wholesome sweetness of Polly's nature was getting a little soured by these troubles; but before lasting harm was done, she received, from an unexpected source, some of the real help which teaches young people how to bear these small crosses, by showing them the heavier ones they have escaped, and by giving them an idea of the higher pleasures one may earn in the good, old-fashioned ways that keep hearts sweet, heads sane, hands busy.
Everybody has their days of misfortune like little Rosamond, and Polly was beginning to think she had more than her share. One of these ended in a way which influenced her whole life, and so we will record it. It began early; for the hard-hearted little grate would n't behave itself till she had used up a ruinous quantity of kindlings. Then she scalded poor Puttel by upsetting her coffee-pot; and instead of a leisurely, cosy meal, had to hurry away uncomfortably, for everything went wrong even to the coming off of both bonnet strings in the last dreadful scramble. Being late, she of course forgot her music, and hurrying back for it, fell into a puddle, which capped the climax of her despair.
Such a trying morning as that was! Polly felt out of tune herself, and all the pianos seemed to need a tuner as much as she did. The pupils were unusually stupid, and two of them announced that their mamma was going to take them to the South, whither she was suddenly called. This was a blow, for they had just begun, and Polly had n't the face to send in a bill for a whole quarter, though her plans and calculations were sadly disturbed by the failure of that sum.
Trudging home to dinner, tired and disappointed, poor Polly received another blow, which hurt her more than the loss of all her pupils. As she went hurrying along with a big music book in one hand and a paper bag of rolls for tea in the other, she saw Tom and Trix coming. As she watched them while they slowly approached, looking so gay and handsome and happy, it seemed to Polly as if all the sunshine and good walking was on their side of the street, all the wintry wind and mud on hers. Longing to see a friendly face and receive a kind word, she crossed over, meaning to nod and smile at least. Trix saw her first, and suddenly became absorbed in the distant horizon. Tom apparently did not see her, for his eyes were fixed on a fine horse just prancing by. Polly thought that he had seen her, and approached with a curious little flutter at her heart, for if Tom cut her she felt that her cup would be full.
On they came, Trix intent on the view, Tom staring at the handsome horse, and Polly, with red checks, expectant eyes, and the brown bundle, in full sight. One dreadful minute as they came parallel, and no one spoke or bowed, then it was all over, and Polly went on, feeling as if some one had slapped her in the face. “She would n't have believed it of Tom; it was all the doings of that horrid Trix; well, she would n't trouble him any more, if he was such a snob as to be ashamed of her just because she carried bundles and worked for her bread.” She clutched the paper bag fiercely as she said this to herself, then her eyes filled, and her lips trembled, as she added, “How could he do it, before her, too?”
Now Tom was quite guiltless of this offence, and had always nodded to Polly when they met; but it so happened he had always been alone till now, and that was why it cut so deeply, especially as Polly never had approved of Trix. Before she could clear her eyes or steady her face, a gentleman met her, lifted his hat, smiled, and said pleasantly, “Good morning, Miss Polly, I'm glad to meet you.” Then, with a sudden change of voice and manner, he added, “I beg pardon is anything the matter can I be of service?”
It was very awkward, but it could n't be helped, and all Polly could do was to tell the truth and make the best of it.
“It's very silly, but it hurts me to be cut by my old friends. I shall get used to it presently, I dare say.”
Mr. Sydney glanced back, recognized the couple behind them, and turned round with a disgusted expression. Polly was fumbling for her handkerchief, and without a word he took both book and bundle from her, a little bit of kindness that meant a good deal just then. Polly felt it, and it did her good; hastily wiping the traitorous eyes, she laughed and said cheerfully, “There, I'm all right again; thank you, don't trouble yourself with my parcels.”
“No trouble, I assure you, and this book reminds me of what I was about to say. Have you an hour to spare for my little niece? Her mother wants her to begin, and desired me to make the inquiry.”
“Did she, really?” and Polly looked up at him, as if she suspected him of inventing the whole thing, out of kindness.
Mr. Sydney smiled, and taking a note from his pocket, presented it, saying, with a reproachful look, “Behold the proof of my truth, and never doubt again.”
Polly begged pardon, read the note from the little girl's mother, which was to have been left at her room if she was absent, and gave the bearer a very grateful look as she accepted this welcome addition to her pupils. Well pleased at the success of his mission, Sydney artfully led the conversation to music, and for a time Polly forgot her woes, talking enthusiastically on her favorite theme. As she reclaimed her book and bag, at her own door, she said, in her honest way, “Thank you very much for trying to make me forget my foolish little troubles.”
“Then let me say one thing more; though appearances are against him, I don't believe Tom Shaw saw you. Miss Trix is equal to that sort of thing, but it is n't like Tom, for with all his foppery he is a good fellow at heart.”
As Mr. Sydney said this, Polly held out her hand with a hearty “Thank you for that.” The young man shook the little hand in the gray woollen glove, gave her exactly the same bow which he did the Honorable Mrs. Davenport, and went away, leaving Polly to walk up stairs and address Puttel with the peculiar remark, “You are a true gentleman! so kind to say that about Tom. I'll think it's so, anyway; and won't I teach Minnie in my very best style!”
Puttel purred, Nick chirped approvingly, and Polly ate her dinner with a better appetite than she had expected. But at the bottom of her heart there was a sore spot still, and the afternoon lessons dragged dismally. It was dusk when she got home, and as she sat in the firelight eating her bread and milk, several tears bedewed the little rolls, and even the home honey had a bitter taste.
“Now this won't do,” she broke out all at once; “this is silly and wicked, and can't be allowed. I'll try the old plan and put myself right by doing some little kindness to somebody. Now what shall it be? O, I know! Fan is going to a party to-night; I'll run up and help her dress; she likes to have me, and I enjoy seeing the pretty things. Yes, and I'll take her two or three clusters of my daphne, it's so sweet.”
Up got Polly, and taking her little posy, trotted away to the Shaws', determined to be happy and contented in spite of Trix and hard work.
She found Fanny enduring torment under the hands of the hair-dresser, who was doing his best to spoil her hair, and distort her head with a mass of curls, braids, frizzles, and puffs; for though I discreetly refrain from any particular description, still, judging from the present fashions, I think one may venture to predict that six years hence they would be something frightful.
“How kind of you, Polly; I was just wishing you were here to arrange my flowers. These lovely daphnes will give odor to my camellias, and you were a dear to bring them. There's my dress; how do you like it?” said Fanny, hardly daring to lift her eyes from under the yellow tower on her head.
“It's regularly splendid; but how do you ever get into it?” answered Polly, surveying with girlish interest the cloud of pink and white lace that lay upon the bed.
“It's fearfully and wonderfully made, but distractingly becoming, as you shall see. Trix thinks I'm going to wear blue, so she has got a green one, and told Belle it would spoil the effect of mine, as we are much together, of course. Was n't that sweet of her? Belle came and told me in, time, and I just got pink, so my amiable sister, that is to be, won't succeed in her pretty little plot.”
“I guess she has been reading the life of Josephine. You know she made a pretty lady, of whom she was jealous, sit beside her on a green sofa, which set off her own white dress and spoilt the blue one of her guest,” answered Polly, busy with the flowers.
“Trix never reads anything; you are the one to pick up clever little stories. I'll remember and use this one. Am I done? Yes, that is charming, is n't it, Polly?” and Fan rose to inspect the success of Monsieur's long labor.
“You know I don't appreciate a stylish coiffure as I ought, so I like your hair in the old way best. But this is'the thing,' I suppose, and not a word must be said.”
“Of course it is. Why, child, I have frizzed and burnt my hair so that I look like an old maniac with it in its natural state, and have to repair damages as well as I can. Now put the flowers just here,” and Fanny laid a pink camellia in a nest of fuzz, and stuck a spray of daphne straight up at the back of her head.
“O, Fan, don't, it looks horridly so!” cried Polly, longing to add a little beauty to her friend's sallow face by a graceful adjustment of the flowers.
“Can't help it, that's the way, and so it must be,” answered Fan, planting another sprig half-way up the tower.
Polly groaned and offered no more suggestions as the work went on; but when Fan was finished from top to toe, she admired all she honestly could, and tried to keep her thoughts to herself. But her frank face betrayed her, for Fanny turned on her suddenly, saying, “You may as well free your mind, Polly, for I see by your eyes that something don't suit.”
“I was only thinking of what grandma once said, that modesty had gone out of fashion,” answered Polly, glancing at the waist of her friend's dress, which consisted of a belt, a bit of lace, and a pair of shoulder straps.
Fanny laughed good-naturedly, saying, as she clasped her necklace, “If I had such shoulders as yours, I should n't care what the fashion was. Now don't preach, but put my cloak on nicely, and come along, for I'm to meet Tom and Trix, and promised to be there early.”
Polly was to be left at home after depositing Fan at Belle's.
“I feel as if I was going myself,” she said, as they rolled along.
“I wish you were, and you would be, Polly, if you weren't such a resolute thing. I've teased, and begged, and offered anything I have if you'll only break your absurd vow, and come and enjoy yourself.”
“Thank you; but I won't, so don't trouble your kind heart about me; I'm all right,” said Polly, stoutly.
But when they drew up before the lighted house, and she found herself in the midst of the pleasant stir of festivity, the coming and going of carriages, the glimpses of bright colors, forms, and faces, the bursts of music, and a general atmosphere of gayety, Polly felt that she was n't all right, and as she drove away for a dull evening in her lonely little room, she just cried as heartily as any child denied a stick of candy.
“It's dreadful wicked of me, but I can't help it,” she sobbed to herself, in the corner of the carriage. “That music sets me all in a twitter, and I should have looked nice in Fan's blue tarlatan, and I know I could behave as well as any one, and have lots of partners, though I'm not in that set. Oh, just one good gallop with Mr. Sydney or Tom! No, Tom would n't ask me there, and I would n't accept if he did. Oh, me! oh, me! I wish I was as old and homely, and good and happy, as Miss Mills!”
So Polly made her moan, and by the time she got home, was just in the mood to go to bed and cry herself to sleep, as girls have a way of doing when their small affliction becomes unbearable.
But Polly did n't get a chance to be miserable very long, for as she went up stairs feeling like the most injured girl in the world, she caught a glimpse of Miss Mills, sewing away with such a bright face that she could n't resist stopping for a word or two.
“Sit down, my dear, I'm glad to see you, but excuse me if I go on with my work, as I'm in a driving hurry to get these things done to-night,” said the brisk little lady, with a smile and a nod, as she took a new needleful of thread, and ran up a seam as if for a wager.
“Let me help you, then; I'm lazy and cross, and it will do me good,” said Polly, sitting down with the resigned feeling. “Well, if I can't be happy, I can be useful, perhaps.”
“Thank you, my dear; yes, you can just hem the skirt while I put in the sleeves, and that will be a great lift.”
Polly put on her thimble in silence, but as Miss Mills spread the white flannel over her lap, she exclaimed, “Why, it looks like a shroud! Is it one?”
“No, dear, thank God, it is n't, but it might have been, if we had n't saved the poor little soul,” cried Miss Mills, with a sudden brightening of the face, which made it beautiful in spite of the stiff gray curl that bobbed on each temple, the want of teeth, and a crooked nose.
“Will you tell me about it? I like to hear your adventures and good works so much,” said Polly, ready to be amused by anything that made her forget herself.
“Ah, my dear, it's a very common story, and that's the saddest part of it. I'll tell you all about it, for I think you may be able to help me. Last night I watched with poor Mary Floyd. She's dying of consumption, you know,” began Miss Mills, as her nimble fingers flew, and her kind old face beamed over the work, as if she put a blessing in with every stitch. “Mary was very low, but about midnight fell asleep, and I was trying to keep things quiet, when Mrs. Finn she's the woman of the house came and beckoned me out, with a scared face. 'Little Jane has killed herself, and I don't know what to do,' she said, leading me up to the attic.”
“Who was little Jane?” broke in Polly, dropping her work.
“I only knew her as a pale, shy young girl who went in and out, and seldom spoke to any one. Mrs. Finn told me she was poor, but a busy, honest, little thing, who did n't mix with the other folks, but lived and worked alone. 'She has looked so down-hearted and pale for a week, that I thought she was sick, and asked her about it,' said Mrs. Finn, 'but she thanked me in her bashful way, and said she was pretty well, so I let her alone. But to-night, as I went up late to bed, I was kind of impressed to look in and see how the poor thing did, for she had n't left her room all day. I did look in, and here's what I found.' As Mrs. Finn ended she opened the door of the back attic, and I saw about as sad a sight as these old eyes ever looked at.”
“O, what?” cried Polly, pale now with interest.
“A bare room, cold as a barn, and on the bed a little dead, white face that almost broke my heart, it was so thin, so patient, and so young. On the table was a bottle half full of laudanum, an old pocket-book, and a letter. Read that, my dear and don't think hard of little Jane.”
Polly took the bit of paper Miss Mills gave her, and read these words: DEAR MRS. FINN, Please forgive me for the trouble I make you, but I don't see any other way. I can't get work that pays enough to keep me; the Dr. says I can't be well unless I rest. I hate to be a burden, so I'm going away not to trouble anybody anymore. I've sold my things to pay what I owe you. Please let me be as I am, and don't let people come and look at me. I hope it is n't very wicked, but there don't seem any room for me in the world, and I'm not afraid to die now, though I should be if I stayed and got bad because I had n't strength to keep right. Give my love to the baby, and so good-by, good-by.
JANE BRYANT.
“O, Miss Mills, how dreadful!” cried Polly, with her eyes so full she could hardly read the little letter.
“Not so dreadful as it might have been, but a bitter, sad thing to see that child, only seventeen, lying there in her little clean, old night-gown, waiting for death to come and take her, because'there did n't seem to be any room for her in the world.' Ah, well, we saved her, for it was n't too late, thank heaven, and the first thing she said was, 'Oh, why did you bring me back?' I've been nursing her all day, hearing her story, and trying to show her that there is room and a welcome for her. Her mother died a year ago, and since then she has been struggling along alone. She is one of the timid, innocent, humble creatures who can't push their way, and so get put aside and forgotten. She has tried all sorts of poorly paid work, could n't live on it decently, got discouraged, sick, frightened, and could see no refuge from the big, bad world but to get out of it while she was n't afraid to die. A very old story, my dear, new and dreadful as it seems to you, and I think it won't do you any harm to see and help this little girl, who has gone through dark places that you are never like to know.”
“I will; indeed, I will do all I can! Where is she now?” asked Polly, touched to the heart by the story, so simple yet so sad.
“There,” and Miss Mills pointed to the door of her own little bedroom. “She was well enough to be moved to-night, so I brought her home and laid her safely in my bed. Poor little soul! she looked about her for a minute, then the lost look went away, and she gave a great sigh, and took my hand in both her thin bits of ones, and said, 'O, ma'am, I feel as if I'd been born into a new world. Help me to begin again, and I 'll do better.' So I told her she was my child now, and might rest here, sure of a home as long as I had one.”
As Miss Mills spoke in her motherly tone, and cast a proud and happy look toward the warm and quiet nest in which she had sheltered this friendless little sparrow, feeling sure that God meant her to keep it from falling to the ground, Polly put both arms about her neck, and kissed her withered cheek with as much loving reverence as if she had been a splendid saint, for in the likeness of this plain old maid she saw the lovely charity that blesses and saves the world.
“How good you are! Dear Miss Mills, tell me what to do, let me help you, I'm ready for anything,” said Polly, very humbly, for her own troubles looked so small and foolish beside the stern hardships which had nearly had so tragical an end, that she felt heartily ashamed of herself, and quite burned to atone for them.
Miss, Mills stopped to stroke the fresh cheek opposite, to smile, and say, “Then, Polly, I think I'll ask you to go in and say a friendly word to my little girl. The sight of you will do her good; and you have just the right way of comforting people, without making a fuss.”
“Have I?” said Polly, looking much gratified by the words.
“Yes, dear, you've the gift of sympathy, and the rare art of showing it without offending. I would n't let many girls in to see my poor Jenny, because they'd only flutter and worry her; but you'll know what to do; so go, and take this wrapper with you; it's done now, thanks to your nimble fingers.”
Polly threw the warm garment over her arm, feeling a thrill of gratitude that it was to wrap a living girl in, and not to hide away a young heart that had grown cold too soon. Pushing open the door, she went quietly into the dimly lighted room, and on the pillow saw a face that drew her to it with an irresistible power, for it was touched by a solemn shadow that made its youth pathetic. As she paused at the bedside, thinking the girl asleep, a pair of hollow, dark eyes opened wide, and looked up at her; startled at first, then softening with pleasure, at sight of the bonny face before them, and then a humble, beseeching expression filled them, as if asking pardon for the rash act nearly committed, and pity for the hard fate that prompted it. Polly read the language of these eyes, and answered their mute prayer with a simple eloquence that said more than any words for she just stooped down and kissed the poor child, with her own eyes full, and lips that trembled with the sympathy she could not tell. Jenny put both arms about her neck, and began to shed the quiet tears that so refresh and comfort heavy hearts when a tender touch unseals the fountain where they lie.
“Everybody is so kind,” she sobbed, “and I was so wicked, I don't deserve it.”
“Oh, yes, you do; don't think of that, but rest and let us pet you. The old life was too hard for such a little thing as you, and we are going to try and make the new one ever so much easier and happier,” said Polly, forgetting everything except that this was a girl like herself, who needed heartening up.
“Do you live here?” asked Jenny, when her tears were wiped away, still clinging to the new-found friend.
“Yes, Miss Mills lets me have a little room up stairs, and there I have my cat and bird, my piano and my posy pots, and live like a queen. You must come up and see me to-morrow if you are able. I'm often lonely, for there are no young people in the house to play with me,” answered Polly, smiling hospitably.
“Do you sew?” asked Jenny.
“No, I'm a music teacher, and trot round giving lessons all day.”
“How beautiful it sounds, and how happy you must be, so strong and pretty, and able to go round making music all the time,” sighed Jenny, looking with respectful admiration at the plump, firm hand held in both her thin and feeble ones.
It did sound pleasant even to Polly's ears, and she felt suddenly so rich, and so contented, that she seemed a different creature from the silly girl who cried because she could n't go to the party. It passed through her mind like a flash, the contrast between her life, and that of the wan creature lying before her, and she felt as if she could not give enough out of her abundance to this needy little sister, who had nothing in the wide world but the life just saved to her. That minute did more for Polly than many sermons, or the wisest books, for it brought her face to face with bitter truths, showed her the dark side of life, and seemed to blow away her little vanities, her frivolous desires, like a wintry wind, that left a wholesome atmosphere behind. Sitting on the bedside, Polly listened while Jane told the story, which was so new to her listener, that every word sank deep into her heart, and never was forgotten.
“Now you must go to sleep. Don't cry nor think, nor do anything but rest. That will please Miss Mills best. I'll leave the doors open, and play you a lullaby that you can't resist. Good night, dear.” And with another kiss, Polly went away to sit in the darkness of her own room, playing her softest airs till the tired eyes below were shut, and little Jane seemed to float away on a sea of pleasant sounds, into the happier life which had just dawned for her.
Polly had fully intended to be very miserable, and cry herself to sleep; but when she lay down at last, her pillow seemed very soft, her little room very lovely, with the firelight flickering on all the home-like objects, and her new-blown roses breathing her a sweet good-night. She no longer felt an injured, hard-working, unhappy Polly, but as if quite burdened with blessings, for which she was n't half grateful enough. She had heard of poverty and suffering, in the vague, far-off way, which is all that many girls, safe in happy homes, ever know of it; but now she had seen it, in a shape which she could feel and understand, and life grew more earnest to her from that minute. So much to do in the great, busy world, and she had done so little. Where should she begin? Then, like an answer came little Jenny's words, now taking a'new significance' to Polly's mind, “To be strong, and beautiful, and go round making music all the time.” Yes, she could do that; and with a very earnest prayer, Polly asked for the strength of an upright soul, the beauty of a tender heart, the power to make her life a sweet and stirring song, helpful while it lasted, remembered when it died.
Little Jane's last thought had been to wish with all her might, that “God would bless the dear, kind girl up there, and give her all she asked.” I think both prayers, although too humble to be put in words, went up together, for in the fulness of time they were beautifully answered.
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{
"id": "2787"
}
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10
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BROTHERS AND SISTERS
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POLLY'S happiest day was Sunday, for Will never failed to spend it with her. Instead of sleeping later than usual that morning, she was always up bright and early, flying round to get ready for her guest, for Will came to breakfast, and they made a long day of it. Will considered his sister the best and prettiest girl going, and Polly, knowing well that a time would come when he would find a better and a prettier, was grateful for his good opinion, and tried to deserve it. So she made her room and herself as neat and inviting as possible, and always ran to meet him with a bright face and a motherly greeting, when he came tramping in, ruddy, brisk, and beaming, with the brown loaf and the little pot of beans from the bake-house near by.
They liked a good country breakfast, and nothing gave Polly more satisfaction than to see her big boy clear the dishes, empty the little coffee-pot, and then sit and laugh at her across the ravaged table. Another pleasure was to let him help clear away, as they used to do at home, while the peals of laughter that always accompanied this performance did Miss Mills' heart good to hear, for the room was so small and Will so big that he seemed to be everywhere at once, and Polly and Puttel were continually dodging his long arms and legs. Then they used to inspect the flower pots, pay Nick a visit, and have a little music as a good beginning for the day, after which they went to church and dined with Miss Mills, who considered Will “an excellent young man.” If the afternoon was fair, they took a long walk together over the bridges into the country, or about the city streets full of Sabbath quietude. Most people meeting them would have seen only an awkward young man, with a boy's face atop of his tall body, and a quietly dressed, fresh faced little woman hanging on his arm; but a few people, with eyes to read romances and pleasant histories everywhere, found something very attractive in this couple, and smiled as they passed, wondering if they were young, lovers, or country cousins “looking round.”
If the day was stormy, they stayed at home, reading, writing letters, talking over their affairs, and giving each other good advice; for, though Will was nearly three years younger than Polly, he could n't for the life of him help assuming amusingly venerable airs, when he became a Freshman. In the twilight he had a good lounge on the sofa, and Polly sung to him, which arrangement he particularly enjoyed, it was so “cosy and homey.” At nine o'clock, Polly packed his bag with clean clothes, nicely mended, such remnants of the festive tea as were transportable, and kissed him “good-night,” with many injunctions to muffle up his throat going over the bridge, and be sure that his feet were dry and warm when he went to bed. All of which Will laughed at, accepted graciously, and did n't obey; but he liked it, and trudged away for another week's work, rested, cheered, and strengthened by that quiet, happy day with Polly, for he had been brought up to believe in home influences, and this brother and sister loved one another dearly, and were not ashamed to own it.
One other person enjoyed the humble pleasures of these Sundays quite as much as Polly and Will. Maud used to beg to come to tea, and Polly, glad to do anything for those who had done a good deal for her, made a point of calling for the little girl as they came home from their walk, or sending Will to escort her in the carriage, which Maud always managed to secure if bad weather threatened to quench her hopes. Tom and Fanny laughed at her fancy, but she did not tire of it, for the child was lonely, and found something in that little room which the great house could not give her.
Maud was twelve now; a pale, plain child, with sharp, intelligent eyes, and a busy little mind, that did a good deal more thinking than anybody imagined. She was just at the unattractive, fidgety age when no one knew what to do with her, and so let her fumble her way up as she could, finding pleasure in odd things, and living much alone, for she did not go to school, because her shoulders were growing round, and Mrs. Shaw would not “allow her figure to be spoiled.” That suited Maud excellently; and whenever her father spoke of sending her again, or getting a governess, she was seized with bad headaches, a pain in her back, or weakness of the eyes, at which Mr. Shaw laughed, but let her holiday go on. Nobody seemed to care much for plain, pug-nosed little Maudie; her father was busy, her mother nervous and sick, Fanny absorbed in her own affairs, and Tom regarded her as most young men do their younger sisters, as a person born for his amusement and convenience, nothing more. Maud admired Tom with all her heart, and made a little slave of herself to him, feeling well repaid if he merely said, “Thank you, chicken,” or did n't pinch her nose, or nip her ear, as he had a way of doing, “just as if I was a doll, or a dog, and had n't got any feelings,” she sometimes said to Fanny, when some service or sacrifice had been accepted without gratitude or respect. It never occurred to Tom, when Maud sat watching him with her face full of wistfulness, that she wanted to be petted as much as ever he did in his neglected boyhood, or that when he called her “Pug” before people, her little feelings were as deeply wounded as his used to be, when the boys called him “Carrots.” He was fond of her in his fashion, but he did n't take the trouble to show it, so Maud worshipped him afar off, afraid to betray the affection that no rebuff could kill or cool.
One snowy Sunday afternoon Tom lay on the sofa in his favorite attitude, reading “Pendennis” for the fourth time, and smoking like a chimney as he did so. Maud stood at the window watching the falling flakes with an anxious countenance, and presently a great sigh broke from her.
“Don't do that again, chicken, or you'll blow me away. What's the matter?” asked Tom, throwing down his book with a yawn that threatened dislocation.
“I'm afraid I can't go to Polly's,” answered Maud, disconsolately.
“Of course you can't; it's snowing hard, and father won't be home with the carriage till this evening. What are you always cutting off to Polly's for?”
“I like it; we have such nice times, and Will is there, and we bake little johnny-cakes in the baker before the fire, and they sing, and it is so pleasant.”
“Warbling johnny-cakes must be interesting. Come and tell me all about it.”
“No, you'll only laugh at me.”
“I give you my word I won't, if I can help it; but I really am dying of curiosity to know what you do down there. You like to hear secrets, so tell me yours, and I'll be as dumb as an oyster.”
“It is n't a secret, and you would n't care for it. Do you want another pillow?” she added, as Tom gave his a thump.
“This will do; but why you women always stick tassels and fringe all over a sofa-cushion, to tease and tickle a fellow, is what I don't understand.”
“One thing that Polly does Sunday nights, is to take Will's head in her lap, and smooth his forehead. It rests him after studying so hard, she says. If you don't like the pillow, I could do that for you, 'cause you look as if you were more tired of studying than Will,” said Maud, with some hesitation, but an evident desire to be useful and agreeable.
“Well, I don't care if you do try it, for I am confoundedly tired.” And Tom laughed, as he recalled the frolic he had been on the night before.
Maud established herself with great satisfaction, and Tom owned that a silk apron was nicer than a fuzzy cushion.
“Do you like it?” she asked, after a few strokes over the hot forehead, which she thought was fevered by intense application to Greek and Latin.
“Not bad; play away,” was the gracious reply, as Tom shut his eyes, and lay so still that Maud was charmed at the success of her attempt. Presently, she said, softly, “Tom, are you asleep?”
“Just turning the corner.”
“Before you get quite round would you please tell me what a Public Admonition is?”
“What do you want to know for?” demanded Tom, opening his eyes very wide.
“I heard Will talking about Publics and Privates, and I meant to ask him, but I forgot.”
“What did he say?”
“I don't remember; it was about somebody who cut prayers, and got a Private, and had done all sorts of bad things, and had one or two Publics. I did n't hear the name and did n't care; I only wanted to know what the words meant.”
“So Will tells tales, does he?” and Tom's forehead wrinkled with a frown.
“No, he did n't; Polly knew about it and asked him.”
“Will's a'dig,'” growled Tom, shutting his eyes again, as if nothing more could be said of the delinquent William.
“I don't care if he is; I like him very much, and so does Polly.”
“Happy Fresh!” said Tom, with a comical groan.
“You need n't sniff at him, for he is nice, and treats me with respect,” cried Maud, with an energy that made Tom laugh in her face.
“He's good to Polly always, and puts on her cloak for her, and says'my dear,' and kisses her'good-night,' and don't think it's silly, and I wish I had a brother just like him, yes, I do!” And Maud showed signs of woe, for her disappointment about going was very great.
“Bless my boots! what's the chicken ruffling up her little feathers and pecking at me for? Is that the way Polly soothes the best of brothers?” said Tom, still laughing.
“Oh, I forgot! there, I won't cry; but I do want to go,” and Maud swallowed her tears, and began to stroke again.
Now Tom's horse and sleigh were in the stable, for he meant to drive out to College that evening, but he did n't take Maud's hint. It was less trouble to lie still, and say in a conciliatory tone, “Tell me some more about this good boy, it's very interesting.”
“No, I shan't, but I'll tell about Puttel's playing on the piano,” said Maud, anxious to efface the memory of her momentary weakness. “Polly points to the right key with a little stick, and Puttel sits on the stool and pats each key as it's touched, and it makes a tune. It's so funny to see her, and Nick perches on the rack and sings as if he'd kill himself.”
“Very thrilling,” said Tom, in a sleepy tone.
Maud felt that her conversation was not as interesting as she hoped, and tried again.
“Polly thinks you are handsomer than Mr. Sydney.”
“Much obliged.”
“I asked which she thought had the nicest face, and she said yours was the handsomest, and his the best.”
“Does he ever go there?” asked a sharp voice behind them; and looking round Maud saw Fanny in the big chair, cooking her feet over the register.
“I never saw him there; he sent up some books one day, and Will teased her about it.”
“What did she do?” demanded Fanny. “Oh, she shook him.”
“What a spectacle!” and Tom looked as if he would have enjoyed seeing it, but Fanny's face grew so forbidding, that Tom's little dog, who was approaching to welcome her, put his tail between his legs and fled under the table.
“Then there is n't any 'Sparking Sunday night'?” sung Tom, who appeared to have waked up again.
“Of course not. Polly is n't going to marry anybody; she's going to keep house for Will when he's a minister, I heard her say so,” cried Maud, with importance.
“What a fate for pretty Polly!” ejaculated Tom.
“She likes it, and I'm sure I should think she would; it's beautiful to hear'em plan it all out.”
“Any more gossip to retail, Pug?” asked Tom a minute after, as Maud seemed absorbed in visions of the future.
“He told a funny story about blowing up one of the professors. You never told us, so I suppose you did n't know it. Some bad fellow put a torpedo, or some sort of powder thing, under the chair, and it went off in the midst of the lesson, and the poor man flew up, frightened most to pieces, and the boys ran with pails of water to put the fire out. But the thing that made Will laugh most was, that the very fellow who did it got his trousers burnt trying to put out the fire, and he asked the is it Faculty or President?”
“Either will do,” murmured Tom, who was shaking with suppressed laughter.
“Well, he asked'em to give him some new ones, and they did give him money enough, for a nice pair; but he got some cheap ones, with horrid great stripes on'em, and always wore'em to that particular class, 'which was one too many for the fellows,' Will said, and with the rest of the money he had a punch party. Was n't it dreadful?”
“Awful!” And Tom exploded into a great laugh, that made Fanny cover her ears, and the little dog bark wildly.
“Did you know that bad boy?” asked innocent Maud.
“Slightly,” gasped Tom, in whose wardrobe at college those identical trousers were hanging at that moment.
“Don't make such a noise, my head aches dreadfully,” said Fanny, fretfully.
“Girls' heads always do ache,” answered Tom, subsiding from a roar into a chuckle.
“What pleasure you boys can find in such ungentlemanly things, I don't see,” said Fanny, who was evidently out of sorts.
“As much a mystery to you as it is to us, how you girls can like to gabble and prink from one week's end to the other,” retorted Tom.
There was a pause after this little passage-at-arms, but Fan wanted to be amused, for time hung heavily on her hands, so she asked, in a more amiable tone, “How's Trix?”
“As sweet as ever,” answered Tom, gruffly.
“Did she scold you, as usual?”
“She just did.”
“What was the matter?”
“Well, I'll leave it to you if this is n't unreasonable: she won't dance with me herself, yet don't like me to go it with anybody else. I said, I thought, if a fellow took a girl to a party, she ought to dance with him once, at least, especially if they were engaged. She said that was the very reason why she should n't do it; so, at the last hop, I let her alone, and had a gay time with Belle, and to-day Trix gave it to me hot and heavy, coming home from church.”
“If you go and engage yourself to a girl like that, I don't know what you can expect. Did she wear her Paris hat to-day?” added Fan, with sudden interest in her voice.
“She wore some sort of a blue thing, with a confounded bird of Paradise in it, that kept whisking into my face every time she turned her head.”
“Men never know a pretty thing when they see it. That hat is perfectly lovely.”
“They know a lady when they see her, and Trix don't look like one; I can't say where the trouble is, but there's too much fuss and feathers for my taste. You are twice as stylish, yet you never look loud or fast.”
Touched by this unusual compliment, Fanny drew her chair nearer as she replied with complacency, “Yes, I flatter myself I do know how to dress well. Trix never did; she's fond of gay colors, and generally looks like a walking rainbow.”
“Can't you give her a hint? Tell her not to wear blue gloves anyway, she knows I hate'em.”
“I've done my best for your sake, Tom, but she is a perverse creature, and don't mind a word I say, even about things much more objectionable than blue gloves.”
“Maudie, run and bring me my other cigar case, it's lying round somewhere.”
Maud went; and as soon as the door was shut, Tom rose on his elbow, saying in a cautiously lowered voice, “Fan, does Trix paint?”
“Yes, and draws too,” answered Fanny, with a sly laugh.
“Come, you know what I mean; I've a right to ask and you ought to tell,” said Tom, soberly, for he was beginning to find that being engaged was not unmitigated bliss.
“What makes you think she does?”
“Well, between ourselves,” said Tom, looking a little sheepish, but anxious to set his mind at rest, “she never will let me kiss her on her cheek, nothing but an unsatisfactory peck at her lips. Then the other day, as I took a bit of heliotrope out of a vase to put in my button-hole, I whisked a drop of water into her face; I was going to wipe it off, but she pushed my hand away, and ran to the glass, where she carefully dabbed it dry, and came back with one cheek redder than the other. I did n't say anything, but I had my suspicions. Come now, does she?”
“Yes, she does; but don't say a word to her, for she'll never forgive my telling if she knew it.”
“I don't care for that; I don't like it, and I won't have it,” said Tom, decidedly.
“You can't help yourself. Half the girls do it, either paint or powder, darken their lashes with burnt hair-pins, or take cologne on lumps of sugar or belladonna to make their eyes bright. Clara tried arsenic for her complexion, but her mother stopped it,” said Fanny, betraying the secrets of the prison-house in the basest manner.
“I knew you girls were a set of humbugs, and very pretty ones, too, some of you, but I can't say I like to see you painted up like a lot of actresses,” said Tom, with an air of disgust.
“I don't do anything of the sort, or need it, but Trix does; and having chosen her, you must abide your choice, for better or worse.”
“It has n't come to that yet,” muttered Tom, as he lay down again with a rebellious air.
Maud's return put an end to these confidences, though Tom excited her curiosity by asking the mysterious question, “I say, Fan, is Polly up to that sort of thing?”
“No, she thinks it's awful. When she gets pale and dragged out she will probably change her mind.”
“I doubt it,” said Tom.
“Polly says it is n't proper to talk secrets before people who ain't in 'em,” observed Maud, with dignity.
“Do, for mercy sake, stop talking about Polly, I'm sick to death of it,” cried Fanny, snappishly.
“Hullo!” and Tom sat up to take a survey. “I thought you were bosom friends, and as spoony as ever.”
“Well, I am fond of Polly, but I get tired of hearing Maud sing her praises everlastingly. Now don't go and repeat that, chatterbox.”
“My goodness, is n't she cross?” whispered Maud to Tom.
“As two sticks; let her be. There's the bell; see who it is, Pug,” answered Tom, as a tingle broke the silence of the house.
Maud went to peep over the banisters, and came flying back in a rapture.
“It's Will come for me! Can't I go? It don't snow hard, and I'll bundle up, and you can send for me when papa comes.”
“I don't care what you do,” answered Fan, who was in a very bad temper.
Without waiting for any other permission, Maud rushed away to get ready. Will would n't come up, he was so snowy, and Fanny was glad, because with her he was bashful, awkward, and silent, so Tom went down and entertained him with Maud's report. They were very good friends, but led entirely different lives, Will being a “dig,” and Tom a “bird,” or, in plain English, one was a hard student, and the other a jolly young gentleman. Tom had rather patronized Will, who did n't like it, and showed that he did n't by refusing to borrow money of him, or accept any of his invitations to join the clubs and societies to which Tom belonged. So Shaw let Milton alone, and he got on very well in his own way, doggedly sticking to his books, and resisting all temptations but those of certain libraries, athletic games, and such inexpensive pleasures as were within his means; for this benighted youth had not yet discovered that college nowadays is a place in which to “sky-lark,” not to study.
When Maud came down and trotted contentedly away, holding Will's hand, Tom watched them out of sight, and then strolled about the house whistling and thinking, till he went to sleep in his father's arm-chair, for want of something better to do. He awoke to the joys of a solitary tea, for his mother never came down, and Fanny shut herself and her headache up in her own room.
“Well, this is cheerful,” he said, as the clock struck eight, and his fourth cigar came to an end. “Trix is mad, and Fan in the dumps, so I 'll take myself off. Guess I'll go round to Polly's, and ask Will to drive out with me, and save him the walk, poor chap. Might bring Midget home, it will please her, and there's no knowing when the governor will be back.”
With these thoughts in his head, Tom leisurely got under way, and left his horse at a neighboring stable, for he meant to make a little call, and see what it was Maud enjoyed so much.
“Polly is holding forth,” he said to himself, as he went quietly up stairs, and the steady murmur of a pleasant voice came down to him. Tom laughed at Polly's earnest way of talking when she was interested in anything. But he liked it because it was so different from the coquettish clatter of most of the girls with whom he talked. Young men often laugh at the sensible girls whom they secretly respect, and affect to admire the silly ones whom they secretly despise, because earnestness, intelligence, and womanly dignity are not the fashion.
The door was ajar, and pausing in the dark entry Tom took a survey before he went in. The prospect was not dazzling, but home-like and pleasant. The light of a bright fire filled the little room, and down on a stool before it was Maud tending Puttel, and watching with deep interest the roasting of an apple intended for her special benefit. On the couch lounged Will, his thoughtful eyes fixed on Polly, who, while she talked, smoothed the broad forehead of her “yellow-haired laddie” in a way that Tom thought an immense improvement on Maud's performance. They had evidently been building castles in the air, for Polly was saying in her most impressive manner, “Well, whatever you do, Will, don't have a great, costly church that takes so much money to build and support it that you have nothing to give away. I like the plain, old-fashioned churches, built for use, not show, where people met for hearty praying and preaching, and where everybody made their own music instead of listening to opera singers, as we do now. I don't care if the old churches were bare and cold, and the seats hard, there was real piety in them, and the sincerity of it was felt in the lives of the people. I don't want a religion that I put away with my Sunday clothes, and don't take out till the day comes round again; I want something to see and feel and live by day-by-day, and I hope you'll be one of the true ministers, who can teach by precept and example, how to get and keep it.”
“I hope I shall be, Polly, but you know they say that in families, if there is a boy who can't do anything else, they make a minister of him. I sometimes think I ain't good for much, and that seems to me the reason why I should n't even try to be a minister,” said Will, smiling, yet looking as if with all his humility he did have faith in the aspirations that came to him in his best moments.
“Some one said that very thing to father once, and I remember he answered, 'I am glad to give my best and brightest son to the service of God.'”
“Did he say that?” and Will's color rose, for the big, book-loving fellow was as sensitive as a girl to the praise of those dearest to him.
“Yes,” said Polly, unconsciously giving the strongest stimulus to her brother's hope and courage. “Yes, and he added, 'I shall let my boys follow the guide that is in them, and only ask of them to use their gifts conscientiously, and be honest, useful men.'”
“So we will! Ned is doing well out West, and I'm hard at it here. If father does his best to give us the chance we each want, the least we can do is to work with a will.”
“Whatever you do, you can't help working with a Will,” cried Tom, who had been so interested, that he forgot he was playing eavesdropper.
Polly flew up, looking so pleased and surprised, that Tom reproached himself for not having called oftener.
“I've come for Maud,” he announced, in a paternal tone, which made that young lady open her eyes.
“I can't go till my apple is done; besides, it is n't nine yet, and Will is going to take me along, when he goes. I'd rather have him.”
“I'm going to take you both in the cutter. The storm is over, but it is heavy walking, so you'll drive out with me, old man?” said Tom, with a nod at Will.
“Of course he will; and thank you very much. I've been trying to keep him all night; Miss Mills always manages to find a corner for stray people, but he insists on going, so as to get to work early to-morrow,” said Polly, delighted to see that Tom was taking off his coat, as if he meant to wait for Maud's apple, which Polly blessed for being so slow to cook.
Putting her guest into the best chair, Polly sat down and beamed at him with such hospitable satisfaction, that Tom went up several pegs in his own estimation.
“You don't come very often, so we are rather over-powered when you do honor us,” she said, demurely.
“Well, you, know we fellows are so busy, we have n't much time to enjoy ourselves,” answered Tom.
“Ahem!” said Will, loudly.
“Take a troche,” said Tom.
Then they both burst out laughing, and Polly, fully understanding the joke, joined them, saying, “Here are some peanuts, Tom; do enjoy yourself while you can.”
“Now I call that a delicate compliment!” And Tom, who had not lost his early relish for this sort of refreshment, though he seldom indulged his passion nowadays, because peanuts are considered vulgar, fell to cracking and munching with great satisfaction.
“Do you remember the first visit I made at your house, how you gave me peanuts, coming from the depot, and frightened me out of my wits, pretending the coachman was tipsy?” asked Polly.
“Of course I do, and how we coasted one day,” answered Tom, laughing.
“Yes, and the velocipede; you've got the scar of that yet, I see.”
“I remember how you stood by me while it was sewed up; that was very plucky, Polly.”
“I was dreadfully afraid, but I remember I wanted to seem very brave, because you'd called me a coward.”
“Did I? Ought to have been ashamed of myself. I used to rough you shamefully, Polly, and you were so good-natured, you let me do it.”
“Could n't help myself,” laughed Polly. “I did use to think you were an awful boy, but seems to me I rather liked it.”
“She had so much of it at home, she got used to it,” put in Will, pulling the little curl behind Polly's ear.
“You boys never teased me as Tom did, that's the reason it amused me, I suppose; novelty hath charms, you know.”
“Grandma used to lecture Tom for plaguing you, Polly, and he used to say he'd be a tip-top boy, but he was n't,” observed Maud, with a venerable air.
“Dear old grandma; she did her best, but I'm a bad lot,” said Tom, with a shake of the head and a sober face.
“It always seems as if she must be up in her rooms, and I can't get used to finding them empty,” added Polly, softly.
“Father would n't have anything moved, and Tom sits up there sometimes; it makes him feel good, he says,” said Maud, who had a talent for betraying trifles which people preferred should not be mentioned in public.
“You'd better hurry up your apple, for if it is n't done pretty soon, you'll have to leave it, Pug,” said Tom, looking annoyed.
“How is Fan?” asked Polly, with tact.
“Well, Fan is rather under the weather; says she's dyspeptic, which means cross.”
“She is cross, but she's sick too, for I found her crying one day, and she said nobody cared about her, and she might as well be dead,” added Maud, having turned her apple with tender care.
“We must try to cheer her up, among us. If I was n't so busy I'd like to devote myself to her, she has done so much for me,” said Polly, gratefully.
“I wish you could. I can't understand her, for she acts like a weathercock, and I never know how I'm going to find her. I hate to have her mope so, but, upon my life, I don't know what to do,” said Tom; but as he uttered the words, something was suggested by the sight before him. Chairs were few, and Polly had taken half of Will's when they drew round the fire. Now she was leaning against him, in a cosy, confiding way, delightful to behold, while Will's strong arm went round her with a protecting air, which said, as plainly as any words, that this big brother and small sister knew how to love and help one another. It was a pleasant little picture, all the pleasanter for its unconsciousness, and Tom found it both suggestive and agreeable.
“Poor old Fan, she don't get much petting; maybe that's what she wants. I'll try it and see, for she stands by me like a trump. If she was a rosy, cosy little woman, like Polly, it would come easier, though,” thought Tom, as he meditatively ate his last nut, feeling that fraternal affection could not be very difficult of demonstration, to brothers blessed with pretty, good-tempered sisters.
“I told Tom about the bad fellow who blew up the professor, and he said he knew him, slightly; and I was so relieved, because I had a kind of a feeling that it was Tom himself, you and Will laughed so about it.”
Maud had a queer way of going on with her own thoughts, and suddenly coming out with whatever lay uppermost, regardless of time, place, or company. As this remark fell from her, there was a general smile, and Polly said, with mock solemnity, “It was a sad thing, and I've no doubt that misguided young man is very sorry for it now.”
“He looked perfectly bowed down with remorse last time I saw him,” said Will, regarding Tom with eyes full of fun, for Will was a boy as well as a bookworm, and relished a joke as well as scatter-brained Tom.
“He always is remorseful after a scrape, I've understood, for he is n't a very bad fellow, only his spirits are one too many for him, and he is n't as fond of his book as another fellow I know.”
“I'm afraid he'll he expelled if he don't mind,” said Polly, warningly.
“Should n't wonder if he was, he's such an unlucky dog,” answered Tom, rather soberly.
“I hope he'll remember that his friends will be very much disappointed if he is. He might make them so proud and happy; that I guess he will, for he is n't half as thoughtless as he makes himself out,” said Polly, looking across at Tom with such friendly eyes that he was quite touched, though of course he did n't show it.
“Thank you, Polly; he may pull through, but I have my doubts. Now old man, let us'pud' along; it's getting late for the chicken,” he added, relapsing into the graceful diction with which a classical education gifts its fortunate possessor.
Taking advantage of the moment while Will was wrestling with his boots in the closet, and Maud was absorbed in packing her apple into a large basket, Polly said to Tom in a low tone, “Thank you very much, for being so kind to Will.”
“Bless your heart, I have n't done anything; he's such a proud fellow he won't let me,” answered Tom.
“But you do in many little ways; to-night, for example. Do you think I don't know that the suit of clothes he's just got would have cost a good deal more, if your tailor had n't made them? He's only a boy, and don't understand things yet; but I know your way of helping proud people; so that they don't find it out, and I do thank you, Tom, so much.”
“Oh, come, Polly, that won't do. What do you know about tailors and college matters?” said Tom, looking as much confused as if she had found him out in something reprehensible.
“I don't know much, and that's the reason why I'm grateful for your kindness to Will. I don't care what stories they tell about you, I'm sure, you won't lead him into trouble, but keep him straight, for my sake. You know I've lost one brother, and Will takes Jimmy's place to me now.”
The tears in Polly's eyes as she said that made Tom vow a tremendous vow within himself to stand by Will through thick and thin, and “keep him straight for Polly's sake”; feeling all the time how ill-fitted he was for such a task.
“I'll do my best,” he said, heartily, as he pressed the hand Polly gave him, with a look which assured her that he felt the appeal to his honor, and that henceforth the country lad was safe from all the temptations Tom could have offered him.
“There! now I shall give that to mamma to take her pills in; it's just what she likes, and it pleases her to be thought of,” said Maud, surveying her gift with complacency, as she put on her things.
“You're a good little soul, to remember poor mum, said Tom, with an approving nod.
“Well, she was so pleased with the grapes you brought her, I thought I 'd try something, and maybe she'd say 'Thank you, darling,' to me too. Do you think she will?” whispered Maud, with the wistful look so often seen on her little plain face.
“See if she don't;” and to Maud's great surprise Tom did n't laugh at her project.
“Good night, dear; take care of yourself, and keep your muffler round your mouth going over the bridge, or you'll be as hoarse as a crow to-morrow,” said Polly, as she kissed her brother, who returned it without looking as if he thought it “girl's nonsense” Then the three piled into the sleigh and drove off, leave Polly nodding on the doorstep.
Maud found the drive altogether too short, but was consoled by the promise of a longer one if the sleighing lasted till next Saturday: and when Tom ran up to bid his mother good-by, and give her a hint about Maud's gift, she stayed below to say, at the last minute, in unconscious imitation of Polly.
“Good night; take care of yourself, my dear.”
Tom laughed, and was about to pinch the much enduring little nose; but, as if the words reminded him of something, he gave her a kiss instead, a piece of forbearance which almost took Maud's breath away with surprise and gratification.
It was rather a silent drive, for Will obediently kept his muffler up, and Tom fell into a brown study.
He was not much given to reflection, but occasionally indulged when something gave him a turn in that direction, and at such times he was as sober and sincere as could be desired. Any one might have lectured him for an hour without doing as much good as that little call and the chat that grew out of it, for, though nothing very wise or witty was said, many things were suggested, and every one knows that persuasive influences are better than any amount of moralizing. Neither Polly nor Will tried to do anything of the sort, and that was the charm of it. Nobody likes to be talked to, but nobody can resist the eloquence of unconscious preaching. With all his thoughtlessness, Tom was quick to see and feel these things, and was not spoilt enough yet to laugh at them. The sight of Will and Polly's simple affection for one another reminded him of a neglected duty so pleasantly, that he could not forget it. Talking of early days made him wish he could go back and start again, doing better. Grandma's name recalled the tender memory that always did him good, and the thought that Polly trusted her dearest brother to his care stirred up a manful desire to deserve the confidence. Tortures would n't have drawn a word of all this from him, but it had its effect, for boys don't leave their hearts and consciences behind them when they enter college, and little things of this sort do much to keep both from being damaged by the four years' scrimmage which begins the battle of life for most of them.
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{
"id": "2787"
}
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11
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NEEDLES AND TONGUES
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DEAR POLLY, The Sewing Circle meets at our house this P. M. This is in your line, so do come and help me through. I shall depend on you.
Yours ever, FAN.
“Bad news, my dear?” asked Miss Mills, who had just handed the note to Polly as she came in one noon, a few weeks after Jenny's arrival.
Polly told her what it was, adding, “I suppose I ought to go and help Fanny, but I can't say I want to. The girls talk about things I have nothing to do with, and I don't find their gossip very amusing. I'm an outsider, and they only accept me on Fan's account; so I sit in a corner and sew, while they chatter and laugh.”
“Would n't it be a good chance to say a word for Jenny? She wants work, and these young ladies probably have quantities done somewhere. Jenny does fine work exquisitely, and begins to feel anxious to be earning something. I don't want her to feel dependent and unhappy, and a little well-paid sewing would be all she needs to do nicely. I can get it for her by running round to my friends, but I really have n't the time, till I get the Mullers off. They are paupers here, but out West they can take care of themselves, so I've begged the money to send them, and as soon as I can get them some clothes, off they go. That's the way to help people help themselves,” and Miss Mills clashed her big scissors energetically, as she cut out a little red flannel shirt.
“I know it is, and I want to help, but I don't know where to begin,” said Polly, feeling quite oppressed with the immensity of the work.
“We can't any of us do all we would like, but we can do our best for every case that comes to us, and that helps amazingly. Begin with Jenny, my dear; tell those girls about her, and if I'm not much mistaken, you will find them ready to help, for half the time it is n't hardness of heart, but ignorance or thoughtlessness on the part of the rich, that makes them seem so careless of the poor.”
“To tell the truth, I'm afraid of being laughed at, if I try to talk seriously about such things to the girls,” said Polly, frankly.
“You believe that'such things' are true? You are sincere in your wish to help better them, and you respect those who work for that end?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Then, my dear, can't you bear a little ridicule for the sake of a good cause? You said yesterday that you were going to make it a principle of your life, to help up your sex as far and as fast as you could. It did my heart good to hear you say it, for I was sure that in time you would keep your word. But, Polly, a principle that can't bear being laughed at, frowned on, and cold-shouldered, is n't worthy of the name.”
“I want to be strong-minded in the real sense of the word, but I don't like to be called so by people who don't understand my meaning; and I shall be if I try to make the girls think soberly about anything sensible or philanthropic. They call me old-fashioned now, and I'd rather be thought that, though it is n't pleasant, than be set down as a rampant woman's rights reformer,” said Polly, in whose memory many laughs, and snubs, and sarcasms still lingered, forgiven but not forgotten.
“This love and thought and care for those weaker, poorer, or worse than ourselves, which we call Christian charity, is a very old fashion, my dear. It began eighteen hundred years ago, and only those who honestly follow the beautiful example set us then, learn how to get genuine happiness out of life. I'm not a'rampant woman's rights reformer,'” added Miss Mills, with a smile at Polly's sober face; “but I think that women can do a great deal for each other, if they will only stop fearing what'people will think,' and take a hearty interest in whatever is going to fit their sisters and themselves to deserve and enjoy the rights God gave them. There are so many ways in which this can be done, that I wonder they don't see and improve them. I don't ask you to go and make speeches, only a few have the gift for that, but I do want every girl and woman to feel this duty, and make any little sacrifice of time or feeling that may be asked of them, because there is so much to do, and no one can do it as well as ourselves, if we only think so.”
“I'll try!” said Polly, influenced more by her desire to keep Miss Mills' good opinion than any love of self-sacrifice for her sex. It was rather a hard thing to ask of a shy, sensitive girl, and the kind old lady knew it, for in spite of the gray hair and withered face, her heart was very young, and her own girlish trials not forgotten. But she knew also that Polly had more influence over others than she herself suspected, simply because of her candid, upright nature; and that while she tried to help others, she was serving herself in a way that would improve heart and soul more than any mere social success she might gain by following the rules of fashionable life, which drill the character out of girls till they are as much alike as pins in a paper, and have about as much true sense and sentiment in their little heads. There was good stuff in Polly, unspoiled as yet, and Miss Mills was only acting out her principle of women helping each other. The wise old lady saw that Polly had reached that point where the girl suddenly blooms into a woman, asking something more substantial than pleasure to satisfy the new aspirations that are born; a time as precious and important to the after-life, as the hour when the apple blossoms fall, and the young fruit waits for the elements to ripen or destroy the harvest.
Polly did not know this, and was fortunate in possessing a friend who knew what influences would serve her best, and who could give her what all women should desire to give each other, the example of a sweet, good life, more eloquent and powerful than any words; for this is a right no one can deny us.
Polly turned the matter over in her mind as she dressed, while Jenny played waiting maid, little dreaming what this new friend was meaning to do for her, if she dared.
“Is it going to be a tea-party, Miss?” asked Jenny, as the black silk went rustling on, to her great admiration, for she considered Polly a beauty.
“Well, no, I think it will probably be a lecture,” answered Polly, laughing, for Jenny's grateful service and affectionate eyes confirmed the purpose which Miss Mills' little homily had suggested.
As she entered the Shaws' parlor an hour or two later, an appalling array of well-dressed girls appeared, each provided with a dainty reticule, basket, or bag, and each tongue going a good deal faster than the needle, while the white fingers stitched sleeves in upside down, put flannel jackets together hind part before, or gobbled button-holes with the best intentions in life.
“You are a dear to come so early. Here's a nice place for you between Belle and Miss Perkins, and here's a sweet little dress to make, unless you like something else better,” said Fanny, receiving her friend with warmth and placing her where she thought she would enjoy herself.
“Thank you, I'll take an unbleached cotton shirt if you have such a thing, for it is likely to be needed before a cambric frock,” replied Polly, subsiding into her corner as quickly as possible, for at least six eye-glasses were up, and she did n't enjoy being stared at.
Miss Perkins, a grave, cold-looking young lady, with an aristocratic nose, bowed politely, and then went on with her work, which displayed two diamond rings to great advantage. Belle, being of the demonstrative sort, smiled and nodded, drew up her chair, and began a whispered account of Trix's last quarrel with Tom. Polly listened with interest while she sewed diligently, occasionally permitting her eyes to study the elegant intricacies of Miss Perkins' dress, for that young lady sat like a statue, quirking her delicate fingers, and accomplishing about two stitches a minute.
In the midst of Belle's story, a more exciting bit of gossip caught her ear, and she plunged into the conversation going on across the table, leaving Polly free to listen and admire the wit, wisdom, and charitable spirit of the accomplished young ladies about her. There was a perfect Babel of tongues, but out of the confusion Polly gathered scraps of fashionable intelligence which somewhat lessened her respect for the dwellers in high places. One fair creature asserted that Joe Somebody took so much champagne at the last German, that he had to be got away, and sent home with two servants. Another divulged the awful fact that Carrie P.'s wedding presents were half of them hired for the occasion. A third circulated a whisper to the effect that though Mrs. Buckminster wore a thousand-dollar cloak, her boys were not allowed but one sheet to their beds. And a fourth young gossip assured the company that a certain person never had offered himself to a certain other person, though the report was industriously spread by interested parties. This latter remark caused such a clamor that Fanny called the meeting to order in a most unparliamentary fashion.
“Girls! girls! you really must talk less and sew more, or our society will be disgraced. Do you know our branch sent in less work than any of the others last month, and Mrs. Fitz George said, she did n't see how fifteen young ladies could manage to do so little?”
“We don't talk a bit more than the old ladies do. I just wish you could have heard them go on, last time. The way they get so much done, is, they take work home, and make their seamstresses do it, and then they take credit for vast industry,” said Belle, who always spoke her mind with charming candor.
“That reminds me that mamma says they want as many things as we can make, for it's a hard winter, and the poor are suffering very much. Do any of you wish to take articles home, to do at odd times?” said Fan, who was president of this energetic Dorcas Society.
“Mercy, no! It takes all my leisure time to mend my gloves and refresh my dresses,” answered Belle.
“I think if we meet once a week, it is all that should be expected of us, with our other engagements. Poor people always complain that the winter is a hard one, and never are satisfied,” remarked Miss Perkins, making her diamonds sparkle as she sewed buttons on the wrong side of a pink calico apron, which would hardly survive one washing.
“Nobody can ask me to do any more, if they remember all I've got to attend to before summer,” said Trix, with an important air. “I've got three women hard at work, and want another, but everyone is so busy, and ask such abominable prices, that I'm in despair, and shall have to take hold myself, I'm afraid.”
“There's a chance for Jane,” thought Polly, but had n't courage “to speak out loud in meeting,” just then, and resolved to ask Trix for work, in private.
“Prices are high, but you forget how much more it costs to live now than it used to do. Mamma never allows us to beat down workwomen, but wishes us to pay them well, and economize in some other way, if we must,” said Emma Davenport, a quiet, bright-eyed girl, who was called “odd” among the young ladies, because she dressed simply, when her father was a millionaire.
“Just hear that girl talk about economy! I beg your pardon, she's some relation of yours, I believe!” said Belle, in a low tone.
“Very distant; but I'm proud of it; for with her, economy does n't mean scrimping in one place to make a show in another. If every one would follow the Davenports' example, workwomen would n't starve, or servants be such a trouble. Emma is the plainest dressed girl in the room, next to me, yet any one can see she is a true gentlewoman,” said Polly, warmly.
“And you are another,” answered Belle, who had always loved Polly, in her scatter-brained way.
“Hush! Trix has the floor.”
“If they spent their wages properly, I should n't mind so much, but they think they must be as fine as anybody, and dress so well that it is hard to tell mistress from maid. Why our cook got a bonnet just like mine (the materials were cheaper, but the effect was the same), and had the impertinence to wear it before my face. I forbid it, and she left, of course, which made papa so cross he would n't give me the camel's hair shawl he promised this year.”
“It's perfectly shameful!” said Miss Perkins, as Trix paused out of breath. “Servants ought to be made to dress like servants, as they do abroad; then we should have no more trouble,” observed Miss Perkins, who had just made the grand tour, and had brought home a French maid.
“Perky don't practise as she preaches,” whispered Belle to Polly, as Miss P. became absorbed in the chat of her other neighbors. “She pays her chamber girl with old finery; and the other day, when Betsey was out parading in her missis's cast-off purple plush suit, Mr. Curtis thought she was mademoiselle, and bowed to her. He is as blind as a bat, but recognized the dress, and pulled off his hat to it in the most elegant style. Perky adores him, and was mad enough to beat Betsey when she told the story and giggled over it. Betsey is quite as stylish and ever so much prettier than Perky, and she knows it, which is an aggravation.”
Polly could n't help laughing, but grew sober a minute after, as Trix said, pettishly, “Well, I'm sick of hearing about beggars; I believe half of them are humbugs, and if we let them alone they'd go to work and take care of themselves. There's altogether too much fuss made about charity. I do wish we could be left in peace.”
“There can't be too much charity!” burst out Polly, forgetting her shyness all at once.
“Oh, indeed! Well, I take the liberty to differ from you,” returned Trix, putting up her glass, and bestowing upon Polly her most “toploftical stare,” as the girls called it.
I regret to say that Polly never could talk with or be near Trix without feeling irritated and combative. She tried to conquer this feeling, but she could n't, and when Trix put on airs, Polly felt an intense desire to box her ears. That eye-glass was her especial aversion, for Trix was no more near-sighted than herself, but pretended to be because it was the fashion, and at times used the innocent glass as a weapon with which to put down any one who presumed to set themselves up. The supercilious glance which accompanied her ironically polite speech roused Polly, who answered with sudden color and the kindling of the eyes that always betrayed a perturbed spirit, “I don't think many of us would enjoy that selfish sort of peace, while little children starve, and girls no older than us kill themselves because their dreadful poverty leaves them no choice but sin or death.”
A sudden lull took place, for, though Polly, did not raise her voice, it was full of indignant emotion, and the most frivolous girl there felt a little thrill of sympathy; for the most utterly fashionable life does not kill the heart out of women, till years of selfish pleasure have passed over their heads. Trix was ashamed of herself; but she felt the same antagonism toward Polly, that Polly did toward her; and, being less generous, took satisfaction in plaguing her. Polly did not know that the secret of this was the fact that Tom often held her up as a model for his fiance to follow, which caused that young lady to dislike her more than ever.
“Half the awful stories in the papers are made up for a sensation, and it's absurd to believe them, unless one likes to be harrowed up. I don't; and as for peace, I'm not likely to get much, while I have Tom to look after,” said Trix, with an aggravating laugh.
Polly's needle snapped in two, but she did not mind it, as she said, with a look that silenced even sharp-tongued Trix, “I can't help believing what my own eyes and ears have seen and heard. You lead such safe and happy lives, you can't imagine the misery that is all round you; but if you could get a glimpse of it, it would make your hearts ache, as it has mine.”
“Do you suffer from heartache? Some one hinted as much to me, but you looked so well, I could n't believe it.”
Now that was cruel in Trix, more cruel than any one guessed; but girls' tongues can deal wounds as sharp and sudden as the slender stiletto Spanish women wear in their hair, and Polly turned pale, as those words stabbed her. Belle saw it, and rushed to the rescue with more good-will than wisdom.
“Nobody ever accused you of having any heart to ache with. Polly and I are not old enough yet to get tough and cool, and we are still silly enough to pity unhappy people, Tom Shaw especially,” added Belle, under her breath.
That was a two-edged thrust, for Trix was decidedly an old girl, and Tom was generally regarded as a hapless victim. Trix turned red; but before she could load and fire again, Emma Davenport, who labored under the delusion that this sort of skirmishing was ill-natured, and therefore ill-bred, spoke up in her pleasant way, “Speaking of pitying the poor, I always wonder why it is that we all like to read and cry over their troubles in books, but when we have the real thing before us, we think it is uninteresting and disagreeable.”
“It's the genius that gets into the books, which makes us like the poverty, I fancy. But I don't quite agree that the real thing is n't interesting. I think it would be, if we knew how to look at and feel it,” said Polly, very quietly, as she pushed her chair out of the arctic circle of Miss Perkins, into the temperate one of friendly Emma.
“But how shall we learn that? I don't see what we girls can do, more than we do now. We have n't much money for such things, should n't know how to use it if we had; and it is n't proper for us to go poking into dirty places, to hunt up the needy. 'Going about doing good, in pony phaetons,' as somebody says, may succeed in England, but it won't work here,” said Fanny, who had begun, lately, to think a good deal of some one beside herself, and so found her interest in her fellow-beings increasing daily.
“We can't do much, perhaps, just yet; but still there are things left undone that naturally fall to us. I know a house,” said Polly, sewing busily as she talked, “where every servant who enters it becomes an object of interest to the mistress and her daughters. These women are taught good habits, books are put where they can get them, sensible amusements are planned for them sometimes, and they soon feel that they are not considered mere scrubs, to do as much work as possible, for as little money as possible, but helpers in the family, who are loved and respected in proportion to their faithfulness. This lady feels her duty to them, owns it, and does it, as conscientiously as she wants them to do theirs by her; and that is the way it ought to be, I think.”
As Polly paused, several keen eyes discovered that Emma's cheeks were very red, and saw a smile lurking in the corners of the mouth that tried to look demure, which told them who Polly meant.
“Do the Biddies all turn out saints in that well regulated family?” asked the irrepressible Trix.
“No; few of us do that, even in the parlor; but every one of the Biddies is better for being there, whether they are grateful or not. I ought not to have mentioned this, perhaps, but I wanted to show you one thing that we girls can do. We all complain about bad servants, most as much as if we were house-keepers ourselves; but it never occurs to us to try and mend the matter, by getting up a better spirit between mistress and maid. Then there's another thing we can do,” added Polly, warming up. “Most of us find money enough for our little vanities and pleasures, but feel dreadfully poor when we come to pay for work, sewing especially. Could n't we give up a few of the vanities, and pay the seamstresses better?”
“I declare I will!” cried Belle, whose conscience suddenly woke, and smote her for beating down the woman who did her plain sewing, in order that she might have an extra flounce on a new dress. “Belle has got a virtuous fit; pity it won't last a week,” said Trix.
“Wait and see,” retorted Belle, resolving that it should last, just to disappoint “that spiteful minx;” as she sweetly called her old school-mate.
“Now we shall behold Belle galloping away at a great pace, on her new hobby. I should n't be surprised to hear of her preaching in the jail, adopting a nice dirty little orphan, or passing round tracts at a Woman's Rights meeting,” said Trix, who never could forgive Belle for having a lovely complexion, and so much hair of her own that she never patronized either rats, mice, waterfalls, switches, or puff-combs.
“Well, I might do worse; and I think, of the two, I'd rather amuse myself so, than as some young ladies do, who get into the papers for their pranks,” returned Belle, with a moral air.
“Suppose we have a little recess, and rest while Polly plays to us. Will you, Polly? It will do us good; they all want to hear you, and begged I 'd ask.”
“Then I will, with pleasure”; and Polly went to the piano with such obliging readiness, that several reproachful glances fell upon Trix, who did n't need her glass to see them.
Polly was never too sad, perturbed, or lazy to sing, for it was almost as easy to her as breathing, and seemed the most natural outlet for her emotions. For a minute her hands wandered over the keys, as if uncertain what to play; then, falling into a sad, sweet strain, she sang “The Bridge of Sighs.” Polly did n't know why she chose it, but the instinct seemed to have been a true one, for, old as the song was, it went straight to the hearts of the hearers, and Polly sung it better than she ever had before, for now the memory of little Jane lent it a tender pathos which no art could give. It did them all good, for music is a beautiful magician, and few can resist its power. The girls were touched by the appeal; Polly was lifted out of herself, and when she turned round, the softened look on all the faces told her that for the moment foolish differences and frivolous beliefs were forgotten in the one womanly sentiment of pity for the wrongs and woes of which the listeners' happy lives were ignorant.
“That song always makes me cry, and feel as if I had no right to be so comfortable,” said Belle, openly wiping her eyes on a crash towel.
“Fortunately such cases are very rare,” said another young lady, who seldom read the newspapers.
“I wish they were, but I'm afraid they are not; for only three weeks ago, I saw a girl younger than any of us, and no worse, who tried to destroy herself simply because she was so discouraged, sick, and poor,” said Polly.
“Do tell about her,” cried Belle, eagerly.
Feeling that the song had paved the way for the story, and given her courage to tell it, Polly did tell it, and must have done it well, for the girls stopped work to listen, and when she ended, other eyes beside warm-hearted Belle's were wet. Trix looked quite subdued; Miss Perkins thawed to such a degree, that something glittered on her hand as she bent over the pink pinafore again, better and brighter than her biggest diamond; Emma got up and went to Polly with a face full of affectionate respect, while Fanny, moved by a sudden impulse, caught up a costly Sevres plate that stood on the etagere, and laying a five-dollar bill in it, passed it round, quoting Polly's words, “Girls, I know you'll like to help poor little Jenny'begin again, and do better this time.'”
It was good to see how quickly the pretty purses were out, how generously each gave of its abundance, and what hearty applause broke from the girls, as Belle laid down her gold thimble, saying with an April face, “There, take that; I never have any money, somehow it won't stay with me, but I can't let the plate pass me this time.”
When Fanny brought the contributions to Polly, she just gathered it up in her two hands with such a glad, grateful face, the girls wished they had had more to give.
“I can't thank you enough,” she said, with an eloquent little choke in her voice. “This will help Jenny very much; but the way in which it was done will do her more good than double the money, because it will prove to her that she is n't without friends, and make her feel that there is a place in the world for her. Let her work for you in return for this; she don't ask alms, she only wants employment and a little kindness, and the best charity we can bestow is to see that she has both.”
“I'll give her as much sewing as she wants, and she can stay at our house while she does it, if she needs a home,” said Trix, in a spasm of benevolence.
“She does n't need a home, thank you; Miss Mills has given half of hers, and considers Jane her child,” answered Polly, with proud satisfaction in the fact.
“What an old dear!” cried Belle.
“I want to know her. May I?” whispered Emma.
“Oh, yes; I'm glad to make her known to any one. She is a quiet little old lady, but she does one heaps of good, and shows you how to be charitable in the wisest way.”
“Do tell us about it. I'm sure I want to do my duty, but it's such a muddle, I don't know how,” said Belle.
Then, quite naturally, the conversation fell upon the great work that none should be too busy to think of, and which few are too young or too poor to help on with their mite. The faces grew more earnest, the fingers flew faster, as the quick young hearts and brains took in the new facts, ideas, and plans that grew out of the true stories, the sensible hints, the successful efforts which Polly told them, fresh from the lips of Miss Mills; for, of late, Polly had talked much with the good lady, and learned quickly the lessons her unselfish life conveyed. The girls found this more interesting than gossip, partly owing to its novelty, doubtless; but the enthusiasm was sincere while it lasted, and did them good. Many of them forgot all about it in a week, but Polly's effort was not lost, for Emma, Belle, and Fanny remained firm friends to Jane, so kindly helping her that the poor child felt as if she had indeed been born again, into a new and happy world.
Not till long afterward did Polly see how much good this little effort had done her, for the first small sacrifice of this sort leads the way to others, and a single hand's turn given heartily to the world's great work helps one amazingly with one's own small tasks. Polly found this out as her life slowly grew easier and brighter, and the beautiful law of compensation gave her better purposes and pleasures than any she had lost. The parents of some of her pupils were persons of real refinement, and such are always quick to perceive the marks of culture in others, no matter where they find them. These, attracted first by Polly's cheerful face, modest manners, and faithful work, soon found in her something more than a good teacher; they found a real talent for music, an eager desire for helpful opportunities, and a heart grateful for the kindly sympathy that makes rough places smooth. Fortunately those who have the skill to detect these traits also possess the spirit to appreciate and often the power to serve and develop them. In ways so delicate that the most sensitive pride could not resent the favor, these true gentlefolk showed Polly their respect and regard, put many pleasures in her way, and when they paid her for her work, gave her also the hearty thanks that takes away all sense of degradation even from the humblest service, for money so earned and paid sweetens the daily bread it buys, and makes the mutual obligation a mutual benefit and pleasure.
A few such patrons did much for Polly, and the music she gave them had an undertone of gratitude that left blithe echoes in those great houses, which money could not buy.
Then, as her butterfly acquaintances deserted her, she found her way into a hive of friendly bees, who welcomed her, and showed her how to find the honey that keeps life sweet and wholesome. Through Miss Mills, who was the counsellor and comforter of several, Polly came to know a little sisterhood of busy, happy, independent girls, who each had a purpose to execute, a talent to develop, an ambition to achieve, and brought to the work patience and perseverance, hope and courage. Here Polly found her place at once, for in this little world love and liberty prevailed; talent, energy, and character took the first rank; money, fashion, and position were literally nowhere; for here, as in the big world outside, genius seemed to blossom best when poverty was head gardener. Young teachers, doing much work for little pay; young artists, trying to pencil, paint, or carve their way to Rome; young writers, burning to distinguish themselves; young singers, dreaming of triumphs, great as those of Jenny Lind; and some who tried to conquer independence, armed only with a needle, like poor Jane. All these helped Polly as unconsciously as she helped them, for purpose and principle are the best teachers we can have, and the want of them makes half the women of America what they are, restless, aimless, frivolous, and sick.
To outsiders that was a very hard-working and uneventful winter to Polly. She thought so herself; but as spring came on, the seed of new virtues, planted in the winter time, and ripened by the sunshine of endeavor, began to bud in Polly's nature, betraying their presence to others by the added strength and sweetness of her character, long before she herself discovered these May flowers that had blossomed for her underneath the snow.
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{
"id": "2787"
}
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12
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FORBIDDEN FRUIT
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“I'M perfectly aching for some fun,” said Polly to herself as she opened her window one morning and the sunshine and frosty air set her blood dancing and her eyes sparkling with youth, health, and overflowing spirits. “I really must break out somewhere and have a good time. It's quite impossible to keep steady any longer. Now what will I do?” Polly sprinkled crumbs to the doves, who came daily to be fed, and while she watched the gleaming necks and rosy feet, she racked her brain to devise some unusually delightful way of enjoying herself, for she really had bottled up her spirits so long, they were in a state of uncontrollable effervescence.
“I'll go to the opera,” she suddenly announced to the doves. “It's expensive, I know, but it's remarkably good, and music is such a treat to me. Yes, I'll get two tickets as cheap as I can, send a note to Will, poor lad, he needs fun as much as I do, and we'll go and have a nice time in some corner, as Charles Lamb and his sister used to.”
With that Polly slammed down the window, to the dismay of her gentle little pensioners, and began to fly about with great energy, singing and talking to herself as if it was impossible to keep quiet. She started early to her first lesson that she might have time to buy the tickets, hoping, as she put a five-dollar bill into her purse, that they would n't be very high, for she felt that she was not in a mood to resist temptation. But she was spared any struggle, for when she reached the place, the ticket office was blocked up by eager purchasers and the disappointed faces that turned away told Polly there was no hope for her.
“Well, I don't care, I'll go somewhere, for I will have my fun,” she said with great determination, for disappointment only seemed to whet her appetite. But the playbills showed her nothing inviting and she was forced to go away to her work with the money burning her pocket and all manner of wild schemes floating in her head. At noon, instead of going home to dinner, she went and took an ice, trying to feet very gay and festive all by herself. It was rather a failure, however, and after a tour of the picture shops she went to give Maud a lesson, feeling that it was very hard to quench her longings, and subside into a prim little music teacher.
Fortunately she did not have to do violence to her feelings very long, for the first thing Fanny said to her was: “Can you go?”
“Where?”
“Did n't you get my note?”
“I did n't go home to dinner.”
“Tom wants us to go to the opera to-night and” Fan got no further, for Polly uttered a cry of rapture and clasped her hands.
“Go? Of course I will. I've been dying to go all day, tried to get tickets this morning and could n't, been fuming about it ever since, and now oh, how splendid!” And Polly could not restrain an ecstatic skip, for this burst of joy rather upset her.
“Well, you come to tea, and we'll dress together, and go all comfortable with Tom, who is in a heavenly frame of mind to-day.”
“I must run home and get my things,” said Polly, resolving on the spot to buy the nicest pair of gloves the city afforded.
“You shall have my white cloak and any other little rigging you want. Tommy likes to have his ladies a credit to him, you know,” said Fanny, departing to take a beauty sleep.
Polly instantly decided that she would n't borrow Becky's best bonnet, as she at first intended, but get a new one, for in her present excited state, no extravagance seemed too prodigal in honor of this grand occasion. I am afraid that Maud's lesson was not as thorough as it should have been, for Polly's head was such a chaos of bonnets, gloves, opera-cloaks and fans, that Maud blundered through, murdering time and tune at her own sweet will. The instant it was over Polly rushed away and bought not only the kids but a bonnet frame, a bit of illusion, and a pink crape rose, which had tempted her for weeks in a certain shop window, then home and to work with all the skill and speed of a distracted milliner.
“I'm rushing madly into expense, I'm afraid, but the fit is on me and I'll eat bread and water for a week to make up for it. I must look nice, for Tom seldom takes me and ought to be gratified when he does. I want to do like other girls, just for once, and enjoy myself without thinking about right and wrong. Now a bit of pink ribbon to tie it with, and I shall be done in time to do up my best collar,” she said, turning her boxes topsy-turvy for the necessary ribbon in that delightful flurry which young ladies feel on such occasions.
It is my private opinion that the little shifts and struggles we poor girls have to undergo beforehand give a peculiar relish to our fun when we get it. This fact will account for the rapturous mood in which Polly found herself when, after making her bonnet, washing and ironing her best set, blacking her boots and mending her fan, she at last, like Consuelo, “put on a little dress of black silk” and, with the smaller adornments pinned up in a paper, started for the Shaws', finding it difficult to walk decorously when her heart was dancing in her bosom.
Maud happened to be playing a redowa up in the parlor, and Polly came prancing into the room so evidently spoiling for a dance that Tom, who was there, found it impossible to resist catching her about the waist, and putting her through the most intricate evolutions till Maud's fingers gave out.
“That was splendid! Oh, Tom, thank you so much for asking me to-night. I feel just like having a regular good time,” cried Polly, when she stopped, with her hat hanging round her neck and her hair looking as if she had been out in a high wind.
“Glad of it. I felt so myself and thought we'd have a jolly little party all in the family,” said Tom, looking much gratified at her delight.
“Is Trix sick?” asked Polly.
“Gone to New York for a week.”
“Ah, when the cat's away the mice will play.”
“Exactly. Come and have another turn.”
Before they could start, however, the awful spectacle of a little dog trotting out of the room with a paper parcel in his mouth, made Polly clasp her hands with the despairing cry: “My bonnet! Oh, my bonnet!”
“Where? what? which?” And Tom looked about him, bewildered.
“Snip's got it. Save it! save it!”
“I will!” And Tom gave chase with more vigor than discretion.
Snip, evidently regarding it as a game got up for his special benefit, enjoyed the race immensely and scampered all over the house, shaking the precious parcel like a rat while his master ran and whistled, commanded and coaxed, in vain. Polly followed, consumed with anxiety, and Maud laughed till Mrs. Shaw sent down to know who was in hysterics. A piteous yelp from the lower regions at last announced that the thief was captured, and Tom appeared bearing Snip by the nape of the neck in one hand and Polly's cherished bonnet in the other.
“The little scamp was just going to worry it when I grabbed him. I'm afraid he has eaten one of your gloves. I can't find it, and this one is pretty well chewed up,” said Tom, bereaving Snip of the torn kid, to which he still pertinaciously clung.
“Serves me right,” said Polly with a groan. “I'd no business to get a new pair, but I wanted to be extra gorgeous to-night, and this is my punishment for such mad extravagance.”
“Was there anything else?” asked Tom.
“Only my best cuffs and collar. You'll probably find them in the coal-bin,” said Polly, with the calmness of despair.
“I saw some little white things on the dining-room floor as I raced through. Go get them, Maud, and we'll repair damages,” said Tom, shutting the culprit into the boot closet, where he placidly rolled himself up and went to sleep.
“They ain't hurt a bit,” proclaimed Maud, restoring the lost treasures.
“Neither is my bonnet, for which I'm deeply grateful,” said Polly, who had been examining it with a solicitude which made Tom's eyes twinkle.
“So am I, for it strikes me that is an uncommonly'nobby' little affair,” he said approvingly. Tom had a weakness for pale pink roses, and perhaps Polly knew it.
“I'm afraid it's too gay,” said Polly, with a dubious look.
“Not a bit. Sort of bridal, you know. Must be becoming. Put it on and let's see.”
“I would n't for the world, with my hair all tumbling down. Don't look at me till I'm respectable, and don't tell any one how I've been acting. I think I must be a little crazy to-night,” said Polly, gathering up her rescued finery and preparing to go and find Fan.
“Lunacy is mighty becoming, Polly. Try it again,” answered Tom, watching her as she went laughing away, looking all the prettier for her dishevelment. “Dress that girl up, and she'd be a raving, tearing beauty,” added Tom to Maud in a lower tone as he look her into the parlor under his arm.
Polly heard it and instantly resolved to be as “raving and as tearing” as her means would allow, “just for one night,” she said as she peeped over the banisters, glad to see that the dance and the race had taken the “band-boxy” air out of Tom's elegant array.
I deeply regret being obliged to shock the eyes and ears of such of my readers as have a prejudice in favor of pure English by expressions like the above, but, having rashly undertaken to write a little story about Young America, for Young America, I feel bound to depict my honored patrons as faithfully as my limited powers permit. Otherwise, I must expect the crushing criticism, “Well, I dare say it's all very prim and proper, but it is n't a bit like us,” and never hope to arrive at the distinction of finding the covers of “An Old-Fashioned Girl” the dirtiest in the library.
The friends had a social “cup o' tea” upstairs, which Polly considered the height of luxury, and then each took a mirror and proceeded to prink to her heart's content. The earnestness with which Polly made her toilet that night was delightful to behold. Feeling in a daring mood, she released her pretty hair from the braids in which she usually wore it and permitted the curls to display themselves in all their brown abundance, especially several dangerous little ones about the temples and forehead. The putting on of the rescued collar and cuffs was a task which absorbed her whole mind. So was the settling of a minute bit of court-plaster just to the left of the dimple in her chin, an unusual piece of coquetry in which Polly would not have indulged, if an almost invisible scratch had not given her an excuse for doing it. The white, down-trimmed cloak, with certain imposing ornaments on the hood, was assumed with becoming gravity and draped with much advancing and retreating before the glass, as its wearer practised the true Boston gait, elbows back, shoulders forward, a bend and a slide, occasionally varied by a slight skip. But when that bonnet went on, Polly actually held her breath till it was safely landed and the pink rose bloomed above the smooth waves of hair with what Fanny called “a ravishing effect.” At this successful stage of affairs Polly found it impossible to resist the loan of a pair of gold bands for the wrists and Fanny's white fan with the little mirror in the middle.
“I can put them in my pocket if I feel too much dressed,” said Polly as she snapped on the bracelets, but after a wave or two of the fan she felt that it would be impossible to take them off till the evening was over, so enticing was their glitter.
Fanny also lent her a pair of three-button gloves, which completed her content, and when Tom greeted her with an approving, “Here's a sight for gods and men! Why, Polly, you're gorgeous!” she felt that her “fun” had decidedly begun.
“Would n't Polly make a lovely bride?” said Maud, who was revolving about the two girls, trying to decide whether she would have a blue or a white cloak when she grew up and went to operas.
“Faith, and she would! Allow me to congratulate you, Mrs. Sydney,” added Tom, advancing with his wedding-reception bow and a wicked look at Fanny.
“Go away! How dare you?” cried Polly, growing much redder than her rose.
“If we are going to the opera to-night, perhaps we'd better start, as the carriage has been waiting some time,” observed Fan coolly, and sailed out of the room in an unusually lofty manner.
“Don't you like it, Polly?” whispered Tom, as they went down stairs together.
“Very much.”
“The deuce you do!”
“I'm so fond of music, how can I help it?
“I'm talking about Syd.”
“Well, I'm not.”
“You'd better try for him.”
“I'll think of it.”
“Oh, Polly, Polly, what are you coming to?”
“A tumble into the street, apparently,” answered Polly as she slipped a little on the step, and Tom stopped in the middle of his laugh to pilot her safely into the carriage, where Fanny was already seated.
“Here's richness!” said Polly to herself as she rolled away, feeling as Cinderella probably did when the pumpkin-coach bore her to the first ball, only Polly had two princes to think about, and poor Cinderella, on that occasion, had not even one. Fanny did n't seem inclined to talk much, and Tom would go on in such a ridiculous manner that Polly told him she would n't listen and began to hum bits of the opera. But she heard every word, nevertheless, and resolved to pay him for his impertinence as soon as possible by showing him what he had lost.
Their seats were in the balcony, and hardly were they settled, when, by one of those remarkable coincidences which are continually occurring in our youth, Mr. Sydney and Fanny's old friend Frank Moore took their places just behind them.
“Oh, you villain! You did it on purpose,” whispered Polly as she turned from greeting their neighbors and saw a droll look on Tom's face.
“I give you my word I did n't. It's the law of attraction, don't you see?”
“If Fan likes it, I don't care.”
“She looks resigned, I think.”
She certainly did, for she was talking and laughing in the gayest manner with Frank while Sydney was covertly surveying Polly as if he did n't quite understand how the gray grub got so suddenly transformed into a white butterfly. It is a well-known fact that dress plays a very important part in the lives of most women and even the most sensible cannot help owning sometimes how much happiness they owe to a becoming gown, gracefully arranged hair, or a bonnet which brings out the best points in their faces and puts them in a good humor. A great man was once heard to say that what first attracted him to his well-beloved wife was seeing her in a white muslin dress with a blue shawl on the chair behind her. The dress caught his eye, and, stopping to admire that, the wearer's intelligent conversation interested his mind, and in time, the woman's sweetness won his heart. It is not the finest dress which does the most execution, I fancy, but that which best interprets individual taste and character. Wise people understand this, and everybody is more influenced by it than they know, perhaps. Polly was not very wise, but she felt that every one about her found something more attractive than usual in her and modestly attributed Tom's devotion, Sydney's interest, and Frank's undisguised admiration, to the new bonnet or, more likely, to that delightful combination of cashmere, silk, and swan's-down, which, like Charity's mantle, seemed to cover a multitude of sins in other people's eyes and exalt the little music teacher to the rank of a young lady.
Polly scoffed at this sort of thing sometimes, but to-night she accepted it without a murmur rather enjoyed it in fact, let her bracelets shine before the eyes of all men, and felt that it was good to seem comely in their sight. She forgot one thing, however: that her own happy spirits gave the crowning charm to a picture which every one liked to see a blithe young girl enjoying herself with all her heart. The music and the light, costume and company, excited Polly and made many things possible which at most times she would never have thought of saying or doing. She did not mean to flirt, but somehow “it flirted itself” and she could n't help it, for, once started, it was hard to stop, with Tom goading her on, and Sydney looking at her with that new interest in his eyes. Polly's flirting was such a very mild imitation of the fashionable thing that Trix & Co. would not have recognized it, but it did very well for a beginner, and Polly understood that night wherein the fascination of it lay, for she felt as if she had found a new gift all of a sudden, and was learning how to use it, knowing that it was dangerous, yet finding its chief charm in that very fact.
Tom did n't know what to make of her at first, though he thought the change uncommonly becoming and finally decided that Polly had taken his advice and was “setting her cap for Syd,” as he gracefully expressed it. Sydney, being a modest man, thought nothing of the kind, but simply fancied that little Polly was growing up to be a very charming woman. He had known her since her first visit and had always liked the child; this winter he had been interested in the success of her plans and had done what he could to help them, but he never thought of failing in love with Polly till that night. Then he began to feel that he had not fully appreciated his young friend; that she was such a bright and lovable girl, it was a pity she should not always be gay and pretty, and enjoy herself; that she would make a capital wife for somebody, and perhaps it was about time to think of “settling,” as his sister often said. These thoughts came and went as he watched the white figure in front, felt the enchantment of the music, and found everybody unusually blithe and beautiful. He had heard the opera many times, but it had never seemed so fine before, perhaps because he had never happened to have had an ingenuous young face so near him in which the varying emotions born of the music, and the romance it portrayed, came and went so eloquently that it was impossible to help reading them. Polly did not know that this was why he leaned down so often to speak to her, with an expression which she did not understand but liked very much nevertheless.
“Don't shut your eyes, Polly. They are so full of mischief to-night, I like to see them,” said Tom, after idly wondering for a minute if she knew how long and curly her lashes were.
“I don't wish to look affected, but the music tells the story so much better than the acting that I don't care to look on half the time,” answered Polly, hoping Tom would n't see the tears she had so cleverly suppressed.
“Now I like the acting best. The music is all very fine, I know, but it does seem so absurd for people to go round telling tremendous secrets at the top of their voices. I can't get used to it.”
“That's because you've more common-sense than romance. I don't mind the absurdity, and quite long to go and comfort that poor girl with the broken heart,” said Polly with a sigh as the curtain fell on a most affecting tableau.
“What's-his-name is a great jack not to see that she adores him. In real life we fellows ain't such bats as all that,” observed Tom, who had decided opinions on many subjects that he knew very little about, and expressed them with great candor.
A curious smile passed over Polly's face and she put up her glass to hide her eyes, as she said: “I think you are bats sometimes, but women are taught to wear masks, and that accounts for it, I suppose.”
“I don't agree. There's precious little masking nowadays; wish there was a little more sometimes,” added Tom, thinking of several blooming damsels whose beseeching eyes had begged him not to leave them to wither on the parent stem.
“I hope not, but I guess there's a good deal more than any one would suspect.”
“What can you know about broken hearts and blighted beings?” asked Sydney, smiling at the girl's pensive tone.
Polly glanced up at him and her face dimpled and shone again, as she answered, laughing: “Not much; my time is to come.”
“I can't imagine you walking about the world with your back hair down, bewailing a hard-hearted lover,” said Tom.
“Neither can I. That would n't be my way.”
“No; Miss Polly would let concealment prey on her damask cheeks and still smile on in the novel fashion, or turn sister of charity and nurse the heartless lover through small-pox, or some other contagious disease, and die seraphically, leaving him to the agonies of remorse and tardy love.”
Polly gave Sydney an indignant look as he said that in a slow satirical way that nettled her very much, for she hated to be thought sentimental.
“That's not my way either,” she said decidedly. “I'd try to outlive it, and if I could n't, I'd try to be the better for it. Disappointment need n't make a woman a fool.”
“Nor an old maid, if she's pretty and good. Remember that, and don't visit the sins of one blockhead on all the rest of mankind,” said Tom, laughing at her earnestness.
“I don't think there is the slightest possibility of Miss Polly's being either,” added Sydney with a look which made it evident that concealment had not seriously damaged Polly's damask cheek as yet.
“There's Clara Bird. I have n't seen her but once since she was married. How pretty she looks!” and Polly retired behind the big glass again, thinking the chat was becoming rather personal.
“Now, there's a girl who tried a different cure for unrequited affection from any you mention. People say she was fond of Belle's brother. He did n't reciprocate but went off to India to spoil his constitution, so Clara married a man twenty years older than she is and consoles herself by being the best-dressed woman in the city.”
“That accounts for it,” said Polly, when Tom's long whisper ended.
“For what?”
“The tired look in her eyes.”
“I don't see it,” said Tom, after a survey through the glass.
“Did n't expect you would.”
“I see what you mean. A good many women have it nowadays,” said Sydney over Polly's shoulder.
“What's she tired of? The old gentleman?” asked Tom.
“And herself,” added Polly.
“You've been reading French novels, I know you have. That's just the way the heroines go on,” cried Tom.
“I have n't read one, but it's evident you have, young man, and you'd better stop.”
“I don't care for'em; only do it to keep up my French. But how came you to be so wise, ma'am?”
“Observation, sir. I like to watch faces, and I seldom see a grown-up one that looks perfectly happy.”
“True for you, Polly; no more you do, now I think of it. I don't know but one that always looks so, and there it is.”
“Where?” asked Polly, with interest.
“Look straight before you and you'll see it.”
Polly did look, but all she saw was her own face in the little mirror of the fan which Tom held up and peeped over with a laugh in his eyes.
“Do I look happy? I'm glad of that,” And Polly surveyed herself with care.
Both young men thought it was girlish vanity and smiled at its naive display, but Polly was looking for something deeper than beauty and was glad not to find it.
“Rather a pleasant little prospect, hey, Polly?”
“My bonnet is straight, and that's all I care about. Did you ever see a picture of Beau Brummel?” asked Polly quickly.
“No.”
“Well, there he is, modernized.” And turning the fan, she showed him himself.
“Any more portraits in your gallery?” asked Sydney, as if he liked to share all the nonsense going.
“One more.”
“What do you call it?”
“The portrait of a gentleman.” And the little glass reflected a gratified face for the space of two seconds.
“Thank you. I'm glad I don't disgrace my name,” said Sydney, looking down into the merry blue eyes that thanked him silently for many of the small kindnesses that women never can forget.
“Very good, Polly, you are getting on fast,” whispered Tom, patting his yellow kids approvingly.
“Be quiet! Dear me, how warm it is!” And Polly gave him a frown that delighted his soul.
“Come out and have an ice, we shall have time.”
“Fan is so absorbed, I could n't think of disturbing her,” said Polly, fancying that her friend was enjoying the evening as much as she was a great mistake, by the way, for Fan was acting for effect, and though she longed to turn and join them, would n't do it, unless a certain person showed signs of missing her. He did n't, and Fanny chatted on, raging inwardly over her disappointment, and wondering how Polly could be so gay and selfish.
It was delicious to see the little airs Polly put on, for she felt as if she were somebody else, and acting a part. She leaned back, as if quite oppressed by the heat, permitted Sydney to fan her, and paid him for the service by giving him a flower from her bouquet, proceedings which amused Tom immensely, even while it piqued him a little to be treated like an old friend who did n't count.
“Go in and win, Polly; I'll give you my blessing,” he whispered, as the curtain rose again.
“It's only part of the fun, so don't you laugh, you disrespectful boy,” she whispered back in a tone never used toward Sydney.
Tom did n't quite like the different way in which she treated them, and the word “boy” disturbed his dignity, for he was almost twenty-one and Polly ought to treat him with more respect. Sydney at the same moment was wishing he was in Tom's place young, comely, and such a familiar friend that Polly would scold and lecture him in the delightful way she did Tom; while Polly forgot them both when the music began and left them ample time to look at her and think about themselves.
While they waited to get out when all was over Polly heard Fan whisper to Tom: “What do you think Trix will say to this?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, the way you've been going on to-night.”
“Don't know, and don't care; it's only Polly.”
“That's the very thing. She can't bear P.” “Well, I can; and I don't see why I should n't enjoy myself as well as Trix.”
“You'll get to enjoying yourself too much if you are n't careful. Polly 's waked up.”
“I'm glad of it, and so's Syd.”
“I only spoke for your good.”
“Don't trouble yourself about me; I get lecturing enough in another quarter and can't stand any more. Come, Polly.”
She took the arm he offered her, but her heart was sore and angry, for that phrase, “It's only Polly,” hurt her sadly. “As if I was n't anybody, had n't any feelings, and was only made to amuse or work for people! Fan and Tom are both mistaken and I'll show them that Polly is awake,” she thought, indignantly. “Why should n't I enjoy myself as well as the rest? Besides, it's only Tom,” she added with a bitter smile as she thought of Trix.
“Are you tired, Polly?” asked Tom, bending down to look into her face.
“Yes, of being nobody.”
“Ah, but you ain't nobody, you're Polly, and you could n't better that if you tried ever so hard,” said Tom, warmly, for he really was fond of Polly, and felt uncommonly so just then.
“I'm glad you think so, anyway. It's so pleasant to be liked.” And she looked up with her face quite bright again.
“I always did like you, don't you know, ever since that first visit.”
“But you teased me shamefully, for all that.”
“So I did, but I don't now.”
Polly did not answer, and Tom asked, with more anxiety than the occasion required: “Do I, Polly?”
“Not in the same way, Tom,” she answered in a tone that did n't sound quite natural.
“Well, I never will again.”
“Yes, you will, you can't help it.” And Polly's eye glanced at Sydney, who was in front with Fan.
Tom laughed, and drew Polly closer as the crowd pressed, saying, with mock tenderness: “Did n't she like to be chaffed about her sweethearts? Well, she shan't be if I can help it. Poor dear, did she get her little bonnet knocked into a cocked hat and her little temper riled at the same time?”
Polly could n't help laughing, and, in spite of the crush, enjoyed the slow journey from seat to carriage, for Tom took such excellent care of her, she was rather sorry when it was over.
They had a merry little supper after they got home, and Polly gave them a burlesque opera that convulsed her hearers, for her spirits rose again and she was determined to get the last drop of fun before she went back to her humdrum life again.
“I've had a regularly splendid time, and thank you ever so much,” she said when the “good-nights” were being exchanged.
“So have I. Let's go and do it again to-morrow,” said Tom, holding the hand from which he had helped to pull a refractory glove.
“Not for a long while, please. Too much pleasure would soon spoil me,” answered Polly, shaking her head.
“I don't believe it. Good-night, 'sweet Mistress Milton,' as Syd called you. Sleep like an angel, and don't dream of I forgot, no teasing allowed.” And Tom took himself off with a theatrical farewell.
“Now it's all over and done with,” thought Polly as she fell asleep after a long vigil. But it was not, and Polly's fun cost more than the price of gloves and bonnet, for, having nibbled at forbidden fruit, she had to pay the penalty. She only meant to have a good time, and there was no harm in that, but unfortunately she yielded to the various small temptations that beset pretty young girls and did more mischief to others than to herself. Fanny's friendship grew cooler after that night. Tom kept wishing Trix was half as satisfactory as Polly, and Mr. Sydney began to build castles that had no foundation.
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{
"id": "2787"
}
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13
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THE SUNNY SIDE
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“I'VE won the wager, Tom.”
“Did n't know there was one.”
“Don't you remember you said Polly would be tired of her teaching and give it up in three months, and I said she would n't?”
“Well, is n't she?”
“Not a bit of it. I thought she was at one time, and expected every day to have her come in with a long face, and say she could n't stand it. But somehow, lately, she is always bright and happy, seems to like her work, and don't have the tired, worried look she used to at first. The three months are out, so pay up, Tommy.”
“All right, what will you have?”
“You may make it gloves. I always need them, and papa looks sober when I want money.”
There was a minute's pause as Fan returned to her practising, and Tom relapsed into the reverie he was enjoying seated astride of a chair, with his chin on his folded arms.
“Seems to me Polly don't come here as often as she used to,” he said, presently.
“No, she seems to be very busy; got some new friends, I believe, old ladies, sewing-girls, and things of that sort. I miss her, but know she 'll get tired of being goody, and will come back to me before long.”
“Don't be too sure of that, ma'am.” Something in Tom's tone made Fan turn round, and ask, “What do you mean?”
“Well, it strikes me that Sydney is one of Polly's new friends. Have n't you observed that she is uncommonly jolly, and don't that sort of thing account for it?”
“Nonsense!” said Fanny, sharply.
“Hope it is,” coolly returned Tom.
“What put it into your head?” demanded Fanny, twirling round again so that her face was hidden.
“Oh, well, I keep meeting Syd and Polly circulating in the same directions; she looks as if she had found something uncommonly nice, and he looks as if all creation was getting Pollyfied pretty rapidly. Wonder you have n't observed it.”
“I have.”
It was Tom's turn to look surprised now, for Fanny's voice sounded strange to him. He looked at her steadily for a minute, but saw only a rosy ear and a bent head. A cloud passed over his face, and he leaned his chin on his arm again with a despondent whistle, as he said to himself, “Poor Fan! Both of us in a scrape at once.”
“Don't you think it would be a good thing?” asked Fanny, after playing a bar or two, very badly.
“Yes, for Syd.”
“Not for Polly? Why, he's rich, and clever, and better than most of you good-for-nothing fellows. What can the girl expect?”
“Can't say, but I don't fancy the match myself.”
“Don't be a dog in the manger, Tom. Bless your little heart, I only take a brotherly sort of interest in Polly. She's a capital girl, and she ought to marry a missionary, or one of your reformer fellows, and be a shining light of some sort. I don't think setting up for a fine lady would suit her.”
“I think it would, and I hope she'll have the chance,” said Fanny, evidently making an effort to speak kindly.
“Good for you, Fan!” and Tom gave an emphatic nod, as if her words meant more than she suspected “Mind you,” he added, “I don't know anything, and only fancied there might be some little flirtation going on. But I dare say it's nothing.”
“Time will show.” Then Fan began to sing, and Tom's horse came, so he departed with the very unusual demonstration of a gentle pat on the head, as he said kindly, “That's right, my dear, keep jolly.” It was n't an elegant way of expressing sympathy, but it was hearty, and Fan thanked him for it, though she only said, “Don't break your neck, Tommy.”
When he was gone, Fan's song ended as suddenly as it began, and she sat thinking, with varying expressions of doubt and trouble passing rapidly across her face.
“Well, I can't do anything but wait!” she said, at last, slamming the music-book together with a desperate look. “Yes, I can,” she added, a minute after, “it's Polly's holiday. I can go and see her, and if there is anything in it I shall find it out.”
Fanny dropped her face into her hands, with a little shiver, as she said that; then got up, looking as pale and resolute as if going to meet some dreadful doom, and putting on her things, went away to Polly's as fast as her dignity would allow.
Saturday morning was Polly's clearing-up day, and Fan found her with a handkerchief tied over her head, and a big apron on, just putting the last touches to the tidy little room, which was as fresh and bright as water, air, and a pair of hands could make it.
“All ready for company. I'll just whisk off my regimentals, and Polly, the maid, becomes Polly, the missis. It was lovely of you to come early; take off your things. Another new bonnet? you extravagant wretch! How is your mother and Maudie? It's a nice day, and we'll have a walk, won't we?”
By the time Polly's welcome was uttered, she had got Fan on the little sofa beside her, and was smiling at her in such an infectious manner, that Fan could n't help smiling back.
“I came to see what you have been doing with yourself lately. You don't come and report, and I got anxious about you,” said Fanny, looking into the clear eyes before her.
“I've been so busy; and I knew you would n't care to hear about my doings, for they are n't the sort you like,” answered Polly.
“Your lessons did n't use to take up all your time. It's my private opinion that you are taking as well as giving lessons, miss,” said Fan, putting on a playfully stern air, to hide her real anxiety.
“Yes, I am,” answered Polly, soberly.
“In what? Love?”
A quick color came to Polly's cheeks, as she laughed, and said, looking away, “No; friendship and good works.”
“Oh, indeed! May I ask who is your teacher?”
“I've more than one; but Miss Mills is head teacher.”
“She instructs in good works; who gives the friendship lessons?”
“Such pleasant girls! I wish you knew them, Fan. So clever, and energetic, and kind, and happy, it always does me good to see them,” cried Polly, with a face full of enthusiasm.
“Is that all?” And Fan gave her a curious look of mingled disappointment and relief.
“There, I told you my doings would not interest you, and they don't; they sound flat and prosy after your brilliant adventures. Let's change the subject,” said Polly, looking relieved herself.
“Dear me, which of our sweethearts sends us dainty bouquets of violets so early in the morning?” asked Fanny, suddenly spying the purple cluster in a graceful little vase on the piano.
“He sends me one every week; he knows I love them so,” and Polly's eyes turned that way full of pride and pleasure.
“I'd no idea he was so devoted,” said Fanny, stooping to smell the flowers, and at the same time read a card that lay near them.
“You need n't plague me about it, now you know it. I never speak of our fondness for one another, because such things seem silly to other people. Will is n't all that Jimmy was to me; but he tries to be, and I love him dearly for it.”
“Will?” Fanny's voice quite startled Polly, it was so sharp and sudden, and her face grew red and pale all in a minute, as she upset the little vase with the start she gave.
“Yes, of course; who did you think I meant?” asked Polly, sopping up the water before it damaged her piano.
“Never mind; I thought you might be having a quiet little flirtation with somebody. I feel responsible, you know, because I told your mother I'd look after you. The flowers are all right. My head aches so, I hardly know what I'm doing this morning.”
Fanny spoke fast, and laughed uncomfortably, as she went back to the sofa, wondering if Polly had told her a lie. Polly seemed to guess at her thoughts as she saw the card, and turning toward her, she held it up, saying, with a conscious look in her eyes, “You thought Mr. Sydney sent them? Well, you are mistaken, and the next time you want to know anything, please ask straight out. I like it better than talking at cross purposes.”
“Now, my dear, don't be angry; I was only teasing you in fun. Tom took it into his foolish head that something was going on, and I felt a natural interest, you know.”
“Tom! What does he know or care about my affairs?” demanded Polly.
“He met you two in the street pretty often, and being in a sentimental mood himself, got up a romance for you and Sydney.”
“I'm much obliged to him for his interest, but it's quite wasted, thank you.”
Fan's next proceeding gave her friend another surprise, for, being rather ashamed of herself, very much relieved, and quite at a loss what to say, she took refuge in an hysterical fit of tears, which changed Polly's anger into tenderness at once.
“Is that the trouble she has been hiding all winter? Poor dear, I wish I'd known it sooner,” thought Polly, as she tried to soothe her with comfortable pats, sniffs of cologne and sympathizing remarks upon the subject of headache, carefully ignoring that other feminine affliction, the heartache.
“There, I feel better. I've been needing a good cry for some time, and now I shall be all right. Never mind it, Polly, I'm nervous and tired; I've danced too much lately, and dyspepsia makes me blue;” and Fanny wiped her eyes and laughed.
“Of course it does; you need rest and petting, and here I've been scolding you, when I ought to have been extra kind. Now tell me what I can do for you,” said Polly, with a remorseful face.
“Talk to me, and tell me all about yourself. You don't seem to have as many worries as other people. What's the secret, Polly?” And Fan looked up with wet eyes, and a wistful face at Polly, who was putting little dabs of cologne all over her head.
“Well,” said Polly, slowly, “I just try to look on the bright side of things; that helps one amazingly. Why, you've no idea how much goodness and sunshine you can get out of the most unpromising things, if you make the best of them.”
“I don't know how,” said Fan, despondently.
“You can learn; I did. I used to croak and fret dreadfully, and get so unhappy, I was n't fit for anything. I do it still more than I ought, but I try not to, and it gets easier, I find. Get a-top of your troubles, and then they are half cured, Miss Mills says.”
“Everything is so contrary and provoking,” said Fanny, petulantly.
“Now what in the world have you to fret about?” asked Polly, rather anxiously.
“Quantities of things,” began Fan, and then stopped, for somehow she felt ashamed to own that she was afflicted because she could n't have a new set of furs, go to Paris in the spring, and make Mr. Sydney love her. She hunted up something more presentable, and said in a despairing tone, “Well, mother is very poorly, Tom and Trix quarrel all the time, Maud gets more and more wilful every day, and papa is worried about his affairs.”
“A sad state of things, but nothing very desperate. Can't you lend a hand anywhere? That might do good all round.”
“No; I have n't the talent for managing people, but I see what ought to be done.”
“Well, don't wail about it; keep yourself happy, if you can; it will help other people to see you cheerful.”
“Just what Tom said, 'Keep jolly'; but, dear me, how can one, when everything is so stupid and tiresome?”
“If ever a girl needed work, it's you!” cried Polly. “You began to be a young lady so early, that you are tired of everything at twenty-two. I wish you'd go at something, then you'd find how much talent and energy you really had.”
“I know ever so many girls who are just like me, sick to death of fashionable life but don't know what to take in its place. I'd like to travel; but papa says he can't afford it, so I can only drag about and get on as I may.”
“I pity you rich girls so much, you have so many opportunities, and don't seem to know how to use them! I suppose I should do just the same in your place, but it seems now as if I could be very happy and useful with plenty of money.”
“You are that without it. There, I won't croak any more. Let us go and take a good walk, and don't you tell any one how I came and cried like a baby.”
“Never!” said Polly, putting on her bonnet.
“I ought to go and make calls,” said Fanny, “but I don't feel now as if I ever wanted to see any of the girls again. Dreadful state of mind, is n't it?”
“Suppose you come and see some of my friends instead! They are not fine or ceremonious, but lively, odd, and pleasant. Come, it will amuse you.”
“I will,” cried Fanny, whose spirits seemed improved by the shower. “Nice little old lady, is n't she?” added Fan, as she caught sight of Miss Mills, on their way out, sitting at a table piled with work, and sewing away with an energy that made the gray curls vibrate.
“Saint Mehitable, I call her. Now, there is a rich woman who knew how to get happiness out of her money,” said Polly, as they walked away. “She was poor till she was nearly fifty; then a comfortable fortune was left her, and she knew just how to use it. That house was given her, but instead of living in it all alone, she filled it with poor gentlefolks who needed neat, respectable homes, but could n't get anything comfortable for their little money. I'm one of them, and I know the worth of what she does for me. Two old widow ladies live below me, several students overhead, poor Mrs. Kean and her lame boy have the back parlor, and Jenny the little bedroom next Miss Mills. Each pays what they can; that's independent, and makes us feel better but that dear woman does a thousand things that money can't pay for, and we feel her influence all through the house. I'd rather be married, and have a home of my own; but next to that, I should like to be an old maid like Miss Mills.”
Polly's sober face and emphatic tone made Fanny laugh, and at the cheery sound a young girl pushing a baby-carriage looked round and smiled.
“What lovely eyes!” whispered Fanny.
“Yes, that's little Jane,” returned Polly, adding, when she had passed, with a nod and a friendly “Don't get tired, Jenny,” “we help one another at our house, and every fine morning Jenny takes Johnny Kean out when she goes for her own walk. That gives his mother time to rest, does both the children good, and keeps things neighborly. Miss Mills suggested it, and Jenny is so glad to do anything for anybody, it's a pleasure to let her.”
“I've heard of Miss Mills before. But I should think she would get tired to death, sitting there making hoods and petticoats day after day,” said Fanny, after thinking over Jenny's story for a few minutes, for seeing the girl seemed to bring it nearer, and make it more real to her.
“But she don't sit there all the time. People come to her with their troubles, and she goes to them with all sorts of help, from soap and soup, to shrouds for the dead and comfort for the living. I go with her sometimes, and it is more exciting than any play, to see and hear the lives and stories of the poor.”
“How can you bear the dreadful sights and sounds, the bad air, and the poverty that can't be cured?”
“But it is n't all dreadful. There are good and lovely things among them, if one only has eyes to see them. It makes me grateful and contented, shows me how rich I am, and keeps me ready to do all I can for these poor souls.”
“My good Polly!” and Fanny gave her friends arm an affectionate squeeze, wondering if it was this alone that had worked the change in Polly.
“You have seen two of my new friends, Miss Mills and Jenny, now I'll show you two more,” said Polly, presently, as they reached a door, and she led the way up several flights of public stairs. “Rebecca Jeffrey is a regularly splendid girl, full of talent; she won't let us call it genius; she will be famous some day, I know, she is so modest, and yet so intent on her work. Lizzie Small is an engraver, and designs the most delightful little pictures. Becky and she live together, and take care of one another in true Damon and Pythias style. This studio is their home, they work, eat, sleep, and live here, going halves in everything. They are all alone in the world, but as happy and independent as birds; real friends, whom nothing will part.”
“Let a lover come between them, and their friendship won't last long,” said Fanny.
“I think it will. Take a look at them, and you'll change your mind,” answered Polly, tapping at a door, on which two modest cards were tacked.
“Come in!” said a voice, and obeying, Fanny found herself in a large, queerly furnished room, lighted from above, and occupied by two girls. One stood before a great clay figure, in a corner. This one was tall, with a strong face, keen eyes, short, curly hair, and a fine head. Fanny was struck at once by this face and figure, though the one was not handsome, and the other half hidden by a great pinafore covered with clay. At a table where the light was clearest, sat a frail-looking girl, with a thin face, big eyes, and pale hair, a dreamy, absorbed little person, who bent over a block, skillfully wielding her tools.
“Becky and Bess, how do you do? This is my friend, Fanny Shaw. We are out on a rampage; so go on with your work, and let us lazy ones look on and admire.”
As Polly spoke, both girls looked up and nodded, smilingly; Bess gave Fan the one easy-chair; Becky took an artistic survey of the new-comer, with eyes that seemed to see everything; then each went on with her work, and all began to talk.
“You are just what I want, Polly. Pull up your sleeve, and give me an arm while you sit; the muscles here are n't right, and you've got just what I want,” said Becky, slapping the round arm of the statue, at which Fan was gazing with awe.
“How do you get on?” asked Polly, throwing off her cloak, and rolling up her sleeves, as if going to washing.
“Slowly. The idea is working itself clear, and I follow as fast as my hands can. Is the face better, do you think?” said Becky, taking off a wet cloth, and showing the head of the statue.
“How beautiful it is!” cried Fanny, staring at it with increased respect.
“What does it mean to you?” asked Rebecca, turning to her with a sudden shine in her keen eyes.
“I don't know whether it is meant for a saint or a muse, a goddess or a fate; but to me it is only a beautiful woman, bigger, lovelier, and more imposing than any woman I ever saw,” answered Fanny, slowly, trying to express the impression the statue made upon her.
Rebecca smiled brightly, and Bess looked round to nod approvingly, but Polly clapped her hands, and said, “Well done, Fan! I did n't think you 'd get the idea so well, but you have, and I'm proud of your insight. Now I'll tell you, for Becky will let me, since you have paid her the compliment of understanding her work. Some time ago we got into a famous talk about what women should be, and Becky said she'd show us her idea of the coming woman. There she is, as you say, bigger, lovelier, and more imposing than any we see nowadays; and at the same time, she is a true woman. See what a fine forehead, yet the mouth is both firm and tender, as if it could say strong, wise things, as well as teach children and kiss babies. We could n't decide what to put in the hands as the most appropriate symbol. What do you say?”
“Give her a sceptre: she would make a fine queen,” answered Fanny.
“No, we have had enough of that; women have been called queens a long time, but the kingdom given them is n't worth ruling,” answered Rebecca.
“I don't think it is nowadays,” said Fanny, with a tired sort of sigh.
“Put a man's hand in hers to help her along, then,” said Polly, whose happy fortune it had been to find friends and helpers in father and brothers.
“No; my woman is to stand alone, and help herself,” said Rebecca, decidedly.
“She's to be strong-minded, is she?” and Fanny's lip curled a little as she uttered the misused words.
“Yes, strong-minded, strong-hearted, strong-souled, and strong-bodied; that is why I made her larger than the miserable, pinched-up woman of our day. Strength and beauty must go together. Don't you think these broad shoulders can bear burdens without breaking down, these hands work well, these eyes see clearly, and these lips do something besides simper and gossip?”
Fanny was silent; but a voice from Bess's corner said, “Put a child in her arms, Becky.”
“Not that even, for she is to be something more than a nurse.”
“Give her a ballot-box,” cried a new voice, and turning round, they saw an odd-looking woman perched on a sofa behind them.
“Thank you for the suggestion, Kate. I'll put that with the other symbols at her feet; for I'm going to have needle, pen, palette, and broom somewhere, to suggest the various talents she owns, and the ballot-box will show that she has earned the right to use them. How goes it?” and Rebecca offered a clay-daubed hand, which the new-comer cordially shook.
“Great news, girls! Anna is going to Italy!” cried Kate, tossing up her bonnet like a school-boy.
“Oh, how splendid! Who takes her? Has she had a fortune left her? Tell all about it,” exclaimed the girls, gathering round the speaker.
“Yes, it is splendid; just one of the beautiful things that does everybody heaps of good, it is so generous and so deserved. You know Anna has been longing to go; working and hoping for a chance, and never getting it, till all of a sudden Miss Burton is inspired to invite the girl to go with her for several years to Italy. Think of the luck of that dear soul, the advantages she'll have, the good it will do her, and, best of all, the lovely way in which it comes to her. Miss Burton wants, her as a friend, asks nothing of her but her company, and Anna will go through fire and water for her, of course. Now, is n't that fine?”
It was good to see how heartily these girls sympathized in their comrade's good fortune. Polly danced all over the room, Bess and Becky hugged one another, and Kate laughed with her eyes full, while even Fanny felt a glow of, pride and pleasure at the kind act.
“Who is that?” she whispered to Polly, who had subsided into a corner.
“Why, it Is Kate King, the authoress. Bless me, how rude not to introduce you! Here, my King, is an admirer of yours, Fanny Shaw, and my well beloved friend,” cried Polly, presenting Fan, who regarded the shabby young woman with as much respect, as if she had been arrayed in velvet and ermine; for Kate had written a successful book by accident, and happened to be the fashion, just then.
“It's time for lunch, girls, and I brought mine along with me, it's so much jollier to eat in sisterhood. Let's club together, and have a revel,” said Kate, producing a bag of oranges, and several big, plummy buns.
“We've got sardines, crackers, and cheese,” said Bess, clearing off a table with all speed.
“Wait a bit, and I'll add my share,” cried Polly, and catching up her cloak, she ran off to the grocery store near by.
“You'll be shocked at our performances, Miss Shaw, but you can call it a picnic, and never tell what dreadful things you saw us do,” said Rebecca, polishing a paint knife by rubbing it up and down in a pot of ivy, while Kate spread forth the feast in several odd plates, and a flat shell or two.
“Let us have coffee to finish off with; put on the pot, Bess, and skim the milk,” added Becky, as she produced cups, mugs, and a queer little vase, to supply drinking vessels for the party.
“Here's nuts, a pot of jam, and some cake. Fan likes sweet things, and we want to be elegant when we have company,” said Polly, flying in again, and depositing her share on the table.
“Now, then, fall to, ladies, and help yourselves. Never mind if the china don't hold out; take the sardines by their little tails, and wipe your fingers on my brown-paper napkins,” said Kate, setting the example with such a relish, that the others followed it in a gale of merriment.
Fanny had been to many elegant lunches, but never enjoyed one more than that droll picnic in the studio; for there was a freedom about it that was charming, an artistic flavor to everything, and such a spirit of good-will and gayety, that she felt at home at once. As they ate, the others talked and she listened, finding it as interesting as any romance to hear these young women discuss their plans, ambitions, successes, and defeats. It was a new world to her, and they seemed a different race of creatures from the girls whose lives were spent in dress, gossip, pleasure, or ennui. They were girls still, full of spirits fun, and youth; but below the light-heartedness each cherished a purpose, which seemed to ennoble her womanhood, to give her a certain power, a sustaining satisfaction, a daily stimulus, that led her on to daily effort, and in time to some success in circumstance or character, which was worth all the patience, hope, and labor of her life.
Fanny was just then in the mood to feel the beauty of this, for the sincerest emotion she had ever known was beginning to make her dissatisfied with herself, and the aimless life she led. “Men must respect such girls as these,” she thought; “yes, and love them too, for in spite of their independence, they are womanly. I wish I had a talent to live for, if it would do as much for me as it does for them. It is this sort of thing that is improving Polly, that makes her society interesting to Sydney, and herself so dear to every one. Money can't buy these things for me, and I want them very much.”
As these thoughts were passing through her mind, Fanny was hearing all sorts of topics discussed with feminine enthusiasm and frankness. Art, morals, politics, society, books, religion, housekeeping, dress, and economy, for the minds and tongues roved from subject to subject with youthful rapidity, and seemed to get something from the dryest and the dullest.
“How does the new book come on?” asked Polly, sucking her orange in public with a composure which would have scandalized the good ladies of “Cranford.”
“Better than it deserves. My children, beware of popularity; it is a delusion and a snare; it puffeth up the heart of man, and especially of woman; it blindeth the eyes to faults; it exalteth unduly the humble powers of the victim; it is apt to be capricious, and just as one gets to liking the taste of this intoxicating draught, it suddenly faileth, and one is left gasping, like a fish out of water,” and Kate emphasized her speech by spearing a sardine with a penknife, and eating it with a groan.
“It won't hurt you much, I guess; you have worked and waited so long, a large dose will do you good,” said Rebecca, giving her a generous spoonful of jam, as if eager to add as much sweetness as possible to a life that had not been an easy one.
“When are you and Becky going to dissolve partnership?” asked Polly, eager for news of all.
“Never! George knows he can't have one without the other, and has not suggested such a thing as parting us. There is always room in my house for Becky, and she lets me do as she would if she was in my place,” answered Bess, with a look which her friend answered by a smile.
“The lover won't separate this pair of friends, you see,” whispered Polly to Fan. “Bess is to be married in the spring, and Becky is to live with her.”
“By the way, Polly, I've got some tickets for you. People are always sending me such things, and as I don't care for them, I'm glad to make them over to you young and giddy infants. There are passes for the statuary exhibition, Becky shall have those, here are the concert tickets for you, my musical girl; and that is for a course of lectures on literature, which I'll keep for myself.”
As Kate dealt out the colored cards to the grateful girls, Fanny took a good look at her, wondering if the time would ever come when women could earn a little money and success, without paying such a heavy price for them; for Kate looked sick, tired, and too early old. Then her eye went to the unfinished statue, and she said, impulsively, “I hope you'll put that in marble, and show us what we ought to be.”
“I wish I could!” And an intense desire shone in Rebecca's face, as she saw her faulty work, and felt how fair her model was.
For a minute, the five young women sat silent looking up at the beautiful, strong figure before them, each longing to see it done, and each unconscious that she was helping, by her individual effort and experience, to bring the day when their noblest ideal of womanhood should be embodied in flesh and blood, not clay.
The city bells rung one, and Polly started up.
“I must go, for I promised a neighbor of mine a lesson at two.”
“I thought this was a holiday,” said Fanny.
“So it is, but this is a little labor of love, and does n't spoil the day at all. The child has talent, loves music, and needs help. I can't give her money, but I can teach her; so I do, and she is the most promising pupil I have. Help one another, is part of the religion of our sisterhood, Fan.”
“I must put you in a story, Polly. I want a heroine, and you will do,” said Kate.
“Me! why, there never was such a humdrum, unromantic thing as I am,” cried Polly, amazed.
“I've booked you, nevertheless, so in you go; but you may add as much romance as you like, it's time you did.”
“I'm ready for it when it comes, but it can't be forced, you know,” and Polly blushed and smiled as if some little spice of that delightful thing had stolen into her life, for all its prosaic seeming.
Fanny was amused to see that the girls did not kiss at parting, but shook hands in a quiet, friendly fashion, looking at one another with eyes that said more than the most “gushing” words.
“I like your friends very much, Polly. I was afraid I should find them mannish and rough, or sentimental and conceited. But they are simple, sensible creatures, full of talent, and all sorts of fine things. I admire and respect them, and want to go again, if I may.”
“Oh, Fan, I am so glad! I hoped you'd like them, I knew they'd do you good, and I'll take you any time, for you stood the test better than I expected. Becky asked me to bring you again, and she seldom does that for fashionable young ladies, let me tell you.”
“I want to be ever so much better, and I think you and they might show me how,” said Fanny, with a traitorous tremble in her voice.
“We'll show you the sunny side of poverty and work, and that is a useful lesson for any one, Miss Mills says,” answered Polly, hoping that Fan would learn how much the poor can teach the rich, and what helpful friends girls may be to one another.
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{
"id": "2787"
}
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14
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NIPPED IN THE BUD
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ON the evening of Fan's visit, Polly sat down before her fire with a resolute and thoughtful aspect. She pulled her hair down, turned her skirt back, put her feet on the fender, and took Puttel into her lap, all of which arrangements signified that something very important had got to be thought over and settled. Polly did not soliloquize aloud, as heroines on the stage and in books have a way of doing, but the conversation she held with herself was very much like this: “I'm afraid there is something in it. I've tried to think it's nothing but vanity or imagination, yet I can't help seeing a difference, and feeling as if I ought not to pretend that I don't. I know it's considered proper for girls to shut their eyes and let things come to a crisis no matter how much mischief is done. But I don't think it's doing as we'd be done by, and it seems a great deal more honest to show a man that you don't love him before he has entirely lost his heart. The girls laughed at me when I said so, and they declared that it would be a very improper thing to do, but I've observed that they don't hesitate to snub'ineligible parties,' as they call poor, very young, or unpopular men. It's all right then, but when a nice person comes it's part of the fun to let him go on to the very end, whether the girls care for him or not. The more proposals, the more credit. Fan says Trix always asks when she comes home after the summer excursions, 'How many birds have you bagged?' as if men were partridges. What wicked creatures we are! some of us at least. I wonder why such a love of conquest was put into us? Mother says a great deal of it is owing to bad education nowadays, but some girls seem born for the express purpose of making trouble and would manage to do it if they lived in a howling wilderness. I'm afraid I've got a spice of it, and if I had the chance, should be as bad as any of them. I've tried it and liked it, and maybe this is the consequence of that night's fun.”
Here Polly leaned back and looked up at the little mirror over the chimney-piece, which was hung so that it reflected the faces of those about the fire. In it Polly saw a pair of telltale eyes looking out from a tangle of bright brown hair, cheeks that flushed and dimpled suddenly as the fresh mouth smiled with an expression of conscious power, half proud, half ashamed, and as pretty to see as the coquettish gesture with which she smoothed back her curls and flourished a white hand. For a minute she regarded the pleasant picture while visions of girlish romances and triumphs danced through her head, then she shook her hair all over her face and pushed her chair out of range of the mirror, saying, with a droll mixture of self-reproach and self-approval in her tone; “Oh, Puttel, Puttel, what a fool I am!”
Puss appeared to endorse the sentiment by a loud purr and a graceful wave of her tail, and Polly returned to the subject from which these little vanities had beguiled her.
“Just suppose it is true, that he does ask me, and I say yes! What a stir it would make, and what fun it would be to see the faces of the girls when it came out! They all think a great deal of him because he is so hard to please, and almost any of them would feel immensely flattered if he liked them, whether they chose to marry him or not. Trix has tried for years to fascinate him, and he can't bear her, and I'm so glad! What a spiteful thing I am. Well, I can't help it, she does aggravate me so!” And Polly gave the cat such a tweak of the ear that Puttel bounced out of her lap in high dudgeon.
“It don't do to think of her, and I won't!” said Polly to herself, setting her lips with a grim look that was not at all becoming. “What an easy life I should have plenty of money, quantities of friends, all sorts of pleasures, and no work, no poverty, no cold shoulders or patched boots. I could do so much for all at home how I should enjoy that!” And Polly let her thoughts revel in the luxurious future her fancy painted. It was a very bright picture, but something seemed amiss with it, for presently she sighed and shook her head, thinking sorrowfully, “Ah, but I don't love him, and I'm afraid I never can as I ought! He's very good, and generous, and wise, and would be kind, I know, but somehow I can't imagine spending my life with him; I'm so afraid I should get tired of him, and then what should I do? Polly Sydney don't sound well, and Mrs. Arthur Sydney don't seem to fit me a bit. Wonder how it would seem to call him 'Arthur'?” And Polly said it under her breath, with a look over her shoulder to be sure no one heard it. “It's a pretty name, but rather too fine, and I should n't dare to say 'Syd,' as his sister does. I like short, plain, home-like names, such as Will, Ned, or Tom. No, no, I can never care for him, and it's no use to try!” The exclamation broke from Polly as if a sudden trouble had seized her, and laying her head down on her knees, she sat motionless for many minutes.
When she looked up, her face wore an expression which no one had ever seen on it before; a look of mingled pain and patience, as if some loss had come to her, and left the bitterness of regret behind.
“I won't think of myself, or try to mend one mistake by making another,” she said with a heavy sigh. “I'll do what I can for Fan, and not stand between her and a chance of happiness. Let me see, how can I begin? I won't walk with him any more; I'll dodge and go roundabout ways, so that we can't meet. I never had much faith in the remarkable coincidence of his always happening home to dinner just as I go to give the Roths their lesson. The fact is, I like to meet him, I am glad to be seen with him, and put on airs, I dare say, like a vain goose as I am. Well, I won't do it any more, and that will spare Fan one affliction. Poor dear, how I must have worried her all this time, and never guessed it. She has n't been quite as kind as ever; but when she got sharp, I fancied it was dyspepsia. Oh, me! I wish the other trouble could be cured as easily as this.”
Here puss showed an amiable desire to forgive and forget, and Polly took her up, saying aloud: “Puttel, when missis abuses you, play it's dyspepsia, and don't bear malice, because it's a very trying disease, my dear.”
Then, going back to her thoughts, she rambled on again; “If he does n't take that hint, I will give him a stronger one, for I will not have matters come to a crisis, though I can't deny that my wicked vanity strongly tempts me to try and'bag a bird' just for the excitement and credit of the thing. Polly, I'm ashamed of you! What would your blessed mother say to hear such expressions from you? I'd write and tell her all the worry, only it would n't do any good, and would only trouble her. I've no right to tell Fan's secrets, and I'm ashamed to tell mine. No, I'll leave mother in peace, and fight it out alone. I do think Fan would suit him excellently by and by. He has known her all her life, and has a good influence over her. Love would do so much toward making her what she might be; it's a shame to have the chance lost just because he happens to see me. I should think she'd hate me; but I'll show her that she need n't, and do all I can to help her; for she has been so good to me nothing shall ever make me forget that. It is a delicate and dangerous task, but I guess I can manage it; at any rate I'll try, and have nothing to reproach myself with if things do go 'contrary.'”
What Polly thought of, as she lay back in her chair, with her eyes shut, and a hopeless look on her face, is none of our business, though we might feel a wish to know what caused a tear to gather slowly from time to time under her lashes, and roll down on Puttel's Quaker-colored coat. Was it regret for the conquest she relinquished, was it sympathy for her friend, or was it an uncontrollable overflow of feeling as she read some sad or tender passage of the little romance which she kept hidden away in her own heart?
On Monday, Polly began the “delicate and dangerous task.” Instead of going to her pupils by way of the park and the pleasant streets adjoining, she took a roundabout route through back streets, and thus escaped Mr. Sydney, who, as usual, came home to dinner very early that day and looked disappointed because he nowhere saw the bright face in the modest bonnet. Polly kept this up for a week, and by carefully avoiding the Shaws' house during calling hours, she saw nothing of Mr. Sydney, who, of course, did n't visit her at Miss Mills'. Minnie happened to be poorly that week and took no lesson, so Uncle Syd was deprived of his last hope, and looked as if his allowance of sunshine had been suddenly cut off.
Now, as Polly was by no means a perfect creature, I am free to confess that the old temptation assailed her more than once that week, for, when the first excitement of the dodging reform had subsided, she missed the pleasant little interviews that used to put a certain flavor of romance into her dull, hard-working days. She liked Mr. Sydney very much, for he had always been kind and friendly since the early times when he had treated the little girl with a courtesy which the young woman gratefully remembered. I don't think it was his wealth, accomplishments, or position that most attracted Polly, though these doubtless possessed a greater influence than she suspected. It was that indescribable something which women are quick to see and feel in men who have been blessed with wise and good mothers. This had an especial charm to Polly, for she soon found that this side of his character was not shown to every one. With most girls, he was very like the other young men of his set, except perhaps in a certain grace of manner which was as natural to him as his respect for all womankind. But with Fanny and Polly he showed the domestic traits and virtues which are more engaging to womanly women than any amount of cool intellect or worldly wisdom.
Polly had seen a good deal of him during her visits at the Shaws', where he was intimate, owing to the friendship between Madam and his mother; but she had never thought of him as a possible lover for either Fanny or herself because he was six or eight years older than they, and still sometimes assumed the part of a venerable mentor, as in the early days. Lately this had changed, especially towards Polly, and it flattered her more than she would confess even to herself. She knew he admired her one talent, respected her independence, and enjoyed her society; but when something warmer and more flattering than admiration, respect, or pleasure crept into his manner, she could not help seeing that one of the good gifts of this life was daily coming more and more within her reach, and began to ask herself if she could honestly receive the gift, and reward the giver.
At first she tried to think she could, but unfortunately hearts are so “contrary” that they won't be obedient to reason, will, or even gratitude. Polly felt a very cordial friendship for Mr. Sydney, but not one particle of the love which is the only coin in which love can be truly paid. Then she took a fancy into her head that she ought to accept this piece of good fortune for the sake of the family, and forget herself. But this false idea of self-sacrifice did not satisfy, for she was not a fashionable girl trained to believe that her first duty was to make “a good match” and never mind the consequences, though they rendered her miserable for life. Polly's creed was very simple: “If I don't love him, I ought not to marry him, especially when I do love somebody else, though everything is against me.” If she had read as many French novels as some young ladies, she might have considered it interesting to marry under the circumstances and suffer a secret anguish to make her a romantic victim. But Polly's education had been neglected, and after a good deal of natural indecision she did what most women do in such cases, thought she would “wait and see.”
The discovery of Fanny's secret seemed to show her something to do, for if the “wait and see” decision was making her friend unhappy, it must be changed as soon as possible. This finished Polly's indecision, and after that night she never allowed herself to dwell upon the pleasant temptation which came in a guise particularly attractive to a young girl with a spice of the old Eve in her composition. So day after day she trudged through the dull back streets, longing for the sunny park, the face that always brightened when it saw her coming, and most of all the chance of meeting well, it was n't Trix.
When Saturday came, Polly started as usual for a visit to Becky and Bess, but could n't resist stopping at the Shaws' to leave a little parcel for Fan, though it was calling time. As she stepped in, meaning to run up for a word if Fanny should chance to be alone, two hats on the hall table arrested her.
“Who is here, Katy?”
“Only Mr. Sydney and Master Tom. Won't you stop a bit, Miss Polly?”
“Not this morning, I'm rather in a hurry.” And away went Polly as if a dozen eager pupils were clamoring for her presence. But as the door shut behind her she felt so left out in the cold, that her eyes filled, and when Nep, Tom's great Newfoundland, came blundering after her, she stopped and hugged his shaggy head, saying softly, as she looked into the brown, benevolent eyes, full of almost human sympathy: “Now, go back, old dear, you must n't follow me. Oh, Nep, it's so hard to put love away when you want it very much and it is n't right to take it.” A foolish little speech to make to a dog, but you see Polly was only a tender-hearted girl, trying to do her duty.
“Since he is safe with Fanny, I may venture to walk where I like. It 's such a lovely day, all the babies will be out, and it always does me good to see them,” thought Polly, turning into the wide, sunny street, where West End-dom promenaded at that hour.
The babies were out in full force, looking as gay and delicate and sweet as the snow-drops, hyacinths, and daffodils on the banks whence the snow had melted. But somehow the babies did n't do Polly the good she expected, though they smiled at her from their carriages, and kissed their chubby hands as she passed them, for Polly had the sort of face that babies love. One tiny creature in blue plush was casting despairing glances after a very small lord of creation who was walking away with a toddling belle in white, while a second young gentleman in gorgeous purple gaiters was endeavoring to console the deserted damsel.
“Take hold of Master Charley's hand, Miss Mamie, and walk pretty, like Willy and Flossy,” said the maid.
“No, no, I want to do wid Willy, and he won't let me. Do'way, Tarley, I don't lite you,” cried little Blue-bonnet, casting down her ermine muff and sobbing in a microscopic handkerchief, the thread-lace edging on which could n't mitigate her woe, as it might have done that of an older sufferer.
“Willy likes Flossy best, so stop crying and come right along, you naughty child.”
As poor little Dido was jerked away by the unsympathetic maid, and Purple-gaiters essayed in vain to plead his cause, Polly said to herself, with a smile and a sigh; “How early the old story begins!”
It seemed as if the spring weather had brought out all manner of tender things beside fresh grass and the first dandelions, for as she went down the street Polly kept seeing different phases of the sweet old story which she was trying to forget.
At a street corner, a black-eyed school-boy was parting from a rosy-faced school-girl, whose music roll he was reluctantly surrendering.
“Don't you forget, now,” said the boy, looking bashfully into the bright eyes that danced with pleasure as the girl blushed and smiled, and answered reproachfully; “Why, of course I shan't!”
“That little romance runs smoothly so far; I hope it may to the end,” said Polly heartily as she watched the lad tramp away, whistling as blithely as if his pleasurable emotions must find a vent, or endanger the buttons on the round jacket; while the girl pranced on her own doorstep, as if practising for the joyful dance which she had promised not to forget.
A little farther on Polly passed a newly engaged couple whom she knew, walking arm in arm for the first time, both wearing that proud yet conscious look which is so delightful to behold upon the countenances of these temporarily glorified beings.
“How happy they seem; oh, dear!” said Polly, and trudged on, wondering if her turn would ever come and fearing that it was impossible.
A glimpse of a motherly-looking lady entering a door, received by a flock of pretty children, who cast themselves upon mamma and her parcels with cries of rapture, did Polly good; and when, a minute after she passed a gray old couple walking placidly together in the sunshine, she felt better still, and was glad to see such a happy ending to the romance she had read all down the street.
As if the mischievous little god wished to take Polly at a disadvantage, or perhaps to give her another chance, just at that instant Mr. Sydney appeared at her side. How he got there was never very clear to Polly, but there he was, flushed, and a little out of breath, but looking so glad to see her that she had n't the heart to be stiff and cool, as she had fully intended to be when they met.
“Very warm, is n't it?” he said when he had shaken hands and fallen into step, just in the old way.
“You seem to find it so.” And Polly laughed, with a sudden sparkle in her eyes. She really could n't help it, it was so pleasant to see him again, just when she was feeling so lonely.
“Have you given up teaching the Roths?” asked Sydney, changing the subject.
“No.”
“Do you go as usual?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it's a mystery to me how you get there.”
“As much as it is to me how you got here so suddenly.”
“I saw you from the Shaws' window and took the liberty of running after you by the back street,” he said, laughing.
“That is the way I get to the Roths,” answered Polly. She did not mean to tell, but his frankness was so agreeable she forgot herself.
“It's not nearly so pleasant or so short for you as the park.”
“I know it, but people sometimes get tired of old ways and like to try new ones.”
Polly did n't say that quite naturally, and Sydney gave her a quick look, as he asked; “Do you get tired of old friends, too, Miss Polly?”
“Not often; but” And there she stuck, for the fear of being ungrateful or unkind made her almost hope that he would n't take the hint which she had been carefully preparing for him.
There was a dreadful little pause, which Polly broke by saying abruptly; “How is Fan?”
“Dashing, as ever. Do you know I'm rather disappointed in Fanny, for she don't seem to improve with her years,” said Sydney, as if he accepted the diversion and was glad of it.
“Ah, you never see her at her best. She puts on that dashing air before people to hide her real self. But I know her better; and I assure you that she does improve; she tries to mend her faults, though she won't own it, and will surprise you some day, by the amount of heart and sense and goodness she has got.”
Polly spoke heartily now, and Sydney looked at her as if Fanny's defender pleased him more than Fanny's defence.
“I'm very glad to hear it, and willingly take your word for it. Everybody shows you their good side, I think, and that is why you find the world such a pleasant place.”
“Oh, but I don't! It often seems like a very hard and dismal place, and I croak over my trials like an ungrateful raven.”
“Can't we make the trials lighter for you?”
The voice that put the question was so very kind, that Polly dared not look up, because she knew what the eyes were silently saying.
“Thank you, no. I don't get more tribulation than is good for me, I fancy, and we are apt to make mistakes when we try to dodge troubles.”
“Or people,” added Sydney in a tone that made Polly color up to her forehead.
“How lovely the park looks,” she said, in great confusion.
“Yes, it's the pleasantest walk we have; don't you think so?” asked the artful young man, laying a trap, into which Polly immediately fell.
“Yes, indeed! It's always so refreshing to me to see a little bit of the country, as it were, especially at this season.”
Oh, Polly, Polly, what a stupid speech to make, when you had just given him to understand that you were tired of the park! Not being a fool or a cox-comb, Sydney put this and that together, and taking various trifles into the account, he had by this time come to the conclusion that Polly had heard the same bits of gossip that he had, which linked their names together, that she did n't like it, and tried to show she did n't in this way. He was quicker to take a hint than she had expected, and being both proud and generous, resolved to settle the matter at once, for Polly's sake as well as his own. So, when she made her last brilliant remark, he said quietly, watching her face keenly all the while; “I thought so; well, I'm going out of town on business for several weeks, so you can enjoy your'little bit of country' without being annoyed by me.”
“Annoyed? Oh, no!” cried Polly earnestly; then stopped short, not knowing what to say for herself. She thought she had a good deal of the coquette in her, and I've no doubt that with time and training she would have become a very dangerous little person, but now she was far too transparent and straightforward by nature even to tell a white lie cleverly. Sydney knew this, and liked her for it, but he took advantage of it, nevertheless by asking suddenly; “Honestly, now, would n't you go the old way and enjoy it as much as ever, if I was n't anywhere about to set the busybodies gossiping?”
“Yes,” said Polly, before she could stop herself, and then could have bitten her tongue out for being so rude. Another awful pause seemed impending, but just at that moment a horseman clattered by with a smile and a salute, which caused Polly to exclaim, “Oh, there's Tom!” with a tone and a look that silenced the words hovering on Sydney's lips, and caused him to hold out his hand with a look which made Polly's heart flutter then and ache with pity for a good while afterward, though he only said, “Good by, Polly.”
He was gone before she could do anything but look up at him with a remorseful face, and she walked on, feeling that the first and perhaps the only lover she would ever have, had read his answer and accepted it in silence. She did not know what else he had read, and comforted herself with the thought that he did not care for her very much, since he took the first rebuff so quickly.
Polly did not return to her favorite walk till she learned from Minnie that “Uncle” had really left town, and then she found that his friendly company and conversation was what had made the way so pleasant after all. She sighed over the perversity of things in general, and croaked a little over her trials in particular, but on the whole got over her loss better than she expected, for soon she had other sorrows beside her own to comfort, and such work does a body more good than floods of regretful tears, or hours of sentimental lamentation.
She shunned Fanny for a day or two, but gained nothing by it, for that young lady, hearing of Sydney's sudden departure, could not rest till she discovered the cause of it, and walked in upon Polly one afternoon just when the dusk made it a propitious hour for tender confidences.
“What have you been doing with yourself lately?” asked Fanny, composing herself, with her back toward the rapidly waning light.
“Wagging to and fro as usual. What's the news with you?” answered Polly, feeling that something was coming and rather glad to have it over and done with.
“Nothing particular. Trix treats Tom shamefully, and he bears it like a lamb. I tell him to break his engagement, and not be worried so; but he won't, because she has been jilted once and he thinks it's such a mean thing to do.”
“Perhaps she'll jilt him.”
“I've no doubt she will, if anything better comes along. But Trix is getting passe, and I should n't wonder if she kept him to his word, just out of perversity, if nothing else.”
“Poor Tom, what a fate!” said Polly with what was meant to be a comical groan; but it sounded so tragical that she saw it would n't pass, and hastened to hide the failure by saying, with a laugh, “If you call Trix passe at twenty-three, what shall we all be at twenty-five?” “Utterly done with, and laid upon the shelf. I feel so already, for I don't get half the attention I used to have, and the other night I heard Maud and Grace wondering why those old girls'did n't stay at home, and give them a chance.'”
“How is Maudie?”
“Pretty well, but she worries me by her queer tastes and notions. She loves to go into the kitchen and mess, she hates to study, and said right before the Vincents that she should think it would be great fun to be a beggar-girl, to go round with a basket, it must be so interesting to see what you'd get.”
“Minnie said the other day she wished she was a pigeon so she could paddle in the puddles and not fuss about rubbers.”
“By the way, when is her uncle coming back?” asked Fanny, who could n't wait any longer and joyfully seized the opening Polly made for her.
“I'm sure I don't know.”
“Nor care, I suppose, you hard-hearted thing.”
“Why, Fan, what do you mean?”
“I'm not blind, my dear, neither is Tom, and when a young gentleman cuts a call abruptly short, and races after a young lady, and is seen holding her hand at the quietest corner of the park, and then goes travelling all of a sudden, we know what it means if you don't.”
“Who got up that nice idea, I should like to know?” demanded Polly, as Fanny stopped for breath.
“Now don't be affected, Polly, but just tell me, like a dear, has n't he proposed?”
“No, he has n't.”
“Don't you think he means to?”
“I don't think he'll ever say a word to me.”
“Well, I am surprised!” And Fanny drew a long breath, as if a load was off her mind. Then she added in a changed tone: “But don't you love him, Polly?”
“No.”
“Truly?”
“Truly, Fan.”
Neither spoke for a minute, but the heart of one of them beat joyfully and the dusk hid a very happy face.
“Don't you think he cared for you, dear?” asked Fanny, presently. “I don't mean to be prying, but I really thought he did.”
“That's not for me to say, but if it is so, it's only a passing fancy and he'll soon get over it.”
“Do tell me all about it; I'm so interested, and I know something has happened, I hear it in your voice, for I can't see your face.”
“Do you remember the talk we once had after reading one of Miss Edgeworth's stories about not letting one's lovers come to a declaration if one did n't love them?”
“Yes.”
“And you girls said it was n't proper, and I said it was honest, anyway. Well, I always meant to try it if I got a chance, and I have. Mind you, I don't say Mr. Sydney loved me, for he never said so, and never will, now, but I did fancy he rather liked me and might do more if I did n't show him that it was of no use.”
“And you did?” cried Fanny, much excited.
“I just gave him a hint and he took it. He meant to go away before that, so don't think his heart is broken, or mind what silly tattlers say. I did n't like his meeting me so much and told him so by going another way. He understood, and being a gentleman, made no fuss. I dare say he thought I was a vain goose, and laughed at me for my pains, like Churchill in 'Helen.'”
“No, he would n't; He'd like it and respect you for doing it. But, Polly, it would have been a grand thing for you.”
“I can't sell myself for an establishment.”
“Mercy! What an idea!”
“Well, that's the plain English of half your fashionable matches. I 'm'odd,' you know, and prefer to be an independent spinster and teach music all my days.”
“Ah, but you won't. You were made for a nice, happy home of your own, and I hope you'll get it, Polly, dear,” said Fanny warmly, feeling so grateful to Polly, that she found it hard not to pour out all her secret at once.
“I hope I may; but I doubt it,” answered Polly in a tone that made Fanny wonder if she, too, knew what heartache meant.
“Something troubles you, Polly, what is it? Confide in me, as I do in you,” said Fanny tenderly, for all the coldness she had tried to hide from Polly, had melted in the sudden sunshine that had come to her.
“Do you always?” asked her friend, leaning forward with an irresistible desire to win back the old-time love and confidence, too precious to be exchanged for a little brief excitement or the barren honor of “bagging a bird,” to use Trix's elegant expression. Fanny understood it then, and threw herself into Polly's arms, crying, with a shower of grateful tears; “Oh, my dear! my dear! did you do it for my sake?”
And Polly held her close, saying in that tender voice of hers, “I did n't mean to let a lover part this pair of friends if I could help it.”
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{
"id": "2787"
}
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15
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BREAKERS AHEAD
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GOING into the Shaws' one evening, Polly found Maud sitting on the stairs, with a troubled face.
“Oh, Polly, I'm so glad you've come!” cried the little girl, running to hug her.
“What's the matter, deary?”
“I don't know; something dreadful must have happened, for mamma and Fan are crying together upstairs, papa is shut up in the library, and Tom is raging round like a bear, in the dining-room.”
“I guess it is n't anything very bad. Perhaps mamma is sicker than usual, or papa worried about business, or Tom in some new scrape. Don't look so frightened, Maudie, but come into the parlor and see what I've got for you,” said Polly, feeling that there was trouble of some sort in the air, but trying to cheer the child, for her little face was full of a sorrowful anxiety, that went to Polly's heart.
“I don't think I can like anything till I know what the matter is,” answered Maud. “It's something horrid, I'm sure, for when papa came home, he went up to mamma's room, and talked ever so long, and mamma cried very loud, and when I tried to go in, Fan would n't let me, and she looked scared and strange. I wanted to go to papa when he came down, but the door was locked, and he said, 'Not now, my little girl,' and then I sat here waiting to see what would happen, and Tom came home. But when I ran to tell him, he said, 'Go away, and don't bother,' and just took me by the shoulders and put me out. Oh, dear! everything is so queer and horrid, I don't know what to do.”
Maud began to cry, and Polly sat down on the stairs beside her, trying to comfort her, while her own thoughts were full of a vague fear. All at once the dining-room door opened, and Tom's head appeared. A single glance showed Polly that something was the matter, for the care and elegance which usually marked his appearance were entirely wanting. His tie was under one ear, his hair in a toss, the cherished moustache had a neglected air, and his face an expression both excited, ashamed, and distressed; even his voice betrayed disturbance, for instead of the affable greeting he usually bestowed upon the young lady, he seemed to have fallen back into the bluff tone of his boyish days, and all he said was, “Hullo, Polly.”
“How do you do?” answered Polly.
“I'm in a devil of a mess, thank you; send that chicken up stairs, and come in and hear about it,” he said, as if he had been longing to tell some one, and welcomed prudent Polly as a special providence.
“Go up, deary, and amuse yourself with this book, and these ginger snaps that I made for you, there's a good child,” whispered Polly, as Maud rubbed away her tears, and stared at Tom with round, inquisitive eyes.
“You'll tell me all about it, by and by, won't you?” she whispered, preparing to obey.
“If I may,” answered Polly.
Maud departed with unexpected docility, and Polly went into the dining-room, where Tom was wandering about in a restless way. If he had been “raging like a bear,” Polly would n't have cared, she was so pleased that he wanted her, and so glad to be a confidante, as she used to be in the happy old days, that she would joyfully have faced a much more formidable person than reckless Tom.
“Now, then, what is it?” she said, coming straight to the point.
“Guess.”
“You've killed your horse racing.”
“Worse than that.”
“You are suspended again.”
“Worse than that.”
“Trix has run away with somebody,” cried Polly, with a gasp.
“Worse still.”
“Oh, Tom, you have n't horse whipped or shot any one?”
“Came pretty near blowing my own brains out but you see I did n't.”
“I can't guess; tell me, quick.”
“Well, I'm expelled.”
Tom paused on the rug as he gave the answer, and looked at Polly to see how she took it. To his surprise she seemed almost relieved, and after a minute silence, said, soberly, “That's bad, very bad; but it might have been worse.”
“It is worse;” and Tom walked away again with a despairing sort of groan.
“Don't knock the chairs about, but come and sit down, and tell me quietly.”
“Can't do it.”
“Well, go on, then. Are you truly expelled? Can't it be made up? What did you do?”
“It's a true bill this time. I just had a row with the Chapel watchman, and knocked him down. If it was a first offence, I might have got off; but you see I've had no end of narrow escapes, and this was my last chance; I've lost it, and now there'll be the dickens to pay. I knew it was all up with me, so I did n't wait to be turned out, but just took myself off.”
“What will your father say?”
“It will come hard on the governor, but the worst of it is” there Tom stopped, and stood a minute in the middle of the room with his head down, as if he did n't find it easy to tell even kind little Polly. Then out came the truth all in a breath, just as he used to bolt out his boyish misdemeanors, and then back up against the wall ready to take the consequences.
“I owe an awful lot of money that the governor don't know about.”
“Oh, Tom, how could you?”
“I've been an extravagant rascal, I know it, and I'm thundering sorry, but that don't help a fellow, I've got to tell the dear old buffer, and there's where it cuts.”
At another time Polly would have laughed at the contrast between Tom's face and his language, but there was a sincere remorse, which made even the dreadful word “buffer” rather touching than otherwise.
“He will be very angry, I dare say; but he'll help you, won't he? He always does, Fan says.”
“That's the worst of it, you see. He's paid up so often, that the last time he said his patience could n't stand it, nor his pocket either, and if I got into any more scrapes of that sort, I must get out as I could. I meant to be as steady as Bunker Hill Monument; but here I am again, worse than ever, for last quarter I did n't say anything to father, he was so bothered by the loss of those ships just then, so things have mounted up confoundedly.”
“What have you done with all your money?”
“Hanged if I know.”
“Can't you pay it anyway?”
“Don't see how, as I have n't a cent of my own, and no way of getting it, unless I try gambling.”
“Oh, mercy, no! Sell your horse,” cried Polly, after a minute of deep meditation.
“I have; but he did n't bring half I gave for him. I lamed him last winter, and the beggar won't get over it.”
“And that did n't pay up the debts?”
“Only about a half of'em.”
“Why, Tom, how much do you owe?”
“I have dodged figuring it up till yesterday; then things were so desperate, I thought I might as well face the truth, so I overhauled my accounts, and there's the result.”
Tom threw a blotted, crumpled paper into Polly's lap, and tramped up and down again, faster than ever. Polly took one look at the total and clasped her hands, for to her inexperienced eyes it looked appalling.
“Tidy little sum, is n't it?” asked Tom, who could n't bear the silence, or the startled, grieved look in Polly's eyes.
“It's awful! I don't wonder you dread telling your father.”
“I'd rather be shot. I say, Polly, suppose we break it to him easy!” added Tom, after another turn.
“How do you mean?”
“Why, suppose Fan, or, better still, you go and sort of pave the way. I can't bear to come down on him with the whole truth at once.”
“So you'd like to have me go and tell him for you?” Polly's lip curled a little as she said that, and she gave Tom a look that would have shown him how blue eyes can flash, if he had seen it. But he was at the window, and did n't turn, as he said slowly, “Well, you see, he's so fond of you; we all confide in you; and you are so like one of the family, that it seems quite natural. Just tell him I'm expelled, you know, and as much more as you like; then I'll come in, and we'll have it out.”
Polly rose and went to the door without a word. In doing so, Tom caught a glimpse of her face, and said, hastily, “Don't you think it would be a good plan?”
“No, I don't.”
“Why not? Don't you think he'd rather have it told him nicely by you, than blurted out as I always do blurt things?”
“I know he'd rather have his son go to him and tell the truth, like a man, instead of sending a girl to do what he is afraid to do himself.”
If Polly had suddenly boxed his ears, Tom could n't have looked more taken aback than by that burst. He looked at her excited face, seemed to understand the meaning of it, and remembered all at once that he was trying to hide behind a girl. He turned scarlet, said shortly, “Come back, Polly,” and walked straight out of the room, looking as if going to instant execution, for poor Tom had been taught to fear his father, and had not entirely outgrown the dread.
Polly sat down, looking both satisfied and troubled. “I hope I did right,” she said to herself, “I could n't bear to have him shirk and seem cowardly. He is n't, only he did n't think how it seemed to me, and I don't wonder he was a little afraid, Mr. Shaw is so severe with the poor fellow. Oh, dear, what should we do if Will got into such scrapes. Thank goodness, he's poor, and can't; I'm so glad of that!”
Then she sat silent beside the half-open door, hearing the murmur of Tom's voice across the hall, and hoping, with all her heart, that he would n't have a very hard time. He seemed to tell his story rapidly and steadily, without interruption, to the end; then Polly heard Mr. Shaw's deeper voice say a few words, at which Tom uttered a loud exclamation, as if taken by surprise. Polly could n't distinguish a word, so she kept her seat, wondering anxiously what was going on between the two men. A sudden pause seemed to follow Tom's ejaculation, then Mr. Shaw talked a long time in a low, earnest tone, so different from the angry one Polly had expected to hear, that it made her nervous, for Mr. Shaw usually “blew Tom up first, and forgave him afterward,” as Maud said. Presently Tom's voice was heard, apparently asking eager questions, to which brief replies were given. Then a dead silence fell upon the room, and nothing was heard but the spring rain softly falling out of doors. All of a sudden she heard a movement, and Tom's voice say audibly, “Let me bring Polly;” and he appeared, looking so pale and miserable that Polly was frightened.
“Go and say something to him; I can't; poor old father, if I'd only known,” and to Polly's utter dismay, Tom threw himself into a chair, and laid his head down on the table, as if he had got a blow that was too much for him.
“Oh, Tom, what is it?” cried Polly, hurrying to him, full of fears she dared not speak.
Without looking up, Tom answered, in a smothered voice, “Failed; all gone to smash; and to-morrow every one will know it.”
Polly held on to the back of Tom's chair, for a minute, for the news took her breath away, and she felt as if the world was coming to an end, “failed” was such a vaguely dreadful word to her.
“Is it very bad?” she asked, softly, feeling as if anything was better than to stand still and see Tom so wretched.
“Yes; he means to give up everything. He's done his best; but it can't be staved off any longer, and it's all up with him.”
“Oh, I wish I had a million to give him!” cried Polly, clasping her hands, with the tears running down her cheeks. “How does he bear it, Tom?”
“Like a man, Polly; and I'm proud of him,” said Tom, looking up, all red and excited with the emotions he was trying to keep under. “Everything has been against him, and he has fought all alone to stand the pressure, but it's too much for him, and he's given in. It's an honorable failure, mind you, and no one can say a word against him. I'd like to see'em try it!” and Tom clenched his hands, as if it would be an immense relief to him to thrash half a dozen aspersers of his father's honest name.
“Of course they can't! This is what poor Maud troubled about. He had told your mother and Fan before you came, and that is why they are so unhappy, I suppose.”
“They are safe enough. Father has n't touched mother's money; he'could n't rob his girls,' he said, and that's all safe for'em. Is n't he a trump, Polly?” And Tom's face shone with pride, even while his lips would twitch with a tenderer feeling.
“If I could only do anything to help,” cried Polly, oppressed with her own powerlessness.
“You can. Go and be good to him; you know how; he needs it enough, all alone there. I can't do it, for I'm only a curse instead of a comfort to him.”
“How did he take your news?” asked Polly, who, for a time, had forgotten the lesser trouble in the greater.
“Like a lamb; for when I'd done, he only said, 'My poor lad, we must bear with one another.' and then told his story.”
“I'm glad he was kind,” began Polly, in a soothing tone; but Tom cried out, remorsefully, “That's what knocks me over! Just when I ought to be a pride and a prop to him, I bring him my debts and disgrace, and he never says a word of blame. It's no use, I can't stand it!” and Tom's head went down again with something very like a sob, that would come in spite of manful efforts to keep it back, for the poor fellow had the warmest heart that ever was, and all the fine waistcoats outside could n't spoil it.
That sound gave Polly more pain than the news of a dozen failures and expulsions, and it was as impossible for her to resist putting her hand tenderly on the bent head, as it was for her to help noticing with pleasure how brown the little curls were growing, and how soft they were. In spite of her sorrow, she enjoyed that minute very much, for she was a born consoler, and, it is hardly necessary for me to add, loved this reprehensible Tom with all her heart. It was a very foolish thing for her to do, she quite agreed to that; she could n't understand it, explain it, or help it; she only felt that she did care for him very much, in spite of his faults, his indifference, and his engagement. You see, she learned to love him one summer, when he made them a visit. That was before Trix caught him; and when she heard that piece of news, Polly could n't unlove him all at once, though she tried very hard, as was her duty. That engagement was such a farce, that she never had much faith in it, so she put her love away in a corner of her heart, and tried to forget it, hoping it would either die, or have a right to live. It did n't make her very miserable, because patience, work, and common-sense lent her a hand, and hope would keep popping up its bright face from the bottom of her Pandora-box of troubles. Now and then, when any one said Trix would n't jilt Tom, or that Tom did care for Trix more than he should, Polly had a pang, and thought she could n't possibly bear it. But she always found she could, and so came to the conclusion that it was a merciful provision of nature that girls' hearts could stand so much, and their appetites continue good, when unrequited love was starving.
Now, she could not help yearning over this faulty, well-beloved scapegrace Tom, or help thinking, with a little thrill of hope, “If Trix only cared for his money, she may cast him off now he's lost it; but I 'll love him all the better because he's poor.” With this feeling warm at her heart, I don't wonder that Polly's hand had a soothing effect, and that after a heave or two, Tom's shoulders were quiet, and certain smothered sniffs suggested that he would be all right again, if he could only wipe his eyes without any one's seeing him do it.
Polly seemed to divine his wish, and tucking a little, clean handkerchief into one of his half-open hands, she said, “I'm going to your father, now,” and with a farewell smooth, so comforting that Tom wished she'd do it again, she went away.
As she paused a minute in the hall to steady herself, Maud called her from above, and thinking that the women might need her more than the men, she ran up to find Fanny waiting for her in her own room.
“Mamma's asleep, quite worn out, poor dear, so we can talk in here without troubling her,” said Fanny, receiving her friend so quietly, that Polly was amazed.
“Let me come, too, I won't make any fuss; it's so dreadful to be shut out everywhere, and have people crying and talking, and locked up, and I not know what it means,” said Maud, beseechingly.
“You do know, now; I've told her, Polly,” said Fan, as they sat down together, and Maud perched herself on the bed, so that she might retire among the pillows if her feelings were too much for her.
“I'm glad you take it so well, dear; I was afraid it might upset you,” said Polly, seeing now that in spite of her quiet manner, Fan's eyes had an excited look, and her cheeks a feverish color.
“I shall groan and moan by and by, I dare say, but at first it sort of dazed me, and now it begins to excite me. I ought to be full of sorrow for poor papa, and I am truly sorry, but, wicked as it may seem, it's a fact, Polly, that I'm half glad it's happened, for it takes me out of myself, and gives me something to do.”
Fanny's eyes fell and her color rose as she spoke, but Polly understood why she wanted to forget herself, and put her arm round her with a more tender sympathy than Fanny guessed.
“Perhaps things are not as bad as they seem; I don't know much about such matters, but I've seen people who have failed, and they seemed just as comfortable as before,” said Polly.
“It won't be so with us, for papa means to give up everything, and not have a word said against him. Mamma's little property is settled upon her, and has n't been risked. That touched her so much! She dreads poverty even more than I do, but she begged him to take it if it would help him. That pleased him, but he said nothing would induce him to do it, for it would n't help much, and was hardly enough to keep her comfortable.”
“Do you know what he means to do?” asked Polly, anxiously.
“He said his plans were not made, but he meant to go into the little house that belonged to grandma, as soon as he could, for it was n't honest for a bankrupt to keep up an establishment like this.”
“I shan't mind that at all, I like the little house'cause it's got a garden, and there's a cunning room with a three-cornered closet in it that I always wanted. If that's all, I don't think bankrupting is so very bad,” said Maud, taking a cheerful view of things.
“Ah, just wait till the carriage goes and the nice clothes and the servants, and we have to scratch along as we can. You'll change your mind then, poor child,” said Fanny, whose ideas of failure were decidedly tragical.
“Will they take all my things away?” cried Maud, in dismay.
“I dare say; I don't know what we are allowed to keep; but not much, I fancy,” and Fan looked as if strung up to sacrifice everything she possessed.
“They shan't have my new ear-rings, I'll hide'em, and my best dress, and my gold smelling bottle. Oh, oh, oh! I think it's mean to take a little girl's things away!” And Maud dived among the pillows to smother a wail of anguish at the prospect of being bereft of her treasures.
Polly soon lured her out again, by assurances that she would n't be utterly despoiled, and promises to try and soften the hard hearts of her father's creditors, if the ear-rings and the smelling-bottle were attached.
“I wonder if we shall be able to keep one servant, just till we learn how to do the work,” said Fanny, looking at her white hands, with a sigh.
But Maud clapped hers, and gave a joyful bounce, as she cried, “Now I can learn to cook! I love so to beat eggs! I'll have an apron, with a bib to it, like Polly's, and a feather duster, and sweep the stairs, maybe, with my head tied up, like Katy. Oh, what fun!”
“Don't laugh at her, or discourage her; let her find comfort in bibs and dust-pans, if she can,” whispered Polly to Fan, while Maud took a joyful “header” among the pillows, and came up smiling and blowzy, for she loved house-work, and often got lectured for stolen visits to the kitchen, and surreptitious sweepings and dustings when the coast was clear.
“Mamma is so feeble, I shall have to keep house, I suppose, and you must show me how, Polly,” said Fan.
“Good practice, ma'am, as you'll find out some day,” answered Polly, laughing significantly.
Fanny smiled, then grew both grave and sad. “This changes everything; the old set will drop me, as we did the Mertons when their father failed, and my'prospects,' as we say, are quite ruined.”
“I don't believe it; your real friends won't drop you, and you'll find out which the true ones are now. I know one friend who will be kinder than ever.”
“Oh, Polly, do you think so?” and Fanny's eyes softened with sudden tears.
“I know who she means,” cried Maud, always eager to find out things. “It 's herself; Polly won't mind if we are poor, 'cause she likes beggars.”
“Is that who you meant?” asked Fan, wistfully.
“No, it's a much better and dearer friend than I am,” said Polly, pinching Fanny's cheek, as it reddened prettily under her eyes. “You'll never guess, Maud, so I would n't try, but be planning what you will put in your cunning, three-cornered closet, when you get it.”
Having got rid of “Miss Paulina Pry,” as Tom called Maud, who was immediately absorbed by her cupboard, the older girls soberly discussed the sudden change which had come, and Polly was surprised to see what unexpected strength and sense Fanny showed. Polly was too unconscious of the change which love had made in herself to understand at first the cause of her friend's new patience and fortitude; but she rejoiced over it, and felt that her prophecy would yet be fulfilled. Presently Maud emerged from her new closet, bringing a somewhat startling idea with her.
“Do bankrupting men” (Maud liked that new word) “always have fits?”
“Mercy, no! What put that into your head, child?” cried Polly.
“Why, Mr. Merton did; and I was thinking perhaps papa had got one down there, and it kind of frightened me.”
“Mr. Merton's was a bad, disgraceful failure, and I don't wonder he had a fit. Ours is n't, and papa won't do anything of that sort, you may be sure,” said Fanny, with as proud an air as if “our failure” was rather an honor than otherwise.
“Don't you think you and Maud had better go down and see him?” asked Polly.
“Perhaps he would n't like it; and I don't know what to say, either,” began Fan; but Polly said, eagerly, “I know he would like it. Never mind what you say; just go, and show him that you don't doubt or blame him for this, but love him all the more, and are ready and glad to help him bear the trouble.”
“I'm going, I ain't afraid; I'll just hug him, and say I'm ever so glad we are going to the little house,” cried Maud, scrambling off the bed, and running down stairs.
“Come with me, Polly, and tell me what to do,” said Fanny, drawing her friend after her.
“You'll know what to do when you see him, better than I can tell you,” answered Polly, readily yielding, for she knew they considered her “quite one of the family,” as Tom said.
At the study door they found Maud, whose courage had given out, for Mr. Merton's fit rather haunted her. Polly opened the door; and the minute Fanny saw her father, she did know what to do. The fire was low, the gas dim, and Mr. Shaw was sitting in his easy-chair, his gray head in both his hands, looking lonely, old, and bowed down with care. Fanny gave Polly one look, then went and took the gray head in both her arms, saying, with a tender quiver in her voice, “Father dear, we've come to help you bear it.”
Mr. Shaw looked up, and seeing in his daughter's face something that never had been there before, put his arm about her, and leaned his tired head against her, as if, when least expected, he had found the consolation he most needed. In that minute, Fanny felt, with mingled joy and self-reproach, what a daughter might be to her father; and Polly, thinking of feeble, selfish Mrs. Shaw, asleep up stairs, saw with sudden clearness what a wife should be to her husband, a helpmeet, not a burden. Touched by these unusual demonstrations, Maud crept quietly to her father's knee, and whispered, with a great tear shining on her little pug nose, “Papa, we don't mind it much, and I'm going to help Fan keep house for you; I'd like to do it, truly.”
Mr. Shaw's other arm went round the child, and for a minute no one said anything, for Polly had slipped behind his chair, that nothing should disturb the three, who were learning from misfortune how much they loved one another. Presently Mr. Shaw steadied himself and asked, “Where is my other daughter, where's my Polly?”
She was there at once; gave him one of the quiet kisses that had more than usual tenderness in it, for she loved to hear him say “my other daughter,” and then she whispered, “Don't you want Tom, too?”
“Of course I do; where is the poor fellow?”
“I'll bring him;” and Polly departed with most obliging alacrity.
But in the hall she paused a minute to peep into the glass and see if she was all right, for somehow she was more anxious to look neat and pretty to Tom in his hour of trouble than she had ever been in his prosperous days. In lifting her arms to perk up the bow at her throat she knocked a hat off the bracket. Now, a shiny black beaver is not an object exactly calculated to inspire tender or romantic sentiments, one would fancy, but that particular “stove pipe” seemed to touch Polly to the heart, for she caught it up, as if its fall suggested a greater one, smoothed out a slight dint, as if it was symbolical of the hard knocks its owner's head was now in danger of receiving, and stood looking at it with as much pity and respect, as if it had been the crown of a disinherited prince. Girls will do such foolish little things, and though we laugh at them, I think we like them the better for it, after all.
Richard was himself again when Polly entered, for the handkerchief had disappeared, his head was erect, his face was steady, and his whole air had a dogged composure which seemed to say to fate, “Hit away, I'm ready.” He did not hear Polly come in, for he was looking fixedly at the fire with eyes that evidently saw a very different future there from that which it used to show him; but when she said, “Tom, dear, your father wants you,” he got up at once, held out his hand to her, saying, “Come too, we can't get on without you,” and took her back into the study with him.
Then they had a long talk, for the family troubles seemed to warm and strengthen the family affection and confidence, and as the young people listened while Mr. Shaw told them as much of his business perplexities as they could understand, every one of them blamed him or herself for going on so gayly and blindly, while the storm was gathering, and the poor man was left to meet it all alone. Now, however, the thunder-clap had come, and after the first alarm, finding they were not killed, they began to discover a certain half-anxious, half-pleasant excitement in talking it over, encouraging one another, and feeling unusually friendly, as people do when a sudden shower drives two or three to the shelter of one umbrella.
It was a sober talk, but not all sad, for Mr. Shaw felt inexpressibly comforted by his children's unexpected sympathy, and they, trying to take the downfall cheerfully for his sake, found it easier to bear themselves. They even laughed occasionally, for the girls, in their ignorance, asked queer questions; Tom made ludicrously unbusiness-like propositions; and Maud gave them one hearty peal, that did a world of good, by pensively remarking, when the plans for the future had been explained to her, “I'm so relieved; for when papa said we must give up everything, and mamma called us all beggars, I did think I'd got to go round asking for cold vittles, with a big basket, and an old shawl over my head. I said once I'd like that, but I'm afraid I should n't, for I can't bear Indian cake and cold potatoes, that's what the poor children always seem to get, and I should hate to have Grace and the rest see me scuffing round the back gates.”
“My little girl shall never come to that, if I can help it,” said Mr. Shaw, holding her close, with a look that made Maud add, as she laid her cheek against his own, “But I'd do it, father, if you asked me to, for I truly want to help.”
“So do I!” cried Fanny, wondering at the same minute how it would seem to wear turned silks, and clean her gloves.
Tom said nothing, but drew toward him a paper of figures which his father had drawn up, and speedily reduced himself to the verge of distraction by trying to understand them, in his ardent desire to prove his willingness to put his shoulder to the wheel.
“We shall pull through, children, so don't borrow trouble, only be ready for discomforts and annoyances. Put your pride in your pockets, and remember poverty is n't disgraceful, but dishonesty is.”
Polly had always loved kind Mr. Shaw, but now she respected him heartily, and felt that she had not done him justice when she sometimes thought that he only cared for making money.
“I should n't wonder if this was a good thing for the whole family, though it don't look so. Mrs. Shaw will take it the hardest, but it may stir her up, so she will forget her nerves, and be as busy and happy as mother is,” said Polly to herself, in a hopeful mood, for poverty was an old friend, and she had learned long ago not to fear it, but to take its bitter and its sweet, and make the best of both.
When they parted for the night, Polly slipped away first, to leave them free, yet could n't help lingering outside to see how tenderly the girls parted from their father. Tom had n't a word to say for himself, for men don't kiss, caress, or cry when they feel most, and all he could do to express his sympathy and penitence, was to wring his father's hand with a face full of respect, regret, and affection, and then bolt up stairs as if the furies were after him, as they were, in a mild and modern form.
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{
"id": "2787"
}
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16
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A DRESS PARADE
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THE weeks that followed taught the Shaws, as many other families have been taught, how rapidly riches take to themselves wings and fly away, when they once begin to go. Mr. Shaw carried out his plans with an energy and patience that worked wonders, and touched the hearts of his hardest creditors. The big house was given up as soon as possible and the little house taken; being made comfortable with the furniture Madam left there when she went to live with her son. The old-fashioned things had been let with the house, and now seemed almost like a gift from Grandma, doubly precious in these troublous times. At the auction, several persons tried to show the family that, though they had lost their fortune, friends still remained, for one bid in Fanny's piano, and sent it to her; another secured certain luxurious articles for Mrs. Shaw's comfort; and a third saved such of Mr. Shaw's books as he valued most, for he had kept his word and given up everything, with the most punctilious integrity. So the little house was not bare, but made pleasant to their eyes by these waifs from the wreck, brought them by the tide of sympathy and good-will which soon set in. Everybody who knew them hastened to call, many from a real regard, but more from mere curiosity to “see how they took it.” This was one of the hardest things they had to bear, and Tom used strong language more than once, when some fine lady came to condole, and went away to gossip. Polly's hopes of Mrs. Shaw were disappointed, for misfortune did not have a bracing effect. She took to her bed at once, received her friends in tears and a point-lace cap, and cheered her family by plaintively inquiring when she was to be taken to the almshouse. This was hard for Fanny; but after an interval of despair, she came to the conclusion that under the circumstances it was the best thing her mother could have done, and with something of her father's energy, Fanny shouldered the new burden, feeling that at last necessity had given her what she had long needed, something to do.
The poor girl knew as much of household affairs as Snip; but pride and the resolution “to stand by Father,” kept up her courage, and she worked away with feverish activity at whatever task came first till, just as strength and heart were about to fail, order began to emerge from chaos and the vision of a home made happy and comfortable by her skill and care came to repay and sustain her.
Maud, being relieved from the fear of back-door beggary, soon became reconciled to bankruptcy; thought it rather a good joke, on the whole, for children like novelty, and don't care much for Mrs. Grundy. She regarded the new abode as a baby house on a large scale, where she was allowed to play her part in the most satisfactory manner. From the moment when, on taking possession of the coveted room, she opened the doors of the three-cornered closet, and found a little kettle just like Polly's, standing there, she felt that a good time was coming for her and fell to dusting furniture, washing cups, and making toast, the happiest, fussiest little housewife in the city. For Maud inherited the notable gifts of her grandmother, and would have made a capital farmer's daughter, in spite of her city breeding.
Polly came and went through all these changes, faithful, helpful, and as cheery as she could be when her friends were in trouble. The parts seemed reversed now, and it was Polly who gave, Fanny who received; for where everything seemed strange and new to Fan, Polly was quite at home, and every one of the unfashionable domestic accomplishments now came into play, to the comfort of the Shaws, and the great satisfaction of Polly. She could not do enough to prove her gratitude for former favors, and went toiling and moiling about, feeling that the hardest, most disagreeable tasks were her especial duty. In the moving nothing suited her better than to trot up and down, lugging heavy things, to pound her fingers black and blue nailing carpets and curtains, and the day she nearly broke her neck tumbling down the cellar stairs, in her eagerness to see that Mrs. Shaw's wine was rightly stored, she felt that she was only paying her debts, and told Tom she liked it, when he picked her up looking as grimy as a chimney-sweep.
“You can turn your hand to anything, you clever girl, so do come and give me some advice, for I am in the depths of despair,” said Fanny when the “maid-of-all-work” as Polly called herself, found a leisure hour.
“What is it? Moths in the furs, a smoky chimney, or small-pox next door?” asked Polly, as they entered Fan's room, where Maud was trying on old bonnets before the looking-glass.
“Actually I have nothing to wear,” began Fan impressively; “I've been too busy to think or care till now, but here it is nearly May and I have hardly a decent rag to my back. Usually, you know, I just go to Mrs. O'Grady and tell her what I want; she makes my spring wardrobe, Papa pays the bill, and there I am. Now I've looked into the matter, and I declare to you, Polly, I'm frightened to see how much it costs to dress me.”
“Not so much as some girls I know,” said Polly encouragingly.
“Perhaps not, for I have a conscience, and taste is economy sometimes; but really, Polly, I have n't the heart to ask Papa for a cent just now, and yet I must have clothes. You are such a genius for planning and working wonders, that I throw myself upon you and ask, 'How shall I make a spring wardrobe out of nothing?'”
“Let me see the'nothing' before I advise. Bring out every rag you've got, and we'll see what can be done,” said Polly, looking as if she enjoyed the prospect, for she had a great deal of that feminine faculty which we call “knack,” and much practice had increased it.
Fanny brought out her “rags” and was astonished to see how many she had, for chair, sofa, bed, and bureau were covered, and still Maud, who was burrowing in the closets, kept crying, “Here's another.”
“There's a discouraging heap of rubbish for you!” said Fan, as she added a faded muslin to the last pile.
“Now, to me your'rubbish' looks very encouraging, because there is good material there, and not much worn-out finery, that's my detestation, for you can't do anything with it. Let me see, five bonnets. Put the winter ones away till autumn, rip up the summer ones, and out of three old ones we'll get a pretty new one, if my eyes don't deceive me.”
“I'll rip, and then do let me see you make a bonnet, it must be so interesting,” said Maud, whipping out her scissors and eagerly beginning to reduce a shabby little bonnet to its original elements. “Now the dresses,” continued Polly, who had rapidly sorted out the piles.
“Will you have the goodness to look at this?” said Fan, holding up a gray street suit faded past cure.
Polly whisked it wrong side out, and showing the clean, bright fabric, said, with a triumphant wave, “Behold your new suit; fresh trimming and less of it will finish you off as smart as ever.”
“I never wore a turned dress in my life; do you suppose people will know it?” said Fan doubtfully.
“What if they do? It won't hurt you. Not one in a hundred will ever think anything about your dress, except that it is pretty. I've worn turned and dyed gowns all my days, and it don't seem to have alienated my friends, or injured my constitution.”
“That it has n't; I'm a goose, Polly, and I'll get over the feeling that it's sort of disgraceful to be poor and have to economize. We'll turn the gray, and I'll wear it bravely.”
“Then it will be more becoming than ever. Oh, here's the pretty violet silk. That will make a lovely suit,” cried Polly, going on with the review.
“Don't see how two draggled skirts and a stained waist can be transformed into a whole rig,” said Fan, sitting on the bed, with her garments strewn about her in various attitudes of limp despondency.
“Well, ma'am, my plan is this,” began Polly, imitating Mrs. O'Grady's important tone, and bad grammar: “Gores is out, and plaits is in; therefore, as the top of this skirt is quite fresh, we will take off the ruffles, turn it upside down, and leave it plain. The upper skirt will be made scanter, and finished with a frill; then the waist can be refreshed with the best parts of these wide flounces, and out of those new bits we will concoct a hat. The black lace Maud has just taken off the green one will do to edge the violet, and with your nice silk mantilla you are complete, don't you see?”
“I don't quite see it yet, but I have firm faith that I shall in time, and consider my calling costume finished,” said Fanny, getting more and more interested as she saw her condemned wardrobe coming out fresh again under Polly's magic knack.
“There are two; then that piqu, is all right, if you cut the tail off the jacket and change the trimming a bit. The muslins only need mending and doing up to look as well as ever; you ought not to put them away torn and soiled, my child. The two black silks will be good stand-bys for years. If I were you, I'd have a couple of neat, pretty prints for home-wear, and then I don't see why you are n't fixed well enough for our short season.”
“Can't I do anything with this barege? It's one of my favorite dresses, and I hate to give it up.”
“You wore that thoroughly out, and it's only fit for the rag-bag. Yes, it was very pretty and becoming, I remember, but its day is over.”
Fanny let the dress lie in her lap a minute as she absently picked at the fringe, smiling to herself over the happy time when she wore it last and Sydney said she only needed cowslips in her lap to look like spring. Presently she folded it up and put it away with a sigh, but it never went into the rag-bag, and my sentimental readers can understand what saved it.
“The ball dresses had better be put nicely away till next year,” began Polly, coming to a rainbow colored heap.
“My day is over, I shall never use them again. Do what you like with them,” said Fan calmly.
“Did you ever sell your cast-off finery, as many ladies do?” asked Polly.
“Never; I don't like the fashion. I give it away, or let Maud have it for tableaux.”
“I wonder if you would mind my telling you something Belle proposed?”
“If it's an offer to buy my clothes, I should mind,” answered Fanny, sharply.
“Then I won't,” and Polly retired behind a cloud of arsenic-green gauze, which made her look as if she had the cholera.
“If she wanted to buy that horrid new'gooseberry-colored gown,' as Tom calls it, I'd let her have it cheap,” put in Maud, who was of a practical turn.
“Does she want it, Polly?” asked Fan, whose curiosity got the better of her pride.
“Well, she merely asked me if I thought you'd be mortally offended, if she offered to take it off your hands, as you'd never worn it. You don't like it, and in another season it will be all out of fashion,” said Polly from her verdant retreat.
“What did you say?”
“I saw she meant it kindly, so I said I'd ask. Now between ourselves, Fan, the price of that dress would give you all you'll want for your spring fixings, that's one consideration; then here's another, which may have some weight with you,” added Polly slyly. “Trix told Belle she was going to ask you for the dress, as you would n't care to wear it now. That made Belle fire up, and say it was a mean thing to do without offering some return for a costly thing like that; and then Belle said, in her blunt way, 'I'll give Fan all she paid for it, and more, too, if it will be any help to her. I don't care for the dress, but I'd like to slip a little money into her pocket, for I know she needs it and is too good to ask dear Mr. Shaw for anything she can get on without.'”
“Did she say that? I'll give her the dress, and not take a penny for it,” cried Fan, flushing up with mingled anger toward Trix and gratitude to Belle.
“That won't suit her; you let me manage it, and don't feel any shame or anxiety about it. You did many a kind and generous thing for Belle when you had the power, and you liked to do it; now let her pay her debts, and have the same pleasure.”
“If she looks at it in that way, it makes a difference. Perhaps I'd better the money would be an immense help only I don't quite like to take it.”
“Kings and queens sell their jewels when times are hard or they get turned off their thrones, and no one thinks it anything amiss, so why need you? It's just a little transaction between two friends who exchange things they don't want for things which they do, and I'd do it if I were you.”
“We'll see about it,” said Fan, privately resolving to take Polly's advice.
“If I had lots of things like Fan, I'd have an auction and get all I could for them. Why don't you?” asked Maud, beginning on her third bonnet.
“We will,” said Polly, and mounting a chair, she put up, bid in, and knocked down Fan's entire wardrobe to an imaginary group of friends, with such droll imitations of each one that the room rang with laughter.
“That's enough nonsense; now we'll return to business,” said Polly, descending breathless but satisfied with the effect of her fun.
“These white muslins and pretty silks will keep for years, so I should lay them by till they are needed. It will save buying, and you can go to your stock any time and make over what you want. That's the way Mother does; we've always had things sent us from richer friends, and whatever was n't proper for us to wear at the time, Mother put away to be used when we needed it. Such funny bundles as we used to have sometimes, odd shoes, bonnets without crowns, stockings without heels or toes, and old finery of all sorts. We used to rush when a bundle came, and sit round while Mother opened it. The boys always made fun of the things, though they were as grateful, really, as any of us. Will made a verse one day which we thought pretty well for a little chap: 'To poor country folks Who have n't any clothes, Rich folks, to relieve them, Send old lace gowns and satin bows.'”
“I think that Will is going to be as nice a poet as Mr. Shakespeare,” remarked Maud in a tone of serious conviction.
“He is already a Milton; but I don't believe he will ever be anything but a poet in name,” said Polly, working away while she talked.
“Did n't your mother ever let you wear the nice things that came?” asked Maud.
“No, she thought it was n't the thing for a poor minister's girls to go flourishing about in second-hand finery, so she did what I'm doing now, put away what would be useful and proper for us by and by, and let us play with the shabby, silk bonnets and dirty, flounced gowns. Such fun as we used to have up in our big garret! I remember one day we'd been playing have a ball, and were all rigged up, even the boys. Some new neighbors came to call, and expressed a wish to see us, having been told that we were pattern children. Mother called us, but we had paraded out into the garden, after our ball, and were having a concert, as we sat about on the cabbages for green satin seats, so we did n't hear the call, and just as the company was going, a great noise arrested them on the doorstep, and round the corner of the house rattled Ned in full costume, wheeling Kitty in a barrow, while Jimmy, Will, and I ran screaming after, looking like Bedlamites; for we were playing that Lady Fitz Perkins had fainted, and was being borne home senseless in a cab. I thought mother would kill herself with laughing; and you can imagine what a fine impression the strangers received of the model children.”
Maud was so tickled with this youthful prank that she unguardedly sat down to laugh on the edge of an open trunk, immediately doubled up, fell in, and was with difficulty extricated.
“People in the country have great deal nicer times than we do. I never rode in a wheelbarrow, I never sat on cabbages, and I don't think it's fair,” she said with an injured expression. “You need n't save any old silk gowns for me; I don't mean to be a fine lady when I grow up, I'm going to be a farmer's wife, and make butter and cheese, and have ten children, and raise pigs,” she added in one enthusiastic burst.
“I do believe she will if she can find a farmer anywhere,” said Fanny.
“Oh, I'm going to have Will; I asked him and he said, 'All right.' He 's going to preach Sundays, and work on the farm the rest of the time. Well, he is, so you need n't laugh, for we've made all our plans,” said Maud with comical dignity as she tried the effect of an old white bonnet, wondering if farmers' wives could wear ostrich feathers when they went to meeting.
“Blessed innocence! Don't you wish you were a child, and dared tell what you want?” murmured Fanny.
“I wish I had seen Will's face when Maud proposed,” answered Polly, with a nod which answered her friend's speech better than her words.
“Any news of anybody?” whispered Fan, affecting to examine a sleeve with care.
“Still at the South; don't think late events have been reported yet; that accounts for absence,” answered Polly.
“I think Sir Philip was hit harder than was supposed,” said Fan.
“I doubt it, but time cures wounds of that sort amazing quick.”
“Wish it did!”
“Who is Sir Philip?” demanded Maud, pricking up her ears.
“A famous man who lived in the time of Queen Elizabeth,” answered Fan, with a look at Polly.
“Oh!” And Maud seemed satisfied, but the sharp child had her suspicions nevertheless.
“There will be an immense deal of work in all this fixing over and I hate to sew,” said Fanny, to divert a certain person's thoughts.
“Jenny and I are going to help. We are your debtors, as well as Belle, and demand the privilege of paying up. Blessings, like curses, come home to roost, Fan.”
“Mine come home a good deal bigger than they went,” answered Fanny, looking pleased that little favors should be so faithfully remembered.
“The interest on that sort of investment rolls up beautifully, you know. Now rip that dress for Jenny to put in order, and I'll toss you up a bonnet in less than no time,” said Polly, determined to have things go smoothly, for she knew Fan's feelings had been a good deal tried lately, in many ways.
“I must have something to match my dress, and blue inside,” said Fanny, bringing out her ribbon boxes.
“Anything you like, my dear; when it comes to bonnets, I am usually inspired. I have it! There we are! And nothing could be nicer,” cried Polly, making a dive among the silks Fan was turning over with a lost expression. “This bit of silver-gray is all I ask, here's enough for a killing bonnet, and those forget-me-nots are both pretty and appropriate.”
“You wretch, be still!” cried Fanny, as Polly looked up at her with a wicked laugh in her eyes.
“It will be done in time, and the dress likewise, so look your prettiest, and accept my blessing,” continued Polly, seeing that Fan liked her raillery.
“Time for what?” asked Paulina Pry.
“Your wedding, dear,” sweetly answered Fan, for Polly's pleasant hints and predictions put her in a charming humor, and even made old clothes of little consequence.
Maud gave an incredulous sniff, and wondered why “big girls need to be so dreadful mysterious about their old secrets.”
“This silk reminds me of Kitty's performance last summer. A little checked silk was sent in our spring bundle from Mrs. Davenport, and Mother said Kit might have it if she could make it do. So I washed it nicely, and we fussed and planned, but it came short by half of one sleeve. I gave it up, but Kit went to work and matched every scrap that was left so neatly that she got out the half sleeve, put it on the under side, and no one was the wiser. How many pieces do you think she put in, Maud?”
“Fifty,” was the wise reply.
“No, only ten, but that was pretty well for a fourteen-year-old dressmaker. You ought to have seen the little witch laugh in her sleeve when any one admired the dress, for she wore it all summer and looked as pretty as a pink in it. Such things are great fun when you get used to them; besides, contriving sharpens your wits, and makes you feel as if you had more hands than most people.”
“I think we'll get a farm near your house; I should like to know Kitty,” said Maud, feeling a curious interest in a girl who made such peculiar patchwork.
“The dress-parade is over, and I'm ever so much obliged to you, Polly, for helping me through, and showing me how to make the best of things. I hope in time to have as many hands as you,” said Fan gratefully, when the simple bonnet was done and everything planned out ready to be finished.
“I hope you will soon have two good, strong ones beside your own, my dear,” answered Polly, as she vanished, with a parting twinkle that kept Fan's face bright all day.
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{
"id": "2787"
}
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17
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PLAYING GRANDMOTHER
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I THINK Tom had the hardest time of all, for besides the family troubles, he had many of his own to perplex and harass him. College scrapes were soon forgotten in greater afflictions; but there were plenty of tongues to blame “that extravagant dog,” and plenty of heads to wag ominously over prophecies of the good time Tom Shaw would now make on the road to ruin. As reporters flourish in this country, of course Tom soon heard all the friendly criticisms passed upon him and his career, and he suffered more than anybody guessed; for the truth that was at the bottom of the gossip filled him with the sharp regret and impotent wrath against himself as well as others, which drives many a proud fellow, so placed, to destruction, or the effort that redeems boyish folly, and makes a man of him.
Now that he had lost his heritage, Tom seemed to see for the first time how goodly it had been, how rich in power, pleasure, and gracious opportunities. He felt its worth even while he acknowledged, with the sense of justice that is strong in manly men, how little he deserved a gift which he had so misused. He brooded over this a good deal, for, like the bat in the fable, he did n't seem to find any place in the new life which had begun for all. Knowing nothing of business, he was not of much use to his father, though he tried to be, and generally ended by feeling that he was a hindrance, not a help. Domestic affairs were equally out of his line, and the girls, more frank than their father, did not hesitate to tell him he was in the way when he offered to lend a hand anywhere. After the first excitement was over, and he had time to think, heart and energy seemed to die out, remorse got hold of him, and, as generous, thoughtless natures are apt to do when suddenly confronted with conscience, he exaggerated his faults and follies into sins of the deepest dye, and fancied he was regarded by others as a villain and an outcast. Pride and penitence made him shrink out of sight as much as possible, for he could not bear pity, even when silently expressed by a friendly hand or a kindly eye. He stayed at home a good deal, and loafed about with a melancholy and neglected air, vanished when anyone came, talked very little, and was either pathetically humble or tragically cross. He wanted to do something, but nothing seemed to appear; and while he waited to get his poise after the downfall, he was so very miserable that I'm afraid, if it had not been for one thing, my poor Tom would have got desperate, and been a failure. But when he seemed most useless, outcast, and forlorn, he discovered that one person needed him, one person never found him in the way, one person always welcomed and clung to him with the strongest affection of a very feeble nature. This dependence of his mother's was Tom's salvation at that crisis of his life; and the gossips, who said softly to one another over their muffins and tea. “It really would be a relief to that whole family if poor, dear Mrs. Shaw could be ahem! mercifully removed,” did not know that the invalid's weak, idle hands were unconsciously keeping the son safe in that quiet room, where she gave him all that she had to give, mother-love, till he took heart again, and faced the world ready to fight his battles manfully.
“Dear, dear! how old and bent poor father does look. I hope he won't forget to order my sweetbread,” sighed Mrs. Shaw one day, as she watched her husband slowly going down the street.
Tom, who stood by her, idly spinning the curtain tassel, followed the familiar figure with his eye, and seeing how gray the hair had grown, how careworn the florid face, and how like a weary old man his once strong, handsome father walked, he was smitten by a new pang of self-reproach, and with his usual impetuosity set about repairing the omission as soon as he discovered it.
“I'll see to your sweetbread, mum. Good-by, back to dinner,” and with a hasty kiss, Tom was off.
He did n't know exactly what he meant to do, but it had suddenly come over him, that he was hiding from the storm, and letting his father meet it alone; for the old man went to his office every day with the regularity of a machine, that would go its usual round until it stopped, while the young man stayed at home with the women, and let his mother comfort him.
“He has a right to be ashamed of me, but I act as if I was ashamed of him; dare say people think so. I'll show them that I ain't; yes, by the powers, I will!” and Tom drew on his gloves with the air of a man about to meet and conquer an enemy.
“Have an arm, sir? If you don't mind I'll walk down with you. Little commission for mother, nice day, is n't it?”
Tom rather broke down at the end of his speech, for the look of pleased surprise with which his father greeted him, the alacrity with which he accepted and leaned on the strong arm offered him, proved that the daily walks had been solitary and doubtless sad ones. I think Mr. Shaw understood the real meaning of that little act of respect, and felt better for the hopeful change it seemed to foretell. But he took it quietly, and leaving his face to speak for him, merely said, “Thanky, Tom; yes, mother will enjoy her dinner twice as much if you order it.”
Then they began to talk business with all their might, as if they feared that some trace of sentiment might disgrace their masculine dignity. But it made no difference whether they discussed lawsuits or love, mortgages or mothers, the feeling was all right and they knew it, so Mr. Shaw walked straighter than usual, and Tom felt that he was in his proper place again. The walk was not without its trials, however; for while it did Tom's heart good to see the cordial respect paid to his father, it tried his patience sorely to see also inquisitive or disapproving glances fixed upon himself when hats were lifted to his father, and to hear the hearty “Good day, Mr. Shaw,” drop into a cool or careless, “That's the son; it's hard on him. Wild fellow, do him good.”
“Granted; but you need n't hit a man when he's down,” muttered Tom to himself, feeling every moment a stronger desire to do something that should silence everybody. “I'd cut away to Australia if it was n't for mother; anything, anywhere to get out of the way of people who know me. I never can right myself here, with all the fellows watching, and laying wagers whether I sink or swim. Hang Greek and Latin! wish I'd learned a trade, and had something to fall back upon. Have n't a blessed thing now, but decent French and my fists. Wonder if old Bell don't want a clerk for the Paris branch of the business? That would n't be bad; faith, I'll try it.”
And when Tom had landed his father safely at the office, to the great edification of all beholders, he screwed up his courage, and went to prefer his request, feeling that the prospect brightened a little. But Mr. Bell was not in a good humor, and only gave Tom a severe lecture on the error of his ways, which sent him home much depressed, and caused the horizon to lower again.
As he roamed about the house that afternoon, trying to calculate how much an Australian outfit would cost, the sound of lively voices and clattering spoons attracted him to the kitchen. There he found Polly giving Maud lessons in cookery; for the “new help” not being a high-priced article, could not be depended on for desserts, and Mrs. Shaw would have felt as if the wolf was at the door if there was not “a sweet dish” at dinner. Maud had a genius for cooking, and Fanny hated it, so that little person was in her glory, studying receipt books, and taking lessons whenever Polly could give them.
“Gracious me, Tom, don't come now; we are awful busy! Men don't belong in kitchens,” cried Maud, as her brother appeared in the doorway.
“Could n't think what you were about. Mum is asleep, and Fan out, so I loafed down to see if there was any fun afoot,” said Tom, lingering, as if the prospect was agreeable. He was a social fellow, and very grateful just then to any one who helped him to forget his worries for a time. Polly knew this, felt that his society would not be a great affliction to herself at least, and whispering to Maud, “He won't know,” she added, aloud, “Come in if you like, and stir this cake for me; it needs a strong hand, and mine are tired. There, put on that apron to keep you tidy, sit here, and take it easy.”
“I used to help grandma bat up cake, and rather liked it, if I remember right,” said Tom, letting Polly tie a checked apron on him, put a big bowl into his hands, and settle him near the table, where Maud was picking raisins, and she herself stirring busily about among spice-boxes, rolling-pins, and butter-pots.
“You do it beautifully, Tom. I'll give you a conundrum to lighten your labor: Why are bad boys like cake?” asked Polly, anxious to cheer him up.
“Because a good beating makes them better. I doubt that myself, though,” answered Tom, nearly knocking the bottom of the bowl out with his energetic demonstrations, for it really was a relief to do something.
“Bright boy! here's a plum for you,” and Polly threw a plump raisin into his mouth.
“Put in lots, won't you? I'm rather fond of plum-cake,” observed Tom, likening himself to Hercules with the distaff, and finding his employment pleasant, if not classical.
“I always do, if I can; there's nothing I like better than to shovel in sugar and spice, and make nice, plummy cake for people. It's one of the few things I have a gift for.”
“You've hit it this time, Polly; you certainly have a gift for putting a good deal of both articles into your own and other people's lives, which is lucky, as, we all have to eat that sort of cake, whether we like it or not,” observed Tom, so soberly that Polly opened her eyes, and Maud exclaimed, “I do believe he's preaching.”
“Feel as if I could sometimes,” continued Tom; then his eye fell upon the dimples in Polly's elbows, and he added, with a laugh, “That's more in your line, ma'am; can't you give us a sermon?”
“A short one. Life, my brethren, is like plum-cake,” began Polly, impressively folding her floury hands. “In some the plums are all on the top, and we eat them gayly, till we suddenly find they are gone. In others the plums sink to the bottom, and we look for them in vain as we go on, and often come to them when it is too late to enjoy them. But in the well-made cake, the plums are wisely scattered all through, and every mouthful is a pleasure. We make our own cakes, in a great measure, therefore let us look to it, my brethren, that they are mixed according to the best receipt, baked in a well regulated oven, and gratefully eaten with a temperate appetite.”
“Good! good!” cried Tom, applauding with the wooden spoon. “That's a model sermon, Polly, short, sweet, sensible, and not a bit sleepy. I'm one of your parish, and will see that you get your'celery punctooal,' as old Deacon Morse used to say.”
“'Thank you, brother, my wants is few, and ravens scurser than they used to be,' as dear old Parson Miller used to answer. Now, Maud, bring on the citron;” and Polly began to put the cake together in what seemed a most careless and chaotic manner, while Tom and Maud watched with absorbing interest till it was safely in the oven.
“Now make your custards, dear; Tom may like to beat the eggs for you; it seems to have a good effect upon his constitution.”
“First-rate; hand'em along,” and Tom smoothed his apron with a cheerful air. “By the way, Syd's got back. I met him yesterday, and he treated me like a man and a brother,” he added, as if anxious to contribute to the pleasures of the hour.
“I'm so glad!” cried Polly, clapping her hands, regardless of the egg she held, which dropped and smashed on the floor at her feet. “Careless thing! Pick it up, Maud, I'll get some more;” and Polly whisked out of the room, glad of an excuse to run and tell Fan, who had just come in, lest, hearing the news in public, she might be startled out of the well-bred composure with which young ladies are expected to receive tidings, even of the most vital importance.
“You know all about history, don't you?” asked Maud, suddenly.
“Not quite,” modestly answered Tom.
“I just want to know if there really was a man named Sir Philip, in the time of Queen Elizabeth.”
“You mean Sir Philip Sidney? Yes, he lived then and a fine old fellow he was too.”
“There; I knew the girls did n't mean him,” cried Maud, with a chop that sent the citron flying.
“What mischief are you up to now, you little magpie?”
“I shan't tell you what they said, because I don't remember much of it; but I heard Polly and Fan talking about some one dreadful mysterious, and when I asked who it was, Fan said, 'Sir Philip.' Ho! she need n't think I believe it! I saw'em laugh, and blush, and poke one another, and I knew it was n't about any old Queen Elizabeth man,” cried Maud, turning up her nose as far as that somewhat limited feature would go.
“Look here, you are letting cats out of the bag. Never mind, I thought so. They don't tell us their secrets, but we are so sharp, we can't help finding them out, can we?” said Tom, looking so much interested, that Maud could n't resist airing her knowledge a little.
“Well, I dare say, it is n't proper for you to know, but I am old enough now to be told anything, and those girls better mind what they say, for I'm not a stupid chit, like Blanche. I just wish you could have heard them go on. I'm sure there's something very nice about Mr. Sydney, they looked so pleased when they whispered and giggled on the bed, and thought I was ripping bonnets, and did n't hear a word.”
“Which looked most pleased?” asked Tom, investigating the kitchen boiler with deep interest.
“Well, 'pears to me Polly did; she talked most, and looked funny and very happy all the time. Fan laughed a good deal, but I guess Polly is the loveress,” replied Maud, after a moment's reflection.
“Hold your tongue; she's coming!” and Tom began to pump as if the house was on fire.
Down came Polly, with heightened color, bright eyes, and not a single egg. Tom took a quick look at her over his shoulder, and paused as if the fire was suddenly extinguished. Something in his face made Polly feel a little guilty, so she fell to grating nutmeg, with a vigor which made red cheeks the most natural thing in life. Maud, the traitor, sat demurely at work, looking very like what Tom had called her, a magpie with mischief in its head. Polly felt a change in the atmosphere, but merely thought Tom was tired, so she graciously dismissed him with a stick of cinnamon, as she had nothing else just then to lay upon the shrine. “Fan's got the books and maps you wanted. Go and rest now. I'm much obliged; here's your wages, Bridget.”
“Good luck to your messes,” answered Tom, as he walked away meditatively crunching his cinnamon, and looking as if he did not find it as spicy as usual. He got his books, but did not read them; for, shutting himself up in the little room called “Tom's den,” he just sat down and brooded.
When he came down to breakfast the next morning, he was greeted with a general “Happy birthday, Tom!” and at his place lay gifts from every member of the family; not as costly as formerly, perhaps, but infinitely dearer, as tokens of the love that had outlived the change, and only grown the warmer for the test of misfortune. In his present state of mind, Tom felt as if he did not deserve a blessed thing; so when every one exerted themselves to make it a happy day for him, he understood what it means “to be nearly killed with kindness,” and sternly resolved to be an honor to his family, or perish in the attempt. Evening brought Polly to what she called a “festive tea,” and when they gathered round the table, another gift appeared, which, though not of a sentimental nature, touched Tom more than all the rest. It was a most delectable cake, with a nosegay atop, and round it on the snowy frosting there ran a pink inscription, just as it had been every year since Tom could remember.
“Name, age, and date, like a nice white tombstone,” observed Maud, complacently, at which funereal remark, Mrs. Shaw, who was down in honor of the day, dropped her napkin, and demanded her salts.
“Whose doing is that?” asked Tom, surveying the gift with satisfaction; for it recalled the happier birthdays, which seemed very far away now.
“I did n't know what to give you, for you've got everything a man wants, and I was in despair till I remembered that dear grandma always made you a little cake like that, and that you once said it would n't be a happy birthday without it. So I tried to make it just like hers, and I do hope it will prove a good, sweet, plummy one.”
“Thank you,” was all Tom said, as he smiled at the giver, but Polly knew that her present had pleased him more than the most elegant trifle she could have made.
“It ought to be good, for you beat it up yourself, Tom,” cried, Maud. “It was so funny to see you working away, and never guessing who the cake was for. I perfectly trembled every time you opened your mouth, for fear you'd ask some question about it. That was the reason Polly preached and I kept talking when she was gone.”
“Very stupid of me; but I forgot all about to-day. Suppose we cut it; I don't seem to care for anything else,” said Tom, feeling no appetite, but bound to do justice to that cake, if he fell a victim to his gratitude.
“I hope the plums won't all be at the bottom,” said Polly, as she rose to do the honors of the cake, by universal appointment.
“I've had a good many at the top already, you know,” answered Tom, watching the operation with as much interest as if he had faith in the omen.
Cutting carefully, slice after slice fell apart; each firm and dark, spicy and rich, under the frosty rime above; and laying a specially large piece in one of grandma's quaint little china plates, Polly added the flowers and handed it to Tom, with a look that said a good deal, for, seeing that he remembered her sermon, she was glad to find that her allegory held good, in one sense at least. Tom's face brightened as he took it, and after an inspection which amused the others very much he looked up, saying, with an air of relief, “Plums all through; I'm glad I had a hand in it, but Polly deserves the credit, and must wear the posy,” and turning to her, he put the rose into her hair with more gallantry than taste, for a thorn pricked her head, the leaves tickled her ear, and the flower was upside down.
Fanny laughed at his want of skill, but Polly would n't have it altered, and everybody fell to eating cake, as if indigestion was one of the lost arts. They had a lively tea, and were getting on famously afterward, when two letters were brought for Tom, who glanced at one, and retired rather precipitately to his den, leaving Maud consumed with curiosity, and the older girls slightly excited, for Fan thought she recognized the handwriting on one, and Polly, on the other.
One half an hour and then another elapsed, and Tom did not return. Mr. Shaw went out, Mrs. Shaw retired to her room escorted by Maud, and the two girls sat together wondering if anything dreadful had happened. All of a sudden a voice called, “Polly!” and that young lady started out of her chair, as if the sound had been a thunder-clap.
“Do run! I'm perfectly fainting to know what the matter is,” said Fan.
“You'd better go,” began Polly, wishing to obey, yet feeling a little shy.
“He don't want me; besides, I could n't say a word for myself if that letter was from Sydney,” cried Fanny, hustling her friend towards the door, in a great flutter.
Polly went without another word, but she wore a curiously anxious look, and stopped on the threshold of the den, as if a little afraid of its occupant. Tom was sitting in his favorite attitude, astride of a chair, with his arms folded and his chin on the top rail; not an elegant posture, but the only one in which, he said, he could think well.
“Did you want me, Tom?”
“Yes. Come in, please, and don't look scared; I only want to show you a present I've had, and ask your advice about accepting it.”
“Why, Tom, you look as if you had been knocked down!” exclaimed Polly, forgetting all about herself, as she saw his face when he rose and turned to meet her.
“I have; regularly floored; but I'm up again, and steadier than ever. Just you read that, and tell me what you think of it.”
Tom snatched a letter off the table, put it into her hands, and began to walk up and down the little room, like a veritable bear in its cage. As Polly read that short note, all the color went out of her face, and her eyes began to kindle. When she came to the end, she stood a minute, as if too indignant to speak, then gave the paper a nervous sort of crumple and dropped it on the floor, saying, all in one breath, “I think she is a mercenary, heartless, ungrateful girl! That's what I think.”
“Oh, the deuce! I did n't mean to show that one; it's the other.” And Tom took up a second paper, looking half angry, half ashamed at his own mistake. “I don't care, though; every one will know to-morrow; and perhaps you'll be good enough to keep the girls from bothering me with questions and gabble,” he added, as if, on second thoughts, he was relieved to have the communication made to Polly first.
“I don't wonder you looked upset. If the other letter is as bad, I'd better have a chair before I read it,” said Polly, feeling that she began to tremble with excitement.
“It's a million times better, but it knocked me worse than the other; kindness always does.” Tom stopped short there, and stood a minute turning the letter about in his hand as if it contained a sweet which neutralized the bitter in that smaller note, and touched him very much. Then he drew up an arm-chair, and beckoning Polly to take it, said in a sober, steady tone, that surprised her greatly, “Whenever I was in a quandary, I used to go and consult grandma, and she always had something sensible or comfortable to say to me. She's gone now, but somehow, Polly, you seem to take her place. Would you mind sitting in her chair, and letting me tell you two or three things, as Will does?”
Mind it? Polly felt that Tom had paid her the highest and most beautiful compliment he could have devised. She had often longed to do it, for, being brought up in the most affectionate and frank relations with her brothers, she had early learned what it takes most women some time to discover, that sex does not make nearly as much difference in hearts and souls as we fancy. Joy and sorrow, love and fear, life and death bring so many of the same needs to all, that the wonder is we do not understand each other better, but wait till times of tribulation teach us that human nature is very much the same in men and women. Thanks to this knowledge, Polly understood Tom in a way that surprised and won him. She knew that he wanted womanly sympathy, and that she could give it to him, because she was not afraid to stretch her hand across the barrier which our artificial education puts between boys and girls, and to say to him in all good faith, “If I can help you, let me.”
Ten minutes sooner Polly could have done this almost as easily to Tom as to Will, but in that ten minutes something had happened which made this difficult. Reading that Trix had given Tom back his freedom changed many things to Polly, and caused her to shrink from his confidence, because she felt as if it would be harder now to keep self out of sight; for, spite of maiden modesty, love and hope would wake and sing at the good news. Slowly she sat down, and hesitatingly she said, with her eyes on the ground, and a very humble voice, “I'll do my best, but I can't fill grandma's place, or give you any wise, good advice. I wish I could!”
“You'll do it better than any one else. Talk troubles mother, father has enough to think of without any of my worries. Fan is a good soul, but she is n't practical, and we always get into a snarl if we try to work together, so who have I but my other sister, Polly? The pleasure that letter will give you may make up for my boring you.”
As he spoke, Tom laid the other paper in her lap, and went off to the window, as if to leave her free to enjoy it unseen; but he could not help a glance now and then, and as Polly's face brightened, his own fell.
“Oh, Tom, that's a birthday present worth having, for it's so beautifully given I don't see how you can refuse it. Arthur Sydney is a real nobleman!” cried Polly, looking up at last, with her fact glowing, and her eyes full of delight.
“So he is! I don't know another man living, except father, who would have done such a thing, or who I could bring myself to take it from. Do you see, he's not only paid the confounded debts, but has done it in my name, to spare me all he could?”
“I see, it's like him; and I think he must be very happy to be able to do such a thing.”
“It is an immense weight off my shoulders, for some of those men could n't afford to wait till I'd begged, borrowed, or earned the money. Sydney can wait, but he won't long, if I know myself.” “You won't take it as a gift, then?”
“Would you?”
“No.”
“Then don't think I will. I'm a pretty poor affair, Polly, but I'm not mean enough to do that, while I've got a conscience and a pair of hands.”
A rough speech, but it pleased Polly better than the smoothest Tom had ever made in her hearing, for something in his face and voice told her that the friendly act had roused a nobler sentiment than gratitude, making the cancelled obligations of the boy, debts of honor to the man.
“What will you do, Tom?”
“I'll tell you; may I sit here?” And Tom took the low footstool that always stood near grandma's old chair. “I've had so many plans in my head lately, that sometimes it seems as if it would split,” continued the poor fellow, rubbing his tired forehead, as if to polish up his wits. “I've thought seriously of going to California, Australia, or some out-of-the-way place, where men get rich in a hurry.”
“Oh, no!” cried Polly, putting out her hand as it to keep him, and then snatching it back again before he could turn round.
“It would be hard on mother and the girls, I suppose; besides, I don't quite like it myself; looks as if I shirked and ran away.”
“So it does,” said Polly, decidedly.
“Well, you see I don't seem to find anything to do unless I turn clerk, and I don't think that would suit. The fact is, I could n't stand it here, where I'm known. It would be easier to scratch gravel on a railroad, with a gang of Paddies, than to sell pins to my friends and neighbors. False pride, I dare say, but it's the truth, and there's no use in dodging.”
“Not a bit, and I quite agree with you.”
“That's comfortable. Now I'm coming to the point where I specially want your advice, Polly. Yesterday I heard you telling Fan about your brother Ned; how well he got on; how he liked his business, and wanted Will to come and take some place near him. You thought I was reading, but I heard; and it struck me that perhaps I could get a chance out West somewhere. What do you think?”
“If you really mean work, I know you could,” answered Polly, quickly, as all sorts of plans and projects went sweeping through her mind. “I wish you could be with Ned; you'd get on together, I'm sure; and he'd be so glad to do anything he could. I'll write and ask, straight away, if you want me to.”
“Suppose you do; just for information, you know, then I shall have something to go upon. I want to have a feasible plan all ready, before I speak to father. There's nothing so convincing to business men as facts, you know.”
Polly could not help smiling at Tom's new tone, it seemed so strange to hear him talking about anything but horses and tailors, dancing and girls. She liked it, however, as much as she did the sober expression of his face, and the way he had lately of swinging his arms about, as if he wanted to do something energetic with them.
“That will be wise. Do you think your father will like this plan?”
“Pretty sure he will. Yesterday, when I told him I must go at something right off, he said, 'Anything honest, Tom, and don't forget that your father began the world as a shop-boy.' You knew that, did n't you?”
“Yes, he told me the story once, and I always liked to hear it, because it was pleasant to see how well he had succeeded.”
“I never did like the story, a little bit ashamed, I'm afraid; but when we talked it over last night, it struck me in a new light, and I understood why father took the failure so well, and seems so contented with this poorish place. It is only beginning again, he says; and having worked his way up once, he feels as if he could again. I declare to you, Polly, that sort of confidence in himself, and energy and courage in a man of his years, makes me love and respect the dear old gentleman as I never did before.”
“I'm so glad to hear you say that, Tom! I've sometimes thought you did n't quite appreciate your father, any more than he knew how much of a man you were.”
“Never was till to-day, you know,” said Tom, laughing, yet looking as if he felt the dignity of his one and twenty years. “Odd, is n't it, how people live together ever so long, and don't seem to find one another out, till something comes to do it for them. Perhaps this smash-up was sent to introduce me to my own father.”
“There's philosophy for you,” said Polly, smiling, even while she felt as if adversity was going to do more for Tom than years of prosperity.
They both sat quiet for a minute, Polly in the big chair looking at him with a new respect in her eyes, Tom on the stool near by slowly tearing up a folded paper he had absently taken from the floor while he talked.
“Did this surprise you?” he asked, as a little white shower fluttered from his hands.
“No.”
“Well, it did me; for you know as soon as we came to grief I offered to release Trix from the engagement, and she would n't let me,” continued Tom, as if, having begun the subject, he wished to explain it thoroughly.
“That surprised me,” said Polly.
“So it did me, for Fan always insisted it was the money and not the man she cared for. Her first answer pleased me very much, for I did not expect it, and nothing touches a fellow more than to have a woman stand by him through thick and thin.”
“She don't seem to have done it.”
“Fan was right. Trix only waited to see how bad things really were, or rather her mother did. She's as cool, hard, and worldly minded an old soul as I ever saw, and Trix is bound to obey. She gets round it very neatly in her note, 'I won't be a burden, ' 'will sacrifice her hopes,' 'and always remain my warm friend,' but the truth is, Tom Shaw rich was worth making much of, but Tom Shaw poor is in the way, and may go to the devil as fast as he likes.”
“Well, he is n't going!” cried Polly, defiantly, for her wrath burned hotly against Trix, though she blessed her for setting the bondman free.
“Came within an ace of it,” muttered Tom to himself; adding aloud, in a tone of calm resignation that assured Polly his heart would not be broken though his engagement was, “It never rains but it pours, 'specially in hard times, but when a man is down, a rap or two more don't matter much, I suppose. It's the first blow that hurts most.”
“Glad to see you take the last blow so well.” There was an ironical little twang to that speech, and Polly could n't help it. Tom colored up and looked hurt for a minute, then seemed to right himself with a shrug, and said, in his outspoken way, “To tell the honest truth, Polly, it was not a very hard one. I've had a feeling for some time that Trix and I were not suited to one another, and it might be wiser to stop short. But she did not or would not see it; and I was not going to back out, and leave her to wear any more willows, so here we are. I don't bear malice, but hope she'll do better, and not be disappointed again, upon my word I do.”
“That's very good of you, quite Sydneyesque, and noble,” said Polly, feeling rather ill at ease, and wishing she could hide herself behind a cap and spectacles, if she was to play Grandma to this confiding youth.
“It will be all plain sailing for Syd, I fancy,” observed Tom, getting up as if the little cricket suddenly ceased to be comfortable.
“I hope so,” murmured Polly, wondering what was coming next.
“He deserves the very best of everything, and I pray the Lord he may get it,” added Tom, poking the fire in a destructive manner.
Polly made no answer, fearing to pay too much, for she knew Fan had made no confidant of Tom, and she guarded her friend's secret as jealously as her own. “You'll write to Ned to-morrow, will you? I'll take anything he's got, for I want to be off,” said Tom, casting down the poker, and turning round with a resolute air which was lost on Polly, who sat twirling the rose that had fallen into her lap.
“I'll write to-night. Would you like me to tell the girls about Trix and Sydney?” she asked as she rose, feeling that the council was over.
“I wish you would. I don't know how to thank you for all you've done for me; I wish to heaven I did,” said Tom, holding out his hand with a look that Polly thought a great deal too grateful for the little she had done.
As she gave him her hand, and looked up at him with those confiding eyes of hers, Tom's gratitude seemed to fly to his head, for, without the slightest warning, he stooped down and kissed her, a proceeding which startled Polly so that he recovered himself at once, and retreated into his den with the incoherent apology, “I beg pardon could n't help it grandma always let me on my birthday.”
While Polly took refuge up stairs, forgetting all about Fan, as she sat in the dark with her face hidden, wondering why she was n't very angry, and resolving never again to indulge in the delightful but dangerous pastime of playing grandmother.
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{
"id": "2787"
}
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18
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THE WOMAN WHO DID NOT DARE
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POLLY wrote enthusiastically, Ned answered satisfactorily, and after much corresponding, talking, and planning, it was decided that Tom should go West. Never mind what the business was; it suffices to say that it was a good beginning for a young man like Tom, who, having been born and bred in the most conservative class of the most conceited city in New England, needed just the healthy, hearty, social influences of the West to widen his views and make a man of him.
Of course there was much lamentation among the women, but every one felt it was the best thing for him; so while they sighed they sewed, packed visions of a brilliant future away with his new pocket handkerchiefs, and rejoiced that the way was open before him even in the act of bedewing his boots with tears. Sydney stood by him to the last, “like a man and a brother” (which expression of Tom's gave Fanny infinite satisfaction), and Will felt entirely consoled for Ned's disappointment at his refusal to go and join him, since Tom was to take the place Ned had kept for him.
Fortunately every one was so busy with the necessary preparations that there was no time for romance of any sort, and the four young people worked together as soberly and sensibly as if all sorts of emotions were not bottled up in their respective hearts. But in spite of the silence, the work, and the hurry, I think they came to know one another better in that busy little space of time than in all the years that had gone before, for the best and bravest in each was up and stirring, and the small house was as full of the magnetism of love and friendship, self-sacrifice and enthusiasm, as the world outside was full of spring sunshine and enchantment. Pity that the end should come so soon, but the hour did its work and went its way, leaving a clearer atmosphere behind, though the young folks did not see it then, for their eyes were dim because of the partings that must be.
Tom was off to the West; Polly went home for the summer; Maud was taken to the seaside with Belle; and Fanny left alone to wrestle with housekeeping, “help,” and heartache. If it had not been for two things, I fear she never would have stood a summer in town, but Sydney often called, till his vacation came, and a voluminous correspondence with Polly beguiled the long days. Tom wrote once a week to his mother, but the letters were short and not very satisfactory, for men never do tell the interesting little things that women best like to hear. Fanny forwarded her bits of news to Polly. Polly sent back all the extracts from Ned's letters concerning Tom, and by putting the two reports together, they gained the comfortable assurance that Tom was well, in good spirits, hard at work, and intent on coming out strong in spite of all obstacles.
Polly had a quiet summer at home, resting and getting ready in mind and body for another winter's work, for in the autumn she tried her plan again, to the satisfaction of her pupils and the great joy of her friends. She never said much of herself in her letters, and Fanny's first exclamation when they met again, was an anxious “Why, Polly, dear! Have you been sick and never told me?”
“No, I'm only tired, had a good deal to do lately, and the dull weather makes me just a trifle blue. I shall soon brighten up when I get to my work again,” answered Polly, bustling about to put away her things.
“You don't look a bit natural. What have you been doing to your precious little self?” persisted Fanny, troubled by the change, yet finding it hard to say wherein it lay.
Polly did not look sick, though her cheeks were thinner and her color paler than formerly, but she seemed spiritless, and there was a tired look in her eyes that went to Fanny's heart.
“I'm all right enough, as you'll see when I'm in order. I'm proper glad to find you looking so well and happy. Does all go smoothly, Fan?” asked Polly, beginning to brush her hair industriously.
“Answer me one question first,” said Fanny, looking as if a sudden fear had come over her. “Tell me, truly, have you never repented of your hint to Sydney?”
“Never!” cried Polly, throwing back the brown veil behind which she had half hidden her face at first.
“On your honor, as an honest girl?”
“On my honor, as anything you please. Why do you suspect me of it?” demanded Polly, almost angrily.
“Because something is wrong with you. It's no use to deny it, for you 've got the look I used to see in that very glass on my own face when I thought he cared for you. Forgive me, Polly, but I can't help saying it, for it is there, and I want to be as true to you as you were to me if I can.”
Fanny's face was full of agitation, and she spoke fast and frankly, for she was trying to be generous and found it very hard. Polly understood now and put her fear at rest by saying almost passionately, “I tell you I don't love him! If he was the only man in the world, I would n't marry him, because I don't want to.”
The last three words were added in a different tone, for Polly had checked herself there with a half-frightened look and turned away to hide her face behind her hair again.
“Then if it's not him, it's some one else. You've got a secret, Polly, and I should think you might tell it, as you know mine,” said Fanny, unable to rest till everything was told, for Polly's manner troubled her.
There was no answer to her question, but she was satisfied and putting her arm round her friend, she said, in her most persuasive tone, “My precious Polly, do I know him?”
“You have seen him.”
“And is he very wise, good, and splendid, dear?”
“No.”
“He ought to be if you love him. I hope he is n't bad?” cried Fan, anxiously, still holding Polly, who kept her head obstinately turned.
“I'm suited, that's enough.”
“Oh, please just tell me one thing more. Don't he love back again?”
“No. Now don't say another word, I can't bear it!” and Polly drew herself away, as she spoke in a desperate sort of tone.
“I won't, but now I'm not afraid to tell you that I think, I hope, I do believe that Sydney cares a little for me. He's been very kind to us all, and lately he has seemed to like to see me always when he comes and miss me if I'm gone. I did n't dare to hope anything, till Papa observed something in his manner, and teased me about it. I try not to deceive myself, but it does seem as if there was a chance of happiness for me.”
“Thank heaven for that!” cried Polly, with the heartiest satisfaction in her voice. “Now come and tell me all about it,” she added, sitting down on the couch with the air of one who has escaped a great peril.
“I've got some notes and things I want to ask your opinion about, if they really mean anything, you know,” said Fanny, getting out a bundle of papers from the inmost recesses of her desk. “There's a photograph of Tom, came in his last letter. Good, is n't it? He looks older, but that's the beard and the rough coat, I suppose. Dear old fellow, he is doing so well I really begin to feel quite proud of him.”
Fan tossed her the photograph, and went on rummaging for a certain note. She did not see Polly catch up the picture and look at it with hungry eyes, but she did hear something in the low tone in which Polly said, “It don't do him justice,” and glancing over her shoulder, Fan's quick eye caught a glimpse of the truth, though Polly was half turned away from her. Without stopping to think, Fan dropped her letters, took Polly by the shoulders, and cried in a tone full of astonishment, “Polly, is it Tom?”
Poor Polly was so taken by surprise, that she had not a word to say. None were needed; her telltale face answered for her, as well as the impulse which made her hide her head in the sofa cushion, like a foolish ostrich when the hunters are after it.
“Oh, Polly, I am so glad! I never thought of it you are so good, and he 's such a wild boy, I can't believe it but it is so dear of you to care for him.”
“Could n't help it tried not to but it was so hard you know, Fan, you know,” said a stifled voice from the depths of the very fuzzy cushion which Tom had once condemned.
The last words, and the appealing hand outstretched to her, told Fanny the secret of her friend's tender sympathy for her own love troubles, and seemed so pathetic, that she took Polly in her arms, and cried over her, in the fond, foolish way girls have of doing when their hearts are full, and tears can say more than tongues. The silence never lasts long, however, for the feminine desire to “talk it over” usually gets the better of the deepest emotion. So presently the girls were hard at it, Polly very humble and downcast, Fanny excited and overflowing with curiosity and delight.
“Really my sister! You dear thing, how heavenly that will be,” she cried.
“It never will be,” answered Polly in a tone of calm despair.
“What will prevent it?”
“Maria Bailey,” was the tragic reply.
“What do you mean? Is she the Western girl? She shan't have Tom; I'll kill her first!”
“Too late, let me tell you is that door shut, and Maud safe?”
Fanny reconnoitered, and returning, listened breathlessly, while Polly poured into her ear the bitter secret which was preying on her soul.
“Has n't he mentioned Maria in his letters?”
“Once or twice, but sort of jokingly, and I thought it was only some little flirtation. He can't have time for much of that fun, he's so busy.”
“Ned writes good, gossipy letters I taught him how and he tells me all that's going on. When he'd spoken of this girl several times (they board with her mother, you know), I asked about her, quite carelessly, and he told me she was pretty, good, and well educated, and he thought Tom was rather smitten. That was a blow, for you see, Fan, since Trix broke the engagement, and it was n't wrong to think of Tom, I let myself hope, just a little, and was so happy! Now I must give it up, and now I see how much I hoped, and what a dreadful loss it's going to be.”
Two great tears rolled down Polly's cheeks, and Fanny wiped them away, feeling an intense desire to go West by the next train, wither Maria Bailey with a single look, and bring Tom back as a gift to Polly.
“It was so stupid of me not to guess before. But you see Tom always seems so like a boy, and you are more womanly for your age than any girl I know, so I never thought of your caring for him in that way. I knew you were very good to him, you are to every one, my precious; and I knew that he was fond of you as he is of me, fonder if anything, because he thinks you are perfect; but still I never dreamed of his loving you as more than a dear friend.”
“He does n't,” sighed Polly.
“Well, he ought; and if I could get hold of him, he should!”
Polly clutched Fan at that, and held her tight, saying sternly, “If you ever breathe a word, drop a hint, look a look that will tell him or any one else about me, I'll yes, as sure as my name is Mary Milton I'll proclaim from the housetops that you like Ar” Polly got no further, for Fan's hand was on her mouth, and Fan's alarmed voice vehemently protested, “I won't! I promise solemnly I'll never say a word to a mortal creature. Don't be so fierce, Polly; you quite frighten me.”
“It's bad enough to love some one who don't love you, but to have them told of it is perfectly awful. It makes me wild just to think of it. Oh, Fan, I'm getting so ill-tempered and envious and wicked, I don't know what will happen to me.”
“I'm not afraid for you, my dear, and I do believe things will go right, because you are so good to every one. How Tom could help adoring you I don't see. I know he would if he had stayed at home longer after he got rid of Trix. It would be the making of him; but though he is my brother, I don't think he's good enough for you, Polly, and I don't quite see how you can care for him so much, when you might have had a person so infinitely superior.”
“I don't want a'superior' person; he'd tire me if he was like A. S. Besides, I do think Tom is superior to him in many things. Well, you need n't stare; I know he is, or will be. He's so different, and very young, and has lots of faults, I know, but I like him all the better for it, and he's honest and brave, and has got a big, warm heart, and I'd rather have him care for me than the wisest, best, most accomplished man in the world, simply because I love him!”
If Tom could only have seen Polly's face when she said that! It was so tender, earnest, and defiant, that Fanny forgot the defence of her own lover in admiration of Polly's loyalty to hers; for this faithful, all absorbing love was a new revelation to Fanny, who was used to hearing her friends boast of two or three lovers a year, and calculate their respective values, with almost as much coolness as the young men discussed the fortunes of the girls they wished for, but “could not afford to marry.” She had thought her love for Sydney very romantic, because she did not really care whether he was rich or poor, though she never dared to say so, even to Polly, for fear of being laughed at. She began to see now what true love was, and to feel that the sentiment which she could not conquer was a treasure to be accepted with reverence, and cherished with devotion.
“I don't know when I began to love Tom, but I found out that I did last winter, and was as much surprised as you are,” continued Polly, as if glad to unburden her heart. “I did n't approve of him at all. I thought he was extravagant, reckless, and dandified. I was very much disappointed when he chose Trix, and the more I thought and saw of it, the worse I felt, for Tom was too good for her, and I hated to see her do so little for him, when she might have done so much; because he is one of the men who can be led by their affections, and the woman he marries can make or mar him.”
“That's true!” cried Fan, as Polly paused to look at the picture, which appeared to regard her with a grave, steady look, which seemed rather to belie her assertions.
“I don't mean that he's weak or bad. If he was, I should hate him; but he does need some one to love him very much, and make him happy, as a good woman best knows how,” said Polly, as if answering the mute language of Tom's face.
“I hope Maria Bailey is all he thinks her,” she added, softly, “for I could n't bear to have him disappointed again.”
“I dare say he don't care a fig for her, and you are only borrowing trouble. What do you say Ned answered when you asked about this inconvenient girl?” said Fanny turning hopeful all at once.
Polly repeated it, and added, “I asked him in another letter if he did n't admire Miss B. as much as Tom, and he wrote back that she was'a nice girl,' but he had no time for nonsense, and I need n't get my white kids ready for some years yet, unless to dance at Tom's wedding. Since then he has n't mentioned Maria, so I was sure there was something serious going on, and being in Tom's confidence, he kept quiet.”
“It does look bad. Suppose I say a word to Tom, just inquire after his heart in a general way, you know, and give him a chance to tell me, if there is anything to tell.” “I'm willing, but you must let me see the letter. I can't trust you not to hint or say too much.”
“You shall. I'll keep my promise in spite of everything, but it will be hard to see things going wrong when a word would set it right.”
“You know what will happen if you do,” and Polly looked so threatening that Fan trembled before her, discovering that the gentlest girls when roused are more impressive than any shrew; for even turtle doves peck gallantly to defend their nests.
“If it is true about Maria, what shall we do?” said Fanny after a pause.
“Bear it; People always do bear things, somehow,” answered Polly, looking as if sentence had been passed upon her.
“But if it is n't?” cried Fan, unable to endure the sight.
“Then I shall wait.” And Polly's face changed so beautifully that Fan hugged her on the spot, fervently wishing that Maria Bailey never had been born.
Then the conversation turned to lover number two, and after a long confabulation, Polly gave it as her firm belief that A. S. had forgotten M. M., and was rapidly finding consolation in the regard of F. S. With this satisfactory decision the council ended after the ratification of a Loyal League, by which the friends pledged themselves to stand staunchly by one another, through the trials of the coming year.
It was a very different winter from the last for both the girls. Fanny applied herself to her duties with redoubled ardor, for “A. S.” was a domestic man, and admired housewifely accomplishments. If Fanny wanted to show him what she could do toward making a pleasant home, she certainly succeeded better than she suspected, for in spite of many failures and discouragements behind the scenes, the little house became a most attractive place, to Mr. Sydney at least, for he was more the house-friend than ever, and seemed determined to prove that change of fortune made no difference to him.
Fanny had been afraid that Polly's return might endanger her hopes, but Sydney met Polly with the old friendliness, and very soon convinced her that the nipping in the bud process had been effectual, for being taken early, the sprouting affection had died easy, and left room for an older friendship to blossom into a happier love.
Fanny seemed glad of this, and Polly soon set her heart at rest by proving that she had no wish to try her power. She kept much at home when the day's work was done, finding it pleasanter to sit dreaming over book or sewing alone, than to exert herself even to go to the Shaws'.
“Fan don't need me, and Sydney don't care whether I come or not, so I 'll keep out of the way,” she would say, as if to excuse her seeming indolence.
Polly was not at all like herself that winter, and those nearest to her saw and wondered at it most. Will got very anxious, she was so quiet, pale and spiritless, and distracted poor Polly by his affectionate stupidity, till she completed his bewilderment by getting cross and scolding him. So he consoled himself with Maud, who, now being in her teens, assumed dignified airs, and ordered him about in a style that afforded him continued amusement and employment.
Western news continued vague, for Fan's general inquiries produced only provokingly unsatisfactory replies from Tom, who sang the praises of “the beautiful Miss Bailey,” and professed to be consumed by a hopeless passion for somebody, in such half-comic, half-tragic terms, that the girls could not decide whether it was “all that boy's mischief,” or only a cloak to hide the dreadful truth.
“We'll have it out of him when he comes home in the spring,” said Fanny to Polly, as they compared the letters of their brothers, and agreed that “men were the most uncommunicative and provoking animals under the sun.” For Ned was so absorbed in business that he ignored the whole Bailey question and left them in utter darkness.
Hunger of any sort is a hard thing to bear, especially when the sufferer has a youthful appetite, and Polly was kept on such a short allowance of happiness for six months, that she got quite thin and interesting; and often, when she saw how big her eyes were getting, and how plainly the veins on her temples showed, indulged the pensive thought that perhaps spring dandelions might blossom o'er her grave. She had no intention of dying till Tom's visit was over, however, and as the time drew near, she went through such alternations of hope and fear, and lived in such a state of feverish excitement, that spirits and color came back, and she saw that the interesting pallor she had counted on would be an entire failure.
May came at last, and with it a burst of sunshine which cheered even poor Polly's much-enduring heart. Fanny came walking in upon her one day, looking as if she brought tidings of such great joy that she hardly knew how to tell them.
“Prepare yourself somebody is engaged!” she said, in a solemn tone, that made Polly put up her hand as if to ward off an expected blow. “No, don't look like that, my poor dear; it is n't Tom, it's I!”
Of course there was a rapture, followed by one of the deliciously confidential talks which bosom friends enjoy, interspersed with tears and kisses, smiles and sighs.
“Oh, Polly, though I've waited and hoped so long I could n't believe it when it came, and don't deserve it; but I will! for the knowledge that he loves me seems to make everything possible,” said Fanny, with an expression which made her really beautiful, for the first time in her life.
“You happy girl!” sighed Polly, then smiled and added, “I think you deserve all that's come to you, for you have truly tried to be worthy of it, and whether it ever came or not that would have been a thing to be proud of.”
“He says that is what made him love me,” answered Fanny, never calling her lover by his name, but making the little personal pronoun a very sweet word by the tone in which she uttered it. “He was disappointed in me last year, he told me, but you said good things about me and though he did n't care much then, yet when he lost you, and came back to me, he found that you were not altogether mistaken, and he has watched me all this winter, learning to respect and love me better every day. Oh, Polly, when he said that, I could n't bear it, because in spite of all my trying, I'm still so weak and poor and silly.”
“We don't think so; and I know you'll be all he hopes to find you, for he's just the husband you ought to have.”
“Thank you all the more, then, for not keeping him yourself,” said Fanny, laughing the old blithe laugh again.
“That was only a slight aberration of his; he knew better all the time. It was your white cloak and my idiotic behavior the night we went to the opera that put the idea into his head,” said Polly, feeling as if the events of that evening had happened some twenty years ago, when she was a giddy young thing, fond of gay bonnets and girlish pranks.
“I'm not going to tell Tom a word about it, but keep it for a surprise till he comes. He will be here next week, and then we'll have a grand clearing up of mysteries,” said Fan, evidently feeling that the millennium was at hand.
“Perhaps,” said Polly, as her heart fluttered and then sunk, for this was a case where she could do nothing but hope, and keep her hands busy with Will's new set of shirts.
There is a good deal more of this sort of silent suffering than the world suspects, for the “women who dare” are few, the women who “stand and wait” are many. But if work-baskets were gifted with powers of speech, they could tell stories more true and tender than any we read. For women often sew the tragedy or comedy of life into their work as they sit apparently safe and serene at home, yet are thinking deeply, living whole heart-histories, and praying fervent prayers while they embroider pretty trifles or do the weekly mending.
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19
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TOM'S SUCCESS
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“Come, Philander, let us be a marching, Every one his true love a searching,” WOULD be the most appropriate motto for this chapter, because, intimidated by the threats, denunciations, and complaints showered upon me in consequence of taking the liberty to end a certain story as I liked, I now yield to the amiable desire of giving satisfaction, and, at the risk of outraging all the unities, intend to pair off everybody I can lay my hands on.
Occasionally a matrimonial epidemic appears, especially toward spring, devastating society, thinning the ranks of bachelordom, and leaving mothers lamenting for their fairest daughters. That spring the disease broke out with great violence in the Shaw circle, causing paternal heads much bewilderment, as one case after another appeared with alarming rapidity. Fanny, as we have seen, was stricken first, and hardly had she been carried safely through the crisis, when Tom returned to swell the list of victims. As Fanny was out a good deal with her Arthur, who was sure that exercise was necessary for the convalescent, Polly went every day to see Mrs. Shaw, who found herself lonely, though much better than usual, for the engagement had a finer effect upon her constitution than any tonic she ever tried. Some three days after Fan's joyful call Polly was startled on entering the Shaws' door, by Maud, who came tumbling down stairs, sending an avalanche of words before her, “He's come before he said he should to surprise us! He's up in mamma's room, and was just saying, 'How's Polly?' when I heard you come, in your creep-mouse way, and you must go right up. He looks so funny with whiskers, but he's ever so nice, real big and brown, and he swung me right up when he kissed me. Never mind your bonnet, I can't wait.”
And pouncing upon Polly, Maud dragged her away like a captured ship towed by a noisy little steam-tug.
“The sooner it's over the better for me,” was the only thought Polly had time for before she plunged into the room above, propelled by Maud, who cried triumphantly, “There he is! Ain't he splendid?”
For a minute, everything danced before Polly's eyes, as a hand shook hers warmly, and a gruffish voice said heartily, “How are you, Polly?” Then she slipped into a chair beside Mrs. Shaw, hoping that her reply had been all right and proper, for she had not the least idea what she said.
Things got steady again directly, and while Maud expatiated on the great surprise, Polly ventured to look at Tom, feeling glad that her back was toward the light, and his was not. It was not a large room, and Tom seemed to fill it entirely; not that he had grown so very much, except broader in the shoulders, but there was a brisk, genial, free-and-easy air about him, suggestive of a stirring, out-of-door life, with people who kept their eyes wide open, and were not very particular what they did with their arms and legs. The rough-and-ready travelling suit, stout boots, brown face, and manly beard, changed him so much, that Polly could find scarcely a trace of elegant Tom Shaw in the hearty-looking young man who stood with one foot on a chair, while he talked business to his father in a sensible way, which delighted the old gentleman. Polly liked the change immensely, and sat listening to the state of Western trade with as much interest as if it had been the most thrilling romance, for, as he talked, Tom kept looking at her with a nod or a smile so like old times, that for a little while, she forgot Maria Bailey, and was in bliss.
By and by Fanny came flying in, and gave Tom a greater surprise than his had been. He had not the least suspicion of what had been going on at home, for Fan had said to herself, with girlish malice, “If he don't choose to tell me his secrets, I'm not going to tell mine,” and had said nothing about Sydney, except an occasional allusion to his being often there, and very kind. Therefore, when she announced her engagement, Tom looked so staggered for a minute, that Fan thought he did n't like it; but after the first surprise passed, he showed such an affectionate satisfaction, that she was both touched and flattered.
“What do you think of this performance?” asked Tom, wheeling round to Polly, who still sat by Mrs. Shaw, in the shadow of the bed-curtains.
“I like it very much,” she said in such a hearty tone, that Tom could not doubt the genuineness of her pleasure.
“Glad of that. Hope you'll be as well pleased with another engagement that's coming out before long”; and with an odd laugh, Tom carried Sydney off to his den, leaving the girls to telegraph to one another the awful message, “It is Maria Bailey.”
How she managed to get through that evening, Polly never knew, yet it was not a long one, for at eight o'clock she slipped out of the room, meaning to run home alone, and not compel any one to serve as escort. But she did not succeed, for as she stood warming her rubbers at the dining-room fire, wondering pensively as she did so if Maria Bailey had small feet, and if Tom ever put her rubbers on for her, the little overshoes were taken out of her hands, and Tom's voice said, reproachfully, “Did you really mean to run away, and not let me go home with you?”
“I'm not afraid; I did n't want to take you away,” began Polly, secretly hoping that she did n't look too pleased.
“But I like to be taken away. Why, it's a whole year since I went home with you; do you remember that?” said Tom, flapping the rubbers about without any signs of haste.
“Does it seem long?”
“Everlasting!”
Polly meant to say that quite easily, and smile incredulously at his answer; but in spite of the coquettish little rose-colored hood she wore, and which she knew was very becoming, she did not look or speak gayly, and Tom saw something in the altered face that made him say hastily, “I'm afraid you've been doing too much this winter; you look tired out, Polly.”
“Oh, no! it suits me to be very busy,” and she began to drag on her gloves as if to prove it.
“But it does n't suit me to have you get thin and pale, you know.”
Polly looked up to thank him, but never did, for there was something deeper than gratitude in the honest blue eyes, that could not hide the truth entirely. Tom saw it, flushed all over his brown face, and dropping the rubbers with a crash, took her hands, saying, in his old impetuous way, “Polly, I want to tell you something!”
“Yes, I know, we've been expecting it. I hope you'll be very happy, Tom;” and Polly shook his hands with a smile that was more pathetic than a flood of tears.
“What!” cried Tom, looking as if he thought she had lost her mind.
“Ned told us all about her; he thought it would be so, and when you spoke of another engagement, we knew you meant your own.”
“But I did n't! Ned's the man; he told me to tell you. It's just settled.”
“Is it Maria?” cried Polly, holding on to a chair as if to be prepared for anything.
“Of course. Who else should it be?”
“He did n't say you talked about her most and so we thought” stammered Polly, falling into a sudden flutter.
“That I was in love? Well, I am, but not with her.”
“Oh!” and Polly caught her breath as if a dash of cold water had fallen on her, for the more in earnest Tom grew, the blunter he became.
“Do you want to know the name of the girl I've loved for more than a year? Well, it's Polly!” As he spoke, Tom stretched out his arms to her, with the sort of mute eloquence that cannot be resisted, and Polly went straight into them, without a word.
Never mind what happened for a little bit. Love scenes, if genuine, are indescribable; for to those who have enacted them, the most elaborate description seems tame, and to those who have not, the simplest picture seems overdone. So romancers had better let imagination paint for them that which is above all art, and leave their lovers to themselves during the happiest minutes of their lives.
Before long, Tom and Polly were sitting side by side, enjoying the blissful state of mind which usually follows the first step out of our work-a-day world, into the glorified region wherein lovers rapturously exist for a month or two. Tom just sat and looked at Polly as if he found it difficult to believe that the winter of his discontent had ended in this glorious spring. But Polly, being a true woman, asked questions, even while she laughed and cried for joy.
“Now, Tom, how could I know you loved me when you went away and never said a word?” she began, in a tenderly reproachful tone, thinking of the hard year she had spent.
“And how could I have the courage to say a word, when I had nothing on the face of the earth to offer you but my worthless self?” answered Tom, warmly.
“That was all I wanted!” whispered Polly, in a tone which caused him to feel that the race of angels was not entirely extinct.
“I've always been fond of you, my Polly, but I never realized how fond till just before I went away. I was n't free, you know, and besides I had a strong impression that you liked Sydney in spite of the damper which Fan hinted you gave him last winter. He's such a capital fellow, I really don't see how you could help it.”
“It is strange; I don't understand it myself; but women are queer creatures, and there's no accounting for their tastes,” said Polly, with a sly look, which Tom fully appreciated.
“You were so good to me those last days, that I came very near speaking out, but could n't bear to seem to be offering you a poor, disgraced sort of fellow, whom Trix would n't have, and no one seemed to think worth much. 'No,' I said to myself, 'Polly ought to have the best; if Syd can get her, let him, and I won't say a word. I'll try to be better worthy her friendship, anyway; and perhaps, when I've proved that I can do something, and am not ashamed to work, then, if Polly is free, I shan't be afraid to try my chance.' So I held my tongue, worked like a horse, satisfied myself and others that I could get my living honestly, and then came home to see if there was any hope for me.”
“And I was waiting for you all the time,” said a soft voice close to his shoulder; for Polly was much touched by Tom's manly efforts to deserve her.
“I did n't mean to do it the first minute, but look about me a little, and be sure Syd was all right. But Fan's news settled that point, and just now the look in my Polly's face settled the other. I could n't wait another minute, or let you either, and I could n't help stretching out my arms to my little wife, God bless her, though I know I don't deserve her.”
Tom's voice got lower and lower as he spoke, and his face was full of an emotion of which he need not be ashamed, for a very sincere love ennobled him, making him humble, where a shallower affection would have been proud of its success. Polly understood this, and found the honest, hearty speech of her lover more eloquent than poetry itself. Her hand stole up to his cheek, and she leaned her own confidingly against the rough coat, as she said, in her frank simple way, “Tom, dear, don't say that, as if I was the best girl in the world. I've got ever so many faults, and I want you to know them all, and help me cure them, as you have your own. Waiting has not done us any harm, and I love you all the better for your trial. But I'm afraid your year has been harder than mine, you look so much older and graver than when you went away. You never would complain; but I've had a feeling that you were going through a good deal more than any of us guessed.”
“Pretty tough work at first, I own. It was all so new and strange, I 'm afraid I should n't have stood it if it had not been for Ned. He'd laugh and say 'Pooh!' if he heard me say it, but it's true nevertheless that he's a grand fellow and helped me through the first six months like a well, a brother as he is. There was no reason why he should go out of his way to back up a shiftless party like me, yet he did, and made many things easy and safe that would have been confoundedly hard and dangerous if I'd been left to myself. The only way I can explain it is that it's a family trait, and as natural to the brother as it is to the sister.”
“It's a Shaw trait to do the same. But tell me about Maria; is Ned really engaged to her?”
“Very much so; you'll get a letter full of raptures tomorrow; he had n't time to send by me, I came off in such a hurry. Maria is a sensible, pretty girl and Ned will be a happy old fellow.”
“Why did you let us think it was you?”
“I only teased Fan a little; I did like Maria, for she reminded me of you sometimes, and was such a kind, cosy little woman I could n't help enjoying her society after a hard day's work. But Ned got jealous, and then I knew that he was in earnest, so I left him a clear field, and promised not to breathe a word to any one till he had got a Yes or No from his Maria.”
“I wish I'd known it,” sighed Polly. “People in love always do such stupid things!”
“So they do; for neither you nor Fan gave us poor fellows the least hint about Syd, and there I've been having all sorts of scares about you.”
“Serves us right; brothers and sisters should n't have secrets from each other.”
“We never will again. Did you miss me very much?”
“Yes, Tom; very, very much.”
“My patient little Polly!”
“Did you really care for me before you went?”
“See if I did n't;” and with great pride Tom produced a portly pocket-book stuffed with business-like documents of a most imposing appearance, opened a private compartment, and took out a worn-looking paper, unfolded it carefully, and displayed a small brown object which gave out a faint fragrance.
“That's the rose you put in the birthday cake, and next week we'll have a fresh one in another jolly little cake which you'll make me; you left it on the floor of my den the night we talked there, and I've kept it ever since. There's love and romance for you!”
Polly touched the little relic, treasured for a year, and smiled to read the words “My Polly's rose,” scribbled under the crumbling leaves.
“I did n't know you could be so sentimental,” she said, looking so pleased that he did not regret confessing his folly.
“I never was till I loved you, my dear, and I'm not very bad yet, for I don't wear my posy next my heart, but where I can see it every day, and so never forget for whom I am working. Should n't wonder if that bit of nonsense had kept me economical, honest, and hard at it, for I never opened my pocket-book that I did n't think of you.”
“That's lovely, Tom,” and Polly found it so touching that she felt for her handkerchief; but Tom took it away, and made her laugh instead of cry, by saying, in a wheedlesome tone, “I don't believe you did as much, for all your romance. Did you, now?”
“If you won't laugh, I'll show you my treasures. I began first, and I 've worn them longest.”
As she spoke, Polly drew out the old locket, opened it, and showed the picture Tom gave her in the bag of peanuts cut small and fitted in on one side on the other was a curl of reddish hair and a black button. How Tom laughed when he saw them!
“You don't mean you've kept that frightful guy of a boy all this time? Polly! Polly! you are the most faithful'loveress,' as Maud says, that was ever known.”
“Don't flatter yourself that I've worn it all these years, sir; I only put it in last spring because I did n't dare to ask for one of the new ones. The button came off the old coat you insisted on wearing after the failure, as if it was your duty to look as shabby as possible, and the curl I stole from Maud. Are n't we silly?”
He did not seem to think so, and after a short pause for refreshments, Polly turned serious, and said anxiously, “When must you go back to your hard work?”
“In a week or two; but it won't seem drudgery now, for you'll write every day, and I shall feel that I'm working to get a home for you. That will give me a forty-man-power, and I'll pay up my debts and get a good start, and then Ned and I will be married and go into partnership, and we'll all be the happiest, busiest people in the West.”
“It sounds delightful; but won't it take a long time, Tom?”
“Only a few years, and we need n't wait a minute after Syd is paid, if you don't mind beginning rather low down, Polly.”
“I'd rather work up with you, than sit idle while you toil away all alone. That's the way father and mother did, and I think they were very happy in spite of the poverty and hard work.”
“Then we'll do it by another year, for I must get more salary before I take you away from a good home here. I wish, oh, Polly, how I wish I had a half of the money I've wasted, to make you comfortable, now.”
“Never mind, I don't want it; I'd rather have less, and know you earned it all yourself,” cried Polly, as Tom struck his hand on his knee with an acute pang of regret at the power he had lost.
“It's like you to say it, and I won't waste any words bewailing myself, because I was a fool. We will work up together, my brave Polly, and you shall yet be proud of your husband, though he is'poor Tom Shaw.'”
She was as sure of that as if an oracle had foretold it, and was not deceived; for the loving heart that had always seen, believed, and tried to strengthen all good impulses in Tom, was well repaid for its instinctive trust by the happiness of the years to come.
“Yes,” she said, hopefully, “I know you will succeed, for the best thing a man can have, is work with a purpose in it, and the will to do it heartily.”
“There is one better thing, Polly,” answered Tom, turning her face up a little, that he might see his inspiration shining in her eyes.
“What is it, dear?”
“A good woman to love and help him all his life, as you will me, please God.”
“Even though she is old-fashioned,” whispered Polly, with happy eyes, the brighter for their tears, as she looked up at the young man, who, through her, had caught a glimpse of the truest success, and was not ashamed to owe it to love and labor, two beautiful old fashions that began long ago, with the first pair in Eden.
Lest any of my young readers who have honored Maud with their interest should suffer the pangs of unsatisfied curiosity as to her future, I will add for their benefit that she did not marry Will, but remained a busy, lively spinster all her days, and kept house for her father in the most delightful manner.
Will's ministerial dream came to pass in the course of time, however, and a gentle, bright-eyed lady ruled over the parsonage, whom the reverend William called his “little Jane.”
Farther into futurity even this rash pen dares not proceed, but pauses here, concluding in the words of the dear old fairy tales, “And so they were married, and all lived happily till they died.”
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"id": "2787"
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Just where the track of the Los Gatos road streams on and upward like the sinuous trail of a fiery rocket until it is extinguished in the blue shadows of the Coast Range, there is an embayed terrace near the summit, hedged by dwarf firs. At every bend of the heat-laden road the eye rested upon it wistfully; all along the flank of the mountain, which seemed to pant and quiver in the oven-like air, through rising dust, the slow creaking of dragging wheels, the monotonous cry of tired springs, and the muffled beat of plunging hoofs, it held out a promise of sheltered coolness and green silences beyond. Sunburned and anxious faces yearned toward it from the dizzy, swaying tops of stagecoaches, from lagging teams far below, from the blinding white canvas covers of “mountain schooners,” and from scorching saddles that seemed to weigh down the scrambling, sweating animals beneath. But it would seem that the hope was vain, the promise illusive. When the terrace was reached it appeared not only to have caught and gathered all the heat of the valley below, but to have evolved a fire of its own from some hidden crater-like source unknown. Nevertheless, instead of prostrating and enervating man and beast, it was said to have induced the wildest exaltation. The heated air was filled and stifling with resinous exhalations. The delirious spices of balm, bay, spruce, juniper, yerba buena, wild syringa, and strange aromatic herbs as yet unclassified, distilled and evaporated in that mighty heat, and seemed to fire with a midsummer madness all who breathed their fumes. They stung, smarted, stimulated, intoxicated. It was said that the most jaded and foot-sore horses became furious and ungovernable under their influence; wearied teamsters and muleteers, who had exhausted their profanity in the ascent, drank fresh draughts of inspiration in this fiery air, extended their vocabulary, and created new and startling forms of objurgation. It is recorded that one bibulous stage-driver exhausted description and condensed its virtues in a single phrase: “Gin and ginger.” This felicitous epithet, flung out in a generous comparison with his favorite drink, “rum and gum,” clung to it ever after.
Such was the current comment on this vale of spices. Like most human criticism it was hasty and superficial. No one yet had been known to have penetrated deeply its mysterious recesses. It was still far below the summit and its wayside inn. It had escaped the intruding foot of hunter and prospector; and the inquisitive patrol of the county surveyor had only skirted its boundary. It remained for Mr. Lance Harriott to complete its exploration. His reasons for so doing were simple. He had made the journey thither underneath the stage-coach, and clinging to its axle. He had chosen this hazardous mode of conveyance at night, as the coach crept by his place of concealment in the wayside brush, to elude the sheriff of Monterey County and his posse, who were after him.
He had not made himself known to his fellow-passengers as they already knew him as a gambler, an outlaw, and a desperado; he deemed it unwise to present himself in a newer reputation of a man who had just slain a brother gambler in a quarrel, and for whom a reward was offered. He slipped from the axle as the stage-coach swirled past the brushing branches of fir, and for an instant lay unnoticed, a scarcely distinguishable mound of dust in the broken furrows of the road. Then, more like a beast than a man, he crept on his hands and knees into the steaming underbrush. Here he lay still until the clatter of harness and the sound of voices faded in the distance. Had he been followed, it would have been difficult to detect in that inert mass of rags any semblance to a known form or figure. A hideous reddish mask of dust and clay obliterated his face; his hands were shapeless stumps exaggerated in his trailing sleeves. And when he rose, staggering like a drunken man, and plunged wildly into the recesses of the wood, a cloud of dust followed him, and pieces and patches of his frayed and rotten garments clung to the impeding branches. Twice he fell, but, maddened and upheld by the smarting spices and stimulating aroma of the air, he kept on his course.
Gradually the heat became less oppressive; once when he stopped and leaned exhaustedly against a sapling, he fancied he saw the zephyr he could not yet feel in the glittering and trembling of leaves in the distance before him. Again the deep stillness was moved with a faint sighing rustle, and he knew he must be nearing the edge of the thicket. The spell of silence thus broken was followed by a fainter, more musical interruption--the glassy tinkle of water! A step further his foot trembled on the verge of a slight ravine, still closely canopied by the interlacing boughs overhead. A tiny stream that he could have dammed with his hand yet lingered in this parched red gash in the hillside and trickled into a deep, irregular, well-like cavity, that again overflowed and sent its slight surplus on. It had been the luxurious retreat of many a spotted trout; it was to be the bath of Lance Harriott. Without a moment's hesitation, without removing a single garment, he slipped cautiously into it, as if fearful of losing a single drop. His head disappeared from the level of the bank; the solitude was again unbroken. Only two objects remained upon the edge of the ravine,--his revolver and tobacco pouch.
A few minutes elapsed. A fearless blue jay alighted on the bank and made a prospecting peck at the tobacco pouch. It yielded in favor of a gopher, who endeavored to draw it toward his hole, but in turn gave way to a red squirrel, whose attention was divided, however, between the pouch and the revolver, which he regarded with mischievous fascination. Then there was a splash, a grunt, a sudden dispersion of animated nature, and the head of Mr. Lance Harriott appeared above the bank. It was a startling transformation. Not only that he had, by this wholesale process, washed himself and his light “drill” garments entirely clean, but that he had, apparently by the same operation, morally cleansed HIMSELF, and left every stain and ugly blot of his late misdeeds and reputation in his bath. His face, albeit scratched here and there, was rosy, round, shining with irrepressible good humor and youthful levity. His large blue eyes were infantine in their innocent surprise and thoughtlessness. Dripping yet with water, and panting, he rested his elbows lazily on the bank, and became instantly absorbed with a boy's delight in the movements of the gopher, who, after the first alarm, returned cautiously to abduct the tobacco pouch. If any familiar had failed to detect Lance Harriott in this hideous masquerade of dust and grime and tatters, still less would any passing stranger have recognized in this blond faun the possible outcast and murderer. And, when with a swirl of his spattering sleeve, he drove back the gopher in a shower of spray and leaped to the bank, he seemed to have accepted his felonious hiding-place as a mere picnicking bower.
A slight breeze was unmistakably permeating the wood from the west. Looking in that direction, Lance imagined that the shadow was less dark, and although the undergrowth was denser, he struck off carelessly toward it. As he went on, the wood became lighter and lighter; branches, and presently leaves, were painted against the vivid blue of the sky. He knew he must be near the summit, stopped, felt for his revolver, and then lightly put the few remaining branches aside.
The full glare of the noonday sun at first blinded him. When he could see more clearly, he found himself on the open western slope of the mountain, which in the Coast Range was seldom wooded. The spiced thicket stretched between him and the summit, and again between him and the stage road that plunges from the terrace, like forked lightning into the valley below. He could command all the approaches without being seen. Not that this seemed to occupy his thoughts or cause him any anxiety. His first act was to disencumber himself of his tattered coat; he then filled and lighted his pipe, and stretched himself full-length on the open hillside, as if to bleach in the fierce sun. While smoking he carelessly perused the fragment of a newspaper which had enveloped his tobacco, and being struck with some amusing paragraph, read it half aloud again to some imaginary auditor, emphasizing its humor with an hilarious slap upon his leg.
Possibly from the relaxation of fatigue and the bath, which had become a vapor one as he alternately rolled and dried himself in the baking grass, his eyes closed dreamily. He was awakened by the sound of voices. They were distant; they were vague; they approached no nearer. He rolled himself to the verge of the first precipitous grassy descent. There was another bank or plateau below him, and then a confused depth of olive shadows, pierced here and there by the spiked helmets of pines.
There was no trace of habitation, yet the voices were those of some monotonous occupation, and Lance distinctly heard through them the click of crockery and the ring of some household utensil. It appeared to be the interjectional, half listless, half perfunctory, domestic dialogue of an old man and a girl, of which the words were unintelligible. Their voices indicated the solitude of the mountain, but without sadness; they were mysterious without being awe-inspiring. They might have uttered the dreariest commonplaces, but, in their vast isolation, they seemed musical and eloquent. Lance drew his first sigh,--they had suggested dinner.
Careless as his nature was, he was too cautious to risk detection in broad daylight. He contented himself for the present with endeavoring to locate that particular part of the depths from which the voices seemed to rise. It was more difficult, however, to select some other way of penetrating it than by the stage road. “They're bound to have a fire or show a light when it's dark,” he reasoned, and, satisfied with that reflection, lay down again. Presently he began to amuse himself by tossing some silver coins in the air. Then his attention was directed to a spur of the Coast Range which had been sharply silhouetted against the cloudless western sky. Something intensely white, something so small that it was scarcely larger than the silver coin in his hand, was appearing in a slight cleft of the range.
While he looked it gradually filled and obliterated the cleft. In another moment the whole serrated line of mountain had disappeared. The dense, dazzling white, encompassing host began to pour over and down every ravine and pass of the coast. Lance recognized the sea-fog, and knew that scarcely twenty miles away lay the ocean--and safety! The drooping sun was now caught and hidden in its soft embraces. A sudden chill breathed over the mountain. He shivered, rose, and plunged again for very warmth into the spice-laden thicket. The heated balsamic air began to affect him like a powerful sedative; his hunger was forgotten in the languor of fatigue; he slumbered. When he awoke it was dark. He groped his way through the thicket. A few stars were shining directly above him, but beyond and below, everything was lost in the soft, white, fleecy veil of fog. Whatever light or fire might have betokened human habitation was hidden. To push on blindly would be madness; he could only wait for morning. It suited the outcast's lazy philosophy. He crept back again to his bed in the hollow and slept. In that profound silence and shadow, shut out from human association and sympathy by the ghostly fog, what torturing visions conjured up by remorse and fear should have pursued him? What spirit passed before him, or slowly shaped itself out of the infinite blackness of the wood? None. As he slipped gently into that blackness he remembered with a slight regret, some biscuits that were dropped from the coach by a careless luncheon-consuming passenger. That pang over, he slept as sweetly, as profoundly, as divinely, as a child.
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He awoke with the aroma of the woods still steeping his senses. His first instinct was that of all young animals; he seized a few of the young, tender green leaves of the yerba buena vine that crept over his mossy pillow and ate them, being rewarded by a half berry-like flavor that seemed to soothe the cravings of his appetite. The languor of sleep being still upon him, he lazily watched the quivering of a sunbeam that was caught in the canopying boughs above. Then he dozed again. Hovering between sleeping and waking, he became conscious of a slight movement among the dead leaves on the bank beside the hollow in which he lay. The movement appeared to be intelligent, and directed toward his revolver, which glittered on the bank. Amused at this evident return of his larcenous friend of the previous day, he lay perfectly still. The movement and rustle continued, but it now seemed long and undulating. Lance's eyes suddenly became set; he was intensely, keenly awake. It was not a snake, but the hand of a human arm, half hidden in the moss, groping for the weapon. In that flash of perception he saw that it was small, bare, and deeply freckled. In an instant he grasped it firmly, and rose to his feet, dragging to his own level as he did so, the struggling figure of a young girl.
“Leave me go!” she said, more ashamed than frightened.
Lance looked at her. She was scarcely more than fifteen, slight and lithe, with a boyish flatness of breast and back. Her flushed face and bare throat were absolutely peppered with minute brown freckles, like grains of spent gunpowder. Her eyes, which were large and gray, presented the singular spectacle of being also freckled,--at least they were shot through in pupil and cornea with tiny spots like powdered allspice. Her hair was even more remarkable in its tawny, deer-skin color, full of lighter shades, and bleached to the faintest of blondes on the crown of her head, as if by the action of the sun. She had evidently outgrown her dress, which was made for a smaller child, and the too brief skirt disclosed a bare, freckled, and sandy desert of shapely limb, for which the darned stockings were equally too scant. Lance let his grasp slip from her thin wrist to her hand, and then with a good-humored gesture tossed it lightly back to her.
She did not retreat, but continued looking at him in a half-surly embarrassment.
“I ain't a bit frightened,” she said; “I'm not going to run away,--don't you fear.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Lance, with unmistakable satisfaction, “but why did you go for my revolver?”
She flushed again and was silent. Presently she began to kick the earth at the roots of the tree, and said, as if confidentially to her foot,-- “I wanted to get hold of it before you did.”
“You did? --and why?”
“Oh, you know why.”
Every tooth in Lance's head showed that he did, perfectly. But he was discreetly silent.
“I didn't know what you were hiding there for,” she went on, still addressing the tree, “and,” looking at him sideways under her white lashes, “I didn't see your face.”
This subtle compliment was the first suggestion of her artful sex. It actually sent the blood into the careless rascal's face, and for a moment confused him. He coughed. “So you thought you'd freeze on to that six-shooter of mine until you saw my hand?”
She nodded. Then she picked up a broken hazel branch, fitted it into the small of her back, threw her tanned bare arms over the ends of it, and expanded her chest and her biceps at the same moment. This simple action was supposed to convey an impression at once of ease and muscular force.
“Perhaps you'd like to take it now,” said Lance, handing her the pistol.
“I've seen six-shooters before now,” said the girl, evading the proffered weapon and its suggestion. “Dad has one, and my brother had two derringers before he was half as big as me.”
She stopped to observe in her companion the effect of this capacity of her family to bear arms. Lance only regarded her amusedly. Presently she again spoke abruptly:-- “What made you eat that grass, just now?”
“Grass!” echoed Lance.
“Yes, there,” pointing to the yerba buena.
Lance laughed. “I was hungry. Look!” he said, gayly tossing some silver into the air. “Do you think you could get me some breakfast for that, and have enough left to buy something for yourself?”
The girl eyed the money and the man with half-bashful curiosity.
“I reckon Dad might give ye suthing if he had a mind ter, though ez a rule he's down on tramps ever since they run off his chickens. Ye might try.”
“But I want YOU to try. You can bring it to me here.”
The girl retreated a step, dropped her eyes, and, with a smile that was a charming hesitation between bashfulness and impudence, said: “So you ARE hidin', are ye?”
“That's just it. Your head's level. I am,” laughed Lance unconcernedly.
“Yur ain't one o' the McCarty gang--are ye?”
Mr. Lance Harriott felt a momentary moral exaltation in declaring truthfully that he was not one of a notorious band of mountain freebooters known in the district under that name.
“Nor ye ain't one of them chicken lifters that raided Henderson's ranch? We don't go much on that kind o' cattle yer.”
“No,” said Lance, cheerfully.
“Nor ye ain't that chap ez beat his wife unto death at Santa Clara?”
Lance honestly scorned the imputation. Such conjugal ill treatment as he had indulged in had not been physical, and had been with other men's wives.
There was a moment's further hesitation on the part of the girl. Then she said shortly: “Well, then, I reckon you kin come along with me.”
“Where?” asked Lance.
“To the ranch,” she replied simply.
“Then you won't bring me anything to eat here?”
“What for? You kin get it down there.” Lance hesitated. “I tell you it's all right,” she continued. “I'll make it all right with Dad.”
“But suppose I reckon I'd rather stay here,” persisted Lance, with a perfect consciousness, however, of affectation in his caution.
“Stay away then,” said the girl coolly; “only as Dad perempted this yer woods”-- “PRE-empted,” suggested Lance.
“Per-empted or pre-emp-ted, as you like,” continued the girl scornfully,--“ez he's got a holt on this yer woods, ye might ez well see him down thar ez here. For here he's like to come any minit. You can bet your life on that.”
She must have read Lance's amusement in his eyes, for she again dropped her own with a frown of brusque embarrassment. “Come along, then; I'm your man,” said Lance, gayly, extending his hand.
She would not accept it, eying it, however, furtively, like a horse about to shy. “Hand me your pistol first,” she said.
He handed it to her with an assumption of gayety. She received it on her part with unfeigned seriousness, and threw it over her shoulder like a gun. This combined action of the child and heroine, it is quite unnecessary to say, afforded Lance undiluted joy.
“You go first,” she said.
Lance stepped promptly out, with a broad grin. “Looks kinder as if I was a prisoner, don't it?” he suggested.
“Go on, and don't fool,” she replied.
The two fared onward through the wood. For one moment he entertained the facetious idea of appearing to rush frantically away, “just to see what the girl would do,” but abandoned it. “It's an even thing if she wouldn't spot me the first pop,” he reflected admiringly.
When they had reached the open hillside, Lance stopped inquiringly. “This way,” she said, pointing toward the summit, and in quite an opposite direction to the valley where he had heard the voices, one of which he now recognized as hers. They skirted the thicket for a few moments, and then turned sharply into a trail which began to dip toward a ravine leading to the valley.
“Why do you have to go all the way round?” he asked.
“WE don't,” the girl replied with emphasis; “there's a shorter cut.”
“Where?”
“That's telling,” she answered shortly.
“What's your name?” asked Lance, after a steep scramble and a drop into the ravine.
“Flip.”
“What?”
“Flip.”
“I mean your first name,--your front name.”
“Flip.”
“Flip! Oh, short for Felipa!”
“It ain't Flipper,--it's Flip.” And she relapsed into silence.
“You don't ask me mine?” suggested Lance.
She did not vouchsafe a reply.
“Then you don't want to know?”
“Maybe Dad will. You can lie to HIM.”
This direct answer apparently sustained the agreeable homicide for some moments. He moved onward, silently exuding admiration.
“Only,” added Flip, with a sudden caution, “you'd better agree with me.”
The trail here turned again abruptly and re-entered the canyon. Lance looked up, and noticed they were almost directly beneath the bay thicket and the plateau that towered far above them. The trail here showed signs of clearing, and the way was marked by felled trees and stumps of pines.
“What does your father do here?” he finally asked. Flip remained silent, swinging the revolver. Lance repeated his question.
“Burns charcoal and makes diamonds,” said Flip, looking at him from the corners of her eyes.
“Makes diamonds?” echoed Lance.
Flip nodded her head.
“Many of 'em?” he continued carelessly.
“Lots. But they're not big,” she returned, with a sidelong glance.
“Oh, they're not big?” said Lance gravely.
They had by this time reached a small staked inclosure, whence the sudden fluttering and cackle of poultry welcomed the return of the evident mistress of this sylvan retreat. It was scarcely imposing. Further on, a cooking stove under a tree, a saddle and bridle, a few household implements scattered about, indicated the “ranch.” Like most pioneer clearings, it was simply a disorganized raid upon nature that had left behind a desolate battlefield strewn with waste and decay. The fallen trees, the crushed thicket, the splintered limbs, the rudely torn-up soil, were made hideous by their grotesque juxtaposition with the wrecked fragments of civilization, in empty cans, broken bottles, battered hats, soleless boots, frayed stockings, cast-off rags, and the crowning absurdity of the twisted-wire skeleton of a hooped skirt hanging from a branch. The wildest defile, the densest thicket, the most virgin solitude, was less dreary and forlorn than this first footprint of man. The only redeeming feature of this prolonged bivouac was the cabin itself. Built of the half-cylindrical strips of pine bark, and thatched with the same material, it had a certain picturesque rusticity. But this was an accident of economy rather than taste, for which Flip apologized by saying that the bark of the pine was “no good” for charcoal.
“I reckon Dad's in the woods,” she added, pausing before the open door of the cabin. “Oh, Dad!” Her voice, clear and high, seemed to fill the whole long canyon, and echoed from the green plateau above. The monotonous strokes of an axe were suddenly pretermitted, and somewhere from the depths of the close-set pines a voice answered “Flip.” There was a pause of a few moments, with some muttering, stumbling, and crackling in the underbrush, and then the sudden appearance of “Dad.”
Had Lance first met him in the thicket, he would have been puzzled to assign his race to Mongolian, Indian, or Ethiopian origin. Perfunctory but incomplete washings of his hands and face, after charcoal burning, had gradually ground into his skin a grayish slate-pencil pallor, grotesquely relieved at the edges, where the washing had left off, with a border of a darker color. He looked like an overworked Christy minstrel with the briefest of intervals between his performances. There were black rims in the orbits of his eyes, as if he gazed feebly out of unglazed spectacles, which heightened his simian resemblance, already grotesquely exaggerated by what appeared to be repeated and spasmodic experiments in dyeing his gray hair. Without the slightest notice of Lance, he inflicted his protesting and querulous presence entirely on his daughter.
“Well, what's up now? Yer ye are calling me from work an hour before noon. Dog my skin, ef I ever get fairly limbered up afore it's 'Dad!' and 'Oh, Dad!'”
To Lance's intense satisfaction the girl received this harangue with an air of supreme indifference, and when “Dad” had relapsed into an unintelligible, and, as it seemed to Lance, a half-frightened muttering, she said coolly,-- “Ye'd better drop that axe and scoot round getten' this stranger some breakfast and some grub to take with him. He's one of them San Francisco sports out here trout fishing in the branch. He's got adrift from his party, has lost his rod and fixins, and had to camp out last night in the Gin and Ginger Woods.”
“That's just it; it's allers suthin like that,” screamed the old man, dashing his fist on his leg in a feeble, impotent passion, but without looking at Lance. “Why in blazes don't he go up to that there blamed hotel on the summit? Why in thunder--” But here he caught his daughter's large, freckled eyes full in his own. He blinked feebly, his voice fell into a tone of whining entreaty. “Now, look yer, Flip, it's playing it rather low down on the old man, this yer running' in o' tramps and desarted emigrants and cast-ashore sailors and forlorn widders and ravin' lunatics, on this yer ranch. I put it to you, Mister,” he said abruptly, turning to Lance for the first time, but as if he had already taken an active part in the conversation,--“I put it as a gentleman yourself, and a fair-minded sportin' man, if this is the square thing?”
Before Lance could reply, Flip had already begun. “That's just it! D'ye reckon, being a sportin' man and an A 1 feller, he's goin' to waltz down inter that hotel, rigged out ez he is? D'ye reckon he's goin' to let his partners get the laugh outer him? D'ye reckon he's goin' to show his head outer this yer ranch till he can do it square? Not much! Go 'long. Dad, you're talking silly!”
The old man weakened. He feebly trailed his axe between his legs to a stump and sat down, wiping his forehead with his sleeve, and imparting to it the appearance of a slate with a difficult sum partly rubbed out. He looked despairingly at Lance. “In course,” he said, with a deep sigh, “you naturally ain't got any money. In course you left your pocketbook, containing fifty dollars, under a stone, and can't find it. In course,” he continued, as he observed Lance put his hand to his pocket, “you've only got a blank check on Wells, Fargo & Co. for a hundred dollars, and you'd like me to give you the difference?”
Amused as Lance evidently was at this, his absolute admiration for Flip absorbed everything else. With his eyes fixed upon the girl, he briefly assured the old man that he would pay for everything he wanted. He did this with a manner quite different from the careless, easy attitude he had assumed toward Flip; at least the quick-witted girl noticed it, and wondered if he was angry. It was quite true that ever since his eye had fallen upon another of his own sex, its glance had been less frank and careless. Certain traits of possible impatience, which might develop into man-slaying, were coming to the fore. Yet a word or a gesture of Flip's was sufficient to change that manner, and when, with the fretful assistance of her father, she had prepared a somewhat sketchy and primitive repast, he questioned the old man about diamond-making. The eye of Dad kindled.
“I want ter know how ye knew I was making diamonds,” he asked, with a certain bashful pettishness not unlike his daughter's.
“Heard it in 'Frisco,” replied Lance, with glib mendacity, glancing at the girl.
“I reckon they're gettin' sort of skeert down there--them jewelers,” chuckled Dad, “yet it's in nater that their figgers will have to come down. It's only a question of the price of charcoal. I suppose they didn't tell you how I made the discovery?”
Lance would have stopped the old man's narrative by saying that he knew the story, but he wished to see how far Flip lent herself to her father's delusion.
“Ye see, one night about two years ago I had a pit o' charcoal burning out there, and tho' it had been a smouldering and a smoking and a blazing for nigh unto a month, somehow it didn't charcoal worth a cent. And yet, dog my skin, but the heat o' that er pit was suthin hidyus and frightful; ye couldn't stand within a hundred yards of it, and they could feel it on the stage road three miles over yon, t'other side the mountain. There was nights when me and Flip had to take our blankets up the ravine and camp out all night, and the back of this yer hut shriveled up like that bacon. It was about as nigh on to hell as any sample ye kin get here. Now, mebbe you think I built that air fire? Mebbe you'll allow the heat was just the nat'ral burning of that pit?”
“Certainly,” said Lance, trying to see Flip's eyes, which were resolutely averted.
“Thet's whar you'd be lyin'! That yar heat kem out of the bowels of the yearth,--kem up like out of a chimbley or a blast, and kep up that yar fire. And when she cools down a month after, and I got to strip her, there was a hole in the yearth, and a spring o' bilin', scaldin' water pourin' out of it ez big as your waist. And right in the middle of it was this yer.” He rose with the instinct of a skillful raconteur, and whisked from under his bunk a chamois leather bag, which he emptied on the table before them. It contained a small fragment of native rock crystal, half-fused upon a petrified bit of pine. It was so glaringly truthful, so really what it purported to be, that the most unscientific woodman or pioneer would have understood it at a glance. Lance raised his mirthful eyes to Flip.
“It was cooled suddint,--stunted by the water,” said the girl, eagerly. She stopped, and as abruptly turned away her eyes and her reddened face.
“That's it, that's just it,” continued the old man. “Thar's Flip, thar, knows it; she ain't no fool!” Lance did not speak, but turned a hard, unsympathizing look upon the old man, and rose almost roughly. The old man clutched his coat. “That's it, ye see. The carbon's just turning to di'mens. And stunted. And why? 'Cos the heat wasn't kep up long enough. Mebbe yer think I stopped thar? That ain't me. Thar's a pit out yar in the woods ez hez been burning six months; it hain't, in course, got the advantages o' the old one, for it's nat'ral heat. But I'm keeping that heat up. I've got a hole where I kin watch it every four hours. When the time comes, I'm thar! Don't you see? That's me! that's David Fairley,--that's the old man,--you bet!”
“That's so,” said Lance, curtly. “And now, Mr. Fairley, if you'll hand me over a coat or a jacket till I can get past these fogs on the Monterey road, I won't keep you from your diamond pit.” He threw down a handful of silver on the table.
“Ther's a deerskin jacket yer,” said the old man, “that one o' them vaqueros left for the price of a bottle of whiskey.”
“I reckon it wouldn't suit the stranger,” said Flip, dubiously producing a much-worn, slashed, and braided vaquero's jacket. But it did suit Lance, who found it warm, and also had suddenly found a certain satisfaction in opposing Flip. When he had put it on, and nodded coldly to the old man, and carelessly to Flip, he walked to the door.
“If you're going to take the Monterey road, I can show you a short cut to it,” said Flip, with a certain kind of shy civility.
The paternal Fairley groaned. “That's it; let the chickens and the ranch go to thunder, as long as there's a stranger to trapse round with; go on!”
Lance would have made some savage reply, but Flip interrupted. “You know yourself, Dad, it's a blind trail, and as that 'ere constable that kem out here hunting French Pete, couldn't find it, and had to go round by the canyon, like ez not the stranger would lose his way, and have to come back!” This dangerous prospect silenced the old man, and Flip and Lance stepped into the road together. They walked on for some moments without speaking. Suddenly Lance turned upon his companion.
“You didn't swallow all that rot about the diamond, did you?” he asked, crossly.
Flip ran a little ahead, as if to avoid a reply.
“You don't mean to say that's the sort of hog wash the old man serves out to you regularly?” continued Lance, becoming more slangy in his ill temper.
“I don't know that it's any consarn o' yours what I think,” replied Flip, hopping from boulder to boulder, as they crossed the bed of a dry watercourse.
“And I suppose you've piloted round and dry-nussed every tramp and dead beat you've met since you came here,” continued Lance, with unmistakable ill humor. “How many have you helped over this road?”
“It's a year since there was a Chinaman chased by some Irishmen from the Crossing into the brush about yer, and he was too afeered to come out, and nigh most starved to death in thar. I had to drag him out and start him on the mountain, for you couldn't get him back to the road. He was the last one but YOU.”
“Do you reckon it's the right thing for a girl like you to run about with trash of this kind, and mix herself up with all sorts of rough and bad company?” said Lance.
Flip stopped short. “Look! if you're goin' to talk like Dad, I'll go back.”
The ridiculousness of such a resemblance struck him more keenly than a consciousness of his own ingratitude. He hastened to assure Flip that he was joking. When he had made his peace they fell into talk again, Lance becoming unselfish enough to inquire into one or two facts concerning her life which did not immediately affect him. Her mother had died on the plains when she was a baby, and her brother had run away from home at twelve. She fully expected to see him again, and thought he might sometime stray into their canyon. “That is why, then, you take so much stock in tramps,” said Lance. “You expect to recognize HIM?”
“Well,” replied Flip, gravely, “there is suthing in THAT, and there's suthing in THIS: some o' these chaps might run across brother and do him a good turn for the sake of me.”
“Like me, for instance?” suggested Lance.
“Like you. You'd do him a good turn, wouldn't you?”
“You bet!” said Lance, with a sudden emotion that quite startled him; “only don't you go to throwing yourself round promiscuously.” He was half-conscious of an irritating sense of jealousy, as he asked if any of her proteges had ever returned.
“No,” said Flip, “no one ever did. It shows,” she added with sublime simplicity, “I had done 'em good, and they could get on alone. Don't it?”
“It does,” responded Lance grimly. “Have you any other friends that come?”
“Only the Postmaster at the Crossing.”
“The Postmaster?”
“Yes; he's reckonin' to marry me next year, if I'm big enough.”
“And what do you reckon?” asked Lance earnestly.
Flip began a series of distortions with her shoulders, ran on ahead, picked up a few pebbles and threw them into the wood, glanced back at Lance with swimming mottled eyes, that seemed a piquant incarnation of everything suggestive and tantalizing, and said, “That's telling.”
They had by this time reached the spot where they were to separate. “Look,” said Flip, pointing to a faint deflection of their path, which seemed, however, to lose itself in the underbrush a dozen yards away, “ther's your trail. It gets plainer and broader the further you get on, but you must use your eyes here, and get to know it well afore you get into the fog. Good-by.”
“Good-by.” Lance took her hand and drew her beside him. She was still redolent of the spices of the thicket, and to the young man's excited fancy seemed at that moment to personify the perfume and intoxication of her native woods. Half laughingly, half earnestly, he tried to kiss her; she struggled for some time strongly, but at the last moment yielded, with a slight return and the exchange of a subtle fire that thrilled him, and left him standing confused and astounded as she ran away. He watched her lithe, nymph-like figure disappear in the checkered shadows of the wood, and then he turned briskly down the half-hidden trail. His eyesight was keen, he made good progress, and was soon well on his way toward the distant ridge.
But Flip's return had not been as rapid. When she reached the wood she crept to its beetling verge, and, looking across the canyon, watched Lance's figure as it vanished and reappeared in the shadows and sinuosities of the ascent. When he reached the ridge the outlying fog crept across the summit, caught him in its embrace, and wrapped him from her gaze. Flip sighed, raised herself, put her alternate foot on a stump, and took a long pull at her too-brief stockings. When she had pulled down her skirt and endeavored once more to renew the intimacy that had existed in previous years between the edge of her petticoat and the top of her stockings, she sighed again, and went home.
|
{
"id": "2793"
}
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3
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None
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For six months the sea fogs monotonously came and went along the Monterey coast; for six months they beleaguered the Coast Range with afternoon sorties of white hosts that regularly swept over the mountain crest, and were as regularly beaten back again by the leveled lances of the morning sun. For six months that white veil which had once hidden Lance Harriott in its folds returned without him. For that amiable outlaw no longer needed disguise or hiding-place. The swift wave of pursuit that had dashed him on the summit had fallen back, and the next day was broken and scattered. Before the week had passed, a regular judicial inquiry relieved his crime of premeditation, and showed it to be a rude duel of two armed and equally desperate men. From a secure vantage in a seacoast town Lance challenged a trial by his peers, and, as an already prejudged man escaping from his executioners, obtained a change of venue. Regular justice, seated by the calm Pacific, found the action of an interior, irregular jury rash and hasty. Lance was liberated on bail.
The Postmaster at Fisher's Crossing had just received the weekly mail and express from San Francisco, and was engaged in examining it. It consisted of five letters and two parcels. Of these, three of the letters and the two parcels were directed to Flip. It was not the first time during the last six months that this extraordinary event had occurred, and the curiosity of the Crossing was duly excited. As Flip had never called personally for the letters or parcels, but had sent one of her wild, irregular scouts or henchmen to bring them, and as she was seldom seen at the Crossing or on the stage road, that curiosity was never satisfied. The disappointment to the Postmaster--a man past the middle age--partook of a sentimental nature. He looked at the letters and parcels; he looked at his watch; it was yet early, he could return by noon. He again examined the addresses; they were in the same handwriting as the previous letters. His mind was made up, he would deliver them himself. The poetic, soulful side of his mission was delicately indicated by a pale blue necktie, a clean shirt, and a small package of gingernuts, of which Flip was extravagantly fond.
The common road to Fairley's Ranch was by the stage turnpike to a point below the Gin and Ginger Woods, where the prudent horseman usually left his beast and followed the intersecting trail afoot. It was here that the Postmaster suddenly observed on the edge of the wood the figure of an elegantly-dressed woman; she was walking slowly, and apparently at her ease; one hand held her skirts lightly gathered between her gloved fingers, the other slowly swung a riding whip. Was it a picnic of some people from Monterey or Santa Cruz? The spectacle was novel enough to justify his coming nearer. Suddenly she withdrew into the wood; he lost sight of her; she was gone. He remembered, however, that Flip was still to be seen, and as the steep trail was beginning to tax all his energies, he was fain to hurry forward. The sun was nearly vertical when he turned into the canyon, and saw the bark roof of the cabin beyond. At almost the same moment Flip appeared, flushed and panting, in the road before him.
“You've got something for me,” she said, pointing to the parcel and letters. Completely taken by surprise, the Postmaster mechanically yielded them up, and as instantly regretted it. “They're paid for,” continued Flip, observing his hesitation.
“That's so,” stammered the official of the Crossing, seeing his last chance of knowing the contents of the parcel vanish; “but I thought ez it's a valooable package, maybe ye might want to examine it to see that it was all right afore ye receipted for it.”
“I'll risk it,” said Flip, coolly, “and if it ain't right I'll let ye know.”
As the girl seemed inclined to retire with her property, the Postmaster was driven to other conversation. “We ain't had the pleasure of seeing you down at the Crossing for a month o' Sundays,” he began, with airy yet pronounced gallantry. “Some folks let on you was keepin' company with some feller like Bijah Brown, and you were getting a little too set up for the Crossing.” The individual here mentioned being the county butcher, and supposed to exhibit his hopeless affection for Flip by making a long and useless divergence from his weekly route to enter the canyon for “orders,” Flip did not deem it necessary to reply. “Then I allowed how ez you might have company,” he continued; “I reckon there's some city folks up at the summit. I saw a mighty smart, fash'n'ble gal cavorting round. Had no end o' style and fancy fixin's. That's my kind, I tell you. I just weaken on that sort o' gal,” he continued, in the firm belief that he had awakened Flip's jealousy, as he glanced at her well-worn homespun frock, and found her eyes suddenly fixed on his own.
“Strange I ain't got to see her yet,” she replied coolly, shouldering her parcel, and quite ignoring any sense of obligation to him for his extra-official act.
“But you might get to see her at the edge of the Gin and Ginger Woods,” he persisted feebly, in a last effort to detain her; “if you'll take a pasear there with me.” Flip's only response was to walk on toward the cabin, whence, with a vague complimentary suggestion of “droppin' in to pass the time o' day” with her father, the Postmaster meekly followed.
The paternal Fairley, once convinced that his daughter's new companion required no pecuniary or material assistance from his hands, relaxed to the extent of entering into a querulous confidence with him, during which Flip took the opportunity of slipping away. As Fairley had that infelicitous tendency of most weak natures, to unconsciously exaggerate unimportant details in their talk, the Postmaster presently became convinced that the butcher was a constant and assiduous suitor of Flip's. The absurdity of his sending parcels and letters by post when he might bring them himself did not strike the official. On the contrary, he believed it to be a master stroke of cunning. Fired by jealousy and Flip's indifference, he “deemed it his duty”--using that facile form of cowardly offensiveness--to betray Flip.
Of which she was happily oblivious. Once away from the cabin, she plunged into the woods, with the parcel swung behind her like a knapsack. Leaving the trail, she presently struck off in a straight line through cover and underbrush with the unerring instinct of an animal, climbing hand over hand the steepest ascent, or fluttering like a bird from branch to branch down the deepest declivity. She soon reached that part of the trail where the susceptible Postmaster had seen the fascinating unknown. Assuring herself she was not followed, she crept through the thicket until she reached a little waterfall and basin that had served the fugitive Lance for a bath. The spot bore signs of later and more frequent occupancy, and when Flip carefully removed some bark and brushwood from a cavity in the rock and drew forth various folded garments, it was evident she had used it as a sylvan dressing-room. Here she opened the parcel; it contained a small and delicate shawl of yellow China crepe. Flip instantly threw it over her shoulders and stepped hurriedly toward the edge of the wood. Then she began to pass backward and forward before the trunk of a tree. At first nothing was visible on the tree, but a closer inspection showed a large pane of ordinary window glass stuck in the fork of the branches. It was placed at such a cunning angle against the darkness of the forest opening that it made a soft and mysterious mirror, not unlike a Claude Lorraine glass, wherein not only the passing figure of the young girl was seen, but the dazzling green and gold of the hillside, and the far-off silhouetted crests of the Coast Range.
But this was evidently only a prelude to a severer rehearsal. When she returned to the waterfall she unearthed from her stores a large piece of yellow soap and some yards of rough cotton “sheeting.” These she deposited beside the basin and again crept to the edge of the wood to assure herself that she was alone. Satisfied that no intruding foot had invaded that virgin bower, she returned to her bath and began to undress. A slight wind followed her, and seemed to whisper to the circumjacent trees. It appeared to waken her sister naiads and nymphs, who, joining their leafy fingers, softly drew around her a gently moving band of trembling lights and shadows, of flecked sprays and inextricably mingled branches, and involved her in a chaste sylvan obscurity, veiled alike from pursuing god or stumbling shepherd. Within these hallowed precincts was the musical ripple of laughter and falling water, and at times the glimpse of a lithe brier-caught limb, or a ray of sunlight trembling over bright flanks, or the white austere outline of a childish bosom.
When she drew again the leafy curtain, and once more stepped out of the wood, she was completely transformed. It was the figure that had appeared to the Postmaster; the slight, erect, graceful form of a young woman modishly attired. It was Flip, but Flip made taller by the lengthened skirt and clinging habiliments of fashion. Flip freckled, but, through the cunning of a relief of yellow color in her gown, her piquant brown-shot face and eyes brightened and intensified until she seemed like a spicy odor made visible. I cannot affirm that the judgment of Flip's mysterious modiste was infallible, or that the taste of Mr. Lance Harriott, her patron, was fastidious; enough that it was picturesque, and perhaps not more glaring and extravagant than the color in which Spring herself had once clothed the sere hillside where Flip was now seated. The phantom mirror in the tree fork caught and held her with the sky, the green leaves, the sunlight and all the graciousness of her surroundings, and the wind gently tossed her hair and the gay ribbons of her gypsy hat. Suddenly she started. Some remote sound in the trail below, inaudible to any ear less fine than hers, arrested her breathing. She rose swiftly and darted into cover.
Ten minutes passed. The sun was declining; the white fog was beginning to creep over the Coast Range. From the edge of the wood Cinderella appeared, disenchanted, and in her homespun garments. The clock had struck--the spell was past. As she disappeared down the trail even the magic mirror, moved by the wind, slipped from the tree top to the ground, and became a piece of common glass.
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{
"id": "2793"
}
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4
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None
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The events of the day had produced a remarkable impression on the facial aspect of the charcoal-burning Fairley. Extraordinary processes of thought, indicated by repeated rubbing of his forehead, had produced a high light in the middle and a corresponding deepening of shadow at the sides, until it bore the appearance of a perfect sphere. It was this forehead that confronted Flip reproachfully as became a deceived comrade, menacingly as became an outraged parent in the presence of a third party and--a Postmaster!
“Fine doin's this, yer receivin' clandecent bundles and letters, eh?” he began. Flip sent one swift, withering look of contempt at the Postmaster, who at once becoming invertebrate and groveling, mumbled that he must “get on” to the Crossing, and rose to go. But the old man, who had counted on his presence for moral support, and was clearly beginning to hate him for precipitating this scene with his daughter, whom he feared, violently protested.
“Sit down, can't ye? Don't you see you're a witness?” he screamed hysterically.
It was a fatal suggestion. “Witness,” repeated Flip, scornfully.
“Yes, a witness! He gave ye letters and bundles.”
“Weren't they directed to me?” asked Flip.
“Yes,” said the Postmaster, hesitatingly; “in course, yes.”
“Do YOU lay claim to them?” she said, turning to her father.
“No,” responded the old man.
“Do you?” sharply, to the Postmaster.
“No,” he replied.
“Then,” said Flip, coolly, “if you're not claimin' 'em for yourself, and you hear father say they ain't his, I reckon the less you have to say about 'em the better.”
“Thar's suthin' in that,” said the old man, shamelessly abandoning the Postmaster.
“Then why don't she say who sent 'em, and what they are like,” said the Postmaster, “if there's nothin' in it?”
“Yes,” echoed Dad. “Flip, why don't you?”
Without answering the direct question, Flip turned upon her father.
“Maybe you forget how you used to row and tear round here because tramps and such like came to the ranch for suthin', and I gave it to 'em? Maybe you'll quit tearin' round and letting yourself be made a fool of now by that man, just because one of those tramps gets up and sends us some presents back in turn?”
“'Twasn't me, Flip,” said the old man, deprecatingly, but glaring at the astonished Postmaster. “Twasn't my doin'. I allus said if you cast your bread on the waters it would come back to you by return mail. The fact is, the Gov'ment is gettin' too high-handed! Some o' these bloated officials had better climb down before next leckshen.”
“Maybe,” continued Flip to her father, without looking at her discomfited visitor, “ye'd better find out whether one of those officials comes up to this yer ranch to steal away a gal about my own size, or to get points about diamond-making. I reckon he don't travel round to find out who writes all the letters that go through the Post Office.”
The Postmaster had seemingly miscalculated the old man's infirm temper and the daughter's skillful use of it. He was unprepared for Flip's boldness and audacity, and when he saw that both barrels of the accusation had taken effect on the charcoal burner, who was rising with epileptic rage, he fairly turned and fled. The old man would have followed him with objurgation beyond the door, but for the restraining hand of Flip.
Baffled and beaten, nevertheless Fate was not wholly unkind to the retreating suitor. Near the Gin and Ginger Woods he picked up a letter which had fallen from Flip's pocket. He recognized the writing, and did not scruple to read it. It was not a love epistle,--at least, not such a one as he would have written,--it did not give the address nor the name of the correspondent; but he read the following with greedy eyes:-- “Perhaps it's just as well that you don't rig yourself out for the benefit of those dead beats at the Crossing, or any tramp that might hang round the ranch. Keep all your style for me when I come. I can't tell you when, it's mighty uncertain before the rainy season. But I'm coming soon. Don't go back on your promise about lettin up on the tramps, and being a little more high-toned. And don't you give 'em so much. It's true I sent you hats TWICE. I clean forgot all about the first; but I wouldn't have given a ten-dollar hat to a nigger woman who had a sick baby because I had an extra hat. I'd have let that baby slide. I forgot to ask whether the skirt is worn separately; I must see the dressmaking sharp about it; but I think you'll want something on besides a jacket and skirt; at least, it looks like it up here. I don't think you could manage a piano down there without the old man knowing it, and raisin' the devil generally. I promised you I'd let up on him. Mind you keep all your promises to me. I'm glad you're gettin' on with the six-shooter; tin cans are good at fifteen yards, but try it on suthin' that MOVES! I forgot to say that I am on the track of your big brother. It's a three years' old track, and he was in Arizona. The friend who told me didn't expatiate much on what he did there, but I reckon they had a high old time. If he's above the earth I'll find him, you bet. The yerba buena and the southern wood came all right,--they smelt like you. Say, Flip, do you remember the last--the VERY last--thing that happened when you said 'Good-by' on the trail? Don't let me ever find out that you've let anybody else kiss--” But here the virtuous indignation of the Postmaster found vent in an oath. He threw the letter away. He retained of it only two facts,--Flip HAD a brother who was missing; she had a lover present in the flesh.
How much of the substance of this and previous letters Flip had confided to her father I cannot say. If she suppressed anything it was probably that which affected Lance's secret alone, and it was doubtful how much of that she herself knew. In her own affairs she was frank without being communicative, and never lost her shy obstinacy even with her father. Governing the old man as completely as she did, she appeared most embarrassed when she was most dominant; she had her own way without lifting her voice or her eyes; she seemed oppressed by mauvaise honte when she was most triumphant; she would end a discussion with a shy murmur addressed to herself, or a single gesture of self-consciousness.
The disclosure of her strange relations with an unknown man and the exchange of presents and confidences seemed to suddenly awake Fairley to a vague, uneasy sense of some unfulfilled duties as a parent. The first effect of this on his weak nature was a peevish antagonism to the cause of it. He had long, fretful monologues on the vanity of diamond-making, if accompanied with a “pestering” by “interlopers;” on the wickedness of concealment and conspiracy, and their effects on charcoal-burning; on the nurturing of spies and “adders” in the family circle, and on the seditiousness of dark and mysterious councils in which a gray-haired father was left out. It was true that a word or look from Flip generally brought these monologues to an inglorious and abrupt termination, but they were none the less lugubrious as long as they lasted. In time they were succeeded by an affectation of contrite apology and self-depreciation. “Don't go out o' the way to ask the old man,” he would say, referring to the quantity of bacon to be ordered; “it's nat'ral a young gal should have her own advisers.” The state of the flour barrel would also produce a like self-abasement. “Unless ye're already in correspondence about more flour, ye might take the opinion o' the first tramp ye meet ez to whether Santa Cruz Mills is a good brand, but don't ask the old man.” If Flip was in conversation with the butcher, Fairley would obtrusively retire with the hope “he wasn't intrudin' on their secrets.”
These phases of her father's weakness were not frequent enough to excite her alarm, but she could not help noticing they were accompanied with a seriousness unusual to him. He began to be tremulously watchful of her, returning often from work at an earlier hour, and lingering by the cabin in the morning. He brought absurd and useless presents for her, and presented them with a nervous anxiety, poorly concealed by an assumption of careless, paternal generosity. “Suthin' I picked up at the Crossin' for ye to-day,” he would say, airily, and retire to watch the effect of a pair of shoes two sizes too large, or a fur cap in September. He would have hired a cheap parlor organ for her, but for the apparently unexpected revelation that she couldn't play. He had received the news of a clue to his long-lost son without emotion, but lately he seemed to look upon it as a foregone conclusion, and one that necessarily solved the question of companionship for Flip. “In course, when you've got your own flesh and blood with ye, ye can't go foolin' around with strangers.” These autumnal blossoms of affection, I fear, came too late for any effect upon Flip, precociously matured by her father's indifference and selfishness. But she was good humored, and, seeing him seriously concerned, gave him more of her time, even visited him in the sacred seclusion of the “diamond pit,” and listened with far-off eyes to his fitful indictment of all things outside his grimy laboratory. Much of this patient indifference came with a capricious change in her own habits; she no longer indulged in the rehearsal of dress, she packed away her most treasured garments, and her leafy boudoir knew her no more. She sometimes walked on the hillside, and often followed the trail she had taken with Lance when she led him to the ranch. She once or twice extended her walk to the spot where she had parted from him, and as often came shyly away, her eyes downcast and her face warm with color. Perhaps because these experiences and some mysterious instinct of maturing womanhood had left a story in her eyes, which her two adorers, the Postmaster and the Butcher, read with passion, she became famous without knowing it. Extravagant stories of her fascinations brought strangers into the valley. The effect upon her father may be imagined. Lance could not have desired a more effective guardian than he proved to be in this emergency. Those who had been told of this hidden pearl were surprised to find it so jealously protected.
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{
"id": "2793"
}
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5
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None
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The long, parched summer had drawn to its dusty close. Much of it was already blown abroad and dissipated on trail and turnpike, or crackled in harsh, unelastic fibres on hillside and meadow. Some of it had disappeared in the palpable smoke by day and fiery crests by night of burning forests. The besieging fogs on the Coast Range daily thinned their hosts, and at last vanished. The wind changed from northwest to southwest. The salt breath of the sea was on the summit. And then one day the staring, unchanged sky was faintly touched with remote mysterious clouds, and grew tremulous in expression. The next morning dawned upon a newer face in the heavens, on changed woods, on altered outlines, on vanished crests, on forgotten distances. It was raining!
Four weeks of this change, with broken spaces of sunlight and intense blue aerial islands, and then a storm set in. All day the summit pines and redwoods rocked in the blast. At times the onset of the rain seemed to be held back by the fury of the gale, or was visibly seen in sharp waves on the hillside. Unknown and concealed watercourses suddenly overflowed the trails, pools became lakes and brooks rivers. Hidden from the storm, the sylvan silence of sheltered valleys was broken by the impetuous rush of waters; even the tiny streamlet that traversed Flip's retreat in the Gin and Ginger Woods became a cascade.
The storm drove Fairley from his couch early. The falling of a large tree across the trail, and the sudden overflow of a small stream beside it, hastened his steps. But he was doomed to encounter what was to him a more disagreeable object--a human figure. By the bedraggled drapery that flapped and fluttered in the wind, by the long, unkempt hair that hid the face and eyes, and by the grotesquely misplaced bonnet, the old man recognized one of his old trespassers,--an Indian squaw.
“Clear out 'er that! Come, make tracks, will ye?” the old man screamed; but here the wind stopped his voice, and drove him against a hazel bush.
“Me heap sick,” answered the squaw, shivering through her muddy shawl.
“I'll make ye a heap sicker if ye don't vamose the ranch,” continued Fairley, advancing.
“Me wantee Wangee girl. Wangee girl give me heap grub,” said the squaw, without moving.
“You bet your life,” groaned the old man to himself. Nevertheless an idea struck him. “Ye ain't brought no presents, hev ye?” he asked cautiously. “Ye ain't got no pooty things for poor Wangee girl?” he continued, insinuatingly.
“Me got heap cache nuts and berries,” said the squaw.
“Oh, in course! in course! That's just it,” screamed Fairley; “you've got 'em cached only two mile from yer, and you'll go and get 'em for a half dollar, cash down.”
“Me bring Wangee girl to cache,” replied the Indian, pointing to the wood. “Honest Injin.”
Another bright idea struck Mr. Fairley. But it required some elaboration. Hurrying the squaw with him through the pelting rain, he reached the shelter of the corral. Vainly the shivering aborigine drew her tightly bandaged papoose closer to her square, flat breast, and looked longingly toward the cabin; the old man backed her against the palisade. Here he cautiously imparted his dark intentions to employ her to keep watch and ward over the ranch, and especially over its young mistress--“clear out all the tramps 'ceptin' yourself, and I'll keep ye in grub and rum.” Many and deliberate repetitions of this offer in various forms at last seemed to affect the squaw; she nodded violently, and echoed the last word “rum.” “Now,” she added. The old man hesitated; she was in possession of his secret; he groaned, and, promising an immediate installment of liquor, led her to the cabin.
The door was so securely fastened against the impact of the storm that some moments elapsed before the bar was drawn, and the old man had become impatient and profane. When it was partly opened by Flip he hastily slipped in, dragging the squaw after him, and cast one single suspicious glance around the rude apartment which served as a sitting-room. Flip had apparently been writing. A small inkstand was still on the board table, but her paper had evidently been concealed before she allowed them to enter. The squaw instantly squatted before the adobe hearth, warmed her bundled baby, and left the ceremony of introduction to her companion. Flip regarded the two with calm preoccupation and indifference. The only thing that touched her interest was the old squaw's draggled skirt and limp neckerchief. They were Flip's own, long since abandoned and cast off in the Gin and Ginger Woods. “Secrets again,” whined Fairley, still eying Flip furtively. “Secrets again, in course--in course--jiss so. Secrets that must be kep from the ole man. Dark doin's by one's own flesh and blood. Go on! go on! Don't mind me.” Flip did not reply. She had even lost the interest in her old dress. Perhaps it had only touched some note in unison with her revery.
“Can't ye get the poor critter some whiskey?” he queried, fretfully. “Ye used to be peart enuff before.” As Flip turned to the corner to lift the demijohn, Fairley took occasion to kick the squaw with his foot, and indicate by extravagant pantomime that the bargain was not to be alluded to before the girl. Flip poured out some whiskey in a tin cup, and, approaching the squaw, handed it to her. “It's like ez not,” continued Fairley to his daughter, but looking at the squaw, “that she'll be huntin' the woods off and on, and kinder looking after the last pit near the Madronos; ye'll give her grub and licker ez she likes. Well, d'ye hear, Flip? Are ye moonin' agin with yer secrets? What's gone with ye?”
If the child were dreaming, it was a delicious dream. Her magnetic eyes were suffused by a strange light, as though the eye itself had blushed; her full pulse showed itself more in the rounding outline of her cheek than in any deepening of color; indeed, if there was any heightening of tint, it was in her freckles, which fairly glistened like tiny spangles. Her eyes were downcast, her shoulders slightly bent, but her voice was low and clear and thoughtful as ever.
“One o' the big pines above the Madrono pit has blown over into the run,” she said. “It's choked up the water, and it's risin' fast. Like ez not it's pourin' over into the pit by this time.”
The old man rose with a fretful cry. “And why in blames didn't you say so first?” he screamed, catching up his axe and rushing to the door.
“Ye didn't give me a chance,” said Flip, raising her eyes for the first time. With an impatient imprecation, Fairley darted by her and rushed into the wood. In an instant she had shut the door and bolted it. In the same instant the squaw arose, dashed the long hair not only from her eyes, but from her head, tore away her shawl and blanket, and revealed the square shoulders of Lance Harriott! Flip remained leaning against the door; but the young man in rising dropped the bandaged papoose, which rolled from his lap into the fire. Flip, with a cry, sprang toward it; but Lance caught her by the waist with one arm, as with the other he dragged the bundle from the flames.
“Don't be alarmed,” he said, gayly, “it's only--” “What?” said Flip, trying to disengage herself.
“My coat and trousers.”
Flip laughed, which encouraged Lance to another attempt to kiss her. She evaded it by diving her head into his waistcoat, and saying, “There's father.”
“But he's gone to clear away that tree?” suggested Lance.
One of Flip's significant silences followed.
“Oh, I see,” he laughed. “That was a plan to get him away! Ah!” She had released herself.
“Why did you come like that?” she said, pointing to his wig and blanket.
“To see if you'd know me,” he responded.
“No,” said Flip, dropping her eyes. “It's to keep other people from knowing you. You're hidin' agin.”
“I am,” returned Lance; “but,” he interrupted, “it's only the same old thing.”
“But you wrote from Monterey that it was all over,” she persisted.
“So it would have been,” he said gloomily, “but for some dog down here who is hunting up an old scent. I'll spot him yet, and--” He stopped suddenly, with such utter abstraction of hatred in his fixed and glittering eyes that she almost feared him. She laid her hand quite unconsciously on his arm. He grasped it; his face changed.
“I couldn't wait any longer to see you, Flip, so I came here anyway,” he went on. “I thought to hang round and get a chance to speak to you first, when I fell afoul of the old man. He didn't know me, and tumbled right in my little game. Why, do you believe he wants to hire me for my grub and liquor, to act as a sort of sentry over you and the ranch?” And here he related with great gusto the substance of his interview. “I reckon as he's that suspicious,” he concluded, “I'd better play it out now as I've begun, only it's mighty hard I can't see you here before the fire in your fancy toggery, Flip, but must dodge in and out of the wet underbrush in these yer duds of yours that I picked up in the old place in the Gin and Ginger Woods.”
“Then you came here just to see me?” asked Flip.
“I did.”
“For only that?”
“Only that.”
Flip dropped her eyes. Lance had got his other arm around her waist, but her resisting little hand was still potent.
“Listen,” she said at last without looking up, but apparently talking to the intruding arm, “when Dad comes I'll get him to send you to watch the diamond pit. It isn't far; it's warm, and”-- “What?”
“I'll come, after a bit, and see you. Quit foolin' now. If you'd only have come here like yourself--like--like--a white man.”
“The old man,” interrupted Lance, “would have just passed me on to the summit. I couldn't have played the lost fisherman on him at this time of year.”
“Ye could have been stopped at the Crossing by high water, you silly,” said the girl. “It was.” This grammatical obscurity referred to the stage coach.
“Yes, but I might have been tracked to this cabin. And look here, Flip,” he said, suddenly straightening himself, and lifting the girl's face to a level with his own, “I don't want you to lie any more for me. It ain't right.”
“All right. Ye needn't go to the pit, then, and I won't come.”
“Flip!”
“And here's Dad coming. Quick!”
Lance chose to put his own interpretation on this last adjuration. The resisting little hand was now lying quite limp on his shoulder, He drew her brown, bright face near his own, felt her spiced breath on his lips, his cheeks, his hot eyelids, his swimming eyes, kissed her, hurriedly replaced his wig and blanket, and dropped beside the fire with the tremulous laugh of youth and innocent first passion. Flip had withdrawn to the window, and was looking out upon the rocking pines.
“He don't seem to be coming,” said Lance, with a half-shy laugh.
“No,” responded Flip demurely, pressing her hot oval cheek against the wet panes; “I reckon I was mistaken. You're sure,” she added, looking resolutely another way, but still trembling like a magnetic needle toward Lance, as he moved slightly before the fire, “you're SURE you'd like me to come to you?”
“Sure, Flip?”
“Hush!” said Flip, as this reassuring query of reproachful astonishment appeared about to be emphasized by a forward amatory dash of Lance's; “hush! he's coming this time, sure.”
It was, indeed, Fairley, exceedingly wet, exceedingly bedraggled, exceedingly sponged out as to color, and exceedingly profane. It appeared that there was, indeed, a tree that had fallen in the “run,” but that, far from diverting the overflow into the pit, it had established “back water,” which had forced another outlet. All this might have been detected at once by any human intellect not distracted by correspondence with strangers, and enfeebled by habitually scorning the intellect of its own progenitor. This reckless selfishness had further only resulted in giving “rheumatics” to that progenitor, who now required the external administration of opodeldoc to his limbs, and the internal administration of whiskey. Having thus spoken, Mr. Fairley, with great promptitude and infantine simplicity, at once bared two legs of entirely different colors and mutely waited for his daughter to rub them. If Flip did this all unconsciously, and with the mechanical dexterity of previous habit, it was because she did not quite understand the savage eyes and impatient gestures of Lance in his encompassing wig and blanket, and because it helped her to voice her thought.
“Ye'll never be able to take yer watch at the diamond pit to-night, Dad,” she said; “and I've been reck'nin' you might set the squaw there instead. I can show her what to do.”
But to Flip's momentary discomfiture, her father promptly objected. “Mebbee I've got suthin' else for her to do. Mebbee I may have my secrets, too--eh?” he said, with dark significance, at the same time administering a significant nudge to Lance, which kept up the young man's exasperation. “No, she'll rest yer a bit just now. I'll set her to watchin' suthin' else, like as not, when I want her.” Flip fell into one of her suggestive silences. Lance watched her earnestly, mollified by a single furtive glance from her significant eyes; the rain dashed against the windows, and occasionally spattered and hissed in the hearth of the broad chimney, and Mr. David Fairley, somewhat assuaged by the internal administration of whiskey, grew more loquacious. The genius of incongruity and inconsistency which generally ruled his conduct came out with freshened vigor under the gentle stimulation of spirit. “On an evening like this,” he began, comfortably settling himself on the floor beside the chimney, “ye might rig yerself out in them new duds and fancy fixin's that that Sacramento shrimp sent ye, and let your own flesh and blood see ye. If that's too much to do for your old dad, ye might do it to please that digger squaw as a Christian act.” Whether in the hidden depths of the old man's consciousness there was a feeling of paternal vanity in showing this wretched aborigine the value and importance of the treasure she was about to guard, I cannot say. Flip darted an interrogatory look at Lance, who nodded a quiet assent, and she flew into the inner room. She did not linger on the details of her toilet, but reappeared almost the next moment in her new finery; buttoning the neck of her gown as she entered the room, and chastely stopping at the window to characteristically pull up her stocking. The peculiarity of her situation increased her usual shyness; she played with the black and gold beads of a handsome necklace,--Lance's last gift,--as the merest child might; her unbuckled shoe gave the squaw a natural opportunity of showing her admiration and devotion by insisting upon buckling it, and gave Lance, under that disguise, an opportunity of covertly kissing the little foot and ankle in the shadow of the chimney; an event which provoked slight hysterical symptoms in Flip, and caused her to sit suddenly down in spite of the remonstrances of her parent. “Ef you can't quit gigglin' and squirmin' like an Injin baby yourself, ye'd better git rid o' them duds,” he ejaculated with peevish scorn.
Yet, under this perfunctory rebuke, his weak vanity could not be hidden, and he enjoyed the evident admiration of a creature whom he believed to be half-witted and degraded all the more keenly because it did not make him jealous. She could not take Flip from him. Rendered garrulous by liquor, he went to voice his contempt for those who might attempt it. Taking advantage of his daughter's absence to resume her homely garments, he whispered confidentially to Lance,-- “Ye see these yer fine dresses, ye might think is presents. Pr'aps Flip lets on they are? Pr'aps she don't know any better. But they ain't presents. They're only samples o' dressmaking and jewelry that a vain, conceited shrimp of a feller up in Sacramento sends down here to get customers for. In course I'm to pay for 'em. In course he reckons I'm to do it. In course I calkilate to do it; but he needn't try to play 'em off as presents. He talks suthin' o' coming down here, sportin' hisself off on Flip as a fancy buck! Not ez long ez the old man's here, you bet.” Thoroughly carried away by his fancied wrongs, it was perhaps fortunate that he did not observe the flashing eyes of Lance behind his lank and lustreless wig; but seeing only the figure of Lance, as he had conjured him, he went on: “That's why I want you to hang around her. Hang around her ontil my boy,--him that's comin' home on a visit,--gets here, and I reckon he'll clear out that yar Sacramento counter-jumper. Only let me get a sight o' him afore Flip does, eh? D'ye hear? Dog my skin if I don't believe the d----d Injin's drunk.” It was fortunate that at that moment Flip reappeared, and, dropping on the hearth between her father and the infuriated Lance, let her hand slip in his with a warning pressure. The light touch momentarily recalled him to himself and her, but not until the quick-witted girl had had revealed to her in one startled wave of consciousness the full extent of Lance's infirmity of temper. With the instinct of awakened tenderness came a sense of responsibility, and a vague premonition of danger. The coy blossom of her heart was scarce unfolded before it was chilled by approaching shadows. Fearful of, she knew not what, she hesitated. Every moment of Lance's stay was imperiled by a single word that might spring from his suppressed white lips; beyond and above the suspicions his sudden withdrawal might awaken in her father's breast, she was dimly conscious of some mysterious terror without that awaited him. She listened to the furious onslaught of the wind upon the sycamores beside their cabin, and thought she heard it there; she listened to the sharp fusillade of rain upon roof and pane, and the turbulent roar and rush of leaping mountain torrents at their very feet, and fancied it was there. She suddenly sprang to the window, and, pressing her eyes to the pane, saw through the misty turmoil of tossing boughs and swaying branches the scintillating intermittent flames of torches moving on the trail above, and KNEW it was there!
In an instant she was collected and calm. “Dad,” she said, in her ordinary indifferent tone, “there's torches movin' up toward the diamond pit. Likely it's tramps. I'll take the squaw and see.” And before the old man could stagger to his feet she had dragged Lance with her into the road.
|
{
"id": "2793"
}
|
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