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diff --git a/27607-h/27607-h.htm b/27607-h/27607-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8f44a4b --- /dev/null +++ b/27607-h/27607-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,4314 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Rosin the Beau, by Laura Elizabeth Howe Richards</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + p {margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + text-indent: 1.25em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + img {border: 0;} + .tnote {border: dashed 1px; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; padding-bottom: .5em; padding-top: .5em; + padding-left: .5em; padding-right: .5em;} + ins {text-decoration:none; border-bottom: thin dotted gray;} + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; + } + hr { width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; + } + + table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} + + body{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + + .pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + } /* page numbers */ + .copyright {text-align: center; font-size: 70%;} + .blockquot{margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 10%; text-align: justify;} + + .bbox {border: solid 2px; margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; padding-bottom: .5em; padding-top: .5em; + padding-left: .5em; padding-right: .5em;} + .bbox2 {border: solid 2px; margin-left: 1%; margin-right: 1%; padding-bottom: .5em; padding-top: .5em; + padding-left: .5em; padding-right: .5em;} + .footnotes {border: dashed 1px;} + .footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + .fnanchor {vertical-align:baseline; + position: relative; + bottom: 0.33em; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: none;} + + .center {text-align: center;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .caption {font-weight: bold;} + + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + + .figleft {float: left; clear: left; margin-left: 0; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: + 1em; margin-right: 1em; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .figright {float: right; clear: right; margin-left: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-top: 1em; margin-right: 0; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .unindent {margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + .right {text-align: right;} + .poem {margin-left: 30%; margin-right: 10%; text-align: left;} + .poem2 {margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 10%; text-align: left;} + .sig {margin-right: 10%; text-align: right;} + .u {text-decoration: underline;} + .linenum {position: absolute; top: auto; left: 4%;} /* poetry number */ + .sidenote {width: 20%; padding-bottom: .5em; padding-top: .5em; + padding-left: .5em; padding-right: .5em; margin-left: 1em; + float: right; clear: right; margin-top: 1em; + font-size: smaller; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: dashed 1px;} + + .hang1 {text-indent: -3em; margin-left: 3em;} +.cap:first-letter {float: left; clear: left; + margin: -0.2em 0.1em 0; margin-top: 0%; + padding: 0; + line-height: .75em; font-size: 300%; text-align: justify;} + .cap {text-align: justify;} + + hr.full { width: 100%; + margin-top: 3em; + margin-bottom: 0em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + height: 4px; + border-width: 4px 0 0 0; /* remove all borders except the top one */ + border-style: solid; + border-color: #000000; + clear: both; } + pre {font-size: 85%;} + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h1>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Rosin the Beau, by Laura Elizabeth Howe +Richards</h1> +<pre> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at <a href = "http://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a></pre> +<p>Title: Rosin the Beau</p> +<p>Author: Laura Elizabeth Howe Richards</p> +<p>Release Date: December 24, 2008 [eBook #27607]</p> +<p>Language: English</p> +<p>Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1</p> +<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROSIN THE BEAU***</p> +<p> </p> +<h3>E-text prepared by Suzanne Shell, Emmy,<br /> + and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team<br /> + (http://www.pgdp.net)</h3> +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p> </p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 339px;"> +<img src="images/cover01.jpg" width="339" height="500" alt="Cover" title="" /> +</div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span></p> + + + +<h1>ROSIN THE BEAU</h1> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span></p> +<div class='bbox'> +<h2>The Captain January Series</h2> + +<h3>By LAURA E. RICHARDS</h3> +</div><div class='bbox'> +<div class='center'>Over 350,000 copies of these books have been sold</div> +</div><div class='bbox'> + + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary=""> +<tr><td align='left'>CAPTAIN JANUARY</td><td align='right'>$ .50</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Same. Illustrated Holiday Edition.</span></td><td align='right'>1.25</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Same. Centennial Edition Limited.</span></td><td align='right'>2.50</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>MELODY</td><td align='right'>.50</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Same. Illustrated Holiday Edition.</span> </td><td align='right'>1.25</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>MARIE</td><td align='right'>.50</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>ROSIN THE BEAU</td><td align='right'>.50</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>NARCISSA</td><td align='right'>.50</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>SOME SAY</td><td align='right'>.50</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>JIM OF HELLAS</td><td align='right'>.50</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>SNOW WHITE</td><td align='right'>.50</td></tr> +</table></div> +</div><div class='bbox'> +<div class='center'>Each volume attractively bound in cloth, with<br /> +handsome new cover design. Frontispiece by<br /> +Frank T. Merrill</div> +</div><div class='bbox'> +<div class='center'>DANA ESTES & COMPANY<br /> +PUBLISHERS<br /> +Estes Press, Summer Street, Boston</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span></p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 331px;"> +<img src="images/frontis01.jpg" width="331" height="500" alt="Rosin the Beau" title="" /> +</div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span></p> +<div class='bbox'><div class='bbox2'><h1>ROSIN THE<br /> +BEAU</h1> +</div><div class='bbox2'> +<h3>By</h3> +<h2>LAURA E. RICHARDS</h2> + +<div class='center'><i>Author of</i><br /> + +"Captain January," "Snow-White," "Three +Margarets," "Queen Hildegarde," etc.</div> +</div><div class='bbox2'> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 133px;"> +<img src="images/tp01.png" width="133" height="150" alt="Emblem: Inter Folia Fructus" title="" /> +</div> +</div><div class='bbox2'> +<div class='center'> +Boston<br /> +Dana Estes & Company<br /> +Publishers<br /></div></div></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span></p> + + + + +<div class='center'> +<small>TO</small><br /> +<b>My Sister Maud</b><br /> +</div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span></p> +<h2>ROSIN THE BEAU.</h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER I.</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Melody, My Dear Child:</span></p> + +<div class='cap'>I SIT down to write my story for you, the life-story +of old Rosin the Beau, your friend and true lover. +Some day, not far distant now, my fiddle and I shall +be laid away, in the quiet spot you know and love; +and then (for you will miss me, Melody, well I know +that!) this writing will be read to you, and you will +hear my voice still, and will learn to know me better +even than you do now; though that is better +than any one else living knows me.</div> + +<p>When people ask me where I hail from, our good, +neighbourly, down-east way, I answer "From the +Androscoggin;" and that is true enough as far as +it goes, for I have spent many years on and about +the banks of that fine river; but I have told you +more than that. You know something of the little +village where I was born and brought up, far to the +northeast of your own home village. You know something, +too, of my second mother, as I call her,—Abby +Rock; but of my own sweet mother I have spoken +little. Now you shall hear.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span></p> + +<p>The first thing I can remember is my mother's +playing. She was a Frenchwoman, of remarkable +beauty and sweetness. Her given name was Marie, +but I have never known her maiden surname: I +doubt if she knew it herself. She came, quite by accident, +being at the time little more than a child, to +the village where my father, Jacques De Arthenay, +lived; he saw her, and loved her at the sight. She +consented to marry him, and I was their only child. +My father was a stern, silent man, with but one +bright thing in his life,—his love for my mother. +Whenever she came before his eyes, the sun rose in +his face, but for me he had no great affection; he +was incapable of dividing his heart. I have now and +then seen a man with this defect; never a woman.</p> + +<p>My first recollection, I said, is of my mother's +playing. I see myself, sitting on a great black book, +the family Bible. I must have been very small, and +it was a large Bible, and lay on a table in the sitting-room. +I see my mother standing before me, with her +violin on her arm. She is light, young, and very +graceful; beauty seems to flow from her face in a +kind of dark brightness, if I may use such an expression; +her eyes are soft and deep. I have seen no +other eyes like my mother Marie's. She taps the violin +with the bow; then she taps me under the chin.</p> + +<p>"<i>Dis 'Bon jour!' petit Jacques!</i>" and I say "Bo' +zour!" as well as I can, and duck my head, for a +bow is expected of me. No bow, no music, and I am +quivering with eagerness for the music. Now she<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span> +draws the bow across the strings, softly, smoothly,—ah, +my dear, you have heard only me play, all your +life; if you could have heard my mother! As I see +her and hear her, this day of my babyhood, the song +she plays is the little French song that you love. If +you could have heard her sing!</p> + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="10" cellspacing="0" summary="Poem and translation"> +<tr><td align='left'>"A la claire fontaine <br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">M'en allant promener,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Jai trouvé l'eau si belle</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Que je m'y suis baigné.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Il y a longtemps que je t'aime,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Jamais je ne t'oublierai!"</span><br /></td><td align='left'>As I went walking, walking,<br /> +I found its waves so lovely,<br /> +Beside the fountain fair,<br /> +I stayed to bathe me there.<br /> +'Tis long and long I have loved thee,<br /> +I'll ne'er forget thee more.<br /></td></tr> +</table></div> + +<div class='unindent'>It is the song of my life, Melody; I never told you +that before, but it has always pleased me well that +you cared for it.</div> + +<p>As my mother sings the last words, she bends +and kisses the violin, which was always a living personage +to her. Her head moves like a bird's head, +quickly and softly. I see her face all brightness, as +I have told you; then suddenly a shadow falls on it. +My back is towards the door, but she stands facing +it. I feel myself snatched up by hands like quivering +steel; I am set down—not roughly—on the floor. +My father turns a terrible face on my mother.</p> + +<p>"Mary!" he cried. "He was on the Bible! +You—you set the child on the Holy Bible!"</p> + +<p>I am too frightened to cry out or move, but my +mother Marie lays down her violin in its box—as +tenderly as she would lay me in my cradle—and +goes to my father, and puts her arm round his neck, +and speaks to him low and gently, stroking back his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span> +short, fair hair. Presently the frightful look goes out +of his face; it softens into love and sadness; they +go hand-in-hand into the inner room, and I hear their +voices together speaking gravely, slowly. I do not +know that they are praying,—I have known it since. +I watch the flies on the window, and wish my father +had not come.</p> + +<p>That, Melody, is the first thing I remember. It +must have been after that, that my father made me +a little chair, and my mother made a gay cushion +for it, with scarlet frills, and I sat always in that. +Our kitchen was a sunny room, full of bright things; +Mother Marie kept everything shining. The floor +was painted yellow, and the rugs were scarlet and +blue; she dyed the cloth herself, and made them +beautifully. There was always a fire—or so it +seems now—in the great black gulf of a fireplace, +and the crane hung over it, with pots and kettles. +The firelight was thrown back from bright pewter +and glass and copper all about the walls; I have +never seen so gay a room. And always flowers in +the window, and always a yellow cat on a red +cushion. No canary bird; my mother Marie never +would have a bird. "No prisoners!" she would say. +Once a neighbour brought her a wounded sparrow; +she nursed and tended it till spring, then set it loose +and watched it fly away.</p> + +<p>This neighbour was a boy, some years older than +myself; he is one of the people I remember best. +Petie we called him; Peter Brand; he died long ago.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span> +He had been a comfort to my mother Marie, in days +of sadness,—before my birth, for she was never sad +after I came,—and she loved him, and he clung to +her. He was a round-faced boy, with hair almost +white; awkward and shy, but very good to me.</p> + +<p>As I grew older my mother taught me many +French songs and games, and Petie often made a +third with us. He made strange work of the French +speech; to me it came like running water, but to +Petie it was like pouring wine from a corked bottle. +Mother Marie could not understand this, and tried +always to teach him. I can hear her cry out, "Not +thus, Petie! not! you break me the ears! Listen +only!</p> + +<div class='center'> +"'<i>Sur le pont d'Avignon</i>,'<br /> +</div> + +<div class='unindent'><i>Encore!</i> again, Petie! sing wiz p'tit Jacques!"</div> + +<p>And Petie would drone out, all on one note (for +the poor boy had no music either),</p> + +<div class='center'> +"<i>Sooly pong d'Avinnong</i>,"<br /> +</div> + +<div class='unindent'>And Mother Marie would put her hands to her ears +and cry out, "Ah, <i>que non!</i> ah, <i>que non!</i> you keell +me in my heart!" and poor Petie would be so +ashamed! Then Mother Marie would be grieved for +him, and would beat herself, and say that she was a +demon, a monster of cruelty; and she would run to +the cupboard and bring cakes and doughnuts (she +always called them "dont's," I remember that), and +make Petie eat till his eyes stood out. And it always +ended in her taking out the violin, and playing and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span> +singing our hearts to heaven. Petie loved music, +when Mother Marie made it.</div> + +<p>I speak of cakes. There was no one in the village +who could cook like my mother; every one acknowledged +that. Whatever she put her hand to was done +to perfection. And the prettiness of it all! A flower, +a green leaf, a bunch of parsley,—there was some +delicate, pretty touch to everything she did. I must +have been still small when I began to notice how +she arranged the dishes on our table. These matters +can mean but little to you, my dear child; but the +eyes of your mind are so quick, I know it is one of +your delights to fancy the colours and lights that you +cannot see. Some bright-coloured food, then,—fried +fish, it might be, which should be of a golden brown +shade,—would be always on a dark blue platter, +while a dark dish, say beefsteak, would be on the +creamy yellow crockery that had belonged to my +father's mother; and with it a wreath of parsley or +carrot, setting off the yellow still more. And always, +winter and summer, some flower, if only a single +geranium-bloom, on the table. So that our table +was always like a festival. I think this troubled my +father, when his dark moods were on him. He +thought it a snare of the flesh. Sometimes, if the +meal were specially dainty, he would eat nothing but +dry bread, and this grieved Mother Marie almost more +than anything else. I remember one day,—it was +my birthday, and I must have been quite a big boy +by that time,—Mother Marie had made a pretty<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span> +rose-feast for me. The table was strewn with rose-leaves, +and there was a garland of roses round my +plate, and they stood everywhere, in cups and bowls. +There was a round cake, too, with rose-coloured +frosting; I thought the angels might have such feasts +on their birthdays, but was sure no one else could.</p> + +<p>But when my father came in,—I can see now his +look of pain and terror.</p> + +<p>"You are tempting the Lord, Mary!" he cried. +"You are teaching our child to love the lust of the +flesh and the pride of the eye. It is sin, it is sin, +my wife!"</p> + +<p>I trembled, for I feared he would throw my beautiful +cake into the fire, as I had once seen him throw +a pretty salad. But my mother Marie took his arm. +The door stood open, and the warm June was shining +through. She led him to the doorway, and pointed +to the sky.</p> + +<p>"Look, <i>mon ami!</i>" she said, in her clear, soft voice. +"See the day of gold that the good God has made for +our little Jacques! He fills the garden wiz roses,—I +bring His roses in ze house. It is that He love ze +roses, and ze little child, and thee and me, my poor +Jacques; for He make us all, is it not?"</p> + +<p>And presently, with her soft hand on his arm, the +pain went from my poor father, and he came in and +sat down with us, and even patted my head and +tasted the cake. I recall many such scenes as this, +my dear child. And perhaps I should say that my +mind was, and has always remained, with my mother<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span> +on such matters. If God gives food for the use of +His creatures, it is to His honour and glory to serve it +handsomely, so far as may be; and I see little religion +in a slovenly piece of meat, or a shapeless hunch +of butter on a dingy plate.</p> + +<p>My mother having this gift of grace, it was not +strange that the neighbours often called on her for +some service of making beautiful. At a wedding or a +merrymaking of any kind she would be sent for, and +the neighbours, who were plain people, thought her +gift more than natural. People still speak of her in +all that part of the country, though she has been +dead sixty odd years, little Mother Marie. She would +have liked to make the meeting-house beautiful each +Sabbath with flowers, but this my father could not +hear of, and she never urged it after the first time. +At a funeral, too, she must arrange the white blossoms, +and lay the pale hands together. Abby Rock +has told me many stories of the comfort she brought +to sorrowing homes, with her sweet, light, quiet ways. +Abby loved her as her own child.</p> + +<p>As I grew older, my mother taught me the violin. +I learned eagerly. I need not say much about that, +Melody; my best playing has been for you, and you +know all I could tell you; I learned, and it became +the breath of life to me. My lessons were in the +morning always, so that my father might not hear +the sound; but this was not because he did not love +the violin. Far otherwise! In the long winter evenings +my mother Marie would play for him, after I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span> +was tucked up in my trundle-bed; music of religious +quality, which stirred his deep, silent nature strongly. +She had learned all the psalm-tunes that he loved, +stern old Huguenot melodies, many of them, that had +come over from France with his ancestor, and been +sung down through the generations since. And with +these she played soft, tender airs,—I never knew +what they were, but they could wile the heart out of +one's breast. I sometimes would lift my head from +my pillow, and look through the open door at the +warm, light kitchen beyond (for my mother Marie +could not bear to shut me into the cold, dark little +bedroom; my door stood open all night, and if I +woke in the night, the coals would always wink me a +friendly greeting, and I could hear the cat purring on +her cushion). I would look, I say, through the open +door. There would my mother stand, with the light, +swaying way she had, like a flower or a young white +birch in the wind; her cheek resting on the violin, +her eyelids dropped, as they mostly were when she +played, and the long lashes black against her soft, +clear paleness. And my father Jacques sitting by +the fire, his chin in his hand, still as a carved image, +looking at her with his heart in his eyes. That is the +way I think of them oftenest, Melody, my dear, as I +look back to the days long ago; this is the way +I mostly see my father and mother, Jacques and +Marie De Arthenay, a faithful husband and wife.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER II.</h2> + + +<div class='cap'>OUR village was not far from the sea, and my +mother often took me down to the beach. It +was a curving beach of fine sand, bright and warm, +and the rocks that shut it in were warm, too, brown +and yellow; it was a sunny, heartsome place as ever +I saw. I remember one day,—many days, and this +one of them,—when the three of us went down to the +beach, Mother Marie and Petie Brand and I. The +Lady, the violin, went too, of course, and we had our +music, and it left us heartened through and through, +and friends with all the world. Then we began to +skip stones, three children together. Petie and I +were only learning, and Mother Marie laughed at our +stones, which would go flopping and tumbling a little +way, then sink with a splash.</div> + +<p>"They are ducks!" she said. (She called it +"docks," Melody; you cannot think how soft her +speech was.) "Poor leetle docks, that go flap, flap; +not yet zey have learned to swim, no! But here now, +see a bird of ze water, a sea-bird what you call." She +turned her wrist and sent the flat pebble flying; it +skimmed along like a live thing, flipping the little +crests of the ripples, going miles, it seemed to Petie +and me, till at length we lost sight of it altogether.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Where did it go?" I asked. "I didn't hear it +splash."</p> + +<p>"It went—to France!" said Mother Marie. "It +make a voyage, it goes, goes,—at last it arrives. +'<i>Voilà la France!</i>' it say. 'That I go ashore, to ask +of things for Marie, and for <i>petit Jacques</i>, and for +Petie too, good Petie, who bring the apples.'"</p> + +<p>There were red apples in a basket, and I can see +now the bright whiteness of her teeth as she set them +into one.</p> + +<p>"What will the stone see?" I asked again; for I +loved to make my mother tell me of the things she +remembered in France, the country she always loved. +She loved to tell, too; and a dreamy look would come +into her eyes at such times, as if she did not see us +near at hand, but only things far off and dim. We +listened, Petie and I, as if for a fairy tale.</p> + +<p>"He come, zat leetle—non! <i>that lit</i>-tel stone." +(Mother Marie could often pronounce our English +"th" quite well; it was only when she forgot that +she slipped back to the soft "z" which I liked much +better.) "He come to the shore! It is not as this +shore, no! White is the sand, the rocks black, black. +All about are nets, very great, and boats. The men +are great and brown; and their beards—Holy Cric! +their beards are a bush for owls; and striped their +shirt, jersey, what you call, and blue trousers. Zey +come in from sea, their sails are brown and red; the +boats are full wiz fish, that shine like silver; they are +the herring, <i>petit Jacques</i>, it is of those that we live a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span> +great deal. Down zen come ze women to ze shore +and zey—<i>they</i>—are dressed beautiful, ah! so beautiful! +A red petticoat,—sometimes a blue, but I love +best the red, striped wiz white, and over this the dress +turned up, <i>à la blanchisseuse</i>. A handkerchief round +their neck, and gold earrings,—ah! long ones, to +touch their neck; and gold beads, most beautiful! +and then the cap! <i>P'tit Jacques</i>, thou hast not seen +caps, because here they have not the understanding. +But! white, like snow in ze sun; the muslin clear, +you understand, and stiff that it cracks,—ah! of +a beauty! and standing out like wings here, and +here—you do not listen! you make not attention, +bad children that you are! Go! I tell you no +more!"</p> + +<p>It was true, Melody, my dear, that Petie and I did +not care so much about the descriptions of dress as if +we had been little girls; my mother was never weary +of telling about the caps and earrings; I think she +often longed for them, poor little Mother Marie! But +now Petie and I clung about her, and begged her to +go on, and she never could keep her vexation for two +minutes.</p> + +<p>"Tell how they go up the street!" said Petie.</p> + +<p>"Play we went, too!" cried I. "Play the stone +was a boat, Mère Marie." (I said it as one word, +Melody; it makes a pretty name, "Mère-Marie," +when the pronunciation is good. To hear our people +say "M'ree" or "Marry," breaks the heart, as my +mother used to say.)<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span></p> + +<p>She nodded, pleased enough to play,—for she was +a child, as I have told you, in many, many ways, +though with a woman's heart and understanding,—and +clapped our hands softly together, as she held +them in hers.</p> + +<p>"We, then, yes! we three, Mère-Marie, <i>p'tit Jacques</i>, +and Petie, we go up from the beach, up the street +that goes tic tac, zic zac, here and there, up the hill; +very steep in zose parts. We come to one place, it is +steps—"</p> + +<p>"Steps in the street?"</p> + +<p>"Steps that make the street, but yes! and on them +(white steps, clean! ah! of a cleanness!), in the +sun, sit the old women, and spin, and sing, and tell +stories. Ah! the fine steps. They, too, have caps, +but they are brown in the faces, and striped—"</p> + +<p>"Striped, Mère-Marie? painted, do you mean?"</p> + +<p>"She said the steps had caps!" whispered Petie, +incredulous, but too eager for the story to interrupt +the teller.</p> + +<p>"Painted? wat you mean of foolishness, <i>p'tit +Jacques?</i> Ah! I was wrong! not striped; wreenkled, +you say? all up togezzer like a brown apple when he +is dry up,—like zis way!" and Mother Marie drew +her pretty face all together in a knot, and looked so +comical that we went into fits of laughter.</p> + +<p>"So! zey sit, ze old women, and talk, talk, wiz ze +heads together; but one sit alone, away from those +others, and she sing. Her voice go up, thin, thin, +like a little cold wind in ze boat-ropes.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span></p> + +<div class='poem'> +"'Il était trois mat'lots de Groix,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Il était trois mat'lots de Groix,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Embarqués sur le Saint François,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Tra la derira, la la la,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Tra la derira la laire!'<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></span><br /> +</div> + +<p>"I make learn you that song, <i>petit Jacques</i>, one +time! So we come,—now, <i>mes enfants</i>, we come! +and all the old women point the nose, and say, +'Who is it comes there?' But that one old—but +Mère Jeanne, she cry out loud, loud. 'Marie! <i>petite +Marie</i>, where hast thou been so long, so long?' She +opens the arms—I fall into zem, on my knees; I cry—but +hush, <i>p'tit Jacques!</i> I cry now only in ze story, +only—to—to show thee how it would be! I say, 'It +is me, Marie, Mère Jeanne! I come to show thee my +little son, to take thy blessing. And my little friend, +too!'" She turned to pat Petie's head; she would +not let the motherless boy feel left out, even from a +world in which he had no part.</p> + +<p>"My good friend Petie, whose mother is with the +saints. Then Mère Jeanne, she take all our hands, after +she has her weep; she say 'Come!' and we go up ze +street, up, up, till we come to Mère Jeanne's house."</p> + +<p>"Tell about the house!" I cried.</p> + +<p>"Holy Cric! what a house!" cried Mère-Marie, +clapping <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'our'">her</ins> hands together. "It is stone, painted +white, clean, like new cheese; the roof beautiful, straw,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span> +warm, thick,—ah! what roofs! I have tried to teach +thy father to make them, but no! Inside, it is dark +and warm, and full wiz good smells. Now it is the +<i>pot-au-feu</i>, but not every day zis, for Mère Jeanne is +poor; but always somesing, fish to fry, or pancakes, +or apples. But zis time, Mère Jeanne make me a +<i>fête;</i> she say, 'It is the <i>Fête Marie!</i>'</p> + + + + +<p>"She make the fire bright, bright; and she bring +big chestnuts, two handfuls of zem, and set zem on ze +shovel to roast; and zen she put ze greedle, and she +mixed ze batter in a great bowl—it is yellow, that +bowl, and the spoon, it is horn. She show it to me, +she say, 'Wat leetle child was eat wiz this spoon, +Marie? hein?' and I—I kiss the spoon; I say, '<i>'Tite +Marie, Mère Jeanne! 'Tite Marie qui t'aime!</i>'<a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> It +is the first words I could say of my life, <i>mes enfants!</i></p> + +<p>"Zen she laugh, and nod her head, and she stir, +stir, stir till ze bobbles come—"</p> + +<p>"The way they do when you make griddle-cakes, +Mère-Marie?"</p> + + +<p>"Ah! no! much, much, thousand time better, +Mère Jeanne make zem! She toss them—so! wiz ze +spoon, and they shine like gold, and when they come +down—hop!—they say 'Sssssssssss!' that they like +to fry for Mère Jeanne, and for Marie, and <i>p'tit Jacques</i>, +and good Petie. Then I bring out the black table, +and I know where the bread live, and the cheese, and +while the cakes fry, I go to milk the cow—ah! the +pearl of cows, children, white like her own cream, fat<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span> +like a boiled chestnut, good like an angel! She has +not forgotten Marie, she rub her nose in my heart, +she sing to me. I take her wiz both my arms, I weep—ah! +but it is joy, <i>p'tit Jacques!</i> it is wiz joy I +weep! Zen, again in ze house, and round ze table, we +all sit, and we eat, and eat, that we can eat no more. +And Mère Jeanne say:</p> + +<p>"'Tell me of thy home, Marie!' and I tell all, all; +of thy father Jacques, how he good, and great, and +handsome as Saint Michael; and how my house is +fine, fine, and how Abiroc is good. And Mère Jeanne, +she make the great eyes; she cry, 'Ah! the good +fortune! Ah, Marie, that thou art fortunate, that +thou art happy!'</p> + +<p>"Then she tell thee, <i>p'tit Jacques</i>, how I was little, +little, in a blue frock, wiz the cap tie under my chin; +and how I dance and sing in the street, and how +<i>Madame la Comtesse</i> see me, and take me to ze castle, +and make teach me the violin, and give me Madame +for my friend. I have told thee all, many, many +times. Then she tell, Mère Jeanne,—oh! she is +good, good, and all ze time she fill thee wiz chestnuts +that I cry out lest thou die,—she tell how one day +she come home from market, and I am gone. No +Marie! She look, she run here and there, she cry, +''Tite Marie, where art thou?' No Marie come. +She run to the neighbours, she search, she tear her +cap; they tell her, 'Demand of thy son's wife! +The strange ship sailed this morning; we heard +child cry; what do we know?'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span></p> + +<p>"For the wife of Mère Jeanne's Jeannot, she was +a devil, as I have told thee, a devil with both the +eyes evil; and none dare say what she had done, +for fear of their children and their cows to die. And +then, Mère Jeanne she tell how she run to Jeannot's +house,—she fear nossing, Mère Jeanne! the good God +protect her always. She cry, 'Where is Marie? +where is my child?' And Jeannot's Manon, she +laugh, she say, 'Cross the sea after her, old witch! +Who keeps thee?' Then—see, <i>p'tit Jacques!</i> see, +Petie! I have not seen this wiz my eyes, no! but +in my heart I have seen, I know! Then Mère +Jeanne run at that woman, that devil; and she pull +off her cap and tread it wiz her foot; and she pull +out her hair,—never she had much, but since this +day none!—and she scratch her face and tear the +clothes—ah! Mère Jeanne is mild like a cherub +till she is angry, but then— And that devil scream, +scream, but no one come, no one care; they are all +glad, they laugh to hear. Till Jeannot run in, and +catch his mother and hold her hands, and take her +home to her house. She tell me all this, Mère +Jeanne, and it is true, and I know it in my heart. +But now she is dead, that witch, and the great devil +has her, and that is well." (I think my father would +have lost his wits, Melody, if he had heard the way my +mother talked to me sometimes; but it was a child's +talk, my dear, and there was no harm. A child who +had been brought up among ignorant peasants; how +should she know better, poor little Mother Marie?)<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span></p> + +<p>"But now, see, <i>mes enfants!</i> We must come back +across the sea, for ze sun, he begin to go away down. +So I tell zis, and Mère Jeanne she cry, she take us +wiz her arms, she cannot let us go. But I take +Madame on my arm, I go out in ze street, I begin +to play wiz my hand. Then all come, all run, all cry, +'Marie! Marie is here wiz her <i>violon!</i>' And I play, +play and sing, and the little children dance, dance, and +<i>p'tit Jacques</i> and Petie take them the hands and dance +wiz—</p> + +<div class='poem'> +"'Eh! gai, Coco,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Eh! gai, Coco,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Eh! venez voir la danse</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Du petit marmot!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Eh! venez voir la danse</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Du petit marmot!'</span><br /> +</div> + +<p>"Adieu, adieu, Mère Jeanne! adieu, la France! +but you, <i>mes enfants;</i> why do <i>you</i> cry?"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER III.</h2> + + +<div class='cap'>I WAS twelve years old when my mother died. She +had no illness, or none that we had known of; +the sweet soul of her slipped away in the night like +a bird, and left the body smiling asleep. We never +knew what ailed her; people did not torment themselves +in those days with the "how" of a thing. +There may have been talk behind the village doors, +but my father never asked. She was gone, and his +heart was gone with her, my poor father. She was +all the joy of his life, and he never had any more; +I never remember seeing him smile after that time. +What gave him the best comfort was trying to keep +things pretty and bright, as she liked to see them. +He was neat as a woman, and he never allowed +a speck of dust on the chairs, or a withered leaf +on the geraniums. He never would let me touch +her flowers, but I was set to polish the pewter +and copper,—indeed, my mother had taught me +that,—and he watched jealously lest any dimness +come on them. I sometimes wondered at all this, +as he had so lately counted these matters of adornment +and prettiness and such as less than nothing, +and vanity, as the preacher has it. But I think +his great grief put a sacredness, as it were, over<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span> +everything that had been hers, and all her ways +seemed heavenly to him now, even though he had +frowned at them (never at her, Melody, my dear! +never at her!) when she was still with him.</div> + +<p>My father wished me to help him in the farm work, +but I had no turn for that. I was growing up tall +and weedy, and most like my strength went into that. +However it was, there was little of it for farming, and +less liking. Father Jacques made up his mind that +I was no good for anything, but Abby Rock stood up +for me.</p> + +<p>"The boy is not strong enough for farming, +Jacques!" she said. "He's near as tall as you, +now, and not fifteen yet. Put him to learn a trade, +and he'll be a credit to you."</p> + +<p>So I was put to learn shoemaking, and a good +trade it has been to me all my life. The shoemaker +was a kind old man, who had known me from a baby, +and he contrived to make my work easy for me,—seeing +I took kindly to it,—and often let me have +the afternoon to myself. My lungs were weak, or +Abby thought they were, and the doctor had told her +I must not sit too long over my bench, but must be +out in the air as much as might be, though not at +hard labour. Then,—those afternoons, I am saying,—I +would be off like a flash with my fiddle,—off to +the yellow sand beach where the round pebbles lay. +I could never let my poor father hear me play; it +was a knife in his heart even to see the Lady; and +these hours on the beach were my comfort, and kept<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span> +the spirit alive in me. Looking out to sea, I could +still feel my mother Marie beside me, still hear her +voice singing, so gay, so sad,—singing all ways, as +the wind blows. She had no voice like yours, Melody, +my dear, but it was small and sweet as a bird's; +sweet as a bird's! It was there, on the yellow sand +beach, that I first met Father L'Homme-Dieu, the +priest.</p> + +<p>I have told you a great deal about this good man, +Melody. He came of old French stock, like ourselves,—like +most of the people in our village; only his +people had always been Catholics. His village, where +he had a little wooden church, was ten or twelve miles +from ours, but he was the only priest for twenty +miles round, and he rode or walked long distances, +visiting the scattered families that belonged to his following. +He chanced to come to the beach one day +when I was there, and stayed to hear me play. I +never knew he was there till I turned to go home; +but then he spoke to me, and asked about my music +and my home, and talked so kindly and wisely that +my heart went out to him that very hour. He took +to me, too; he was a lonely man, and there was none +in his own neighbourhood that he cared to make his +friend; and seldom a week passed that he did not +find his way to the beach, for an hour of music and +talk. Talk! How we did talk! There was always a +book in his pocket, too, and he would read some fine +passage aloud, and then we would discuss it, and turn +it over and over, and let it draw our own thoughts like<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span> +a magnet. It was a rare chance for a country boy, +Melody! Here was a scholar, and as fine a gentleman +as ever I met, and the heart of a child and a wise man +melted into one; and I like his own son for the kindness +he gave me. Sometimes I went to his house, +but not often, for I could not take so long a time away +from my work. He lived in a little house like a bird's +house, and the little brown woman who did for him +was like a bird, and of all curious things, her name +was Sparrow,—the widow Sparrow.</p> + +<p>There was a little study, where he sat at a desk in +the middle, and could pull down any book, almost, +with no more than tilting his chair; and there was a +little dining-room, and a closet with a window in it, +where his bed stood. All these rooms were lined +with books, most of them works of theology and religion, +but plenty of others, too: poetry, and romances, and +plays,—he was a great reader, and his books were all +the friends he had, he used to say, till he found me. I +should have been his son, he would say; and then lay +his hand on my head and bid me be good, and say my +prayers, and keep my heart true and clean. He never +talked much to me of his own church (knowing my +father by name and reputation), only made plain to +me the love of God, and taught me to seek it through +loving man.</p> + +<p>I used to wonder how he came to be there, in the +wilderness, as it must often have seemed to him, for +he had travelled much, and was city-bred, his people +having left the seacoast and settled inland in his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span> +grandfather's time. One day, as I stood by his desk +waiting for him, I saw a box that always lay there, set +open; and in it was a portrait of a most beautiful lady +in a rich dress. The portrait was in a gold frame +set with red stones,—rubies, they may have been,—and +was a rich jewel indeed. While I stood looking +at it, Father L'Homme-Dieu came in; and at sight of +the open box, and me looking at it, his face, that was +like old ivory in its ordinary look, flushed dark red as +the stones themselves. I was sorely vexed at myself, +and frightened too, maybe; but the change passed +from him, and he spoke in his own quiet voice. +"That is the first half of my life, Jacques!" he said. +"It is set in heart's blood, my son." And told me +that this was his sweetheart who was drowned at sea, +and it was after her death that he became a priest, +and came to find some few sheep in the wilderness, +near the spot where his fathers had lived. Then he +bade me look well at the sweet face, and when my +time should come to love, seek out one, if not so fair +(as he thought there were none such), still one as +true, and pure, and tender, and loving once, let it last +till death; and so closed the box, and I never saw it +open again.</p> + +<p>All this time I never let my father know about +Father L'Homme-Dieu. It would have seemed to him +a terrible thing that his son should be friends with a +priest of the Roman Church, which he held a thing +accursed. I thought it no sin to keep his mind at +peace, and clear of this thing, for a cloud was gathering<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span> +over him, my poor father. I told Abby, however, +good Abby Rock; and though it shocked her at first, +she was soon convinced that I brought home good +instead of harm from my talks with Father L'Homme-Dieu. +She it was who begged me not to tell my +father, and she knew him better than any one else +did, now that my mother Marie was gone. She told +me, too, of the danger that hung over my poor father. +The dark moods, since my mother's death, came over +him more and more often; it seemed, when he was in +one of them, that his mind was not itself. He never +slighted his work,—that was like the breath he drew,—but +when it was done, he would sit for hours brooding +by the fireplace, looking at the little empty chair +where my mother used to sit and sing at her sewing. +And sitting so and brooding, now and again there +would come over him as it were a blindness, and a +forgetting of all about him, so that when he came out +of it he would cry out, asking where he was, and what +had been done to him. He would forget, too, that +my mother was gone, and would call her, "Mary! +Mary!" so that one's heart ached to hear him; and +then Abby or I must make it clear to him again, and +see the dumb suffering of him, like a creature that +had not the power of speech, and knew nothing but +pain and remembrance.</p> + +<p>I might have been seventeen or eighteen at this +time; I do not recall the precise year. I was doing +well with my shoemaking, and when this trouble +grew on my poor father I brought my bench into the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span> +kitchen, so that I might have him always in sight. +This was well enough for every day, but already I was +beginning to be sent for here and there, among the +neighbouring villages, to play the fiddle. The people of +my father's kind were passing away, those who thought +music a device of the devil, and believed that dancing +feet were treading the road to hell. He was still a +power in our own village; but in the country round +about the young folks were learning the use of their +feet, and none could hinder them, being the course of +nature, since young lambs first skipped in the meadows. +It was an old farmer, a good, jolly kind of +man, who first gave me the name of "Rosin." He +sent for me to play at his barn-raising, and a pretty +sight it was; a fine new barn, Melody, all smelling +sweet of fresh wood, and hung with lanterns, and a +vast quantity of fruits and vegetables and late flowers +set all about. Pretty, pretty! I have never seen a +prettier barn-raising than that, and I have fiddled at +a many since then. Well, this old gentleman calls +to me across the floor, "Come here, young Rosin!" +I remember his very words. "Come here, young +Rosin! I can't get my tongue round your outlandish +name, but Rosin'll do well enough for you." Well, +it stuck to me, the name did, and I was never sorry, +for I did not like to carry my father's name about +overmuch, he misliking the dancing as he did. The +young folks caught up an old song, and tagged that +name on too, and called me Rosin the Bow. So it +was first, Melody; but there are two songs, as you<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span> +know, my dear, to the one tune (or one tune is all I +know, and fits both sets of words), and the second song +spells the word "Beau," and so some merry girls in a +house where I often went to play, they vowed I should +be Rosin the Beau. I suppose I may have been rather +a good-looking lad, from what they used to say; and +to make a long story short, it was by that name that +I came to be known through the country, and shall +be known till I die. An old beau enough now, my +little girl; eighty years old your Rosin will be, if he +lives till next September. I took to playing the air +whenever I entered a room; it made a little effect, +a little stir,—I was young and foolish, and it took +little to please me in those days. But I have always +thought, and think still, that a man, as well as a +woman, should make the best of the mortal part of +him; and I do not know why we should not be thankful +for a well-looking body as for a well-ordered mind. +I cannot abide to see a man shamble or slouch, or +throw his arms and legs about as if they were timber +logs. Many is the time I have said to my scholars, +when I was teaching dancing-school,—great lumbering +fellows, hulking through a quadrille as if they +were pacing a raft in log-running,—"Don't insult +your Creator by making a scarecrow of the body +He has seen fit to give you. With reverence, He +might have given it to one of better understanding; +but since you have it, for piety's sake hold up your +head, square your shoulders, and put your feet in the +first position!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span></p> + +<p>But I wander from the thread of my story, as +old folks will do. After all, it is only a small +story, of a small life; not every man is born to be +great, my dear. Yet, while I sat on my shoemaker's +bench, stitching away, I thought of greatness, as I +suppose most boys do. I thought of a scholar's life, +like that of Father L'Homme-Dieu before his sorrow +came to him; a life spent in cities, among libraries +and learned, brilliant people, men and women. I +thought of a musician's life, and dreamed of the concerts +and operas that I had never heard. The poet +Wordsworth, my dear, has written immortal words +about the dreams of a boy, and my dreams were fair +enough. It seemed as if all the world outside were +clouded in a golden glory, if I may put it so, and as if +I had only to run forth and put aside this shining +veil, to find myself famous, and happy, and blessed. +And when I came down from the clouds, and saw my +little black bench, and the tools and scraps of leather, +and my poor father sitting brooding over the fire, my +heart would sink down within me, and the longing +would come strong upon me to throw down hammer +and last, and run away, out into that great world that +was calling for me. And so the days went by, and +the months, and the years.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER IV.</h2> + + +<div class='cap'>I WAS twenty years old when the change came in +my life. I remember the day was cold and bleak, +an early spring day. My father had had an accident +a few days before. In one of his unconscious fits he +had fallen forward—I had left the room but for a +moment—and struck his head sharply against one of +the fire-irons. He came to himself quite wild, and +seeing the blood, thought he had killed some one, and +cried to us to take him to prison as a murderer. It +took Abby and me a long time to quiet him. The +shock and the pain of it all had shaken me more than +I knew, and I felt sick, and did not know what ailed +me; but Abby knew, and she sent me to see Father +L'Homme-Dieu, while she sat with my father. I was +glad enough to go, more glad than my duty allowed, +I fear; yet I knew that Abby was better than I at +caring for my father.</div> + +<p>As I walked across the brown fields, where the +green was beginning to prick in little points here and +there, I began to feel the life strong in me once more. +The dull cloud of depression seemed to drop away, and +instead of seeing always that sad, set face of my poor +father's, I could look up and around, and whistle to +the squirrels, and note the woodpecker running round<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span> +the tree near me. It has remained a mystery to me +all my life, Melody, that this bird's brains are not constantly +addled in his head, from the violence of his +rapping. When I was a little boy, I tried, I remember, +to nod my head as fast as his went nodding: with +the effect that I grew dizzy and sick, and Mother +Marie thought I was going to die, and said the White +Paternoster over me five times.</p> + +<p>I looked about me, I say, and felt my spirit waking +with the waking of the year. Yet, though I was glad +to feel alive and young once more, I never thought I +was going to anything new or wonderful. The wise, +kind friend would be there; we should talk, and I +should come away refreshed and strengthened, in +peace and courage; I thought of nothing more. But +when the widow Sparrow opened the door to me, I +heard voices from the room within; a strange voice +of a man, and the priest's answering. I stopped short +on the threshold.</p> + +<p>"The Father is busy!" I said. "I will call again, +when he is alone."</p> + +<p>"Now don't you!" said Mrs. Sparrow, who was +always fond of me, and thought it a terrible walk for +me to take, so young, and with the "growing weakness" +not out of me. "Don't ye go a step, Jacques! +I expect you can come in just as well as not. There +is a gentleman here, but he's so pleasant, I should +wish to have you see him, if <i>I</i> was the Father."</p> + +<p>I was hesitating, all the shyness of a country-bred +boy coming over me; for I had a quick ear, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span> +this strange voice was not like the voices I was +used to hearing; it was like Father L'Homme-Dieu's, +fine and high-bred. But the next instant Father +L'Homme-Dieu had stepped to the door of the study, +and saw me.</p> + +<p>"Come in, Jacques!" he cried. His eyes were +bright, and his air gay, as I had never seen it. "Come +in, my son! I have a friend here, and you are the +very person I want him to meet." I stepped over +the threshold awkwardly enough, and stood before +the stranger. He was a young man, a few years +older than myself; tall and slender,—we might have +been twins as far as height and build went, but there +the resemblance ceased. He was fair, with such delicate +colouring that he might have looked womanish but +for the dark fiery blue of his eyes, and his little curled +moustache. He looked the way you fancy a prince +looking, Melody, when Auntie Joy tells you a fairy +story, though he was simply dressed enough.</p> + +<p>"Marquis," said Father L'Homme-Dieu, with a +shade of ceremony that I had never heard before in +his tone, "let me present to you M. Jacques D'Arthenay, +my friend! Jacques, this is the Marquis de +Ste. Valerie."</p> + +<p>He gave my name the French pronunciation. It +was kindly meant; at my present age, I think it +was perhaps rightly done; but then, it filled me with +a kind of rage. The angry blood of a false pride, a +false humility, surged to my brain and sang in my +ears; and as the young man stepped forward with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span> +outstretched hand, crying, "A compatriot. Welcome, +monsieur!" I drew back, stammering with anger. +"My name is Jacques De Arthenay!"<a name="FNanchor_3_3" id="FNanchor_3_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> I said. "I am +an American, a shoemaker, and the son of a farmer."</p> + +<p>There was a moment of silence, in which I seemed +to live a year. I was conscious of everything, the +well-bred surprise of the young nobleman, the half-amused +vexation of the priest, my own clumsy, boyish +rage and confusion. In reality it was only a few +seconds before I felt my friend's hand on my shoulder, +with its kind, fatherly touch.</p> + +<p>"Sit down, my child!" he said. "Does it matter +greatly how a name is pronounced? It is the same +name, and I pronounced it thus, not without a reason. +Sit down, and have peace!"</p> + +<p>There was authority as well as kindness in his +voice. I sat down, still trembling and blushing. +Father L'Homme-Dieu went on quietly, as if nothing +had happened.</p> + +<p>"It was for the marquis's sake that I gave your +name its former—and correct—pronunciation, my +son Jacques. If I mistake not, he is of the same part +of France from which your ancestors came. Huguenots +of Blanque, am I not right, marquis?"</p> + +<p>I was conscious that the stranger, whom I was inwardly +accusing as a pretentious puppy, a slip of a +dead and worthless tree, was looking at me intently; +my eyes seemed drawn to his whether I would or no. +So meeting those blue eyes, there passed as it were a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span> +flash from them into mine, a flash that warmed and +lightened, as a smile broke over his face.</p> + +<p>"D'Arthenay!" he said, in a tone that seemed to +search for some remembrance. "<i>D'Arthenay, tenez +foi! n'est-ce pas, monsieur?</i>"</p> + +<p>I started. The words were the motto of my +father's house. They were engraved on the stone +which marked the grave of my grandfather many +times back, Jacques, Sieur D'Arthenay. Seeing +my agitation, the marquis leaned forward eagerly. +He was full of quick, light gestures, that somehow +brought my mother back to me.</p> + +<p>"But, we are neighbours!" he cried. "We must +be friends, M. D'Arthenay. Your tower—it is a +noble ruin—stands not a league from my château +in Blanque. The Ste. Valeries and the D'Arthenays +were always friends, since Adam was, and till +the Grand Monarque separated them with his accursed +Revocation. Monsieur, that I am enchanted +at this rencounter! <i>La bonne aventure, oh gai! n'est-ce +pas, mon père?</i>"</p> + +<p>There was no resisting his eager gaiety. And +when he quoted the nursery song that my mother +used to sing, my stubborn resentment—at what? +who can say?—broke and melted away, and I was +smiling back into the bright, merry eyes. Once more +he held out his hand, and this time I took it gladly. +Father L'Homme-Dieu looked on in delight; it was +a good moment.</p> + +<p>After that the talk flowed freely. I found that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span> +the young marquis, having come on a pleasure tour +to the United States, had travelled thus far out +of the general route to look up the graves of +some of his mother's people, who had come out +with Baron Castine, but had left him, as my ancestor +had done, on account of his marriage with +the Indian princess. They were the Belleforts of +Blanque.</p> + +<p>"Bellefort!" I cried. "That name is on several +stones in our old burying-ground. The Belforts of +our village are their descendants, Father L'Homme-Dieu."</p> + +<p>"Not Ham?" cried the father, bursting into a +great laugh. "Not Ham Belfort, Jacques?"</p> + +<p>I laughed back, nodding. "Just Ham, father!"</p> + +<p>I never saw Father L'Homme-Dieu so amused. +He struck his hands together, and leaned back in +his chair, repeating over and over, "Ham Belfort! +Cousin of the Marquis de Ste. Valerie! Ham Belfort! +Is it possible?"</p> + +<p>The young nobleman looked from one to the other +of us curiously.</p> + +<p>"But what?" he asked. "Ham! <i>c'est-à-dire, +jambon, n'est-ce pas?</i>"</p> + +<p>"It is also a Biblical name, marquis!" said Father +L'Homme-Dieu. "I must ask who taught you your +catechism!"</p> + +<p>"True! true!" said the marquis, slightly confused. +"<i>Sem, Ham, et Japhet</i>, perfectly! and—I +have a cousin, it appears, named Jam—I should say,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span> +Ham? Will you lead me to him, M. D'Arthenay, that +I embrace him?"</p> + +<p>"You shall see him!" I said. "I don't think +Ham is used to being embraced, but I will leave +that to you. I will take you to see him, and to see +the graves in the burying-ground, whenever you say."</p> + +<p>"But now, at the present time, this instant!" +cried Ste. Valerie, springing from his chair. "Here +is Father L'Homme-Dieu dying of me, in despair at +his morning broken up, his studies destroyed by chatter. +Take me with you, D'Arthenay, and show me +all things; Ham, also his brothers, and Noë and the +Ark, if they find themselves also here. Amazing +country! astonishing people!"</p> + +<p>So off we went together, he promising Mrs. Sparrow +to return in time for dinner, and informing her +that she was a sylphide, which caused her to say, +"Go along!" in high delight. He had brought a +letter to the priest, from an old friend, and was to +stay at the house.</p> + +<p>Back across the brown fields we went. I was no +longer alone; the world was full of new light, new +interest. I felt that it was good to be alive; and +when my companion began to sing in very lightness +of heart, I joined in, and sang with right good will.</p> + +<div class='poem'> +"La bonne aventure, oh gai!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">La bonne aventure!"</span><br /> +</div> + +<div class='unindent'>He told me that his mother always sang him this +song when he had been a good boy; I replied that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span> +mine had done the same. How many French +mothers have sung the merry little lilt, I wonder? +We sang one snatch and another, and I could not +see that the marquise had had the advantage of the +little peasant girl, if it came to songs.</div> + +<p>The marquis—but why should I keep to the +empty title, which I was never to use after that first +hour? Nothing would do but that we should be +friends on the instant, and for life,—Jacques and +Yvon. "Thus it was two centuries ago," my companion +declared, "thus shall it be now!" and I, in my +dream of wonderment and delight, was only too glad +to have it so.</p> + +<p>We talked of a thousand things; or, to be precise, +he talked, and I listened. What had I to say +that could interest him? But he was full of the +wonders of travel, the strangeness of the new world +and the new people. Niagara had shaken him to the +soul, he told me; on the wings of its thunder he had +soared to the empyrean. How his fanciful turns of +expression come back to me as I write of him! He +was proud of his English, which was in general +surprisingly good.</p> + +<p>New York he did not like,—a savage in a Paris +gown, with painted face; but on Boston he looked +with the eyes of a lover. What dignity! what Puritan, +what maiden grace of withdrawal! An American +city, where one feels oneself not a figure of chess, +but a human being; where no street resembles the +one before it, and one can wander and be lost in delicious<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span> +windings! Ah! in Boston he could live, the +life of a poet, of a scholar.</p> + +<p>"And then,—what, my friend? I come, I leave +those joys, I come away here, to—to the locality of +jump-off, as you say,—and what do I find? First, a +pearl, a saint; for nobleness, a prince, for holiness, an +anchorite of Arabia,—Le Père L'Homme-Dieu! Next, +the ancient friend of my house, who becomes on the +instant mine also, the brother for whom I have +yearned. With these, the graves of my venerable +ancestors, heroes of constancy, who lived for war and +died for faith; graves where I go even now, where I +kneel to pay my duty of respect, to drop the filial +tear!"</p> + +<p>"Don't forget your living relations!" I said, with +some malice. "Here is your cousin, coming to meet +us."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER V.</h2> + + +<div class='cap'>AN ox-team was lumbering along the road towards +us. The huge oxen lurched from side to side, +half-asleep, making nothing of their load of meal-sacks +piled high in air; their driver walked beside, +half-asleep, too. He was a giant in height (six foot +six, Melody, in his stockings! I have measured him +myself), and his white clothes made him look something +monstrous indeed. Yvon stared and gaped, as +this vision came slowly towards him.</div> + +<p>"What—what is it?" he asked. "Is it a monster?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no!" I said. "It's only Ham Belfort. How +are you, Ham?"</p> + +<p>"Smart!" said Ham. "How be you? Hoish, Star! +haw! Stand still there, will ye?"</p> + +<p>The oxen came to a halt willingly enough, and man +and beasts stood regarding us with calm, friendly +eyes. Ham and his oxen looked so much alike, Melody +(the oxen were white, I ought to have said), that +I sometimes thought, if we dressed one of the beasts +up and did away with his horns, people would hardly +know which was which.</p> + +<p>"Taking a load over to Cato?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span>"</p> + +<p>Cato was the nearest town, my dear. It was there +that the weekly boat touched, which was our one link +with the world of cities and railways.</p> + +<p>Ham nodded; he was not given to unnecessary +speech.</p> + +<p>"Is your wife better? I heard she was poorly."</p> + +<p>"No, she ain't! I expect she'll turn up her toes +now most any day."</p> + +<p>This seemed awkward. I muttered some expressions +of regret, and was about to move on, when +my companion, who had been gazing speechless +and motionless at the figure before him, caught my +arm.</p> + +<p>"Present me!" he whispered. "Holy Blue! this is +my cousin, my own blood! Present me, Jacques!"</p> + +<p>Now, I had never had occasion to make a formal +introduction in my life, Melody. I had not yet begun +to act as master of ceremonies at balls, only as fiddler +and call-man; and it is the living truth that the only +form of words I could bring to mind at the moment +was, "Gents, balance to partners!" I almost said it +aloud; but, fortunately, my wits came back, and I +stammered out, sorely embarrassed:</p> + +<p>"Ham, this is—a gentleman—who—who is staying +with Father L'Homme-Dieu."</p> + +<p>"That so? Pleased to meet you!" and Ham held +out a hand like a shoulder of mutton, and engulfed +the marquis's slender fingers.</p> + +<p>"I am delighted to make the acquaintance of Mr. +Belfort," said Ste. Valerie, with winning grace. "I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span> +please myself to think that we are related by blood. +My mother was a Bellefort of Blanque; it is the +French form of your name, Mr. Belfort."</p> + +<p>"I want to know!" said Ham. "<i>Darned</i> pleased +to meet you!" He laboured for a moment, casting a +glance of appeal at the oxen, who showed no disposition +to assist him; then added, "You're slim-appearin' +for a Belfort; they run consid'able large in these +parts."</p> + +<p>"Truly, yes!" cried the marquis, laughing delightedly. +"You desire to show the world that there are +still giants. What pleasure, what rapture, to go +through the crowd of small persons, as myself, as +D'Arthenay here, and exhibit the person of Samson, +of Goliath!"</p> + +<p>Ham eyed him gravely. "Meanin' shows?" he +asked, after a pause of reflection. "No, we've never +shew none, as I know of. We've been asked, father +'n' I, to allow guessin' on our weight at fairs and sech, +but we jedged it warn't jest what we cared about +doin'. Sim'lar with shows!"</p> + +<p>This speech was rather beyond Ste. Valerie, and +seeing him look puzzled, I struck in, "Mr. Ste. Valerie +wants to see the old graves in the old burying-ground, +Ham. I told him there were plenty of Belforts there, +and spelling the name as he does, with two l's and +an e in the middle."</p> + +<p>"I want to know if he spells it that way!" said +Ham, politely. "We jedged they didn't know much +spellin', in them times along back, but I presume<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span> +there's different idees. Does your folks run slim as +a rule?"</p> + +<p>"Very slim, my cousin!" said Yvon. "Of my +generation, there is none so great as myself."</p> + +<p>"I <i>want</i> to know!" said Ham; and the grave +compassion in his voice was almost too much for +my composure. He seemed to fear that the subject +might be a painful one, and changed it with a visible +effort.</p> + +<p>"Well, there's plenty in the old berr'in-ground +spelt both ways. Likely it don't matter to 'em now."</p> + +<p>He pondered again, evidently composing a speech; +again he demanded help of the oxen, and went so far +as to examine an ear of the nigh ox with anxious +attention.</p> + +<p>"'Pears as if what Belforts is above the sod ought +to see something of ye!" he said at last. "My +woman is sick, and liable to turn—I should say, +liable to pass away most any time; but if she should +get better, or—anything—I should be pleased to +have ye come and stop a spell with us at the grist-mill. +Any of your folks in the grist business?"</p> + +<p>"Grisst?" Ste. Valerie looked helplessly at me. I +explained briefly the nature of a grist-mill, and said +truly that Ham's mill was one of the pleasantest +places in the neighbourhood. Yvon was enchanted. +He would come with the most lively pleasure, he +assured Ham, so soon as Madame Belfort's health +should be sufficiently rehabilitated. I remember, +Melody, the pride with which he rolled out that long<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span> +word, and the delight with which he looked at me, to +see if I noticed it.</p> + +<p>"Meantime," he added, "I shall haste at the earliest +moment to do myself the honour to call, to make +inquiries for the health of madame, to present my +respectful homages to monsieur your father. He will +permit me to embrace him as a son?"</p> + +<p>Fortunately Ham only heard the first part of this +sentence; he responded heartily, begging the marquis +to call at any hour. Then, being at the end of his +talk, he shook hands once more with ponderous good +will, and passed on, he and the oxen rolling along +with equal steps.</p> + +<p>Ste. Valerie was silent until Ham was out of earshot; +then he broke out.</p> + +<p>"Holy Blue! what a prodigy! You suffer this to +burst upon me, Jacques, without notice, without preparation. +My nerves are permanently shattered. You +tell me, a man; I behold a tower, a mountain, Atlas +crowned with clouds! Thousand thunders! what +bulk! what sinews! and of my race! Amazing effect +of—what? Climate? occupation? In France, this +race shrinks, diminishes; a rapier, keen if you will, +but slender like a thread; here, it swells, expands, +towers aloft,—a club of Hercules. And with my +father, who could sit in my pocket, and my grandfather, +who could sit in his! Figure to yourself, +Jacques, that I am called <i>le grand Yvon!</i>" He was +silent for a moment, then broke out again. "But +the mind. D'Arthenay! the brain; how is it with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span> +that? Thought,—a lightning flash! is it not lost, +wandering through a head large like that of an ox?"</p> + +<p>I cannot remember in what words I answered him, +Melody. I know I was troubled how to make it clear +to him, and he so different from the other. I seemed +to stand midway between the two, and to understand +both. Half of me seemed to spring up in joy at the +voice of the young foreigner; his lightness, his quickness, +the very way he moved his hands, seemed a part +of my own nature that I had not learned to use, and +now saw reflected in another. I am not sure if I +make myself clear, my child; it was a singular feeling. +But when I would spring forward with him, +and toss my head and wave my hands as he did,—as +my mother Marie did,—there was something held +me back; it was the other nature in me, slow and +silent, and—no! not cold, but loath to show its +warmth, if I may put it so. My father in me kept +me silent many a time when I might have spoken +foolishness. And it was this half, my father's half, +that loved Ham Belfort, and saw the solid sweetness +of nature that made that huge body a temple of good +will, so to speak. He had the kind of goodness that +gives peace and rest to those who lean against it. +His mill was one of the places—but we shall come +to that by and by!</p> + +<p>Walking on as we talked, we soon came to the village, +and I begged my new friend to come in and see +my father and my home. We entered. My father +was standing by the fire, facing the door, with one<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span> +hand on the tall mantel-shelf. He was in one of his +waking dreams, and I was struck deeply, Melody, by +the beauty, and, if I may use the word about a plain +man, the majesty of his looks. My companion was +struck, too, for he stopped short, and murmured something +under his breath; I heard the word "Noblesse," +and thought it not amiss. My father's eyes (they were +extraordinarily bright and blue) were wide open, and +looked through us and beyond us, yet saw nothing, or +nothing that other eyes could see; the tender look was +in them that meant the thought of my mother. But +Abby came quietly round from the corner where she +sat sewing, and laid her hand on his arm, and spoke +clearly, yet not sharply, telling him to look and see, +Jakey had brought a gentleman to see him. Then +the vision passed, and my father looked and saw us, +and came forward with a stately, beautiful way that +he could use, and bade the stranger welcome. Ste. +Valerie bowed low, as he might to a prince. Hearing +that he was a Frenchman, my father seemed pleased. +"My dear wife was a Frenchwoman!" he said. "She +was a musician, sir; I wish you could have heard her +play."</p> + +<p>"He was himself also of French descent," Ste. Valerie +reminded him, with another bow; and told of the +ruined tower, and the old friendship between the two +houses. But my father cared nothing for descent.</p> + +<p>"Long ago, sir!" he said. "Long ago! I have +nothing to do with the dead of two hundred years +back. I am a plain farmer; my son has learned the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span> +trade of shoemaking, though he also has some skill +with the fiddle, I am told. Nothing compared to his +mother, but still some skill."</p> + +<p>Ste. Valerie looked from one of us to the other. "A +farmer,—a shoemaker!" he said, slowly. "Strange +country, this! And while your <i>vieille noblesse</i> make +shoes and till the soil, who are these, monsieur, who +live in some of the palaces that I have seen in your +cities? In many, truly, persons of real nobility also, +gentlemen, whether hunting of race or of Nature's +own. But these others? I have seen them; large +persons, both male and female, red as beef, their +grossness illuminated with diamonds of royalty, their +dwelling a magazine from the Rue de la Paix. These +things are shocking to a European, M. D'Arthenay!" +My father looked at him with something like reproof +in his quiet gaze.</p> + +<p>"I have never been in cities," he said. "I consider +that a farmer's life may be used as well as +another for the glory of God."</p> + +<p>Then, with a wave of his hand, he seemed to put all +this away from him, and with a livelier air asked the +stranger to take supper with us. Abby had been laying +the cloth quietly while we were talking, and my +father would have asked her to sit down with us, but +she slipped away while his face was turned in the +other direction, and though he looked once or twice, +he soon forgot. Poor Abby! I had seen her looking +at him as he talked, and was struck by her intent +expression, as if she would not lose a word he might<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span> +say. It seemed natural, though, that he should be her +first thought; he had always been, since my mother +died.</p> + +<p>So presently we three sat about the little table, that +was gay with flowers and pretty dishes. I saw Ste. +Valerie's wondering glances; was it thus, he seemed +to ask, that a farmer lived, who had no woman to care +for him? My father saw, too, and was pleased as I +had rarely seen him. He did not smile, but his face +seemed to fill with light.</p> + +<p>"My wife, sir," he said, "loved to see things bright +and adorned. I try—my son and I try—to keep the +table as she would like it. I formerly thought these +matters sinful, but I have been brought to a clearer +vision,—through affliction." (Strange human nature, +Melody, my child! he was moved to say these words +to a stranger, which he could not have said to me, his +son!) "She had the French taste and lightness, my +wife Mary. I should have been proud to have you see +her, sir; the Lord was mindful of His own, and took +her away from a world of sin and suffering."</p> + +<p>The light died out; his eyes wandered for a moment, +and then set, in a way I knew; and I began to talk +fast of the first thing that came into my mind.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER VI.</h2> + + +<div class='cap'>I COULD write a whole book about the summer +that followed this spring day, when I first met +Yvon de Ste. Valerie. Yes, and the book would be +so long that no mortal man would have time to read +it; but I must hurry on with my story; for truth to +tell, my eyes are beginning to be not quite what they +have been,—they'll serve my time, I hope, but my +writing was always small and crabbed,—and I must +say what I have to say, shorter than I have begun, +I perceive. After the first week, then, which he +spent with Father L'Homme-Dieu, Yvon came over +to our village and boarded with Abby Rock. The +Father was pleased to have him come; he knew it +would be a great thing for me, and he thought it +would not hurt the young gentleman to live for a +time with plain folks. But if he thought Yvon would +look down on our village people, or hold himself +better than they, he was mistaken. In a week the +young Frenchman was the son and brother of the +whole village. Our people were dear, good people, +Melody; but I sometimes thought them a little dull; +that was after my mother's death. I suppose I had +enough of another nature in me to be troubled by +this, but not enough to know how to help it; later<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span> +I learned a little more; but indeed, I should justly +say that my lessons were begun by Yvon de Ste. +Valerie. It was from him I learned, my dear, that +nothing in this world of God's is dull or common, +unless we bring dull hearts and dim eyes to look at +it. It is the vision, the vision, that makes the life; +that vision which you, my child, with your sightless +eyes, have more clearly than almost any one I have +known.</div> + +<p>He was delighted with everything. He wanted to +know about everything. He declared that he should +write a book, when he returned to France, all about +our village, which he called Paradise. It is a pretty +place, or was as I remember it. He must see how +bread was made, how wool was spun, how rugs were +braided. Many's the time I have found him sitting +in some kitchen, winding the great balls of rags +neatly cut and stitched together, listening like a child +while the woman told him of how many rugs she had +made, and how many quilts she had pieced; and she +more pleased than he, and thinking him one wonder +and herself another.</p> + +<p>He was in love with all the girls; so he said, and +they had nothing to say against it. But yet there +was no girl could carry a sore heart, for he treated +them all alike. In this I have thought that he +showed a sense and kindness beyond his years or +his seeming giddiness; for some of them might well +enough have had their heads turned by a gentleman, +and one so handsome, and with a tongue that liked<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span> +better to say "Angel!" to a woman than anything +more suited to the average of the sex. But no girl +in the village could think herself for a moment the +favoured maiden; for if one had the loveliest eyes in +the world, the next had a cheek of roses and velvet, +and the third walked like a goddess, and the fourth +charmed his soul out of his body every time she +opened her lips. And so it went on, till all understood +it for play, and the pleasantest play they ever +saw. But he vowed from the first that he would +marry Abby Rock, and no other living woman. +Abby always said yes, she would marry him the +first Sunday that came in the middle of the week; +and then she would try to make him eat more, +though he took quite as much as was good for him, +not being used to our hearty ways, especially in the +mornings. Abby was as pleased with him as a child +with a kitten, and it was pretty to see them together.</p> + +<p>"Light of my life!" Yvon would cry. "You are +exquisite this morning! Your eyes are like stars on +the sea. Come, then, angelic Rock, <i>Rocher des Anges</i>, +and waltz with your Ste. Valerie!" And he would +take Abby by the waist, and try to waltz with her, +till she reached for the broomstick. I have told you, +Melody, that Abby was the homeliest woman the +Lord ever made. Not that I ever noticed it, for +the kindness in her face was so bright I never saw +anything but that; but strangers would speak of it, +and Yvon himself, before he heard her speak, made +a little face, I remember, that only I could see, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span> +whispered, had I brought him to lodge with Medusa? +Medusa, indeed! I think Abby's smile would soften +any stone that had ever had a human heart beating in +it, instead of the other way.</p> + +<p>But the place in the village that Yvon loved best +was Ham Belfort's grist-mill; and when he comes to +my mind, in these days, when sadder visions are +softened and partly dim to me, it is mostly there +that I seem to see my friend.</p> + +<p>It was, as I have said, one of the pleasantest places +in the world. To begin with, the colour and softness +of it all! The window-glass was powdered white, +and the light came through white and dim, and lay +about in long powdery shafts, and these were white, +too, instead of yellow. So was the very dust white; +or rather, it was good oatmeal and wheat flour that +lay thick and crumbling on the rafters above, and the +wheels and pulleys and other gear. As for Ham, +the first time Yvon saw him in the mill, he cried out +"Mont Blanc!" and would not call him anything +else for some time. For Ham was whiter than all +the rest, in his working-dress, cap and jacket and +breeches, white to begin with, and powdered soft and +furry, like his face and eyebrows, with the flying meal. +Down-stairs there was plenty of noise; oats and corn +and wheat pouring into the hoppers, and the great +stones going round and round, and wheels creaking +and buzzing, and belts droning overhead. Yvon +could not talk at all here, and I not too much; only +Ham's great voice and his father's (old Mr. Belfort<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span> +was Ham over again, gray under the powder, instead +of pink and brown) could roar on quietly, if I may +so express it, rising high above the rattle and clack of +the machinery, and yet peaceful as the stream outside +that turned the great wheels and set the whole thing +flying. So, as he could not live long without talking, +Yvon loved best the loft above, where the corn was +stored, both in bags and unground, and where the big +blowers were, and the old green fire-engine, and many +other curious things. I had known them all my life, +but they were strange to him, and he never tired, any +more than if he had been a boy of ten. Sometimes I +wondered if he could be twenty-two, as he said; +sometimes when he would swing himself on to the +slide, where the bags of meal and flour were loaded +on to the wagons. Well, Melody, it was a thing to +charm a boy's heart; it makes mine beat a little +quicker to think of it, even now; perhaps I was not +much wiser than my friend, after all. This was a +slide some three feet wide, and say seven or eight +feet long, sloping just enough to make it pleasant, +and polished till it shone, from the bags that rubbed +along it day after day, loading the wagons as they +backed up under it. Nothing would do but we must +slide down this, as if, I say, we were children of ten +years old, coming down astride of the meal-sacks, and +sending a plump of flour into the air as we struck the +wagon. Father Belfort thought Yvon was touched +in the brain; but he was all the more gentle on this +account. Boys were not allowed on the slide, unless<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span> +it were a holiday, or some boy had had a hard time +with sickness or what not; it was a treat rarely given, +and the more prized for that. But Yvon and I might +slide as much as we pleased. "Keep him cheerful, +Jakey!" the dear old man would say. "Let him kibobble +all he's a mind to! I had a brother once was +looney, and we kep' him happy all his life long, jest +lettin' him stay a child, as the Lord intended. Six foot +eight he stood, and weighed four hundred pounds."</p> + +<p>And when the boy was tired of playing we would +sit down together, and call to Ham to come up and +talk; for even better than sliding, Yvon loved to hear +his cousin talk. You can take the picture into your +mind, Melody, my dear. The light dim and white, +as I have told you, and very soft, falling upon rows +and rows of full sacks, ranged like soldiers; the great +white miller sitting with his back against one of +these, and his legs reaching anywhere,—one would +not limit the distance; and running all about him, +without fear, or often indeed marking him in any way, +a multitude of little birds, sparrows they were, who +spent most of their life here among the meal-sacks. +Sometimes they hopped on his shoulder, or ran over +his head, but they never minded his talking, and he +sat still, not liking to disturb them. It was a pretty +sight of extremes in bulk, and in nature too; for +while Ham was afraid to move, for fear of troubling +them, they would bustle up to him and cock their +heads, and look him in the eye as if they said, "Come +on, and show me which is the biggest!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span></p> + +<p>There you see him, my dear; and opposite to him +you might see a great mound or heap of corn that +shone yellow as gold. "<i>Le Mont d'Or</i>," Yvon called +it; and nothing would do but he must sit on this, +lifted high above us, yet sliding down every now and +then, and climbing up again, with the yellow grains +slipping away under him, smooth and bright as pebbles +on the shore. And for myself, I was now here +and now there, as I found it more comfortable, being +at home in every part of the friendly place.</p> + +<p>How we talked! Ham was mostly a silent fellow; +but he grew to love the lad so that the strings of his +tongue were loosened as they had never been before. +His woman, too (as we say in those parts, Melody; +wife is the more genteel expression, but I never heard +Ham use it. My father, on the other hand, never +said anything else; a difference in the fineness of ear, +my dear, I have always supposed),—his woman, I +say, or wife, had not "turned up her toes," but +recovered, and as he was a faithful and affectionate +man, his heart was enlarged by this also. However +it was, he talked more in those weeks, I suppose, than +in the rest of his life put together. Bits of his talk, +homely and yet wise, come back to me across the +sixty years. One day, I remember, we talked of life, +as young men love to talk. We said nothing that +had not been said by young men since Abel's time, I +do suppose, but it was all new to us; and indeed, my +two companions had fresh ways of putting things that +seemed to make them their own in a manner. Yvon<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span> +maintained that gaiety was the best that life had to +give; that the butterfly being the type of the human +soul, the nearer man could come to his prototype, the +better for him and for all. Sorrow and suffering, he +cried, were a blot on the scheme, a mistake, a concession +to the devil; if all would but spread their +wings and fly away from it, houp! it would no longer +exist. "<i>Et voilà!</i>"</p> + +<p>We laughed, but shook our heads. Ham meditated +awhile, and then began in his strong, quiet voice, a +little husky, which I always supposed was from his +swallowing so much raw meal and flour.</p> + +<p>"That's one way of lookin' at it, Eavan; I expect +that's your French view, likely; looks different, you +see, to folks livin' where there's cold, and sim'lar +things, as butterflies couldn't find not to say comfortable. +Way I look at it, it always seemed to me +that grain come as near it as anything, go to compare +things. Livin' in a grist-mill, I presume, I git into a +grainy way of lookin' at the world. Now, take +wheat! It comes up pooty enough, don't it, in the +fields? Show me a field o' wheat, and I'll show you as +handsome a thing as is made this side of Jordan. +Wal, that might be a little child, we'll say; if there's +a thing handsomer than a field o' wheat, it's a +little child. But bimeby comes reapin' and all, and +then the trouble begins. First, it's all in the rough, +ain't it, chaff and all, mixed together; and has to go +through the thresher? Well, maybe that's the lickin's +a boy's father gives him. He don't like 'em,—I can<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span> +feel Father Belfort's lickin's yet,—but they git red of +a sight o' chaff, nonsense, airs, and what not, for him. +Then it comes here to the grist-mill. Well, I may be +gittin' a little mixed, boys, but you can foller if you +try, I expect. Say that's startin' out in life, leavin' +home, or bindin' to a trade, or whatever. Well, it +goes into the duster, and there it gets more chaff +blowed off'n it. And from the duster it goes into the +hopper, and down in betwixt the stones; and them +stones grind, grind, grind, till you'd think the life was +ground clear'n out of it. But 'tain't so; contrary! +That's affliction; the upper and nether millstone—Scriptur! +Maybe sickness, maybe losin' your folks, +maybe business troubles,—whichever comes is the +wust, and more than any mortal man ever had to bear +before. Well, now, see! That stuff goes in there, +grain; it comes out wheat flour! Then you take and +wet it down and put your 'east in,—that's thought, I +expect, or brains,—or might be a woman,—and you +bake it in the oven,—call that—well, 'git-up-and-git' +is all I can think of, but I should aim for a better +word, talkin' to a foreigner."</p> + +<p>"Purpose," I suggested.</p> + +<p>"That's it! purpose! bake it in that oven, and you +have a loaf of wheat bread, riz bread; and that's the +best eatin' that's ben invented yet. That's food for +the hungry,—which raw wheat ain't, except it's +cattle. But now you hear me, boys! To git wheat +bread, riz bread, you've got to have wheat to begin +with. You've got to have good stuff to start with.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span> +You can't make good riz bread out o' field corn. But +take good stuff and grind it in the Lord's mill, and +you've got the best this world can give. That's my +philos'phy!"</p> + +<p>He nodded his head to the last words, which fell +slowly and weightily; and as he did so, the sparrow +that had been perched on his head ran down his nose +and fluttered in his face, seeming to ask how he dared +make such a disturbance. "I beg your pardon, I'm +sure!" said Ham. "I'd no notion I was interferin' +with you. Why didn't you hit one of your size?"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER VII.</h2> + + +<div class='cap'>IT was in the grist-mill loft, too, that Yvon brought +forward his great plan, what he called the project +of his life,—that of taking me back to France with +him. I remember how I laughed when he spoke of +it; it seemed as easy for me to fly to the moon as to +cross the ocean, a thing which none of my father's +people had done since the first settlers came. My +mother, to be sure, had come from France, but that +was a different matter; nor had her talk of the sea +made me feel any longing for it. But Yvon had set +his heart on it; and his gay talk flowed round and +over my objections, as your brook runs over stones. I +must go; I should go! I should see my tower, the +castle of my fathers. It was out of repair, he could +not deny that; but what! a noble château might +still be made of it. Once restored, I would bring my +father over to end his days with me, under the roof +that alone could properly shelter a person of such +nobility. He had won my father's heart, too, Melody, +as he won all hearts; they understood each other in +some fine, far-off way, that was beyond me. I sometimes +felt a little pang that was not, I am glad to +believe, jealousy, only a wish that I might be more +like Yvon, more like my mother's people, since it was +that so charmed my poor father.</div><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span></p> + +<p>I asked Yvon how I was to live, how my <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads ' ather'">father</ins> and +I should support ourselves in our restored castle, and +whose money would pay for the restoration. He +threw this aside, and said that money was base, and +he refused to consider it. It had nothing to do with +the feelings, less than nothing with true nobility. +Should I then take my cobbler's bench, I asked him, +and make shoes for him and his neighbours, while my +father tilled the ground? But then, for the first +and almost the last time, I saw my friend angry; he +became like a naughty, sulky child, and would hardly +speak to me for the rest of the day.</p> + +<p>But he clung to his idea, none the less; and, to my +great surprise, my father took it up after awhile. +He thought well, he told me, of Yvon's plan; Yvon +had talked it over with him. He, himself, was much +stronger than he had been (this was true, Melody, or +nothing would have induced me to leave him even for +a week; Yvon had been like a cordial to him, and he +had not had one of his seizures for weeks); and I +could perfectly leave him under Abby's care. I had +not been strong myself, a voyage might be a good +thing for me; and no doubt, after seeing with my own +eyes the matters this young lad talked of, I would be +glad enough to come home and settle to my trade, and +would have much to think over as I sat at my bench. +It might be that a man was better for seeing something +of the world; he had never felt that the Lord +intended him to travel, having brought to his own +door all that the world held of what was best (he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span> +paused here, and said "Mary!" two or three times +under his breath, a way he had when anything moved +him), but it was not so with me, nor likely to be, and +it might be a good thing for me to go. He had money +laid by that would be mine, and I could take a portion +of that, and have my holiday.</p> + +<p>These are not his very words, Melody, but the sense +of them. I was strangely surprised; and being young +and eager, the thought came upon me for the first +time that this thing was really possible; and with the +thought came the longing, and a sense which I had +only felt dimly before, and never let speak plain to +me, as it were. I suppose every young man feels the +desire to go somewhere else than the place where he +has always abided. The world may be small and +wretched, as some tell him, or great and golden, +according to the speech of others; he believes neither +one nor the other, he must see it with his own eyes. +So this grew upon me, and I brooded over it, till my +life was full of voices calling, and hands pointing +across the sea, to the place which is Somewhere Else. +I talked with Father L'Homme-Dieu, and he bade me +go, and gave me his blessing; he had no doubt it was +my pleasure, and might be my duty, in the way of +making all that might be made of my life. I talked +with Abby; she grew pale, and had but one word, +"Your father!" Something in her tone spoke loud +to my heart, and there came into my mind a thought +that I spoke out without waiting for it to cool.</p> + +<p>"Won't you marry my father, Abby?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span></p> + +<p>Abby's hands fell in her lap, and she turned so +white that I was frightened; still, I went on. "You +love him better than any one else, except me." (She +put her hand on her heart, I remember, Melody, and +kept it there while I talked; she made no other sign.)</p> + +<p>"And you can care for him ten times better than +I could, you know that, Abby, dear; and—and—I +know Mère-Marie would be pleased."</p> + +<p>I looked in her face, and, young and thoughtless as +I was, I saw that there which made me turn away +and look out of the window. She did not speak at +once; but presently said in her own voice, or only a +little changed, "Don't speak like that, Jakey dear! +You know I'll care for your father all I can, without +that;" and so put me quietly aside, and talked about +Yvon, and how good Father L'Homme-Dieu had been +to me.</p> + +<p>But I, being a lad that liked my own way when +it did not seem a wrong one (and not only then, +perhaps, my dear; not only then!), could not let +my idea go so easily. It seemed to me a fine thing, +and one that would bring happiness to one, at least; +and I questioned whether the other would mind it +much, being used to Abby all his life, and a manner +of cousin to her, and she my mother's first +friend when she came to the village, and her best +friend always. I was very young, Melody, and I +spoke to my father about it; that same day it was, +while my mind was still warm. If I had waited over +night, I might have seen more clear.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Father," said I; we were sitting in the kitchen +after supper; it was a summer evening, soft and fair, +but a little fire burned low on the hearth, and he sat +near it, having grown chilly this last year.</p> + +<p>"Father, would you think it possible to change +your condition?"</p> + +<p>He turned his eyes on me, with an asking look.</p> + +<p>"Would you think it possible to marry Abby +Rock?" I asked; and felt my heart sink, somehow, +even with saying the words. My father hardly seemed +to understand at first; he repeated, "Marry Abby +Rock!" as if he saw no sense in the words; then +it came to him, and I saw a great fire of anger grow +in his eyes, till they were like flame in the dusk.</p> + +<p>"I am a married man!" he said, slowly. "Are +you a child, or lost to decency, that you speak of this +to a married man?"</p> + +<p>He paused, but I found nothing to say. He went +on, his voice, that was even when he began, dropping +deeper, and sinking as I never heard it.</p> + +<p>"The Lord in His providence saw fit to take away +my wife, your mother, before sickness, or age, or sorrow +could strike her. I was left, to suffer some small +part of what my sins merit, in the land of my sojourn. +The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; +blessed be the name of the Lord. But because my +wife Mary,—my wife Mary" (he lingered over the +words, loving them so), "is a glorified spirit in +another world, and I am a prisoner here, is she any +less my wife, and I her faithful husband? You are<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span> +my son, and hers,—hers, Jakey; but if you ever +say such words to me again, one house will not hold +us both." He turned his head away, and I heard him +murmuring under his breath, "Mary! Mary!" as I +have said his way was; and I was silent and ashamed, +fearing to speak lest I make matters worse; and so +presently I slipped out and left him; and my fine +plan came to naught, save to make two sad hearts +sadder than they were.</p> + +<p>But it was to be! Looking back, Melody, after +fifty years, I am confident that it was the will of +God, and was to be. In three weeks from that +night, I was in France.</p> + +<p>I pass over the wonder of the voyage; the sorrowful +parting, too, that came before it, though I left all +well, and my father to all appearances fully himself. +I pass over these, straight to the night when Yvon +and I arrived at his home in the south of France. +We had been travelling several days since landing, +and had stopped for two days in Paris. My head +was still dizzy with the wonder and the brightness +of it all. There was something homelike, too, in it. +The very first people I met seemed to speak of my +mother to me, as they flung out their hands and +laughed and waved, so different from our ways at +home. I was to see more of this, and to feel the two +parts in me striving against each other; but it is +early to speak of that.</p> + +<p>The evening was warm and bright, as we came near +Château Claire; that was the name of my friend's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span> +home. A carriage had met us at the station, and as +we drove along through a pretty country (though +nothing to New England, I must always think), Yvon +was deep in talk with the driver, who was an old servant, +and full of news. I listened but little, being +eager to see all my eyes could take in. Vines swung +along the sides of the road, in a way that I always +found extremely graceful, and wished we might have +our grapes so at home. I was marvelling at the +straw-roofed houses and the plots of land about them +no bigger than Abby Rock's best table-cloth, when +suddenly Yvon bade pull up, and struck me on the +shoulder. "<i>D'Arthenay, tenez foi!</i>" he cried in my +ear; and pointed across the road. I turned, and saw +in the dusk a stone tower, square and bold, covered +with ivy, the heavy growth of years. It was all dim +in the twilight, but I marked the arched door, with +carving on the stone work above it, and the great +round window that stared like a blind eye. I felt +a tugging at my heart, Melody; the place stood so +lonely and forlorn, yet with a stateliness that seemed +noble. I could not but think of my father, and that +he stood now like his own tower, that he would never +see.</p> + +<p>"Shall we alight now?" asked Yvon. "Or will +you rather come by daylight, Jacques, to see the place +in beauty of sunshine?"</p> + +<p>I chose the latter, knowing that his family would +be looking for him; and no one waited for me in La +Tour D'Arthenay, as it was called in the country.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span> +Soon we were driving under a great gateway, and +into a courtyard, and I saw the long front of a great +stone house, with a light shining here and there.</p> + +<p>"Welcome, Jacques!" cried Yvon, springing down +as the great door opened; "welcome to Château Claire! +Enter, then, my friend, as thy fathers entered in days +of old!"</p> + +<p>The light was bright that streamed from the doorway; +I was dazzled, and stumbled a little as I went +up the steps; the next moment I was standing in a +wide hall, and a young lady was running forward to +throw her arms round Yvon's neck.</p> + +<p>He embraced her tenderly, kissing her on both +cheeks in the French manner; then, still holding her +hand, he turned to me, and presented me to his sister. +"This is my friend," he said, "of whom I wrote you, +Valerie; M. D'Arthenay, of La Tour D'Arthenay, +Mademoiselle de Ste. Valerie!"</p> + +<p>The young lady curtseyed low, and then, with a +look at Yvon, gave me her hand in a way that made +me feel I was welcome. A proper manner of shaking +hands, my dear child, is a thing I have always impressed +upon my pupils. There is nothing that so +helps or hinders the first impression, which is often +the last impression. When a person flaps a limp +hand at me, I have no desire for it, if it were the +finest hand in the world; nor do I allow any tricks of +fashion in this matter, as sometimes seen, with waggling +this way or that; it is a very offensive thing. +Neither must one pinch with the finger-tips, nor grind<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span> +the bones of one's friend, as a strong man will be apt +to do, mistaking violence for warmth; but give a firm, +strong, steady pressure with the hand itself, that +carries straight from the heart the message, "I am +glad to see you!"</p> + +<p>This is a speech I have made many times; I have +kept the young lady waiting in the hall while I made +it to you, thereby failing in good manners.</p> + +<p>At the first glance, Valerie de Ste. Valerie seemed +hardly more than a child, for she was slight and +small; my first thought was, how like she was to her +brother, with the same fair hair and dark, bright blue +eyes. She was dressed in a gown of white dimity, +very fine, with ruffles at the foot of the skirt, and a +fichu of the same crossed on her breast. I must say +to you, my dear Melody, that it was from this first +sight of her that I took the habit of observing a +woman's dress always. A woman of any age taking +pains to adorn herself, it has always seemed to me +boorish not to take careful note of the particulars of a +toilet. Mlle. de Ste. Valerie wore slippers of blue +kid, her feet being remarkably slender and well-shaped; +and a blue ribbon about her hair, in the +manner of a double fillet. After a few gracious +words, she went forward into a room at one side of +the hall, we following, and here I was presented to +her aunt, a lady who had lived with the brother and +sister since their parents' death, a few years before +this time. Of this lady, who was never my friend, +I will say little. Her first aspect reminded me of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span> +frozen vinegar, carved into human shape; yet she had +fine manners, and excused herself with dignity for +not rising to salute us, being lame, as her nephew +knew. For Yvon, though he kissed her hand (a +thing I had never seen before), I thought there was +little love in the greeting; nor did he seem oppressed +with grief when she excused herself also from coming +to sup with us.</p> + +<p>At supper, we three together at a table that was +like a small island of warm pleasantness in the great +hollow dining-hall, Yvon was full of wild talk, we +two others mostly listening. He had everything to +tell, about the voyage, about his new friends, all of +whom were noble and beautiful and clever.</p> + +<p>"Figure to yourself, Valerie!" he cried. "I found +our family there; the most noble, the most gigantic +persons in the world! Thy cousin Jambon, it is a +giant, eight feet high, at the least. He denies it, he +is the soul of modesty, but I have eyes, and I see. +This man has the soul greater than his vast body; +we have discussed life, death, in short, the Infinite, +we three, Jambon and Jacques and I. He has +a father—both have fathers! it is the course of +nature. The father of D'Arthenay here is a prince, +a diamond of the old rock; ah! if our father of +sainted memory could have known M. D'Arthenay +<i>père</i>, Valerie, he would have known the brother of +his soul, as their sons know each other. Not so, +Jacques? But <i>le père</i> Bellefort, Valerie, he is gigantesque, +like his son. These rocks, these towers, they<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span> +have the hearts of children, the smiles of a crowing +infant. You laugh, D'Arthenay? I say something +incorrect? how then?"</p> + +<p>He had said nothing incorrect, I told him; I only +thought it would be surprising to hear Father Belfort +crow, as he hardly spoke three times in the day.</p> + +<p>"True! but what silence! the silence of fullness, +of benevolence. Magnificent persons, not to be approached +for goodness."</p> + +<p>So he rattled on, while his sister's blue eyes grew +wider and wider. I did not in truth know what to +say. I hardly recognised our plain people in the +human wonders that Yvon was describing; I could +hardly keep my countenance when he told her about +Mlle. Roc, an angel of pious dignity. I fancied +Abby transported here, and set down at this table, +all flowers and perfumed fruits and crimson-shaded +lights; the idea seemed to me comical, though now +I know that Abby Rock would do grace to any table, +if it were the President's. I was young then, and +knew little. And so the lad talked on and on, and +his fair young lady sister listened and marvelled, +and I held my tongue and looked about me, and wondered +was I awake or asleep.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER VIII.</h2> + + +<div class='cap'>THE pictures come back fast and thick upon my +mind. I suppose every life, even the quietest, +has its picture-book, its record of some one time that +seems filled with beauty or joy as a cup that brims +over. Every one, perhaps, could write his own fairy +story; this is mine.</div> + +<p>The next day Yvon had a thousand things to show +me. The ladies sat in their own room in the morning, +and the rest of the castle was our own. It +amazed me, being a great building, and the first +of the kind I had seen. Terraces of stone ran about +the house, except on the side of the courtyard, and +these were set with flowering shrubs in great stone +pots, that would take two men to lift. Beyond the +terraces the ground fell away in soft banks and +hollows to where I heard a brook running through +a wood-piece. Inside, the rooms, very lofty and +spacious, were dark to my eyes, partly from the +smallness of the windows, partly from the dark +carved wood that was everywhere, on floor and walls +and ceilings. I could never be at home, I thought, +in such a place; though I never found elsewhere +such a fine quality of floor; smooth in the perfect +degree, yet not too slippery for firm treading, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span> +springing to the foot in a way that was next to dance +music for suggestion. I said as much to Yvon, and +he caught the idea flying, as was his way, and ran to +bring his sister, bidding me get my fiddle on the +instant. We were in a long hall, rather narrow, but +with excellent space for a few <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'couple'">couples</ins>, let alone one. +Mlle. de Ste. Valerie came running, her hand in her +brother's, a little out of breath from his suddenness, +and in the prettiest morning dress of blue muslin. I +played my best waltz, and the two waltzed. This is +one of the brightest pictures in my book, Melody. +The young lady had perfect grace of motion, and had +been well taught; I knew less about the matter than +I do now, but still enough to recognise fine dancing +when I saw it; her brother was a partner worthy of +her. I have seldom had more pure pleasure in playing +dance music, and I should have been willing it +had lasted all day; but it was not long before a +sour-faced maid came and said my Lady had sent her +to say mademoiselle should be at her studies; and +she ran away laughing, yet sorry to go, and dropped +a little running curtsey at the door, very graceful, +such as I have never seen another person make.</p> + +<p>The room was darker when she was gone; but +Yvon cried to me I must see the armory, and the +chapel, and a hundred other sights. I followed him +like a child, my eyes very round, I doubt not, and +staring with all my might. The armory was another +of the long halls or corridors that ran along the sides of +the courtyard. Here were weapons of all kinds, but<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span> +chiefly swords; swords of every possible make and +size, some of great beauty, others clumsy enough, +that looked as if bears should handle them. I had +never held a sword in my hand,—how should I?—but +Yvon vowed I must learn to fence, and told some +story of an ancestor of mine who was the best swordsman +in the country, and kept all comers at bay in +some old fight long ago. I took the long bit of +springy steel, and found it extraordinary comfortable +to the hand. Practice with the fiddle-bow since early +childhood gave, I may suppose, strength and quickness +to the turn of my wrist; however it was, the +marquis cried out that I was born for the sword; and +in a few minutes again cried to know who had taught +me tricks of fence. Honesty knows, I had had no +teaching; only my eye caught his own motions, and +my hand and wrist answered instantly, being trained +to ready obedience. I felt a singular joy in this exercise, +Melody. In grace and dexterity it equals the +violin; with this difference, which keeps the two the +width of the world apart, that the one breeds trouble +and strife, while the other may, under Providence, +soothe human ills more than any other one thing, +save the kindly sound of the human voice.</p> + +<p>Make the best defence I could, it was not long before +Yvon sent my foil flying from my hand; but still +he professed amazement at my ready mastering of the +art, and I felt truly that it was natural to me, and +that with a few trials I might do as well as he.</p> + +<p>Next I must see the chapel, very ancient, but kept<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span> +smart with candles and crimson velvet cushions. I +could not warm to this, feeling the four plain walls of +a meeting-house the only thing that could enclose my +religious feelings with any comfort; and these not to +compare with a free hillside, or the trees of a wood +when the wind moves in them. And then we went to +the stables, and the gardens, laid out very stately, and +his sister's own rose garden, the pleasantest place in +the whole, or so I thought.</p> + +<p>So with one thing and another, it was late afternoon +before Yvon remembered that I must not sleep again +without visiting my own tower, as he would call it; +and for this, the young lady had leave to go with us. +It was a short walk, not more than half a mile, and +in a few minutes we were looking up at the tower, +that seemed older and sadder by day than it had done +in the evening dimness. It stood alone. The body +of what had been behind and beside it was gone, but +we could trace the lines of a large building, the +foundations still remaining; and here and there were +piles of cut stone, the same stone as that in the tower. +Yvon told me that ever since the castle had begun +to fall into decay (being long deserted), the country +people around had been in the habit of mending their +houses, and building them indeed, often, from the +stone of the old château. He pointed to one cottage +and another, standing around at little distance. "They +are dogs," he cried, "that have each a bit of the lion's +skin. Ah, Jacques! but for my father of blessed +memory, thy tower would have gone in the same way.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span> +He vowed, when he came of age, that this desecration +should go no further. He brought the priest, and +together they laid a fine curse upon whoever should +move another stone from the ruins, or lay hands on +La Tour D'Arthenay. Since then, no man touches +this stone. It remains, as you see. It has waited +till this day, for thee, its propriety."</p> + +<p>He had not quite the right word, Melody, but I had +not the heart to correct him, being more moved by +the thing than I could show reason for. Inside the +tower there was a stone staircase, that went steeply +up one side, or rather the front it was, for from it we +could step across to a wide stone shelf that stood out +under the round window. It might have been part of +a great chimney-piece, such as there still were in +Château Claire. The ivy had reached in through the +empty round, and covered this stone with a thick mat, +more black than green. Though ready enough to +step on this myself, I could not think it fit for Mlle. +de Ste. Valerie, and took the liberty to say so; but +she laughed, and told me she had climbed to this +perch a hundred times. She was light as a leaf, and +when I saw her set her foot in her brother's hand and +spring across the empty space from the stair to the +shelf, it seemed no less than if a wind had blown her. +Soon we were all three crouching or kneeling on the +stone, with our elbows in the curve of the great window, +looking out on the prospect. A fair one it was, +of fields and vineyards, with streams winding about, +but very small. They spoke of rivers, but I saw none.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span> +It was the same with the hills, which Yvon bade me +see here and there; little risings, that would not +check the breath in a running man. For all that, the +country was a fine country, and I praised it honestly, +though knowing in my heart that it was but a poor +patch beside our own. I was thinking this, when the +young lady turned to me, and asked, in her gracious +way, would I be coming back, I and my people, to +rebuild Château D'Arthenay?</p> + +<p>"It was the finest in the county, so the old books +say!" she told me. "There was a hall for dancing, +a hundred feet long, and once the Sieur D'Arthenay +gave a ball for the king, Henri Quatre it was, and the +hall was lighted with a thousand tapers of rose-coloured +wax, set in silver sconces. How that must +have been pretty, M. D'Arthenay!"</p> + +<p>I thought of our kitchen at home, and the glass +lamps that Mère-Marie kept shining with such care; +but before I could speak, Yvon broke in. "He shall +come! I tell him he shall come, Valerie! All my +life I perish, thou knowest it, for a companion of my +sex, of my age. Thou art my angel, Valerie, but +thou art a woman, and soon, too, thou wilt leave me. +Alone, a hermit in my château, my heart desolate, +how to support life? It is for this that I cry to the +friend of my house to return to his country, the country +of his race; to bring here his respected father, to +plant a vineyard, a little corn, a little fruit,—briefly, +to live. Observe!" Instantly his hands fluttered +out, pointing here and there.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Jacques, observe, I implore you! This tower; it +is now uninhabited, is it not? you can answer me that, +though you have been here but a day."</p> + +<p>As he waited for an answer, I replied that it certainly +was vacant, so far as I could see; except that +there must be bats and owls, I thought, in the thickness +of the ivy trees.</p> + +<p>"Perfectly! Except for these animals, there is +none to dispute your entrance. The tower is solid,—of +a solidity! Cannon must be brought, to batter +down these walls. Instead of battering, we restore, +we construct. With these brave walls to keep out +the cold, you construct within—a dwelling! vast, I +do not say; palatial, I do not say; but ample for two +persons, who—who have lived together, <i>à deux</i>, not +requiring separate suites of apartments." He waved +his hand in such a manner that I saw long sets of +rooms opening one after another, till the eye was +lost in them.</p> + +<p>"Here, where we now are posed, is your own room, +Jacques. For you this view of Paradise. Monsieur +your father will not so readily mount the stairs, becoming +in future years infirm, though now a tree, an +oak, massive and erect. We build for the future, +D'Arthenay! Below, then, the paternal apartments, +the salon, perhaps a small room for guns and dogs +and appliances." Another wave set off a square +space, where we could almost see the dogs leaping +and crouching.</p> + +<p>"Behind again, the kitchens, offices, what you will.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span> +A few of these stones transported, erected; glass, +carpets, a fireplace,—the place lives in my eyes, +Jacques! Let us return to the château, that I set all +on paper. You forget that I study architecture, that +I am a drawsman, hein? Ten minutes, a sheet of +drawing-paper,—pff! Château D'Arthenay lives before +you, ready for habitation on the instant."</p> + +<p>I saw it all, Melody; I saw it all! Sometimes I +see it now, in an old man's dream. Now, of course, +it is wild and misty as a morning fog curling off the +hills; but then, it seemed hardly out of reach for the +moment. Listening to my friend's eager voice, and +watching his glowing face, there came to life in me +more and more strongly the part that answered to +him. I also was young; I also had the warm French +blood burning in me. In height, in strength, perhaps +even in looks, I was not his inferior; he was noble, +and my fathers had stood beside his in battle, hundreds +of times.</p> + +<p>I felt in a kind of fire, and courted the heat even +while it burned me. I answered Yvon, laughing, and +said surely I would have no other architect for my +castle. Mlle. de Ste. Valerie joined in, and told me +where I should buy carpets, and what flowers I should +plant in my garden.</p> + +<p>"Roses, M. D'Arthenay!" she cried. "Roses are +the best, for the masses. A few gillyflowers I advise, +they are so sweet; and plenty of lilies, the white and +yellow. Oh! I have a lily with brown stripes, the +most beautiful! you shall have a bulb of it; I will<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span> +start it for you myself, in a stone pot. You must +have a little conservatory, too, for winter plants; one +cannot live without flowers, even in winter. All winter, +when no longer many flowers bloom out-of-doors, +though always some, always my hardy roses, then I +live half my day in the conservatory. You shall have +some of my flowers; oh, yes, I can spare you plenty."</p> + +<p>She was so like her brother! There was the same +pretty eagerness, the same fire of kindliness and good +will, hurrying both along to say they knew not what. +I could only thank her; and the very beauty and +sweetness of her struck all at once a sadness on my +merriment; and I saw for a moment that this was all +a fleeting wreath of fog, as I said; yet all the more +for that strove to grasp it and hold it fast.</p> + +<p>The sun went down behind the low hills, and the +young lady cried that she must hasten home; her aunt +would be vexed at her for staying so long. Yvon said, +his faith, she might be vexed. If Mlle. de Ste. Valerie +might not go out with her brother, the head of her +house and her natural guardian, he knew not with +whom she might go; and muttered under his breath +something I did not hear. So we went back to the +château, and still I was in the bright dream, shutting +my eyes when it seemed like to break away from me. +The evening was bright and joyous, like the one before. +Again we three supped alone, and it seemed +this was the custom, the Countess Lalange (it was the +name of the aunt) seldom leaving her own salon, save +to pass to her private apartments beyond it. We<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span> +spent an hour there,—in her salon, that is,—after +supper, and I must bring my violin, but not for dance +music this time. I played all the sweetest and softest +things I knew; and now and then the young lady +would clap her hands, when I played one of my +mother's songs, and say that her nurse had sung it to +her, and how did I learn it, in America? They were +the peasant songs, she said, the sweetest in the world. +The lady aunt listened patiently, but I think she had +no music in her; only once she asked if I had no +sacred music; and when I played our psalm-tunes, +she thought them not the thing at all. But last of +all, when it was time for us to go away, I played +lightly, and as well as I knew how to play, my +mother's favourite song, that was my own also; and at +this, the young girl's head drooped, and her eyes filled +with tears. Her mother, too, had sung it! How +many other mothers, I ask myself sometimes, how +many hearts, sad and joyful, have answered to those +notes, the sweetest, the tenderest in the world?</p> + +<div class='poem'> +"Il y a longtemps que je t'aime;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Jamais je ne t'oublierai!"</span><br /> +</div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER IX.</h2> + + +<div class='cap'>THIS was one day of many, my dear. They came +and went, and I thought each one brighter +than the last. When I had been a month at Château +Claire, I could hardly believe it more than a week, +so quickly and lightly the time went. The mornings, +two children at play; the afternoons, three. I +suppose it was because the brother and sister were +so strangely like each other, that I grew so soon +to feel Mlle. Valerie as my friend; and she, sweet +soul, took me at Yvon's word, and thought me, perhaps, +a fine fellow, and like her own people. That she +never fully learned the difference is one of the many +things for which I have to thank a gracious God.</div> + +<p>Abby Rock told me, Melody,—in after-times, +when we were much together,—how my poor father, +at sight of my mother Marie, was struck with love as +by a lightning-flash. It was a possession, she would +say, only by an angel instead of an evil spirit; at the +first look, she filled his life, and while she lived he +wanted nothing else, nor indeed after she died. It +was not so with me. And perhaps it might seem +strange to some, my dear child, that I write this +story of my heart for you, who are still a slip of a +growing girl, and far yet from womanhood and the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span> +thoughts that come with it. But it may be some +years before the paper comes to you, for except my +poor father, we are a long-lived race; and I find +singular comfort, now that I cannot keep myself +exercised as much as formerly, by reason of growing +years, in this writing. And I trust to say nothing +that you may not with propriety hear, my dear.</p> + +<p>When I had been a month at Château Claire, then, +a new thing began to come slowly upon me. From +the first I had felt that this young lady was the +fairest and the sweetest creature my eyes had seen; +like a drop of morning dew on a rose, nothing less. +I dwelt upon the grace of her motions, and the way +the colour melted in her cheek, as I would dwell upon +the fairest picture; and I listened to her voice because +it was sweeter than my violin, or even the note +of the hermit-thrush. But slowly I became aware of +a change; and instead of merely the pleasure of eye +and ear, and the warmth at the heart that comes +from true kindliness and friendship, there would fall +a trembling on me when she came or went, and a +sense of the room being empty when she was not in +it. When she was by, I wanted nothing more, or so +it seemed, but just the knowledge of it, and did not +even need to look at her to see how the light took her +hair where it waved above her ear. This I take to +have been partly because the feeling that was growing +up in me came not from her beauty, or in small +part only from that, but rather from my learning the +truth and purity and nobleness of her nature; and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span> +this knowledge did not require the pleasure of the +eyes. I thought no harm of all this; I took the joy +as part of all the new world that was so bright about +me; if voices spoke low within me, telling of the +other life overseas, which was my own, while this was +but a fairy dream,—I would not listen, or bade my +heart speak louder and drown them. My mind had +little, or say rather, my reason had little to do in +those days; till it woke with a start, if I may say so, +one night. It was a July night, hot and close. We +were all sitting on the stone terrace for coolness, +though there was little enough anywhere. I had +been playing, and we had all three sung, as we loved +to do. There was a song of a maiden who fell asleep +by the wayside, and three knights came riding by,—a +pretty song it was, and sung in three parts, the +treble carrying the air, the tenor high above it, and +the bass making the accompaniment.</p> + + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="6" cellspacing="0" summary="Poem and translation"> +<tr><td align='left' valign='top'>"Le premier qui passa,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">'Voilà une endormie!'</span><br /><br /> +"Le deuxième qui passa,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">'Elle est encore jolie!'</span><br /><br /> +"Le troisième qui passa,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">'Elle sera ma mie!'</span><br /><br /> +"La prit et l'emporta,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sur son cheval d'Hongrie."</span><br /><br /> </td><td align='left' valign='top'>The first who rode along,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Behold! a sleeping maid."</span><br /> +<br /> +The next who rode along,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"She's fair enough!" he said.</span><br /> +<br /> +The third who rode along,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"My sweetheart she shall be!"</span><br /> +<br /> +He's borne her far away,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">On his steed of Hungary.</span><br /> +</td></tr> +</table></div> + + +<div class='unindent'>I was thinking, I remember, how fine it would be to +be a knight on a horse of Hungary (though I am not +aware that the horses of that country are finer than +elsewhere, except in songs), and to stoop down beside +the road and catch up the sleeping maiden,—and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span> +I knew how she would be looking as she slept,—and +ride away with her no one could tell where, +into some land of gold and flowers.</div> + +<p>I was thinking this in a cloudy sort of way, while +Yvon had run into the house to bring something,—some +piece of music that I must study, out of the +stores of ancient music they had. There was a small +table standing on the terrace, near where we were sitting, +and on it a silver candlestick, with candles lighted.</p> + +<p>Mlle. Valerie was standing near this, and I +again near her, both admiring the moon, which was +extraordinary bright and clear in a light blue sky. +The light flooded the terrace so, I think we both +forgot the poor little candles, with their dull yellow +gleam. However it was, the young lady stepped +back a pace, and her muslin cape, very light, and +fluttering with ruffles and lace, was in the candle, +and ablaze in a moment. I heard her cry, and saw +the flame spring up around her; but it was only a +breath before I had the thing torn off, and was crushing +it together in my hands, and next trampling it +under foot, treading out the sparks, till it was naught +but black tinder. A pretty cape it was, and a sin to +see it so destroyed. But I was not thinking of the +cape then. I had only eyes for the young lady herself; +and when I saw her untouched, save for the +end of her curls singed, but pale and frightened, and +crying out that I was killed, there came a mist, it +seemed, before my face, and I dropped on the stone +rail, and laughed.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You are not burned, mademoiselle?"</p> + +<p>"I? no, sir! I am not touched; but you—you? +oh, your hands! You took it in your hands, and +they are destroyed! What shall I do?" Before I +could move she had caught my two hands in hers, +and turned the palms up. Indeed, they were +only scorched, not burned deep, though they stung +smartly enough; but black they were, and the skin +beginning to puff into blisters. But now came the +tap of a stick on the stone, and Mme. de Lalange +came hobbling out. "What is this?" she cried, +seeing me standing so, pale, it may be, with the +young lady holding my blackened hands still in +hers.</p> + +<p>"What is the meaning of this scene?"</p> + +<p>"Its meaning?" cried Mlle. Valerie; and it was +Yvon's self that flashed upon her aunt.</p> + +<p>"The meaning is that this gentleman has saved +my life. Yes, my aunt! Look as you please; if he +had not been here, and a hero,—a <i>hero</i>,—I should +be devoured by the flames. Look!" and she pointed +to the fragments of muslin, which were floating off +in black rags. "He caught it from me, when I +was in flames. He crushed it in his hands,—these +poor hands, which are destroyed, I tell you, with +pain. What shall we do,—what can we ever do, to +thank him?"</p> + +<p>The old lady looked from one to the other; her +face was grim enough, but her words were courteous.</p> + +<p>"We are grateful, indeed, to monsieur!" she said.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span> +"The only thing we can do for him, my niece, is to +bind his hands with soothing ointment; I will attend +to this matter myself. You are agitated, Valerie, +and I advise you to go to your own room, and let +Felice bring you a potion. If M. D'Arthenay will +follow me into my salon, I will see to these injured +hands."</p> + +<p>How a cold touch can take the colour out of life. +An instant before I was a hero, not in my own eyes, +but surely in those tender blue ones that now shone +through angry tears, and—I knew not what sweet +folly was springing up in me while she held my +hands in hers. Now, I was only a young man with +dirty and blackened fingers, standing in a constrained +position, and, I make no doubt, looking a great fool. +The young lady vanished, and I followed madame +into the little room. I am bound to say that she +treated my scorched hands with perfect skill.</p> + +<p>When Yvon came rushing in a few minutes later,—he +had heard the story from his sister, and was for +falling on my neck, and calling me his brother, the +saviour of his cherished sister,—I know not what +wild nonsense,—Mme. de Lalange cut his expressions +short. "M. le Marquis," she said, and she +put a curious emphasis on the title, I thought; "M. +le Marquis, it will be well, believe me, for you +to leave this gentleman with me for a short time. +He has suffered a shock, more violent than he yet +realises. His hands are painfully burned, yet I hope +to relieve his sufferings in a few minutes. I suggest<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span> +that you retire to your own apartments, where M. +D'Arthenay will join you, say in half an hour."</p> + +<p>Generally, Yvon paid little heed to his aunt, rather +taking pleasure in thwarting her, which was wrong, +no doubt, yet her aspect invited it; but on this occasion, +she daunted us both. There was a weight in +her words, a command in her voice, which I, for one, +was not inclined at that moment to dispute; and +Yvon, after an angry stare, and a few muttered +words of protest, went away, only charging me to +be with him within the half-hour.</p> + +<p>Left alone with the ancient lady, there was silence +for a time. I could not think what she wanted with +me; she had shown no love for my society since +I had been in the house. I waited, thinking it the +part of courtesy to let her begin the conversation, +if she desired any.</p> + +<p>Presently she began to talk, in a pleasanter strain +than I had yet heard her use. Was the pain less +severe? she asked; and now she changed the linen +cloths dipped in something cool and fragrant, infinitely +soothing to the irritated skin. I must have +been very quick, to prevent further mischief; in +truth, it was a great debt they owed me, and she, +I must believe her, shared the gratitude of her niece +and nephew, even though her feelings were less vivaciously +expressed.</p> + +<p>I told her it was nothing, and less than nothing, +that I had done, and I thought there had been far too +much said about it already. I was deeply thankful<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span> +that no harm had come to Mlle. de Ste. Valerie, but +I could claim no merit, beyond that of having my eyes +open, and my wits about me.</p> + +<p>She bowed in assent. "Your wits about you!" +she said. "But that in itself is no small matter, +M. D'Arthenay, I assure you. It is not every young +man who can say as much. Your eyes open, and +your wits about you? You are fortunate, believe +me."</p> + +<p>Her tone was so strange, I knew not what reply to +make, if any; again I waited her lead.</p> + +<p>"The young people with whom I have to do are +so widely different from this!" she said, presently. +"Hearts of gold, heads of feather! you must have +observed this, M. D'Arthenay."</p> + +<p>I replied with some warmth that I had recognised +the gold, but not the other quality. She smiled, a +smile that had no more warmth in it than February +sunshine on an icicle.</p> + +<p>"You are modest!" she said. "I give you credit +for more discernment than you admit. Confess that +you think our marquis needs a stronger head beside +him, to aid in his affairs."</p> + +<p>I had thought this, but I conceived it no part of my +duty to say as much. I was silent, therefore, and +looked at her, wondering.</p> + +<p>"Confess," she went on, "that you saw as much, +when he came to your estate—of which the title +escapes me—in North America; that you thought it +might be well for him to have a companion, an<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span> +adviser, with more definite ideas of life; well for +him, and possibly—incidentally, of course—for the +companion?"</p> + +<p>"Madam!" I said. I could say no more, being +confounded past the point of speech.</p> + +<p>"It is because of this friendly interest in my +nephew," the lady went on, taking no notice of my +exclamation. "In my <i>nephew</i>, that I think to give +you pleasure by announcing a visit that we are shortly +to receive. A guest is expected at Château Claire in +a few days; in fact, the day after to-morrow. My +nephew has doubtless spoken to you of the Vicomte de +Creçy?"</p> + +<p>I said no, I had heard of no such person.</p> + +<p>"Not heard of him? Unpardonable remissness in +Yvon! Not heard of the vicomte? Of the future +husband of Mlle. de Ste. Valerie?"</p> + +<p>I took the blow full and fair, my dear. I think my +father in me kept me from flinching; but I may have +turned white as I saw myself an hour after; for after +one glance the woman turned her eyes away, and +looked at me no more as she spoke on. "It seems +hardly credible that even my nephew's featherpate +should have kept you a month in ignorance of what +so nearly concerns his sister and our whole family. +The vicomte is a charming man, of high polish +and noble descent. His estate adjoins ours on the +south. The match was made by my late brother, +the father of Yvon and Valerie, shortly before his +death. It had been his cherished plan for years,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span> +ever since Providence removed the vicomtesse to a +better world than this; but Valerie was very young. +The matter was arranged while she was still in the +convent, and since then the vicomte has been travelling, +in Russia, India, the world over, and is but just +returned. The betrothal will be solemnised, now, in a +few days."</p> + +<p>I feared to speak at the moment. I snuffed the +candle, and, finding my hand steady, tried my voice, +which had a good strength, though the sound of it +was strange to me.</p> + +<p>"Do they—does she know?" I asked.</p> + +<p>The lady cleared her throat, and looked—or I +fancied it—a trifle confused. "I have not yet told +my niece and nephew. I—the letter came but this +evening. There was a letter also for you, M. D'Arthenay; +I ordered it sent to your room. I think your +hands will do well now, and I need no longer detain +you from your friend."</p> + +<p>I stood up before her.</p> + +<p>"Madam," I said, "permit me a word. I have to +thank you for your kindness, and for the hospitality +which I have received under this kindly roof, whether +it were with your will or not. For Mlle. de Ste. +Valerie, I wish her all joy that earthly life can know. +If her—if her husband be one half so noble as herself, +she cannot fail of happiness. It is only a princely +nature that should be matched with the purity of an +angel and the goodness of a saint. For myself"—I +paused a moment, finding myself short of breath;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span> +but my strength was come back to me. I sought her +eye and held it, forcing her to look at me against +her will. "For myself, I am no noble, though there +is good blood in my veins. I am a plain man, the son +of a peasant. But God, madam, who sees your heart +and mine, created, I make bold to remind you, both +noble and peasant; and as that God is above us, +you have done bitter wrong to an honest man. There +is no heart of a woman in you, or I would commend +to it that fair young creature, who will need, I think, +a woman's tenderness. I thank you again for your +assistance, and I take my leave. And I pray you to +remember that, whatever the D'Arthenays may have +been in France, in my country, in America, madam, +they pass for men of honour!"</p> + +<p>I bowed, and left her; and now, methought, it was +she who was white, and I thought there was fear +in her eyes when she dropped them. But I turned +away, and, passing Yvon's door, went to my own +room.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER X.</h2> + + +<div class='cap'>THE shock of my awakening was so violent, the +downfall of my air-castles so sudden and complete, +that I think for awhile I had little sense of +what was going on. Yvon came to my door and +knocked, and then called; but I made no answer, +and he went away, thinking, I suppose, that I had +forgotten him, and gone to bed. I sat on the side +of my bed, where I had thrown myself, great part of +that night; and there was no thought of sleep in +me. My folly loomed large before me; I sat and +looked it in the face. And sometimes, for a few +moments, it would not seem altogether folly. I felt +my youth and strength in every limb of me, and I +thought, what could not love do that was as strong as +mine? for now I knew that all these quiet weeks it +had been growing to full stature, and that neither +gratitude nor friendship had any considerable part in +my feeling, but here was the one woman in the world +for me. And would it be so hard, I asked, to take +her away from all this, and make a home for her in +my own good country, where she should be free and +happy as a bird, with no hateful watchers about her +path? And would she not love the newness, and +the greatness and beauty of it all, and the homely<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span> +friends whom her brother so truly loved? Could I +not say to her, "Come!" and would she not come +with me?</div> + +<p>Ah! would she not? And with that there fell +from my eyes as it were scales,—even like the +Apostle Paul, with reverence be it said,—and I +saw the thing in its true light. My heart said she +would come; had not her eyes answered mine last +night? Was there not for her, too, an awakening? +And if she came,—what then?</p> + +<p>I saw her, the delicate lady, in my father's house; +not a guest, as Yvon had been, but a dweller, the wife +and daughter of the house, the wife of a poor man. I +remembered all the work that my mother Marie had +done so joyfully, so easily, because she was a working-woman, +and these were the things she had known all +her life. This form of grace that filled my eyes now +was no lighter nor more graceful than hers; but the +difference! My mother's little brown hands could do +any work that they had strength for, and make it +a woman's work in the doing, because she was pure +woman in herself; but these white fingers that had +caught mine last night,—what could they do? What +ought they to do, save work delicately with the needle, +and make cordials and sweets (for in this my young +lady excelled), and beyond these matters, to play the +harp and guitar, and tend her roses, and adorn her +own lovely person?</p> + +<p>"But," cried the other voice in me, "I am young +and strong, and I can work! I can study the violin,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span> +I can become a musician, can earn my bread and hers, +so that there will be no need of the farm. It would +be a few years of study, a few years of waiting,—and +she is so young!"</p> + +<p>Ah, yes! she was so young! and then that voice +died away, and knew that it had no more to say. +What—what was this, to think of urging a young +girl, still almost a child, to give up the station of life +in which she had lived happy and joyous, and go +away with a stranger, far from her own home and +her own people, to share a struggling life, with no +certain assurance of anything, save love alone? +What was this but a baseness, of which no honest +man could be capable? If,—if even I had read +her glance aright,—last night,—or was it a year +ago? Still, it was but a thing of a moment, the light +springing up of a tiny fire of good will, that would die +out in a few days after I was gone, for want of fuel; +even if it were not snatched out strongly by other +hands, as I had put out those climbing flames last +night. How her startled eyes sought mine! How +the colour flashed into her face when I spoke. No! +no! Of that I must not think, if my manhood was +to stay in me!</p> + +<p>This other, then, who was coming,—this man +would turn her thoughts. She would yield, as is +the custom for young maidens in France, with no +thought that it might be otherwise. He was no +longer young,—he had already been once married,—I +looked up at this moment, I do not know by<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span> +what chance, and my eyes fell on a long glass, what +they call a cheval-glass in France, my dear, showing +the whole figure. I think no harm, seeing this was +so long ago, in saying that I appeared to advantage +in such a view, being well-made, and perhaps not +without other good points. This will seem strangely +trifling to you, my child, who see nothing but the soul +of man or woman; but I have always loved a good +figure, and never felt shame to thank God for giving +me one. My clothes were good, having been bought +in Paris as we came through. I have never made +any claim to pass for a gentleman, Melody, but yet I +think I made a fair enough show of one, that night +at least. And being so constituted, I sat staring at +my image in the mirror, and wondering like a fool if +the other man were as good-looking. This would be +like a slight crust of contentment,—sad enough at +that,—forming for a moment over the black depth +of sorrow that was my heart; and next moment the +pain would stab through it again, till I could have +cried out but for the shame of it; and so the night +wore by, and the morning found me still there. I +had learned little, save the one thing that was +all the world,—that I could not commit a baseness.</p> + +<p>It was strange to me, coming down to breakfast, to +find Yvon unchanged, his own gay self simply. I was +grown suddenly so old, he seemed no more than a +child to me, with his bits of song that yesterday I had +joined in with a light heart, and his plans for another<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span> +day of pleasure, like yesterday and all the days. +Looking at him, I could have laughed, had there been +any laughter in me, at the thought of his aunt that I +had come over with a view to bettering myself at his +expense. It seemed a thing of so little moment; I +had half a mind to tell him, but held my peace, wishing +her really no evil, since what she had done had +been through love and care for her own. There +might be such men as she had thought me; I have +since found that there are indeed.</p> + +<p>Yvon was full of plans; we were to ride this afternoon, +to such and such a place; it was the finest +view in the country, there was nothing to approach +it. Pierre should drive over and meet us there, with +peaches, and cream, and cakes, and we would sup, +we three together, and come home by moonlight. It +would be the very thing! if I really could hold the +bridle? it was the very thing to remove the recollection +of last night from his sister's mind, impressionable, +as youth always is. (He said this, Melody, with +an air of seventy years, and wisdom ineffable, that +was comical enough.) "From my own mind," he +cried, "never shall the impression be effaced. Thy +heroism, my Jacques, shall be inscribed in the annals +of our houses. To save the life of a Demoiselle de +Ste. Valerie is claim sufficient for undying remembrance; +to save the life of my sister, my Valerie,—and +you her saviour, the friend of my heart,—the +combination is perfect; it is ideal. I shall compose +a poem, Jacques; I have already begun it. '<i>Ciel<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span> +d'argent</i>—' you shall hear it when it has progressed +a little farther; at present it is in embryo merely."</p> + +<p>He sent for his sister, that they might arrange +their plans before she passed to her lessons, which +were strictly kept up. She came, and my heart spoke +loud, telling me that all my vigil had brought to me +was true, and that I must begone. There was a new +softness in her sweet eyes, a tone in her voice,—oh, +it was always kind,—but now a tenderness that +I must not hear. She would see my hands; could +not believe that I was not seriously wounded; vowed +that her aunt was a magician; "though I prayed +long, long, last night, monsieur, that the wounds +might heal quickly. They are really—no! look, +Yvon! look! these terrible blisters! but, they are +frightful, M. D'Arthenay. You—surely you should +not have left your room, in this condition?"</p> + +<p>Not only this, I assured her, but I was so entirely +well that I hoped to ride with them this afternoon, if +the matter could be arranged. She listened with delight +while Yvon detailed his plan; presently her +face fell a little.</p> + +<p>"Walk back!" she said. "Yes, Yvon, what could +be more delightful? but when I tell you that the sole +is sprung from my walking-shoe, and it must go to +the village to be mended! How can I get it back +in time?"</p> + +<p>A thought came to me. "If mademoiselle would +let me see the shoe?" I said. "Perhaps I can arrange +it for her." Yvon frowned and pshawed; he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span> +did not like any mention of my shoemaking; this +was from no unworthy feeling, but because he thought +the trade unsuited to me. I, however, repeated my +request, and, greatly wondering, the young lady sent +a servant for the shoe. I took it in my hand with +pleasure; it was not only beautiful, but well made. +"Here is an easy matter!" I said, smiling. "Will +mademoiselle see how they mend shoes in my country?" +A hammer was soon found, and sitting +down on a low bench, I tapped away, and soon had +the pretty thing in order again. Mademoiselle Valerie +cried out upon my cleverness. "But, you can +then do anything you choose, monsieur?" she said. +"To play the violin, to save a life, to mend a shoe,—do +they teach all these things in your country? and +to what wonderful school did you go?"</p> + +<p>I said, to none more wonderful than a village +school; and that this I had indeed learned well, but +on the cobbler's bench. "Surely Yvon has told you, +mademoiselle, of our good shoemaker, and how he +taught me his trade, that I might practise it at times +when there is no fiddling needed?" I spoke cheerfully, +but let it be seen that I was not in jest. A +little pale, she looked from one of us to the other, +not understanding.</p> + +<p>"All nonsense, Valerie!" cried Yvon, forcing a +laugh. "Jacques learned shoemaking, as he would +learn anything, for the sake of knowledge. He may +even have practised it here and there, among his +neighbours; why not? I have often wished I could<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span> +set a stitch, in time of need, as he has done to-day. +But to remain at this trade,—it is stuff that he +talks; he does not know his own nature, his own +descent, when he permits himself to think of such +a thing. Fie, M. D'Arthenay!"</p> + +<p>"No more of that!" I said. "The play is over, +<i>mon cher!</i> M. D'Arthenay is a figure of your kind, +romantic heart, Yvon. Plain Jacques De Arthenay, +farmer's son, fiddler, and cobbler, stands from this +moment on his own feet, not those of his grandfather +four times back."</p> + +<p>I did not look at my young lady, not daring to see +the trouble that I knew was in her sweet face; but I +looked full at Yvon, and was glad rather than sorry +at his black look. I could have quarrelled with him +or any man who had brought me to this pass. But +just then, before there could be any more speech, +came the sour-faced maid with an urgent message +from Mme. de Lalange, that both the young lady +and the marquis should attend her in her own room +without delay.</p> + +<p>Left alone, I found myself considering the roses on +the terrace, and wondering could I take away a slip +of one, and keep it alive till I reached home. In the +back of my head I knew what was going on up-stairs +in the grim lady's room; but I had no mind to lose +hold on myself, and presently I went for my fiddle, +which was kept in the parlour hard by, and practised +scales, a thing I always did when out of Yvon's +company, being what he could not abear. To practise<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span> +scales is a fine thing, Melody, to steady the mind and +give it balance; you never knew, my child, why I +made you sing your scales so often, that night when +your aunt Rejoice was like to die, and all the house +in such distress. Your aunt Vesta thought me mad, +but I was never in better wits.</p> + +<p>So I was quiet, when after a long time Yvon came +down to me. When I saw that he knew all, I laid +my violin away, agitation being bad for the strings,—or +so I have always thought. He was in a flame of +anger, and fairly stammered in his speech. What +had his aunt said to me, he demanded, the night +before? How had she treated me, his friend? She +was—many things which you know nothing about, +Melody, my dear; the very least of them was cat, +and serpent, and traitress. But I took a cool tone.</p> + +<p>"Is it true, Yvon," I asked, "about the gentleman +who comes to-morrow? You have already known +about it? It is true?"</p> + +<p>"True!" cried Yvon, his passion breaking out. +"Yes, it is true! What, then? Because my sister is +to marry, some day,—she is but just out of her +pinafores, I tell you,—because some day she is to +marry, and the estates are to join, is that a reason +that my friend is to be insulted, my pleasure broken +up, my summer destroyed? I insist upon knowing +what that cat said to you, Jacques!"</p> + +<p>"She told me what you acknowledge," I said. +"That I can be insulted I deny, unless there be +ground for what is said. Mme. de Lalange did what<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span> +she considered to be her duty; and—and I have +spent a month of great happiness with you, marquis, +and it is a time that will always be the brightest of +my life."</p> + +<p>But at this Yvon flung himself on my neck—it +is not a thing practised among men in this +country, but in him it seemed nowise strange, my +blood being partly like his own—and wept and +stormed. He loved me, I am glad to believe, truly; +yet after all the most part was to him, that his party +of pleasure was spoiled, and his plans broken up. +And then I remembered how we had talked together +that day in the old grist-mill, and how he had said +that when trouble came, we should spread our wings +and fly away from it. And Ham's words came back +to me, too, till I could almost hear him speak, and see +the grave, wise look of him. "Take good stuff, and +grind it in the Lord's mill, and you've got the best +this world can give." And I found that Ham's +philosophy was the one that held.</p> + +<p>There was no more question of the gay party that +afternoon. Mlle. de Ste. Valerie did not dine with us, +word coming down that her head ached, and she +would not go out. Yvon and I went to walk, and +I led the way to my tower (so I may call it this +once), thinking I would like to see it once more. All +these three months and more (counting from the day +I first met Yvon de Ste. Valerie at the priest's house), +I had played a second in the duet, and that right +cheerfully. Though my own age, the marquis was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span> +older in many ways from his knowledge of society +and its ways, and his gay, masterful manner; and I, +the country lad, had been too happy only to follow +his lead, and go about open-eyed, seeing all he would +show, and loving him with honest admiration and +pride in him. But it was curious to see how from +this moment we changed; and now it was I who led, +and was the master. The master in my own house, +I thought for a moment, as we sat on the shelf under +the great round window, and looked out over the +lands that had once belonged to my people. Here +once more the dream came upon me, and I had a +wild vision of myself coming back after years, rich +and famous, and buying back the old tower, building +the castle, and holding that sweet princess by my +side. The poet Coleridge, my dear, in describing a +man whose wits are crazed, makes use of this remarkable +expression:</p> + +<div class='poem'> +"How there looked him in the face<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">An angel beautiful and bright,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">And how he knew it was a fiend,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">That miserable knight."</span><br /> +</div> + +<div class='unindent'>This knowledge was also mercifully mine. And I +was helped, too, by a thing slight enough, and yet +curious. Being in distress of mind, I sought some +use of my hands, as is the case with most women and +some men. I fell to pulling off the dead leaves of +ivy from the wall; and so, running my hand along +the inside of the window, felt beneath it a carving on<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span> +the stone. I lifted the leaves, which here were not +so thick as in most places, and saw a shield carved +with arms, and on it the motto I knew well: "<i>D'Arthenay, +tenez foi!</i>"</div> + +<p>I told my friend that I must be gone that night; +that I knew his aunt desired it, and was entirely in +her right, it being most unfitting that a stranger +should be present on such an occasion as this. Doubtless +other friends would be coming, too, and my room +would be wanted.</p> + +<p>Here he broke out in a storm, and vowed no one +should have my room, and I should not stir a foot +for a hundred of them. And here had she kept him +in the dark, as if he were a babe, instead of the head +of the house. It was an affront never to be forgiven. +If the vicomte had not been the friend of his father, +he would break off the match, and forbid him the +house. As it was, he was powerless, tied hand and +foot.</p> + +<p>I interrupted him, thinking such talk idle; and +begged to know what manner of man this was +who was coming. Was he—was he the man he +should be?</p> + +<p>He was a gallant gentleman, Yvon confessed; there +was no fault to find with him, save that he was old +enough to be the girl's father. But that was all one! +If he were twenty viscounts, he should not turn out +his, Yvon's friend, the only man he ever cared to call +his brother,—and so on and so on, till I cut him +short. For now I saw no way, Melody, but to tell<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span> +him how it was with me; and this I did in as few +words as might be, and begged him to let me go +quietly, and say no more. For once, I think, the +lad was put to such depth of sorrow as was in him. +He had never guessed, never thought of this; his +sister was a child to him, and must be so, he supposed, +to all. How could he tell? Why had he +brought me here, to suffer? He was a criminal! +What could he do? And then there struck him a +thought, and he glanced up sharply at me, and I saw +not the face of my friend, but one cold and questioning. +Had I spoken to his sister? Did she—</p> + +<p>I cut him short at the word. Of that, I said, he +could judge better than I, having been in my company +daily for three months. He fell on my neck again, +and implored my pardon; and said, I think, that +twenty viscounts were less noble than I. I cared +little for my nobility; all I asked was to get away, +and hide my wound among my own friendly people.</p> + +<p>And so it was arranged that I was to go that +night; and we walked back to the château, speaking +little, but our hearts full of true affection, and—save +for that one sting of a moment—trust in each other.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XI.</h2> + + +<div class='cap'>THE disturbance of my mind had been so great, +that all this while I had forgotten the letter of +which Mme. de Lalange had spoken the night before. +I had seen it when I first went to my room, but was +in no mood for village news then; I saw that it was in +the large round hand of Ham Belfort, and thought +it kind in him to write, seeing that it cost him some +effort; then I forgot it, as I said. But now, going +again to my room, and with nothing much to do save +wait the hour of my departure, I took the letter up, +idly enough, thinking I might as well do this as another +thing. This is what I read, Melody. No fear +of my forgetting the words.<br /><br /></div> + +<div class="blockquot"><span class="smcap">Friend Jakey:</span> + +<p>I am sorry to have bad news to send you this first time of +my writing. Father says to prepare your mind, but I never +found it work that way myself, always liking to know straight +out how things was, and I think you are the same. Your +father has been hearty, for him, till about a week ago. Then +he begun to act strange, and would go about looking for your +mother, as if she was about the place. Abby kep watch on +him, and I happened in once or twice a day, just to pass the +word, and he was always just as polite, and would read me +your letters. He thought a sight of your letters, Jakey, and +they gave him more pleasure than likely he'd have had if +you'd have ben here, being new and strange to him, so to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span> +speak. He was a perfect gentleman; he like to read them +letters, and they done credit to him and you. Last night +Abby said to me, she guessed she would take her things over +and stay a spell at the house, till your father was some better, +he was not himself, and she owed it to you and your mother. +I said she was right, I'd gone myself, but things wasn't so I +could leave, and a woman is better in sickness, however it may +be when a man is well. She went over early this morning, +but your father was gone. There warn't no hide nor hair of +him round the house nor in the garding. She sent for me, +and I sarched the farm; but while I was at it, seems as if she +sensed where he was, and she went straight to the berrin-ground, +and he was layin on your mother's grave, peaceful as +if he'd just laid down a spell to rest him. He was dead and +cold, Jakes, and you may as well know it fust as last. He +hadn't had no pain, for when I see him his face was like he +was in heaven, and Abby says it come nearer smiling than +she'd seen it sence your mother was took. So this is what my +paneful duty is to tell you, and that the Lord will help you +threw it is my prayer and alls that is in the village. Abby is +real sick, or she would write herself. She thought a sight of +your father, as I presume likely you know. We shall have the +funeral to-morrow, and everything good and plain, knowing +how he would wish it from remembering your mother's. So +no more, Friend Jakey; only all that's in the village feels for +you, and this news coming to you far away; and would like +you to feel that you was coming home all the same, if he is +gone, for there aint no one but sets by you, and they all want +to see you back, and everybody says it aint the same place with +you away. So I remain your friend,</p> + +<div class='sig'> +<span class="smcap">Ham Belfort.</span><br /> +</div> + +<p>P.S. I'd like you to give my regards to Eavan, if he remembers +the grist-mill, as I guess likely he doos. Remember the +upper and nether millstones, Jakey, and the Lord help you +threw.</p> + +<div class='sig'> +H. B.<br /> +</div> +</div><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span></p> + +<p>It is sometimes the bitterest medicine, Melody, that +is the most strengthening. This was bitter indeed; +yet coming at this moment, it gave me the strength +I needed. The sharp sting of this pain dulled in some +measure that other that I suffered; and I had no fear +of any weakness now. I do not count it weakness, +that I wept over my poor father, lying down so quietly +to die on the grave of his dear love. In my distraction, +I even thought for a moment how well it was +with them both, to be together now, and wished that +death might take me and another to some place where +no foolish things of this world should keep us apart; +but that was a boy's selfish grief, and I was now grown +a man. I read Ham's letter over and over, as well as +I could for tears; and it seemed to me a pure fruit of +friendship, so that I gave thanks for him and Abby, +knowing her silent for want of strength, not want of +love. I should still go home, to the friendly place, +and the friendly people who had known my birth and +all that had fallen since. I had no place here; I was +in haste to be gone.</p> + +<p>At first I thought not to tell Yvon of what had +come to me; but he coming in and finding me as I +have said, I would not have him mistake my feeling, +and so gave him the letter. And let me say that a +woman could not have been tenderer than my friend +was, in his sympathy and grieving for me. I have +told you that he and my poor father were drawn to +each other from the first. He spoke of him in terms +which were no more than just, but which soothed and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span> +pleased me, coming from one who knew nobility well, +both the European sense of it, and the other. Upon +this, Yvon pressed me to stay, declaring that he would +go away with me, and we would travel together, till +my hurt was somewhat healed, or at least I had grown +used to the sting of it; but this I could not hear of. +He helped me put my things together, for by this time +night was coming on. He had found his sister so suffering, +he told me, that she felt unable to leave her +bed; and so he had thought it best not to tell her of +my departure till the morrow. And this was perhaps +the bitterest drop I had to drink, my dear, to leave +the house like a thief, and no word to her who had +made it a palace of light to me. Indeed, when Yvon +left me, to order the horses, a thought came into my +mind which I found it hard to resist. There was a +little balcony outside my window, and I knew that my +dear love's window (I call her so this once, the pain +coming back sharp upon me of that parting hour) +opened near it. If I took my violin and stepped outside, +and if I played one air that she knew, then, I +thought, she would understand, at least in part. She +would not think that I had gone willingly without kissing +her sweet hand, which I had counted on doing, the +custom of the country permitting it. I took the violin, +and went out into the cool night air; and I laid my +bow across the strings, yet no sound came. For +honour, my dear, honour, which we bring into this +world with us, and which is the only thing, save those +heavenly ones, that we can take from this world with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span> +us, laid, as it were, her hand on the strings, and kept +them silent. A thing for which I have ever since +been humbly thankful, that I never willingly or knowingly +gave any touch of pain to that sweet lady's life. +But if I had played, Melody; if it had been permitted +to me as a man of honour as well as a true lover, it +was my mother's little song that I should have played; +and that, my child, is why you have always said that +you hear my heart beat in that song.</p> + +<div class='poem'> +"Il y a longtemps que je t'aime;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Jamais je ne t'oublierai!"</span><br /> +</div> + +<p>Before we rode away, Mme. de Lalange came out +to the door, leaning on her crutched stick; the horses +being already there, and I about to mount. She +swept me a curtsey of surprising depth, considering +her infirmity.</p> + +<p>"M. D'Arthenay," she said, "I think I have +done you an injustice. I cannot regret your departure, +but I desire to say that your conduct has been +that of a gentleman, and that I shall always think of +you as noble, and the worthy descendant of a great +race." With that she held out her hand, which I +took and kissed, conceiving this to be her intention; +that I did it with something the proper air her eyes +assured me. It is a graceful custom, but unsuited to +our own country and race.</p> + +<p>I could only reply that I thanked her for her +present graciousness, and that it was upon that my +thought should dwell in recalling my stay here, and +not upon what was past and irrevocable; which<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span> +brought the colour to her dry cheek, I thought, but +I could say nothing else. And so I bowed, and we +rode away; my few belongings having gone before +by carrier, all save my violin, which I carried on the +saddle before me.</p> + +<p>Coming to the Tour D'Arthenay, we checked our +horses, with a common thought, and looked up at the +old tower. It was even as I had seen it on first +arriving, save that now a clear moonlight rested on +it, instead of the doubtful twilight. The ivy was +black against the white light, the empty doorway +yawned like a toothless mouth, and the round eye +above looked blindness on us. As I gazed, a white +owl came from within, and blinked at us over the +curve. Yvon started, thinking it a spirit, perhaps; +but I laughed, and taking off my hat, saluted the bird.</p> + +<p>"<i>Monsieur mon locataire</i>," I said, "I have the +honour to salute you!" and told him that he should +have the castle rent free, on condition that he spared +the little birds, and levied taxes on the rats alone.</p> + +<p>Looking back when we had ridden a little further, +the tower had turned its back on me, and all I saw +was the heaps of cut stone, lying naked in the moonlight. +That was my last sight of the home of my +ancestors. I had kept faith.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XII.</h2> + + +<div class='cap'>HERE ends, my dear child, the romance of your +old friend's life; if by the word romance we +may rightly understand that which, even if not lasting +itself, throws a brightness over all that may come +after it. I never saw that fair country of France +again, and since then I have lived sixty years and +more; but what I brought away with me that sorrowful +night has sweetened all the years. I had the +honour of loving as sweet a lady as ever stepped from +heaven to earth; and I had the thought that, if right +had permitted, and the world been other than it was, +I could have won her. Such feelings as these, my +dear, keep a man's heart set on high things, however +lowly his lot may be.</div> + +<p>I came back to my village. My own home was +empty, but every house was open to me; and not a +man or a woman there but offered me a home for as +long as I would take it. My good friend Ham Belfort +would have me come to be a son to him, he having +no children. But my duty, as he clearly saw when +I pointed it out, was to Abby Rock; and Abby and I +were not to part for many years. Her health was +never the same after my father's death; it was her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span> +son I was to be, and I am glad to think she found me +a good one.</p> + +<p>Father L'Homme-Dieu made me kindly welcome, +too, and to him and to Abby I could open my heart, +and tell them all that had befallen me in these three +life-long months. But I found a strange difference in +their manner of receiving it; for whereas the Father +understood my every feeling, and would nod his head +(a kind hand on my shoulder all the while), and say +yes, yes, I could not have done otherwise, and thus +it was that a gentleman should feel and act,—which +was very soothing to me,—Abby, on the other hand, +though she must hear the story over and over again, +could never gain any patience in the hearing.</p> + +<p>"What did they want?" she would cry, her good +homely face the colour of a red leaf. "An emperor +would be the least that could suit them, I'll warrant!" +And though she dared not, after the first word, breathe +anything against my sweet young lady, she felt no +such fear about the old one, and I verily believe that +if she had come upon Mme. de Lalange, she would +have torn her in pieces, being extraordinary strong in +her hands. Hag and witch were the kindest words +she could give her; so that at last I felt bound to +keep away from the subject, from mere courtesy to +the absent. But this, as I have since found by observation, +was the mother-nature in Abby, which will +fill the mildest woman with desire to kill any one that +hurts or grieves her child.</p> + +<p>For some time I stuck close to my shoemaker's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span> +bench, seeking quiet, as any creature does that is +deeply wounded (for the wound was deep, my dear; +it was deep; but I would not have had it otherwise), +and seeing only those home friends, who had known +the shape of my cradle, as it were, and to whom I +could speak or not, as my mind was. I found solid +comfort in the society of Ham, and would spend many +hours in the old grist-mill; sometimes sitting in the +loft with him and the sparrows, sometimes hanging +over the stones, and watching the wheat pour down +between them, and hearing the roar and the grinding +of them. The upper and nether millstones! How +Ham's words would come back, over and over, as +I thought how my life was ground between pain and +longing! One day, I mind, Ham came and found me +so, and I suppose my face may have showed part of +what I felt; for he put his great hand on my shoulder, +and shouted in my ear, "Wheat flour, Jakey! +prime wheat flour, and good riz bread; I see it +rising, don't you be afeard!" But by and by the +neighbours in the country round heard of my being +home again; and thinking that I must have learned a +vast deal overseas, they were set on having me here +and there to fiddle for them. At first I thought no, I +could not; there seemed to be only one tune my fiddle +would ever play again, and that no dancing tune. +But with using common sense, and some talk with +Father L'Homme-Dieu, this foolishness passed away, +and it seemed the best thing I could do, being in sadness +myself, was to give what little cheer I could to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span> +others. So I went, and the first time was the worst, +and I saw at once here was a thing I could do, and +do, it might be, better than another. For being +with the marquis, Melody, and seeing how high folks +moved, and spoke, and held themselves, it was borne +in upon me that I had special fitness for a task that +might well be connected with the pleasure of youth +in dancing. Dancing, as I have pointed out to you +many times, may be considered in two ways: first, +as the mere fling of high spirits, young animals skipping +and leaping, as kids in a meadow, and with no +thought save to leap the highest, and prance the furthest; +but second, and more truly, I must think, to +show to advantage the grace (if any) and perfection +of the human body, which we take to be the work of +a divine hand, and the beauty of motion in accord +with music. And whereas I have heard dancing +condemned as unmanly, and fit only for women and +young boys, I must still take the other hand, and +think there is no finer sight than a well-proportioned +man, with a sense of his powers, and a desire to do +justice to them, moving through the figures of a contra-dance. +But this is my hobby, my dear, and I +may have wearied you with it before now.</p> + +<p>I undertook, then, as my trade allowed it,—and +indeed, in time the bench came to hold only the +second place in the arrangement of my days,—to +give instruction in dancing and deportment, to such +as desired to improve themselves in these respects. +The young people in the villages of that district were<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span> +honest, and not lacking in wits; but they were uncouth +to a degree that seemed to me, coming as I did +from the home of all grace and charm, a thing horrible, +and not to be endured. They were my neighbours; +I was bound, or so it seemed to me, to help +them to a right understanding of the mercies of a +bountiful Providence, and to prevent the abuse of +these mercies by cowish gambols. I let it be understood +wherever I went that whoever would study +under me must be a gentleman; for a gentleman +is, I take it, first and last, a gentle man, or one who +out of strength brings sweetness, as in the case of +Samson's lion. To please, first the heart, by a sincere +and cordial kindness, and next the eye, by a +cheerful and (so far as may be) graceful demeanour; +this disposition will tend, if not to great deeds, at +least to the comfort and happiness of those around +us. I was thought severe, and may have been so; +but I lived to see a notable change wrought in that +country. I remember the day, Melody, when a young +man said to me with feeling, "I cannot bear to see +a man take off his hat to a woman. <i>It makes me +sick!</i>" To-day, if a man, young or old, should fail +in this common courtesy, it would be asked what cave +of the woods he came from. But let fine manners +come from the heart, I would always say, else they +are only as a gay suit covering a deformed and shapeless +body. I recall an occasion when one of my +pupils, who had made great progress by assiduous +study, and had attained a degree of elegance not often<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span> +reached in his station, won the admiration of the +whole room by the depth and grace of his bow. I +praised him, as he deserved; but a few minutes after, +finding him in the act of mimicking, for the public +diversion, an awkward, ill-dressed poor lad, I dismissed +him on the instant, and bade him never come +to my classes again.</p> + +<p>In these ways, my child, I tried, and with fair +measure of success, to ease the smart of my own pain +by furthering the pleasure of others; in these ways, +to which I added such skill as I had gained on the +violin, making it one of my chief occupations, when +work was slack, to play to such as loved music, and +more especially any who were infirm in health, or in +sorrow by one reason or another. It was a humble +path I chose, my dear; but I never clearly saw my +way to a loftier one, and here I could do good, and +think I did it, under Providence. As an instance,—I +was sent for, it may have been a year or two after +my trouble, to go some distance. A young lady +was ill, and being fanciful, and her parents well-to-do, +she would have me come and play to her, having +heard of me from one or another. I went, and found +a poor shadow of a young woman, far gone in a +decline, if I could judge, and her eyes full of a trouble +that came from no bodily ailment, my wits told me. +She sent her people away, saying she must have the +music alone. I have seldom found a better listener, +Melody, or one who spoke to me more plain in silence, +her spirit answering to the music till I almost could<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span> +hear the sound of it. Feeling this, I let myself slip +into the bow, as it were, more than I was aware of; +and presently forgot her, or next thing to it, and was +away in the rose-garden of Château Claire, and saw +the blue eyes that held all heaven in them, and heard +the voice that made my music harsh. And when at +last I brought it down to a whisper, seeing the young +woman's eyes shut, and thinking she might be asleep, +she looked up at me, bright and sharp, and said, "You, +too?"</p> + +<p>I never saw her again, and indeed think she had +not long to live. But it is an instance, my dear, of +what a person can do, if the heart within him is +tender to the sorrows of others.</p> + +<p>After Abby's death,—but that was years after all +this,—I found it wise to leave my native village. I +will not go into the cause of this, my child, since it +was a passing matter, or so I trusted. There was +some one there who had great good will to me, and, +not knowing my story, may have fancied that I was +one who could make her happy; I thought it right +to tell her how I had fared, and then, she being in +distress, I left my home, and from that time, I may +say, had many homes, yet none my own. I have +met with rare kindness; no man of my generation, +I would wager, has the number of friends I can boast, +and all kind, all hearty, all ready with a "welcome +to Rosin the Beau." And now here, at your aunts' +kind wish and your prayer, my dearest Melody, dear +as any child of my own could be, I am come to spend<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span> +my last days under your roof; and what more could +mortal man ask than this, I truly know not. My +violin and your voice, Melody; they were made for +each other; everybody says that, my dear, and neither +you nor I would deny it. And when the <i>obligato</i> is +silent, as shortly it must be in the good course of +nature, it is my prayer and hope that you will not +miss me too much, my dear, but will go on in joy +and in cheer, shedding light about you, and with your +own darkness yielding a clear glory of kindness and +happiness. Do not grieve for the old man, Melody, +when the day comes for him to lay down the fiddle +and the bow. I am old, and it is many years that +Valerie has been dead, and Yvon, too, and all of +them; and happy as I am, my dear, I am sometimes +tired, and ready for rest. And for more than rest, +I trust and believe; for new life, new strength, new +work, as God shall please to give it me.</p> + +<div class='poem'> +"I've travelled this country all over,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">And now to the next I must go;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">But I know that good quarters await me,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">And a welcome to Rosin the Beau."</span><br /> +</div> + + +<h3>THE END.</h3> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><div class="footnotes"><h3>Footnotes</h3> +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> +</p><div class='poem'> +There were three sailor-lads of Groix,<br /> +There were three sailor-lads of Groix,<br /> +They sailèd in the Saint François,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Tra la derira, etc.</span><br /> +</div></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> Little Marie, Mother Jeanne! Little Marie who loves you.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_3_3" id="Footnote_3_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_3"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> Pronounced Jakes Dee Arthenay.</p></div></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div class='tnote'><h3>Transcriber's Notes:</h3> +<p>Obvious punctuation errors corrected.</p> + +<p>The remaining corrections made are indicated by dotted lines under the corrections. Scroll the mouse over the word and the original text will <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'apprear'">appear</ins>.</p></div> + +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROSIN THE BEAU***</p> +<p>******* This file should be named 27607-h.txt or 27607-h.zip *******</p> +<p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br /> +<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/7/6/0/27607">http://www.gutenberg.org/2/7/6/0/27607</a></p> +<p>Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed.</p> + +<p>Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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