MARIE

BY

LAURA E. RICHARDS

AUTHOR OF "CAPTAIN JANUARY, " "MELODY, " "QUEENHILDEGARDE, " "NARCISSA, " ETC. 

1894

TO

E. T. T. 

CONTENTS. 

 CHAPTER

 I. MARIE II. "D'ARTHENAY, TENEZ FOI!" III. ABBY ROCK IV. POSSESSION V. COURTSHIP VI. WEDLOCK VII. LOOKING BACK VIII. A FLOWER IN THE SNOW IX. MADAME X. DE ARTHENAY'S VIGIL XI. VITA NUOVA

MARIE. 

CHAPTER I. 

MARIE. 

Marie was tired. She had been walking nearly the whole day, and nowthe sun was low in the west, and long level rays of yellow light werespreading over the country, striking the windows of a farmhouse hereand there into sudden flame, or resting more softly on tree-tops andhanging slopes. They were like fiddle-bows, Marie thought; and at thethought she held closer something that she carried in her arms, andmurmured over it a little, as a mother coos over her baby. It seemed along time since she had run away from the _troupe_: she would forgetall about them soon, she thought, and their ugly faces. She shiveredslightly as she recalled the face of "Le Boss" as it was last bent uponher, frowning and dark, and as ugly as a hundred devils, she was quitesure. Ah, he would take away her violin--Le Boss! he would give it tohis own girl, whom she, Marie, had taught till she could play a verylittle, enough to keep the birds from flying away when they saw her, asthey otherwise might; she was to have the violin, the Lady, one's ownheart and life, and Marie was to have a fiddle that he had picked upanywhere, found on an ash-heap, most likely! Ah, and now he had lostthe Lady and Marie too, and who would play for him this evening, anddraw the children out of the houses? _he_! let some one tell Mariethat! It had not been hard, the running away, for no one would everhave thought of Marie's daring to do such a thing. She belonged to LeBoss, as much as the tent or the ponies, or his own ugly girl: so theyall thought in the _troupe_, and so Marie herself had thought till thatday; that is, she had not thought at all. While she could play all thetime, and had often quite enough to eat, and always something, a pieceof bread in the hand if no more, --and La Patronne, Le Boss's wife, never too unkind, and sometimes even giving her a bit of ribbon for theLady's neck when there was to be a special performance, --why, who wouldhave thought of running away? she had been with them so long, thoseothers, and that time in France was so long ago, --hundreds of years ago!

So no one had thought of noticing when she dropped behind to tune herviolin and practise by herself; it was a thing she did every day, theyall knew, for she could not practise when the children pulled her gownall the time, and wanted to dance. She had chosen the place well, having been on the lookout for it all day, ever since Le Boss told herwhat he meant to do, --that infamy which the good God would never haveallowed, if He had not been perhaps tired with the many infamies of LeBoss, and forgotten to notice this one. She had chosen the place well!A little wood dipped down to the right, with a brook running beyond, and across the brook a sudden sharp rise, crowned with a thick growthof birches. She had played steadily as she passed through the wood andover the stream, and only ceased when she gained the brow of the hilland sprang like a deer down the opposite slope. No one had seen hergo, she was sure of that; and now they could never tell which way shehad turned, and would be far more likely to run back along the road. How they would shout and scream, and how Le Boss would swear! Ah, nomore would he swear at Marie because people did not always give money, being perhaps poor themselves, or unwilling to give to so ugly a faceas his girl's, who carried round the dish. No more! And La Patronnewould be sorry perhaps a little, --she had the good heart, La Patronne, under all the fat, --and Old Billy, he would be too sorry, she was sure. Poor Old Billy! it was cruel to leave him, when he had such joy of herplaying, the good old man, and a hard life taking care of the beasts, and bearing all the blame if any of them died through hunger. But itwould have been sadder for Old Billy to see her die, Marie, and shewould have died, of course she would! To live without the Lady, apretty life that would be! far sooner would one go at once to the goodGod, where the angels played all day, even if one were not allowed toplay oneself just at first. Afterward, of course, when they found outhow she had played down here, it would be otherwise. 

Meanwhile, all these thoughts did not keep Marie from being tired, andhungry too; and she was glad enough to see some brown roofs clusteredtogether at a little distance, as she turned a corner of the road. Avillage! good! Here would be children, without doubt; and where therewere children, Marie was among friends. She stopped for a moment, topush back her hair, which had fallen down in the course of her night, and to tie the blue handkerchief neatly over it, and shake the dustfrom her bare feet. They were pretty feet, so brown and slender! Shehad shoes, but they were in the wagon; La Patronne took care of all theSunday clothes, and there had been no chance to get at anything, evenif she could have been hampered by such things as shoes, with the Ladyto carry. It did not in the least matter about shoes, when it wassummer: when the road was hot, one walked in the cool grass at theside; when there was no grass--eh, one waited till one came to some. They were only for state, these shoes. They were stiff and hard, andthe heel-places hurt: it was different for La Patronne, who worestockings under hers. But here were the houses, and it was time toplay. They were pleasant-looking houses, Marie thought, they looked asif persons lived in them who stayed at home and spun, as the women didin Brittany. Ah, that it was far away, Brittany! she had almostforgotten it, and now it all seemed to come back to her, as she gazedabout her at the houses, some white, some brown, all with an air ofthrift and comfort, as becomes a New England village. That white housethere, with the bright green blinds! That pleased her eye. And see!there was a child's toy lying on the step, a child's face peeping outof the window. Decidedly, she had arrived. 

Marie took out her violin, and tuned it softly, with little rustling, whispering notes, speaking of perfect accord between owner andinstrument; then she looked up at the child and smiled, and began toplay "En revenant d'Auvergne. " It was a tune that the little peoplealways loved, and when one heard it, the feet began to dance before thehead. Sure enough, the door opened in another moment, and the childcame slipping out: not with flying steps, as a city child would come, to whom wandering musicians were a thing of every day; but shyly, withsidelong movements, clinging to the wall as it advanced, and onlydaring by stealth to lift its eyes to the strange woman with thefiddle, a sight never seen before in its little life. But Marie knewall about the things that children think. What was she but a childherself? she had little knowledge of grown persons, and regarded themall as ogres, more or less, except Old Billy, and La Patronne, whoreally meant to be kind. 

"Come, lit' girl!" she said in her clear soft voice. "Come and dance!for you I play, for you I sing too, if you will. Ah, the pretty song, 'En revenant d'Auvergne!'" And she began to sing as she played:

 "Eh, gai, Coco! Eh, gai, Coco! Eh, venez voir la danse Du petit marmot! Eh, venez voir la danse Du petit marmot!"

The little girl pressed closer against the wall, her eyes wide open, her finger in her mouth, yet came nearer and nearer, drawn by the smileas well as the music. Presently another came running up, and another;then the boys, who had just brought their cows home and were playingmarbles on the sly, behind the brown barn, heard the sound of thefiddle and came running, stuffing their gains into their pockets asthey ran. Then Mrs. Piper, who was always foolish about music, herneighbors said, came to her door, and Mrs. Post opposite, who was asdeaf as her namesake, came to see what Susan Piper was after, loiteringround the door when the men-folks were coming in to their supper: andso with one thing and another, Marie had quite a little crowd aroundher, and was feeling happy and pleased, and sure that when she stoppedplaying and carried round her handkerchief knotted at the four cornersso as to form a bag, the pennies would drop into it as fast, yes, andmaybe a good deal faster, than if Le Boss's ugly daughter was carryingit, with her nose turned up and one eye looking round the corner to seewhere her hair was gone to. Ah, Le Boss, what was he doing thisevening for his music, with no Marie and no Lady!

And it was just at this triumphant moment that Jacques De Arthenay cameround the corner and into the village street. 

CHAPTER II. 

"D'ARTHENAY, TENEZ FOI!"

There had been De Arthenays in the village ever since it became avillage: never many of them, one or two at most in a generation; not aprolific stock, but a hardy and persistent one. No one knew when thename had dropped its soft French sound, and taken the harsh Anglo-Saxonaccent. It had been so with all the old French names, theL'Homme-Dieus and Des Isles and Beaulieus; the air, or the granite, orone knows not what, caused an ossification of the consonants, a dryingup of the vowels, till these names, once soft and melodious, becamemore angular, more rasping in utterance, than ever Smith or Jones couldbe. 

They were Huguenots, the d'Arthenays. A friend from childhood of St. Castin, Jacques d'Arthenay had followed his old companion to America atthe time when the revocation of the Edict of Nantes rendered France nosafe dwelling-place for those who had no hinges to their knees. Astern, silent man, this d'Arthenay, like most of his race: holding inscorn the things of earthly life, brooding over grievances, given todwelling much on heaven and hell, as became his time and class. Leaving castle and lands and all earthly ties behind them, he and hiswife came out of Sodom, as they expressed it, and turned not theirfaces, looking steadfastly forward to the wilderness where they were toworship God in His own temple, the virgin forest. It had been aterrible shock to find the Baron de St. Castin fallen away fromreligion and civilisation, living in savage pomp with his savage wives, the daughters of the great chief Modocawando. There could be no suchcompanionship as this for the Sieur d'Arthenay and his noble wife; thefriendship of half a lifetime was sternly repudiated, and d'Arthenaycast in his lot with the little band of Huguenot settlers who werestriving to win their livelihood from the rugged soil of eastern Maine. 

It was bitter bread that they ate, those French settlers. We read thestory again and again, each time with a fresh pang of pity and regret;but it is not of them that this tale is told. Jacques d'Arthenay diedin his wilderness, and his wife followed him quickly, leaving a son tocarry on the name. The gravestone of these first d'Arthenays was stillto be seen in the old burying-ground: they had been the first to beburied there. The old stone was sunk half-way in the earth, and wasgray with moss and lichens; but the inscription was still legible, ifone looked close, and had patience to decipher the crabbed text. 

 "Jacques St. George, Sieur d'Arthenay et de Vivonne. Mort en foi et en esperance, 28me Decembre, 1694. "

Then a pair of mailed hands, clasped as in sign of friendship orloyalty, and beneath them again, the words, "D'Arthenay, tenez foi!"

The story was that the son of this first Sieur d'Arthenay had beenexposed to some dire temptation, whether of love or of ambition was notclearly known, and had been in danger of turning from the faith of hispeople and embracing that of Rome. He came one day to meditate besidehis father's grave, hoping perhaps to draw some strength, someinspiration, from the memories of that stern and righteous Huguenot;and as he sat beside the stone, lo! a mailed hand appeared, holding asword, and graved with the point of the sword on the stone, the oldmotto of his father's house, --

 "D'Arthenay, tenez foi!"

And he had been strengthened, and lived and died in the faith of hisfather. Many people in the village scouted this story, and called itchild's foolishness, but there were some who liked to believe it, andwho pointed out that these words were not carved deeply and regularly, like the rest of the inscription, but roughly scratched, as if with asharp point. And that although merely so scratched, they had neverbeen effaced, but were even more easily read than the carven script. 

Among those who held it for foolishness was the present Jacques DeArthenay. He was perhaps the fifth in descent from the old Huguenot, but he might have been his own son or brother. The Huguenot doctrineshad only grown a little colder, a little harder, turned into NewEngland Orthodoxy as it was understood fifty years ago. He thoughtlittle of his French descent or his noble blood. He pronounced hisname Jakes, as all his neighbors did; he lived on his farm, as theylived on theirs. If it was a better farm, the land in bettercondition, the buildings and fences trimmer and better cared for, thatwas in the man, not in his circumstances. He was easily leader amongthe few men whose scattered dwellings made up the village of SeaMeadows (commonly pronounced Semedders. ) His house did not lie on thelittle "street, " as that part of the road was called where somehalf-dozen houses were clustered together, with their farms spreadingout behind them, and the post-office for the king-pin; yet no importantstep would be taken by the villagers without the advice and approval ofJacques De Arthenay. Briefly, he was a born leader; a masterful man, with a habit of thinking before he spoke; and when he said a thing mustbe done, people were apt to do it. He was now thirty years old, without kith or kin that any one knew of; living by himself in a goodhouse, and keeping it clean and decent, almost as a woman might; notlikely ever to change his condition, it was supposed. 

This was the man who happened to come into the street on some errand, that soft summer evening, at the very moment when Marie was feelinglifted up by the light of joy in the children's faces, and was tellingherself how good it was that she had come this way. Hearing the soundof the fiddle, De Arthenay stopped for a moment, and his face grew darkas night. He was a religious man, as sternly so as his Huguenotancestor, but wearing his religion with a difference. He knew allmusic, except psalm-tunes, to be directly from the devil. Even as tothe psalm-tunes themselves, it seemed to him a dreadful thing thatworship could not be conducted without this compromise with evil, thissnare to catch the ear; and he harboured in the depth of his soulthoughts about the probable frivolity of David, which he hardly voicedeven to himself. The fiddle, in particular, he held to be positivelydevilish, both in its origin and influence; those who played thisunholy instrument were bound to no good place, and were sure to gaintheir port, in his opinion. Being thus minded, it was with a shock ofhorror that he heard the sound of a fiddle in the street of his ownvillage, not fifty yards from the meeting-house itself. After amoment's pause, he came wrathfully down the street; his height raisedhim a head and shoulders above the people who were ringed around thelittle musician, and he looked over their heads, with his arm raised tocommand, and his lips opened to forbid the shameful thing. Then--hesaw Marie's face; and straightway his arm dropped to his side, and hestood without speaking. The children looked up at him, and moved away, for they were always afraid of him, and at this moment his face wasdreadful to see. 

Yet it was nothing dreadful that he looked upon. Marie was standingwith her head bent down over her violin, in a pretty way she had. Alight, slight figure, not short, yet with a look that spoke all ofyouth and morning grace. She wore a little blue gown, patched andfaded, and dusty enough after her day's walk; her feet were dusty too, but slender and delicately shaped. Her face was like nothing that hadbeen seen in those parts before, and the beauty of it seemed to strikecold to the man's heart, as he stood and gazed with unwilling eyes, hating the feeling that constrained him, yet unable for the moment torestrain it or to turn his eyes away. She had that clear, brightwhiteness of skin that is seen only in Frenchwomen, and only here andthere among these; whiteness as of fire behind alabaster. Her hair wasblack and soft, and the lashes lay like jet on her cheek, as she stoodlooking down, smiling a little, feeling so happy, so pleased that shewas pleasing others. And now, when she raised her eyes, they were seento be dark and soft, too; but with what fire in their depths, whatsunny light of joy, --the joy of a child among children! De Arthenaystarted, and his hands clenched themselves unconsciously. Mariestarted, too, as she met the stern gaze fixed upon her, and the joyouslight faded from her eyes. Rudely it broke in upon her pleasantthoughts, --this vision of a set, bearded face, with cold blue eyes thatyet had a flame in them, like a spark struck from steel. The littlesong died on her lips, and unconsciously she lowered her bow, and stoodsilent, returning helplessly the look bent so sternly upon her. 

When Jacques de Arthenay found himself able to speak at last, hestarted at the sound of his own voice. 

"Who are you?" he asked. "How did you come here, young woman?"

Marie held out her fiddle with a pretty, appealing gesture. "Icome--from away!" she said, in her broken English, that sounded softand strange to his ears. "I do no harm. I play, to make happy thechildren, to get bread for me. "

"Who came with you?" De Arthenay continued. "Who are your folks?"

Marie shook her head, and a light crept into her eyes as she thought ofLe Boss. "I have nobodies'" she said. "I am with myself, _sauf leviolon_; I mean, wiz my fiddle. Monsieur likes not music, no?"

She looked wistfully at him, and something seemed to rise up in theman's throat and choke him. He made a violent motion, as if to freehimself from something. What had happened to him, --was he suddenlypossessed, or was he losing his wits? He tried to force his voice backinto its usual tone, tried even to speak gently, though his heart wasbeating so wildly at the way she looked, at the sweet notes of hervoice, like a flute in its lower notes, that he could hardly hear hisown words. "No, no music!" he said. "There must be no music here, among Christian folks. Put away that thing, young woman. It is anevil thing, bringing sin, and death, which is the wages of sin, withit. How came you here, if you have no one belonging to you?"

Falteringly, her sweet eyes dropped on the ground, with only now andthen a timid, appealing glance at this terrible person, this awfuljudge who had suddenly dropped from the skies, Marie told her littlestory, or as much of it as she thought needful. She had been with badpeople, playing for them, a long time, she did not know how long. Andthen they would take away her violin, and she would not stay, and sheran away from them, and had walked all day, and--and that was all. Alittle sob shook her voice at the last words; she had not realisedbefore how utterly alone she was. The delight of freedom, of gettingaway from her tyrants, had been enough at first, and she had been as itwere on wings all day, like a bird let loose from its cage; now thelittle bird was weary, and the wings drooped, and there was no nest, not even a friendly cage where one would find food and drink, A sudden passion of pity--he supposed it was pity--shook the strongman. He felt a wild impulse to catch the little shrinking creature inhis arms and bear her away to his own home, to warm and cheer andcomfort her. Was there ever before anything in the world so sweet, sohelpless, so forlorn? He looked around. The children were all gone;he stood alone in the street with the foreign woman, and night wasfalling. It was at this moment that Abby Rock, who had been watchingfrom her window for the past few minutes, opened her door and came out, stepping quietly toward them, as if they were just the people she hadexpected to see. De Arthenay hailed her as an angel from Heaven; andyet Abby did not look like an angel. 

"Abby!" he cried. "Come here a minute, will you?"

"Good evening, Jacques!" said Abby, in her quiet voice. "Good eveningto you!" she added, speaking kindly to the little stranger. "I wascoming to see if you wouldn't like to step into my house and rest you aspell. Why, my heart!" she cried, as Marie raised her head at thesound of the friendly voice, "you're nothing but a child. Come rightalong with me, my dear. Alone, are ye, and night coming on!"

"That's right, Abby!" cried De Arthenay, with feverish eagerness. "Yes, yes, take her home with you and make her comfortable. She is astranger, and has no friends, so she says. I--I'll see you in themorning about her. Take her! take her in where she will becomfortable, and I'll--"

"I'll pay you well for it, " was what he was going to say, but Abby'squiet look stopped the words on his lips. Why should he pay her fortaking care of a stranger, of whom he knew no more than she did; whomhe had never seen till this moment?--why, indeed! and she was as wellable to pay for the young woman's keep as he was to say the least. Allthis De Arthenay saw, or fancied he saw, in Abby Rock's glance. Heturned away, muttering something about seeing them in the morning;then, with an abrupt bow, which yet was not without grace, he strodeswiftly down the street and took his way home. 

CHAPTER III. 

ABBY ROCK. 

If Abby Rock's kitchen was not heaven, it seemed very near it to Mariethat evening. She found herself suddenly in an atmosphere of peace andcomfort of which her life had heretofore known nothing. The eveninghad fallen chill outside, but here all was warm and light and cheerful, and the warmth and cheer seemed to be embodied in the person of thewoman who moved quickly to and fro, stirring the fire, putting thekettle on the hob (for those were the days of the open fire, of craneand kettle, and picturesque, if not convenient, housekeeping), drawinga chair up near the cheerful blaze. Marie felt herself enfolded withcomfort. A shawl was thrown over her shoulders; she was lifted like achild, and placed in the chair by the fireside; and now, as she sat ina dream, fearing every moment to wake and find herself back in the oldlife again, a cup of tea, hot and fragrant, was set before her, and thehandkerchief tenderly loosened from her neck, while a kind voice badeher drink, for it would do her good. 

"You look beat out, and that's the fact, " said Abby Rock. "To-morrowyou shall tell me all about it, but you no need to say a single wordto-night, only just set still and rest ye. I'm a lone woman here. Iburied my mother last June, and I'm right glad to have company once ina while. Abby Rock, my name is; and perhaps if you'd tell me yours, weshould feel more comfortable like, when we come to sit down to supper. What do you say?"

Her glance was so kind, her voice so cordial and hearty, that Mariecould have knelt down to thank her. "I am Marie, " she said, smilingback into the kind eyes. "Only Marie, nossing else. "

"Maree!" repeated Abby Rock. "Well, it's a pretty name, sure enough;has a sound of 'Mary' in it, too, and that was my mother's name. Butwhat was your father's name, or your mother's, if so be your fatherain't living now?"

Marie shook her head. "I never know!" she said. "All the days I livedwith Mere Jeanne in the village, far away, oh, far, over the sea. "

"Over the sea?" said Abby. "You mean the bay, don't you, --some ofthose French settlements down along the shore?"

But Marie meant the sea, it appeared; for her village was in France, inEretagne, and there she had lived till the day when Mere Jeanne died, and she was left alone, with no-one belonging to her. Mere Jeanne wasnot her mother, no! nor yet her grandmother, --only her mother's aunt, but good, Abby must understand, good as an angel, good as Abby herself. And when she was dead, there was only her son, Jeannot, and he hadmarried a devil, --but yes!--as Abby exclaimed, and held up her hands inreproof, --truly a devil of the worst kind; and one day, when Jeannotwas away, this wife had sold her, Marie, to another devil, Le Boss, whomade the tours in the country for to sing and to play. And he hadbrought her away to this country, over very dreadful seas, where onewent down into the grave at every instant, and then up again to theclouds, but leaving one's stomach behind one--ah, but terrible! Otherswere with them, oh, yes!--This in response to Abby's question, for inspite of her good resolutions, curiosity was taking possession of her, and it was evidently a relief to Marie to pour out her little tale in asympathetic ear, --many others. La Patronne, the wife of Le Boss, whowas like a barrel, but not bad, when she could see through the fat, notbad in every way; and there was Old Billy, who took care of the horsesand dogs, and he was her friend, and she loved him, and he had alwaysthe good word for her even when he was very drunk, too drunk to speakto any one else. And then there was the daughter of Le Boss, who wouldin all probability never die, for she was so ugly that she would not beadmitted into the other world, where, Mere Jeanne said, even Monsieurthe Great Devil himself was good-looking, save for his expression. Also there were the boys who tumbled and rode on the ponies, and--and--and ozer people. And with this Mane's head dropped forward, and she was asleep. 

It seemed a pity to wake her when supper was ready, but Abby knew justhow good her rolls were, and knew that the child must be famished; andsure enough, after a little nap, Marie was ready to wake and sit up atthe little round table, and be fed like a baby with everything goodthat Abby could think of. The fare had not been dainty in thetravelling troupe of Le Boss. The fine white bread, the golden butter, the bit of broiled fish, smoking hot, seemed viands of paradise to thehungry girl. She laughed for pleasure, and her eyes shone like stars. It was like the chateau, she said, where everything was gold andsilver, --the chateau where Madame la Comtesse lived. As for Abbyherself, Marie gravely informed her that she was an angel. Abbylaughed, not ill pleased. "I don't look special like angels, " shesaid; "that is, if the pictures I've seen are correct. Not much wingsand curls and white robes about me, Maree. And who ever heard of anangel in a check apurn, I want to know?"

But Marie was not to be turned aside. It was well known, she said, that angels could not come to earth undisguised in these days. It hadsomething to do with the Jews, she did not know exactly what. MereJeanne had told her, but she forgot just how it was. But as to theirnot coming at all, that would be out of the question, for how would thegood God know what was going on down here, or know who was behavingwell and meriting a crown of glory, and who should go down into thepit? Did not Abby see that?

Abby privately thought that here was strange heathen talk to be goingon in her kitchen; but she said nothing, only gave her guest more jam, and said she was eating nothing, --the proper formula for a goodhostess, no matter how much the guest may have devoured. 

It was true, as has been said before, that Abby Rock was not fair tooutward view. Nature had been in a crabbed mood when she fashionedthis gaunt, angular form, these gnarled, unlovely features. Anuncharitable neighbour, in describing Abby, once said that she lookedas if she had swallowed an old cedar fence-rail and shrunk to it; andthe description was apt enough so far as the body went. Her skin, eyes, and hair were of different shades (yet not so very different) ofgreyish brown; her nose was long and knotty, her mouth and chinapparently taken at random from a box of misfits. Yes, the cedarfence-rail came as near to it as anything could. Yet somehow, no onewho had seen the light of kindness in those faded eyes, and heard thesweet, cordial tones of that quiet voice, thought much about theirowner's looks. People said it was a pity Abby wasn't better favoured, and then they thought no more about it, but were simply thankful thatshe existed. 

She had led the life that many an ugly saint leads, here in NewEngland, and the world over. Nurse and drudge for the pretty youngersister, the pride and joy of her heart, till she married and went awayto live in a distant State; then drudge and nurse for the invalidmother, broken down by unremitting toil. No toil would ever break Abbydown, for she was a strong woman; she had never worked too hard thatshe was aware of; but--she had always worked, and never done anythingelse. No lover had ever looked into her eyes or taken her handtenderly. Not likely! she would say to herself with a scornful sniff, eyeing her homely face in the glass. Men weren't such fools as theylooked. 

One or two had wanted to marry her house, as she expressed it, and hadasked for herself into the bargain, not seeing how they could manage itotherwise. They were not to blame for wanting the house, she thoughtwith some complacency, as she glanced round her sitting-room. Everything in the room shone and twinkled. The rugs were beautifullymade, and the floor under them in the usual dining-table conditionascribed ever since books were written to the model housewife. Thecorner cupboards held treasures of blue and white that it makes oneache to think of to-day, and some pieces of India china besides, brought over seas by some sea-going Rock of a former generation: andthere were silver spoons in the iron box under Abby's bed, and thedragon tea-pot on the high narrow mantel-piece was always full, but notwith tea-leaves. Yes, and there was no better cow in the village thanAbby's, save those two fancy heifers that Jacques de Arthenay hadlately bought. Altogether, she did not wonder that some of the weakerbrethren, who found their own farms "hard sledding, " should thinkenough of her pleasant home to be willing to take her along with it, since they could do no better; but they did not get it. Abby foundlife very pleasant, now that grief was softened down into tenderrecollection. To be alone, and able to do things just when she wantedto do them, and in her own way; to consider what she herself liked toeat, and to wear, and to do; to feel that she could come and go, riseup and lie down, at her own will, --was strange but pleasant to her. How long the pleasure would have lasted is another question, for thewoman's nature was to love and to serve; but just now there was nodoubt that she was enjoying her freedom. 

And now she had taken in this little stranger, just because she feltlike it; it was a new luxury, a new amusement, that was all. Such apretty little creature, so soft and young, and with that brightness inher face! Sister Lizzie was light-complected, and this child didn'tfavour her, not the least mite; yet it was some like the same feeling, as if it were a kitten or a pretty bird to take care of, and feed andpet. So thought Abby, as she tucked up Marie in Sister Lizzie's littlewhite bed, in the pink ribbon chamber, as she had named it in sport, after she had let Lizzie furnish it to her taste, that last year beforeshe was married. The child looked about her as if it were a palace, instead of a lean-to chamber with a sloping roof. She had never seenanything like this in her life, since those days when she went to thechateau. She touched the white walls softly, and passed her hand overthe pink mats on the bureau with wondering awe. And then she curled upin the white bed when Abby bade her, as like a kitten as anything couldbe. "Oh, you are good, good!" cried the child, whom the warmth andcomfort and kindness seemed to have lifted into another world from thecold, sordid one in which she had lived so long. She caught the kindhard knotted hand, and kissed it; but Abby snatched it away, andblushed to her eyebrows, feeling that something improper had occurred. "There! there!" she said, half confused, half reproving. "You don'twant to do such things as that! I've done no more than was right, andyou alone and friendless, and night coming on. Go to sleep now, like agood girl, and we'll see in the morning. " So Marie went to sleep inSister Lizzie's bed, with her fiddle lying across her feet, since shecould not sleep a wink otherwise, she said; and when Abby wentdownstairs the room seemed cold, and she thought how she missed Lizzie, and wondered if it wouldn't be pleasant to keep this pretty creaturefor a spell, and do for her a little, and make her up some portion ofclothing. There was a real good dress of Lizzie's, hanging this minutein the press upstairs: she had a good mind to take it out at once andsee what could be done to it; perhaps--and Abby did not go to bed veryearly herself that night. 

CHAPTER IV. 

POSSESSION. 

Jacques De Arthenay went home that night like a man possessed. He wasfurious with himself, with the strange woman who had thus set his soberthoughts in a whirl, with the very children in the street who hadlaughed and danced and encouraged her in her sinful music, to her ownperil and theirs. He thought it was only anger that so held his mind;yet once in his house, seated on the little stool before his fire, hefound himself still in the street, still looking down into that lovelychildish face that lifted itself so innocently to his, still smitten tothe heart by the beauty of it, and by the fear that he saw in it of hisown stern aspect. He had never looked upon any woman before. He hadbeen proud of it, --proud of his strength and cleverness, that needed nomeddlesome female creature coming in between him and his business, between him and his religion. He had not let his hair and beard grow, knowing nothing of such practices, but in heart he had been a Nazaritefrom his youth up, --serving God in his harsh, unloving way; loving God, as he thought; certainly loving nothing else, if it were not the dumbcreatures, to whom he was always kind and just. And now--what hadhappened to him? He asked himself the question sternly, sitting therebefore the cheerful blaze, yet neither seeing nor feeling it. Theanswer seemed to cry itself in his ears, to write itself before hiseyes in letters of fire. The thing had happened that happens in thestory books, that really comes to pass once in a hundred years, theysay. He had seen the one woman in the world that he wanted for hisown, to have and to hold, to love and to cherish. She was a stranger, a vagabond, trading in iniquity, and gaining her bread by thecorruption of souls of men and children; and he loved her, he longedfor her, and the world meant nothing to him henceforth unless he couldhave her. He put the thought away from him like a snake, but it cameback and curled round his heart, and made him cold and then hot andthen cold again. Was he not a professing Christian, bound by thestrictest ties? Yes! How she looked, standing there with the childrenabout her, the little slender figure swaying to and fro to the music, the pretty head bent down so lovingly, the dark eyes looking here andthere, bright and shy, like those of a wild creature so gentle in itsnature that it knew no fear. But he had taught her fear! yes, he sawit grow under his eyes, just as the love grew in his own heart at thesame moment. 

Love! what sort of word was that for him to be using, even in his mind?To-morrow she would be gone, this wandering fiddler, and all this wouldbe forgotten in a day, for he had the new cattle to see to, and ahundred things of importance. 

But was anything else of importance save just this one girl? and if heshould let her go on her way, out into the world again, to certainperdition, would not the guilt be partly his? He, who saw and knew theperils and pitfalls, might he not snatch this child from the fire andsave her soul alive?--No! he would begone, as soon as morning came, andtake this sinful body of his away from temptation. 

How soon would Abby get through her morning work, so that he might withsome fair pretext go to the house to see how the stranger had slept, and how she had fared? It would be cowardly to drop the burden onAbby's shoulders, she only a woman like the rest of them, even if shehad somewhat more sense. 

So Jacques De Arthenay sat by his fire till it was cold and dead, amiserable and a wrathful man; and he too slept little that night. 

But Marie slept long and peacefully in Sister Lizzie's bed, and lookedso pretty in her sleep that Abby came three times to wake her, andthree times went away again, unable to spoil so perfect a picture. Atlast, however, the dark eyes opened of their own accord, and Mariebegan to chirp and twitter, like a bird at daybreak in its nest; onlyinstead of daybreak, it was eight o'clock in the morning, a mostshocking hour for anybody to be getting up. But Abby had been in thehabit of spoiling her sister, who had a theory that she was never ableto do anything early in the morning, and so it was much moreconsiderate for her to stay in bed and keep out of Abby's way. This isa comfortable theory. 

"I suppose you've been an early riser, though?" said Abby, as shepoured the coffee, looking meanwhile approvingly at the figure of herguest, neatly attired in a pink and white print gown, which fitted herin a truly astonishing manner, proving, Abby thought in her simple way, that it had really been a "leading, "--her bringing the stranger homelast night. 

"Oh, but yes, " Marie answered. "I help always Old Billy wiz the dogsfirst, they must be exercise, and do their tricks, and then they arefeed. So hungry they are, the dogs! It make very hard not first tofeed them, _hein_?"

"Is--William--feeble?" Abby inquired, with some hesitation. 

"Feeble, no!" said Marie, with a little laugh. "But old, you know, andwhen he is too much drunk it take away his mind; so then I help him, that Le Boss does not find out that and beat him. For he is good, yousee, Old Billy, and we make comrades togezzer always. "

"Dear me!" said Abby, doubtfully. "It don't seem as if you ought to begoing with--with that kind of person, Maree. We don't associate withdrinking men, here in these parts. I don't know how it is where youcome from. "

Oh, there, Marie said, it was different. There the drink did not makemen crazy. This was a country where the devil had so much power, yousee, that it made it hard for poor folks like Old Billy, who would dowell enough in her country, and at the worst take a little too much ata feast or a wedding. But in those cases, the saints took very goodcare that nothing should happen to them. She did not know what thesaints did in this country, or indeed, if there were any. 

"Oh, Maree!" cried Abby, scandalised. "I guess I wouldn't talk likethat, if I was you. You--you, ain't a papist, are you, --a Catholic?"

Oh, no! Mere Jeanne was of the Reformed religion, and had broughtMarie up so. It was a misfortune, Madame the Countess always said; butMarie preferred to be as Mere Jeanne had been. The Catholic girls inthe village said that Mere Jeanne had gone straight to the pit, butthat proved that they were ignorant entirely of the things of religion. Why, Le Boss was a Catholic, he; and everybody knew that he had theevil eye, and that it was not safe to come near him without making thehorns. 

"For the land's sake!" cried Abby Rock, dropping her dish-cloth intothe sink, "what are you talking about, child?"

"But, the horns!" Marie answered innocently. "When a person has theevil eye, you not make at him the horns, so way?" and she held out theindex and little finger of her right hand, bending the other fingersdown. "So!" she said; "when they so are held, the evil eye has nopower. What you do here to stop him?"

"We don't believe in any such a thing!" Abby replied, with, someseverity. "Why, Maree, them's all the same as heathen notions, likewitchcraft and such. We don't hold by none of those things in thiscountry at all, and I guess you'd better not talk about 'em. "

Marie's eyes opened wide. "But, " she said, "_c'est une chose_, --it isa thing that all know. As for Le Boss, you know--listen!" she camenearer to Abby, and lowered her voice. "One night Old Billy forgot todo, I know not what, but somesing. So when Le Boss found it out, helook at him, so, "--drawing her brows down and frowning horribly, withthe effect of looking like an enraged kitten, --"and say noasing at all. You see?"

"Well, " replied Abby. "I suppose mebbe he thought it was an accident, and might have happened to any one. "

"Not--at--all!" cried Marie, with dramatic emphasis, throwing out herhand with a solemn gesture. "What happen that same night? Old Billyfall down the bank and break his leg!" She paused, and nodded like alittle mandarin, to point the moral of her tale. 

"Maree!" remonstrated Abby Rock, "don't tell me you believe suchfoolishness as that! He'd have fallen down all the same if nobody hadlooked anigh him. Why, good land! I never heard of such notions. "

"So it is!" Marie insisted. "Le Boss look at him, and he break hisleg. I see the break! Anozer day, " she continued, "Coco, he is a boythat makes tumble, and he was hungry, and he took a don't from thetable to eat it--"

"Took a what?" asked Abby. 

"A don't, what you call. Round, wiz a hole to put your finger!"explained Marie. "Only in America they make zem. Not of such thingsin Bretagne, never. Coco took the don't, and Le Boss catch him, andlook at him again, so! Well, yes! in two hour he is sick, that boy, and after zat for a week. A-a-a-h! yes, Le Boss! only at me he notdare to look, for I have the charm, and he know that, and he is afraid. Aha, yes, he is afraid of Marie too, when he wish to make devil work. 

"And here, " she cried, turning suddenly upon Abby, "you say you have nosuch thing, Abiroc, "--this was the name she had given herhostess, --"and here, too, is the evil eye, first what I see in thisplace, except the dear little children. A man yesterday came while Iplayed, and looked--but, frightful! Ah!" she started from her seat bythe window, and retreated hastily to the corner. "He comes, the sameman! Put me away, Abiroc! put me away! He is bad, he is wicked! Idie if he look at me!" and she ran hastily out of the room, just asJacques De Arthenay entered it. 

CHAPTER V. 

COURTSHIP. 

Marie could hardly be persuaded to come back into the sitting-room; andwhen she did at length come, it was only to sit silent in the corner, with one hand held behind her, and her eyes fixed steadfastly on thefloor. In vain Abby Rock tried to draw her into the conversation, telling her how she, Abby, and Mr. De Arthenay had been talking abouther, and how they thought she'd better stay right on where she was fora spell, till she was all rested up, and knew what she wanted to do. Mr. De Arthenay would be a friend to her, and no one could be a betterone, as she'd find. But Marie only said that Monsieur was very kind, and never raised her eyes to his. De Arthenay, on his part, was nomore at ease. He could not take his eyes from the slender figure, soshrinking and modest, or the lovely downcast face. He had no words totell her all that was in his heart, nor would he have told it if hecould. It was still a thing of horror to him, --a thing that wouldsurely be cast out as soon as he came to himself; and how better couldhe bring himself to his senses than by facing this dream, thispossession of the night, and crushing it down, putting it out ofexistence? So he sat still, and gazed at the dream, and felt itsreality in every fibre of his being; and poor good Abby sat and talkedfor all three, and wondered what to goodness was coming of all this. 

She wondered more and more as the days went on. It became evident toher that De Arthenay, her stern, silent neighbour, who had never somuch as looked at a woman before, was "possessed" about her littleguest. Marie, on the other hand, continued to regard him with terror, and never failed to make the horns secretly when he appeared; yet dayafter day he came, and sat silent in the sitting-room, and gazed atMarie, and wrestled with the devil within him. He never doubted thatit was the devil. There was no awkwardness to him in sitting thussilent; it was the habit of his life: he spoke when he had occasion tosay anything; for the rest, he considered over-much speech as one ofthe curses of our fallen state. But Abby "felt as if she should fly, "as she expressed it to herself, while he sat there. A pall of silenceseemed to descend upon the room, generally so cheerful: the French girlcowered under it, and seemed to shrink visibly, like a dumb creature infright. And when he was gone, she would spring up and run like a deerto her own little room, and seize her violin, and play passionately, the instrument crying under her hands, like a living creature, protesting against grief, against silence and darkness, and the fear ofsomething unknown, which seemed to be growing out of the silence. Sometimes Abby thought the best thing to do would be to open the doorof the cage, and let the little stray bird flutter out, as she hadfluttered in those few days ago, by chance--was it by chance?

But the bird was so willing to stay; was so happy, except when thatsilent shadow fell upon the cheerful house; so sweet, so grateful forlittle kindnesses (and who would not be kind to her, Abby thought!);such a singing, light, pretty creature to look at and listen to! andthe house had been so quiet since mother died; and after all, it waspleasant to have some one to do for and "putter round. " The neighbourssaid, There! now Abby Rock was safe to live, for she had got anotherbaby to take care of; she'd ha' withered up and blown away if she hadgone on living alone, with no one to make of. 

And what talks they had, Abby and Marie! The latter told all about herearly childhood with the good old woman whom she called Mere Jeanne, and explained how she came to have the Lady, and to play as she did. The Countess, it appeared, lived up at the castle; a great lady, oh, but very great, and beautiful as the angels. She was alone there, forthe Count was away on a foreign mission, and she had no child, theCountess. So one day she saw Marie, when the latter was bringingflowers to the gardener's wife, who was good to her; and the Countesscalled the child to her, and took her on her knee, and talked with her. Ah, she was good, the Countess, and lovely! After that Marie wasbrought to the castle every day, and the Countess played to her of theviolin, and Marie knew all at once that this was the best thing in theworld, and the dearest, and the one to die for, you understand. (ButAbby did not understand in the least. ) So when Madame the Countess sawhow it was, she taught Marie, and got her the Lady, the violin whichwas Marie's life and soul; and she let come down from Paris a greatteacher, and they all played together, the Countess his friend, formany years his pupil, and the great violinist, and Marie, the littlepeasant girl in her blue gown and cap. He said she was a bornmusician, Marie: of course, he was able to see things, being of thesame nature; but Mere Jeanne was unhappy, and said no good would comeof it. Yes, well, what is to be, you know, that will be, and nossingelse. The great teacher died, and there was an end of him. And aftera while Monsieur the Count came home, and carried away the Countess tolive in Paris, and so--and--so--that was all!

"But not all!" cried the child, springing from her seat, and raisingher head, which had drooped for a moment. "Not all! for I have themusic, see, Abiroc! All days of my life I can make music, make happy, make joy of myself and ozerbodies. When I take her; Madame, so, in myhand, I can do what I will, no? People have glad thinks, sorry thinks;what Marie tells them to have, that have they. _Ah! la tonne aventure, oh gai_!" and she would throw her head back and begin to play, and playtill the chairs almost danced on their four legs. 

De Arthenay never heard the fiddle. Abby managed it somehow, shehardly knew how or why. He had never spoken about the Evil Thing, ashe would have called it, since that first day; perhaps he thought thatAbby had taken it away, as a pious church member should, and destroyedit from the face of the earth. At all events there was no mention ofit, and the only sound he heard when he approached the house was thewhir of Abby's wheel (for women still spun then, in that part of thecountry), or the one voice he cared to hear in the world, uplifted insome light godless song. 

So things went on for a while; and then came a change. One day Mariecame into the sitting-room, hearing Abby call her. It was the hour ofDe Arthenay's daily visit, and he sat silent in the corner, as usual;but Abby had an open letter in her hand, and was crying softly, withher apron hiding her good homely face. "Maree, " said the good woman, "I've got bad news. My sister Lizzie that I've told you so much about, she's dreadful sick, and I've got to go right out and take care of her. Thank you, dear!" (as she felt Marie's arms round her on the instant, and the soft voice murmured little French sympathies in her ear), "you're real good, I'm sure, and I know you feel for me. I've got togo right off to-morrow or next day, soon as I can get things to rightsand see to the stock and things. But what is troubling me is you, Maree. I don't see what is to become of you, poor child, unless--Well, now, you come here and sit down by me, and listen to what Mr. DeArthenay has to say to you. You know he's ben your friend, Maree, eversence you come; so you listen to him, like a good girl. "

Abby was in great trouble: indeed, she was the most agitated of thethree, for it was with outward calm, at least, that De Arthenay spoke;and Marie listened quietly, too, plaiting her apron, between herfingers, and forgetting for the moment to make the horns with her lefthand. Briefly, he asked her to be his wife; to come home with him, andkeep his house, and share good and evil with him. He would take careof her, he said, and--and--he trusted the Lord would bless the union. If his voice shook now and then, if he kept his eyes lowered, thatneither woman should see the light and the struggle in them, that washis own affair; he spoke quietly to the end, and then drew a longbreath, feeling that he had come through better than he had expected. 

Abby looked for an outburst of some kind from Marie, whether of tearsor of sudden childish fear or anger; but neither came. Marie thankedMonsieur, and said he was very kind, very kind indeed. She would liketo think about it a little, if they pleased; she would do all she couldto please them, but she was very young, and she would like to taketime, if Monsieur thought it not wrong: and so rising from her seat, she made a little courtesy, with her eyes still on the ground, andslipped away out of the room, and was gone. 

The others sat looking at each other, neither ready to speak first. Finally Abby reflected that Jacques would not speak, at all unless shebegan, so she said, with a sigh between the words; "I guess it'll beall right, Jacques. It's only proper that she should have time tothink it over, and she such a child. Not but what it's a great chancefor her, " she added hastily. "My! to get a good home, and a goodprovider, as I make no doubt you would be, after the life she's led, traipsin' here and there, and livin' with darkened heathens, or as bad. But--but--you'll be kind to her, won't you, Jacques? She--she's not awoman yet, in her feelin's, as you might say. She ain't nothin' but ababy to our girls about here, that's brought up to see with their eyesand talk with their mouths. You'll have patience with her, if her waysare a good deal different from what you were used to; along back inyour mother's time?"

But here good Abby paused, for she saw that De Arthenay heard not aword of her well-meant discourse. He sat brooding in the corner, aswas his wont, but with a light in his eyes and a color in his cheekthat Abby had never seen before. 

"Jacques De Arthenay, you are fairly possessed!" she said, in rather anawestruck voice, as he rose abruptly to bid her good-day. "I don'tbelieve you can think of anything except that child. "

"So more I can!" said the man, looking at her with bright, hard eyes. "Nothing else! She is my life!" and with that he turned hastily to thedoor and was gone. 

"His life!" repeated Abby, gazing after him as he strode away down thestreet. "Much like his life she is, the pretty creetur! And shesaying that fiddle was her life, only yesterday! How are all theselives going to work together? that's what I want to know!" And sheshook her head, and went back to her spinning. There was no doubt inAbby's mind about Marie's answer, when she grew a little used to thenew idea. Her silent suitor was many years older than she, it wastrue, but as she said to him, what a chance for the friendlesswanderer! And if he loved her now, how much more he would love herwhen he came to know her well, and see all her pretty ways about thehouse, like a kitten or a bird. And she would respect and admire him, that was certain, Abby thought. He was a pictur' of a man, when he gothis store clothes on, and nobody had ever had a word to say againsthim. He was no talker, but some thought that was no drawback in themarried state. Abby remembered how Sister Lizzie's young husband hadtormented her with foolish questions during the week he bad spent withthem at the time of the marriage: a spruce young clerk from a citystore, not knowing one end of a hoe from the other, and askingquestions all the time, and not remembering anything you told him longenough for it to get inside his head; though there was room enoughinside for consid'able many ideas, Abby thought. Yes, certainly, if sobe one had to be portioned with a husband, the one that said leastwould be the least vexation in the end. So she was content, on thewhole, and glad that Marie took it all so quietly and sensibly, andmade no doubt the girl was turning it over in her mind, and makingready a real pretty answer for Jacques when he called the next day. 

Yes, Marie was turning it over in her mind, but not just in the way hergood hostess supposed. Only one thought came to her, but that thoughtfilled her whole mind; she must get away, --away at once from thisplace, from the stern man with the evil eye, who wanted to take her andkill her slowly, that he might have the pleasure of seeing her die. Ah, she knew, Marie! had she not seen wicked people before? But shewould not tell Abiroc, for it would only grieve her, and she wouldtalk, talk, and Marie wanted no talking. She only wanted to get away, out into the open fields once more, where nobody would look at her orwant to marry her, and where roads might be found leading away togolden cities, full of children who liked to hear play the violin, andwho danced when one played it well. 

Early next morning, while Abby was out milking the cows, Marie stoleaway. She put on her little blue gown again; ah! how old and faded itlooked beside the fresh, pretty-prints that Abby would always have herwear! But it was her own, and when she had it on, and the oldhandkerchief tied under her chin once more, and Madame in her box, ready to go with her the world over, why, then she felt that she wasMarie once more; that this had all been a mistake, this sojourn amongthe strange, kind people who spoke so loud and through such long noses;that now her life was to begin, as she had really meant it to beginwhen she ran away from Le Boss and his hateful tyranny. 

Out she slipped, in the sweet, fresh morning. No-one saw her go, forthe village was a busy place at all times, and at this early hour everyman and woman was busy in barn or kitchen. At one house a childknocked at the window, a child for whom she had played and sung manytimes. He stood there in his little red nightgown, and nodded andlaughed; and Marie nodded back, smiling, and wondered if he would everrun away, and ever know how good, how good it was, to be alone, with noone else in the world to say, "Do this!" or "Do that!" Just as shecame out, the sun rose over the hill, and looking at the fiery ballMarie perceived that it danced in the sky. Yes, assuredly, so it was!There was the same wavering motion that she had seen on every fairEaster Day that she could remember. She thought how Mere Jeanne hadfirst called her attention, to it, when she was little, little, justable to toddle, and had told her that the sun danced so on EasterMorning, for joy that the Good Lord had risen from the dead; and so itwas a lesson for us all, and we must dance on Easter Day, if we neverdanced all the rest of the year. Ah, how they danced at home there inthe village! But now, it was not Easter at all, and yet the sundanced; what should it mean? And it came to Marie's mind that perhapsthe Good Lord had told it to dance, for a sign to her that all would gowell, and that she was doing quite right to run away from persons withthe evil eye. When you came to think of it, what was more probable?They always said, those girls in the village, that the saints did thethings they asked them to do. When Barbe lost her gold earring, didnot Saint Joseph find it for her, and tell her to look among thepotato-parings that had been thrown out the day before? and there, sureenough, it was, and the pigs never touching it, because they had beentold not to touch! Well, and if the saints could do that, it would bea pity indeed if the Good Lord could not make the sun dance when hefelt like doing a kind thing for a poor girl. 

With the dazzle of that dancing sun still in her eyes, with happythoughts filling her mind, Marie turned the corner of the stragglingroad that was called a street by the people who lived along it, --turnedthe corner, and almost fell into the arms of a man, who was coming inthe opposite direction. Both uttered a cry at the same moment: Mariefirst giving a little startled shriek, but her voice dying away interrified silence as she saw the man's face; the latter uttering ashout of delight, of fierce and cruel triumph, that rang out strangelyin the quiet morning air. For this was Le Boss!

A man with a bloated, cruel face, sodden with drink and inflamed withall fierce and inhuman passions; a strong man, who held the tremblinggirl by the shoulder as if she were a reed, and gazed into her facewith eyes of fiendish triumph; an angry man, who poured out a torrentof furious words, reproaching, threatening, by turns, as he found hisvictim once more within his grasp, just when he had given up all hopeof finding her again. Ah, but he had her now, though! let her try itagain, to run away! she would find even this time that she had enough, but another time--and on and on, as a coarse and brutal man can go onto a helpless creature that is wholly in his power. 

Marie was silent, cowering in his grasp, looking about with hunted, despairing eyes. There was nothing to do, no word to say that wouldhelp. It had all been a mistake, --the sun dancing, the heavens bendingdown to aid and cheer her, --all had been a mistake, a lie. There wasnothing now for the rest of her life but this, --this brutality thatclutched and shook her slender figure, this hatred that hissed venomouswords in her ear. This was the end, forever, till death should come toset her free. 

But what was this? what was happening? For the hateful voice faltered, the grasp on her shoulder weakened, the blaze of the fierce eyes turnedfrom her. A cry was heard, a wild, inarticulate cry of rage, ofdefiance; the next moment something rushed past her like a flash; therewas a brief struggle, a shout, an oath, then a heavy fall. When thebewildered child could clear her eyes from the mist of fright thatclouded them, Le Boss was lying on the ground; and towering over himlike an avenging spirit, his blue eyes aflame, his strong handsclenched for another blow, stood Jacques De Arthenay. 

Just what happened next, Marie never quite knew. Words were said as ina dream. Was it a real voice that was saying: "This is my wife, youdog! take yourself out of my sight, before worse comes to you!" Was itreal? and did Le Boss, gathering himself up from the grass with foulcurses, too horrible to think of--did he make reply that she was hisproperty, that he had bought her, paid for her, and would have his own!And then the other voice again, saying, "I tell you she is my wife, thewife of a free man. Speak, Mary, and tell him you are my wife!" Anddid she--with those blue eyes on her, which she had never met before, but which now caught and chained her gaze, so that she could not lookaway, try as she might--did she of her own free will answer, "Yes, Monsieur, I am your wife, if you say it; if you will keep me from him, Monsieur!" Then--Marie did not know what came then. There were morewords between the two men, loud and fierce on one side, low and fierceon the other; and then Le Boss was gone, and she was walking back tothe house with the man who had saved her, the man to whom she belongednow; the strong man, whose hand, holding hers as they walked, trembledfar more than her own. But Marie did not feel as if she should evertremble again. For that one must be alive, must have strength in one'slimbs; and was she dead, she wondered, or only asleep? and would shewake up some happy moment, and find herself in the little white bed atAbiroc's house, or better still, out in the blessed fields, alone withthe birds under the free sky?

CHAPTER VI. 

WEDLOCK. 

They were married that very day. Abby begged piteously for a littledelay, that she might make clothes, and give her pretty pet a "goodsend-off;" but De Arthenay would not hear of it. Mary was his wife inthe sight of God; let her become so in the sight of man! So a whitegown was found and put on the little passive creature, and good Abby, crying with excitement, twined some flowers in the soft dark hair, andthought that even Sister Lizzie, in her blue silk dress and chipbonnet, had not made so lovely a bride as this stranger, this wanderingchild from no one knew where. The wedding took place in Abby's parlor, with only Abby herself and a single neighbour for witnesses. A littlecrowd gathered round the door, however, to see how Jacques De Arthenaylooked when he'd made a fool of himself, as they expressed it. Theywere in a merry mood, the friendly neighbours, and had sundry jestsready to crack upon the bridegroom when he should appear; but when hefinally stood in the doorway, with the little pale bride on his arm, itbecame apparent that jests were not in order. People calc'lated thatJacques was in one of his moods, and was best not to be spoke with justthat moment; besides, 't was no time for them to be l'iterin' roundstaring, with all there was to be done. So the crowd melted away, andonly Abby followed the new-married couple to their own home. She, walking behind in much perturbation of spirit, noticed that on thethreshold Marie stumbled, and seemed about to fall, and that Jacqueslifted her in his arms as if she were a baby, and carried her into theroom. He had not seemed to notice till that moment that the child wascarrying her violin-case, though to be sure it was plain enough to see, but as he lifted her, it struck against the door-jamb, and he glanceddown and saw it. When Abby came in (for this was to be her good-by tothem, as she was to leave that afternoon for her sister's home), DeArthenay had the case in his hand, and was speaking in low, earnesttones. 

"You cannot have this thing, Mary! It is a thing of evil, and may notbe in a Christian household. You are going to leave all those thingsbehind you now, and there must be nothing to recall that life withthose bad people. I will burn the evil thing now, and it shall be asweet savour to the Lord, even a marriage sacrifice. " As he spoke heopened the case, and taking out the violin, laid it across his knee, intending to break it into pieces; but at this Marie broke out into acry, so wild, so piercing, that he paused, and Abby ran to her and tookher in, her arms, and pressed her to her kind breast, and comforted heras one comforts a little child. Then she turned to the stern-eyedbridegroom. 

"Jacques, " she pleaded, "don't do it! don't do such a thing on yourwedding-day, if you have a heart in you. Don't you see how she feelsit? Put the fiddle away, if you don't want it round; put it up garret, and let it lay there, till she's wonted a little to doing without it. Take it now out of her sight and your own, Jacques De Arthenay, oryou'll be sorry for it when you have done a mischief you can't undo. "

Abby wondered afterward what power had spoken in her voice; it musthave had some unusual force, for De Arthenay, after a moment'shesitation, did as she bade him, --turned slowly and left the room, andthe next moment was heard mounting the garret stairs. While he wasgone, she still held Marie in her arms, and begged her not to trembleso, and told her that her husband was a good man, a kind man, that hehad never hurt any one in his life except evil-doers, and had been agood son and a good brother to his own people while they lived. Thenshe bade the child look around at her new home, and see how neat andgood everything was, and how tastefully Jacques had arranged it all forher. "Why, he vallies the ground you step on, child!" she cried. "Youdon't want to be afraid of him, dear. You can do anything you're amind to with him, I tell you. See them flowers there, in the chaneybowl! Now he never looked at a flower in his life, Jacques didn't; butknowing you set by them, he went out and picked them pretty ones o'purpose. Now I call that real thoughtful, don't you, Maree?"

So the good soul talked on, soothing the girl, who said no word, onlytrembled, and gazed at her with wide, frightened eyes; but Abby's heartwas heavy within her, and she hardly heard her own cheery words. Whatkind of union was this likely to be, with such a beginning! Why hadshe not realised, before it was too late, how set Jacques was in hisways, and how he never would give in to the heathen notions andfiddling ways of the foreign child?

Sadly the good woman bade farewell to the bridal couple, and left themalone in their new home. On the threshold she turned back for amoment, and had a moment's comfort; for Jacques had taken Marie's handsin his own, and was gazing at her with such love in his eyes that itmust have melted a stone, Abby thought; and perhaps Marie thought sotoo, for she forgot to make the horns, and smiled back, a little faintpiteous smile, into her husband's face. 

So Abby went away to the West, to tend her sister, and Jacques andMarie De Arthenay began their life together. 

It was not so very terrible, Marie found after a while. Of course aperson could not always help it, to have the evil eye; it had happenedthat even the best of persons had it, and sometimes without knowing it. The Catholic girls at home in the village had a saint who alwayscarried her eyes about in a plate because they were evil, and she wasafraid of hurting some one with them. (Poor Saint Lucia! this is a newrendering of thy martyrdom!) Yes, indeed! Marie was no Catholic, butshe had seen the picture, and knew that it was so. And oh, he did meanto be kind, her husband! that saw itself more and more plainly everyday. 

Then, there was great pleasure in the housekeeping. Marie was a bornhousewife, with delicate French hands, and an inborn skill in cookery, the discovery of which gave her great delight. Everything in thekitchen was fresh and clean and sweet, and in the garden were fruits, currants and blackberries and raspberries, and every kind of vegetablethat grew in the village at home, with many more that were strange toher. She found never-ending pleasure in concocting new dishes, littletriumphs of taste and daintiness, and trying them on her silenthusband. Sometimes he did not notice them at all, but ate straight on, not knowing a delicate fricassee from a junk of salt beef; that wasvery trying. But again he would take notice, and smile at her with therare sweet smile for which she was beginning to watch, and praise theprettiness and the flavor of what was set before him. But sometimes, too, dreadful things happened. One day Marie had tried her very best, and had produced a dish for supper of which she was justly proud, --alittle _friture_ of lamb, delicate golden-brown, with crimson beets andgolden carrots, cut in flower-shapes, neatly ranged around. Such apretty dish was never seen, she thought; and she had put it on the bestplatter, the blue platter with the cow and the strawberries on it; andwhen she set it before her husband, her dark eyes were actually shiningwith pleasure, and she was thinking that if he were very pleased, butvery, very, she might possibly have courage to call him "Mon ami, "which she had thought several times of doing. It had such a friendlysound, "Mon ami!"

But alas! when De Arthenay came to the table he was in one of his darkmoods; and when his eyes fell on the festal dish, he started up, cryingout that the devil was tempting him, and that he and his house shouldbe lost through the wiles of the flesh; and so caught up the dish andflung it on the fire, and bade his trembling wife bring him a crust ofdry bread. Poor Marie! she was too frightened to cry, though all herwoman's soul was in arms at the destruction of good food, to saynothing of the wound to her house-wifely pride. She sat silent, eatingnothing, only making believe, when her husband looked her way, tocrumble a bit of bread. And when that wretched meal was over, Jacquescalled her to his side, and took out the great black Bible, and readthree chapters of denunciation from Jeremiah, that made Marie's bloodchill in her veins, and sent her shivering to her bed. The next day hewould eat nothing but Indian meal porridge, and the next; and it was aweek before Marie ventured to try any more experiments in cookery. 

Marie had a great dread of the black Bible. She was sure it was adifferent Bible from the one which Mere Jeanne used to read at home, for that was full of lovely things, while this was terrible. SometimesJacques would call her to him and question her, and that was really toofrightful for anything. Perhaps he had been reading aloud, as he wasfond of doing in the evenings, some denunciatory passage from thepsalms or the prophets. "Mary, " he would say, turning to her, as shesat with her knitting in the corner, "what do you think of thatpassage?"

"I think him horreebl', " Marie would answer. "Why do you read of suchthings, Jacques! Why you not have the good Bible, as we have him inFrance, why?"

"There is but one Bible, Mary, but one in the world; and it is all goodand beautiful, only our sinful eyes cannot always see the glory of it. "

"Ah, but no!" Marie would persist, shaking her head gravely. "MereJeanne's Bible was all ozer, so I tell you. Not black and horreebl', no! but red, all red, wiz gold on him, and in his side pictures, allbright and preetty, and good words, good ones, what make the good feelin my side. Yes, that is the Bible I have liked. "

"Mary, I tell you it was no Bible, unless it was this very one. Theybind it in any colour they like, don't you see, child? It isn't thecover that makes the book. I fear you weren't brought up a Christian, Mary. It is a terrible thing to think of, my poor little wife. Youmust let me teach you; you must talk with Elder Beach on Sundayafternoons. Assuredly he will help you, if I am found unworthy. "

But Marie would have none of this. She was a Christian, she maintainedas stoutly as her great fear of her husband would permit. She had beenbaptized, and taught all that one should be taught. But it was alldifferent. Her Bible told that we must love people, but loveeverybody, always, all times; and this black book said that we mustkill them with swords, and dash them against stones, and pray badthings to happen to them. It stood to reason that it was not the sameBible, _hein_? At this Jacques De Arthenay started, and took himselfby the hair with both hands, as he did when something moved himstrongly. "Those were bad people, Mary!" he cried. "Don't you see?they withstood the Elect, and they were slain. And we must think aboutthese things, and think of our sins, and the sins of others as awarning to ourselves. Sin is awful, black, horrible! and its wages isdeath, --death, do you hear?"

When he cried out in this way, like a wild creature, Marie did not dareto speak again; but she would murmur under her breath in French, as shebent lower over her knitting, "Nevertheless, Mere Jeanne's good Lordwas good, and yours--"; and then she would quietly turn a hairpinupside down in her hair, for it was quite certain that if she caughtJacques's eye when he was in this mood, her hand would wither, or herhair fall out, or at the very least the cream all sour in the pans; andwhen one's hands were righteously busy, as with knitting, one mightmake the horns with other things, and a hairpin was very useful. Shewished she had a little coral hand, such as she had once seen at afair, with the fingers making the horns in the proper manner; it wouldbe a great convenience, she thought with a sigh. 

But he was always sorry after these dark times; and when he sat andheld her hand, as he did sometimes, silent for the most part, butgazing at her with eyes of absolute, unspeakable love, Marie waspleased, almost content: as nearly content as one could be with thehalf of one's life taken away. 

CHAPTER VII. 

LOOKING BACK. 

The half of a life! for so Marie counted the loss of her violin. Shenever spoke of this--to whom should she speak? In her husband's eyesit was a thing accursed, she knew. She almost hoped he had forgottenabout the precious treasure that lay so quietly in some dark nook inthe lonely garret; for as long as he did not think of it, it was safethere, and she should not feel that terrible anguish that had seemed torend body and soul when she saw him lay the violin across his knee tobreak it. And Abby came not, and gave no sign; and there was no oneelse. 

She saw little of the neighbours at first. The women looked ratheraskance at her, and thought her little better than a fool, even if shehad contrived to make one of Jacques De Arthenay. She never seemed tounderstand their talk, and had a way of looking past them, as ifunaware of their presence, that was disconcerting, when one thoughtwell of oneself. But Marie was not a fool, only a child; and she didnot look at the women simply because she was not thinking of them. With the children, however, it was different Marie felt that she wouldhave a great deal to say to the children, if only she had the half ofher that could talk to them. Ah, how she would speak, with Madame onher arm! What wonders she could tell them, of fairies and witches, offlowers that sang and birds that danced! But this other part of herwas shy, and she did not feel that she had anything worth saying to thelittle ones, who looked at her with half-frightened, half-inviting eyeswhen they passed her door. By-and-by, however, she mustered upcourage, and called one or two of them to her, and gave them flowersfrom her little garden. Also a pot of jam with a spoon in it proved aneloquent argument in favour of friendship; and after a while thechildren fell into a way of sauntering past with backward glances, andwere always glad to come in when Marie knocked on the window, or camesmiling to the door, with her handkerchief tied under her chin and herknitting in her hand. It was only when her husband was away that thishappened; Marie would not for worlds have called a child to meet herhusband's eyes, those blue eyes of which, she stood in such terror, even when she grew to love them. 

One little boy in particular came often, when the first shyness hadworn away. He was an orphan, like Marie herself: a pretty, dark-eyedlittle fellow, who looked, she fancied, like the children at home inFrance. He did not expect her to talk and answer questions, but wascontent to sit, as she loved to do, gazing at the trees or the cloudsthat went sailing by, only now and then uttering a few quiet words thatseemed in harmony with the stillness all around. I have said thatJacques De Arthenay's house lay somewhat apart from the village street. It was a pleasant house, long and low, painted white, with vinestrained over the lower part. Directly opposite was a pine grove, andhere Marie and her little friend loved to sit, listening to the murmurof the wind in the dark feathery branches. It was the sound of thesea, Marie told little Petie. As to how it got there, that was anothermatter; but it was undoubtedly the sound of the sea, for she had beenat sea, and recognised it at once. 

"What does it say?" asked the child one day. 

"Of words, " said Marie, "I hear not any, Petie. But it wants alwayssomesing, do you hear? It is hongry always, and makes moans for thesorry thinks it has in its heart. "

"I am hungry in my stomach, not in my heart, " objected Petie. 

But Marie nodded her head sagely. "Yes, " she said. "It is that youknow not the deeference, Petie, bit-ween those. To be hongry at thestomach, that is made better when you eat cakes, do you see, or_pot_atoes. But when the heart is hongry, then--ah, yes, that is ozerthing. " And she nodded again, and glanced up at the attic window, andsighed. 

It was a long time before she spoke of her past life; but when shefound that Petie had no sharp-eyed mother at home, only a deafgreat-aunt who asked no questions, she began to give him littleglimpses of the circus world, which filled him with awe and rapture. It was hardly a real circus, only a little strolling _troupe_, withsome performing dogs, and a few trained horses and ponies, and twotight-rope dancers; then there were two other musicians, and Marieherself, besides Le Boss and his family, and Old Billy, who took careof the horses and did the dirty work. It was about the dogs that Petieliked best to hear; of the wonderful feats of Monsieur George, thegreat brindled greyhound, and the astonishing sagacity of Coquelicot, the poodle. 

"Monsieur George, he could jump over anything, yes! He was alwaysjump, jump, all day long, to practise himself. Over our heads all, that was nothing, yet he did it always when we come in the tent, _poursaluer_, to say the how you do. But one day come in a man to see LeBoss, very tall, oh, like mountains, and on him a tall hat. AndMonsieur George, he not stopped to measure with his eye, for fear he betoo late with the _politesse_, and he jump, and carry away the man'shat, and knock him down and come plomp, down on him. Yes, very funny!The man got a bottle in his hat, and that break, and run all over him, and he say, oh, he say all things what you think of. But MonsieurGeorge was so 'shamed, he go away and hide, and not for a week we seehim again. Le Boss think that man poison him, and he goes to beat him;but that same day Monsieur George come back, and stop outside the tentand call us all to come out. And when we come, he run back, and say, 'Look here, what I do!' and he jump, and go clean over the tent, andnot touch him wiz his foot. Yes, I saw it: very fine dog, MonsieurGeorge! But Coquelicot, he have more thinking than Monsieur George. He very claiver, Coquelicot! Some of zem think him a witch, but Ithink not that. He have minds, that was all. But his legs so short, and that make him hate Monsieur George. "

"My legs are short, " objected Petie, stretching out a pair of plumpcalves, "but that doesn't make me hate people. "

"Ah, but if you see a little boy what can walk over the roof of thehouse, you want the same to do it, _n'est-ce-pas_?" cried Marie. "Youtry, and try, and when you cannot jump, you think that not a so nizelittle boy as when his legs were short. So boy, so dog. Coquelicot, all his life he want to jump like Monsieur George, and all his life hecannot jump at all. You say to him, 'Coquelicot, are you foolishness?you can do feefty things and George not one of zem: you can read theletters, and find the things in the pocket, and play the ins_tru_ment, and sing the tune to make die people of laughing, yet you are not_con_tent. Let him have in peace his legs, Monsieur George, then!'But no! and every time Monsieur George come down from the great jump, Coquelicot is ready, and bite his legs so hard what he can. "

Petie laughed outright. "I think that's awful funny!" he said. "Isay, Mis' De Arthenay, I'd like to seen him bite his legs. Did heholler?"

"Monsieur George? He cry, and go to his bed. All the dogs, theyafraid of Coquelicot, because he have the minds. And he, Coquelicot, he fear nossing, except Madame when she is angry. "

"Who was she?" asked Petie, --"a big dog?"

"Ah, dog, no!" cried Marie, her face flushing. "Madame my violon, mylife, my pleasure, my friend. Ah, _mon Dieu_, what friend have I?"Her breast heaved, and she broke into a wild fit of crying, forgettingthe child by her side, forgetting everything in the world save thehunger at her heart for the one creature to whom she could speak, andwho could speak in turn to her. 

Petie sat silent, frightened at the sudden storm of sobs and tears. What had he done, he wondered? At length he mustered courage to touchhis friend's arm softly with his little hand. 

"I didn't go to do it!" he said. "Don't ye cry, Mis' De Arthenay! Idon't know what I did, but I didn't go to do it, nohow. "

Marie turned and looked at him, and smiled through her tears. "Dearlittle Petie!" she said, stroking the curly head, "you done nossing, little Petie. It was the honger, no more! Oh, no more!" she caughther breath, but choked the sob back bravely, and smiled again. Something woke in her child heart, and bade her not sadden the heart ofthe younger child with a grief which was not his. It is one of thelessons of life, and it was well with Marie that she learned it early. 

"Madame, my violon, " she resumed after a pause, speaking cheerfully, and wiping her eyes with her apron, "she have many voices, Petie;tousand voices, like all birds, all winds, all song in the world; andshe have an angry voice, too, deep down, what make you tr-remble inyour heart, if you are bad. _Bien_! Sometime Coquelicot, he been bad, very bad. He know so much, that make him able for the bad, see, likefor the good. Yes! Sometime, he steal the sugar; sometime he come inwhen we make music, and make wiz us yells, and spoil the music;sometime he make the horreebl' faces at the poppies and make screamthem with fear. "

"Kin poppies scream?" asked Petie, opening great eyes of wonder. "My!ourn can't. We've got big red ones, biggest ever you see, but I neverheerd a sound out of 'em. "

Explanations ensued, and a digression in favour of the six puppies, whose noses were softer and whose tails were funnier than anything elsein the known, world; and then--

"So Coquelicot, he come and he sit down before the poppies, and he openhis mouth, so!" here Marie opened her pretty mouth, and tried to looklike a malicious poodle, --with singular lack of success; but Petie wasdelighted, and clapped his hands and laughed. 

"And then, " Marie went on, "Lisette, she is the poppies' mother, andshe hear them, and she come wiz yells, too, and try to driveCoquelicot, but he take her wiz his teeth and shake her, and throw heraway, and go on to make faces, and all is horreebl' noise, to wakedeads. So Old Billy call me, and I come, and I go softly behindCoquelicot, and down I put me, and Madame speak in her angry voicejustly in Coquelicot's ear. 'La la! tra la li la!' deep down like so, full wiz angryness, terreebl', yes! And Coquelicot he jump, oh my! ohmy! never he could jump so of all his life. And the tail bit-ween hislegs, and there that he run, run, as if all devils run after him. Yes, funny, Petie, vairy funny!" She laughed, and Petie laughed in violent, noisy peals, as children love to do, each gust of merriment fanning thefire for another, till all control is lost, and the little one dropsinto an irrepressible fit of the "giggles. " So they sat under thepine-trees, the two children, and laughed, and Marie forgot the hungerat her heart; till suddenly she looked and saw her husband standingnear, leaning on his rake and gazing at her with grave, uncomprehendingeyes. Then the laugh froze on her lips, and she rose hastily, with thelittle timid smile which was all she had for Jacques (yet he was hungrytoo, so hungry! and knew not what ailed him!) and went to meet him;while Petie ran away through the grove, as fast as his little legswould carry him. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

A FLOWER IN THE SNOW. 

The winter, when it came, was hard for Marie. She had never knownsevere weather before, and this season it was bitter cold. Peopleshook their heads, and said that old times had come again, and nomistake. There was eager pride in the lowest mercury, and the manwhose thermometer registered thirty degrees below zero was happier thanhe who could boast but of twenty-five. There was not so much snow asin milder seasons, but the cold held without breaking, week after week:clear weather; no wind, but the air taking the breath from the drynessof it, and in the evening the haze hanging blue and low that tells ofintensest cold. As the snow fell, it remained. The drifts and hollowsnever changed their shape, as in a soft or a windy season, but seemedfixed as they were for all time. Across the road from Jacques DeArthenay's house, a huge drift had been piled by the first snowstorm ofthe winter. Nearly as high as the house it was, and its top combedforward, like a wave ready to break; and in the blue hollow beneath thecurling crest was the likeness of a great face. A rock cropped out, and ice had formed upon its surface, so that the snow fell away fromit. The explanation was simple enough; Jacques De Arthenay, coming andgoing at his work, never so much as looked at it; but to Marie it was astrange and a dreadful thing to see. Night and morning, in the coldblue light of the winter moon and the bright hard glitter of the wintersun, the face was always there, gazing in at her through the window, seeing everything she did, perhaps--who could tell?--seeing everythingshe thought. She changed her seat, and drew down the blind that facedthe drift; yet it had a strange fascination for her none the less, andmany times in the day she would go and peep through the blind, andshiver, and then come away moaning in a little way that she had whenshe was alone. It was pitiful to see how she shrank from thecold, --the tender creature who seemed born to live and bloom with theflowers, perhaps to wither with them. Sometimes it seemed to her as ifshe could not bear it, as if she must run away and find the birds, andthe green and joyous things that she loved. The pines were alwaysgreen, it is true, in the little grove across the way; but it was asolemn and gloomy green, to her child's mind, --she had not yet learnedto love the steadfast pines. Sometimes she would open the door with awild thought of flying out, of flying far away, as the birds did, andrejoining them in southern countries where the sun was warm, and not afire that froze while it lighted one. So cold! so cold! But when shestood thus, the little wild heart beating fiercely in her, the icyblast would come and chill her into quiet again, and turn the bloodthick, so that it ran slower in her veins; and she would think of theleagues and leagues of pitiless snow and ice that lay between her andthe birds, and would close the door again, and go back to her work withthat little weary moan. 

Her husband was very kind in these days; oh, very kind and gentle. Hekept the dark moods to himself, if they came upon him, and tried evento be gay, though he did not know how to set about it. If he had everknown or looked at a child, this poor man, he would have done better;but it was not a thing that he had ever thought of, and he did not yetknow that Marie was a child. Sometimes when she saw him looking at herwith the grave, loving, uncomprehending look that so often followed heras she moved about, she would come to him and lay her head against hisshoulder, and remain quiet so for many minutes; but when he moved tostroke her dark head, and say, "What is it, Mary? what troubles you?"she could only say that it was cold, very cold, and then go away againabout her work. 

Sometimes an anguish would seize him, when he saw how pale and thin shegrew, and he would send for the village doctor, and beg him to give hersome "stuff" that would make her plump and rosy again; but the good manshook his head, and said she needed nothing, only care andkindness, --kindness, he repeated, with some emphasis, after a glance atDe Arthenay's face, and good food. "Cheerfulness, " he said, buttoningup his fur coat under his chin, --"cheerfulness, Mr. De Arthenay, andplenty of good things to eat. That's all she needs. " And he went awaywondering whether the little creature would pull through the winter ornot. 

And Jacques did not throw the food into the fire any more; he eventried to think about it, and care about it. And he got out theFarmer's Almanac, --yes, he did, --and tried reading the jokes aloud, tosee if they would amuse Mary; but they did not amuse her in the least, or him either, so that was given up. And so the winter wore on. 

It had to end sometime; even that winter could not last forever. Theiron grasp relaxed: fitfully at first, with grim clutches and snatchesat its prey, gripping it the closer because it knew the time was nearwhen all power would go, drop off like a garment, melt away like astream. The unchanging snow-forms began to shift, the keen outlineswavered, grew indistinct, fell into ruin, as the sun grew warm again, and sent down rays that were no longer like lances of diamond. Theglittering face in the hollow of the great drift lost its watchfullook, softened, grew dim and blurred; one morning it was gone. Thatday Marie sang a little song, the first she had sung through all thelong, cruel season. She drew up the blind and gazed out; she wrapped ashawl round her head and went and stood at the door, afraid of nothingnow, not even thinking of making those tiresome horns. She was awareof something new in the air she breathed. It was still cold, but witha difference; there was a breathing as of life, where all had been dry, cold death. There was a sense of awakening everywhere; whispers seemedto come and go in the tops of the pine-trees, telling of coming things, of songs that would be sung in their branches, as they had been sungbefore; of blossoms that would spring at their feet, brightening theworld with gold and white and crimson. 

Life! life stirring and waking everywhere, in sky and earth; softclouds sweeping across the blue, softening its cold brightness, dropping rain as they go; sap creeping through the ice-bound stems, slowly at first, then running freely, bidding the tree awake and be atits work, push out the velvet pouch that holds the yellow catkin, swelland polish the pointed leaf-buds: life working silently under theground, brown seeds opening their leaves to make way for the tendershoot that shall draw nourishment from them and push its way on and upwhile they die content, their work being done; roots creeping here andthere, threading their way through the earth, softening, loosening, sucking up moisture and sending it aloft to carry on the greatwork, --life everywhere, pulsing in silent throbs, the heart-beats ofNature; till at last the time is ripe, the miracle is prepared, and

 "In green underwood and cover Blossom by blossom the spring begins. "

Marie too, the child-woman, standing in her doorway, felt the thrill ofnew life; heard whispers of joy, but knew not what they meant; saw aradiance in the air that was not all sunlight; was conscious of awarmth at her heart which she had never known in her merriest days. What did it all mean? Nay, she could not tell, she was not yet awake. She thought of her friend, of the silent voice that had spoken so oftenand so sweetly to her, and the desire grew strong upon her. If shedied for it, she must play once more on her violin. 

There came a day in spring when the desire mastered the fear that wasin her. It was a perfect afternoon, the air a-lilt with bird-songs, and full of the perfume of early flowers. Her husband was ploughing ina distant field, and surely would not return for an hour or two; whatmight one not do in an hour? She called her little friend, Petie, whowas hovering about the door, watching for her. Quickly, withfluttering breath, she told him what she meant to do, bade him be braveand fear nothing; locked the door, drew down the blinds, and closed theheavy wooden shutters; turned to the four corners of the room, bowingto each corner, as she muttered some words under her breath; and then, catching the child's hand in hers, began swiftly and lightly to mountthe attic stairs. 

CHAPTER X. 

DE AKTHENAY'S VIGIL. 

Was it a _loup-garou_ in the attic? was it a _loup-garou_ that drewthat long, sighing breath, as of a soul in pain; was it a _loup-garou_that now groped its way to the other staircase, that which led up fromthe woodshed, pausing now and then, and going blindly, and breathingstill heavily and slow?

De Arthenay had come up to the attic in search of something, tools, maybe, or seeds, or the like, for many odd things were stowed awayunder the over-hanging rafters. He heard steps, and stood still, knowing that it must be his wife who was coming up, and thinking tohave pleasure just by watching her as she went on some little householderrand, such as brought himself. She would know nothing of hispresence, and so she would be free, unrestrained by any shyness or--orfear; if it was fear. So he had stood in his dark corner, and had seenlittle, indeed, but heard all; and it was a wild and a miserable manthat crept down the narrow stairway and out into the fresh air. 

He did not know where he was going. He wandered on and on, hearingalways that sound in his ears, the soft, sweet tones of the accursedinstrument that was wiling his wife, his own, his beloved, to herdestruction. The child, too, how would it be for him? But the childwas a smaller matter. Perhaps, --who knows? a child can live down sin. But Mary, whom he fancied saved, cured, the evil thing rooted out ofher heart and remembrance!

Mary; Mary! He kept saying her name over and over to himself, sometimes aloud, in a passion of reproach, sometimes softly, broodingly, with love and pathos unutterable. What power there was inthat wicked voice! He had never rightly heard it before, never, savethat instant when she stood playing in the village street, and he sawher for a moment and loved her forever. Oh, he had heard, to be sure, this or that strolling fiddler, --godless, tippling wretches, who rarelycame to the village, and never set foot there twice, he thought withpride. But this, this was different! What power! what sweetness, filling his heart with rapture even while his spirit cried out againstit! What voices, entreating, commanding, uplifting!

Nay, what was he saying? and who did not know that Satan could put onan angel's look when it pleased him? and if a look, why not a voice?When had a fiddle played godly tunes, chant or psalm? when did it doaught else but tempt the foolish to their folly, the wicked to theiriniquity?

Mary! Mary! How lovely she was, in the faint gleams of light thatfell about her, there in the dim old attic! He felt her beauty, almost, more than he saw it. And all this year, while he had thoughther growing in grace, silently, indeed, but he hoped truly, she hadbeen hankering for the forbidden thing, had been planning deceit in herheart, and had led away the innocent child to follow unrighteousnesswith her. He would go back, and do what he should have done a yearago, --what he would have done, had he not yielded to the foolish talkof a foolish woman. He would go back, and burn the fiddle, and silenceforever that sweet, insidious music, with its wicked murmurs that stoleinto a man's heart--even a man's, and one who knew the evil, andabhorred it. The smoke of it once gone up to heaven, there would be anend. He should have his wife again, his own, and nothing should comebetween them more. Yes, he would go back, in a little while, as soonas those sounds had died away from his ears. What was the song shesung there?

 "'Tis long and long I have loved thee! I'll ne'er forget thee more. "

She would forget it, though, surely, surely, when it was gone, breathedout in flame and ashes: when he could say to her, "There is no more anysuch thing in my house and yours, Mary, Mary. "

How tenderly he would tell her, though! It would hurt, yes! but not somuch as her look would hurt him when he told her. Ah, she loved thewooden thing best! He was dumb, and it spoke to her in a thousandtones! Even he had understood some of them. There was one note thatwas like his mother's voice when she lifted it up in the hymn she lovedbest, --his gentle mother, dead so long, so long ago. She--why, sheloved music; he had forgotten that. But only psalms, only godly hymns, never anything else. 

What devil whispered in his ear, "She never heard anything else. Shewould have loved this too, this too, if she had had the chance, if shehad heard Mary play!" He put his hands to his ears, and almost ran on. Where was he going? He did not ask, did not think. He only knew thatit was a relief to be walking, to get farther and farther away fromwhat he loved and fain would cherish, from what he hated and would faindestroy. 

The grass grew long and rank under his feet; he stumbled, and pausedfor a moment, out of breath, to look about him. He was in the oldburying-ground, the grey stones rearing their heads to peer at him ashe hurried on. Ah, there was one stone here that belonged to him. Hehad not been in the place since he was a child; he cared nothing aboutthe dead of long ago: but now the memory of it all came back upon him, and he sought and found the grey sunken stone, and pulled away thegrass from it, and read the legend with eyes that scarcely saw whatthey looked at. 

 "D'Arthenay, tenez foi!"

And the place was free from moss, as they always said; the rudescratch, as of a sharp-pointed instrument. Did it mean anything? Hedropped beside it for a minute, and studied the stone; then rose andwent his way again, still wandering on and on, he knew not whither. 

Darkness came, and he was in the woods, stumbling here and there, driven as by a strong wind, scorched as by a flame. At last he sankdown at the foot of a great oak-tree, in a place he knew well, even inthe dark: he could go no farther. 

 "D'Arthenay, tenez foi!"

It whispered in his ears, and seemed for a little to drown the hauntingnotes of the violin. He, the Calvinist, the practical man, whobelieved in two things outside the visible world, a great hell and asmall heaven, now felt spirits about him, saw visions that were not ofthis life. His ancestor, the Huguenot, stood before him, in cloak andband; in one hand a Bible, in the other a drawn dagger. His dark eyespierced like a sword-thrust; his lips moved; and though no sound came, Jacques knew the words they framed. 

"Tenez foi! Keep the faith that I brought across the sea, leaving forit fair fields and vineyards, castle and tower and town. Keep thefaith for which I bled, for which I died here in the wilderness, leaving only these barren acres, and the stone that bears my last word, my message to those who should come after me. Keep the faith for whichmy fair wife faded and died, far away from home and friends! Let nopiping or jigging or profane sound be in thy house, but let it be thehouse of fasting and of prayer, even as my house was. Keep faith! Ifthy right hand offend thee, cut it off and cast it from thee!"

Who else was there, --what gentle, pallid ghost, with sad, faint eyes?The face was dim and shadowy, for he had been a little child when hismother died. She was speaking too, but what were these words she wassaying? "Keep faith, my son! ay! but keep it with your wife too, thechild you wedded whether she would or no, and from whom you are takingthe joy of childhood, the light of youth. Keep faith as the sun keepsit, as the summer keeps it, not as winter and the night. "

What did that mean? keep faith with her, with his wife? how else shouldhe do it but by saving her from the wrath to come, by plucking her as aflower out of the mire?

"What shall I save but her soul, yea, though her body perish?"

He spoke out in his trouble, and the vision seemed to shrink and waverunder his gaze; but the faint voice sighed again, --or was it only thewind in the pine-trees?--"Care thou for her earthly life, her earthlyjoy, for God is mindful of her soul. "

But then the deeper note struck in again, --or was it only a strongergust, that bowed the branches, and murmured through all the airy depthsabove him?

"Keep the faith! Thou art a man, and wilt thou be drawn away by women, of whom the best are a stumbling-block and a snare for the feet?Destroy the evil thing! root it out from thy house! What are joys ofthis world, that we should think of them? Do they not lead todestruction, even the flowery path of it, going down to the mouth ofthe pit, and with no way leading thence? Who is the woman for whosesake thou wilt lose thine own soul? If thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out!"

So the night went on, and the voices, or the wind, or his own soul, cried, and answered, and cried again: and no peace came. 

The night passed. As it drew to a close, all sound, all motion, diedaway; the darkness folded him close, like a mantle; the silence pressedupon him like hands that held him down. Like a log the man lay at thefoot of the great tree, and his soul lay dead within him. 

At last a change came; or did he sleep, and dream of a change? A fainttrembling in the air, a faint rustling that lost itself almost beforeit reached the ear. It was gone, and all was still once more; yet witha difference. The darkness lay less heavily: one felt that it hid manythings, instead of filling the world with itself alone. 

Hark! the murmur again, not lost this time, but coming and going, lightly, softly, brushing here and there, soft dark wings fanning theair, making it ever lighter, thinner. Gradually the veil lifted;things stood out, black against black, then black against grey;straight majesty of tree-trunks, bending lines of bough and spray, tender grace of ferns. 

And now, what is this? A sound from the trees themselves, --nomultitudinous murmur this time, but a single note, small and clear andsweet, breaking like a golden arrow of sound through the cloudy depths. 

Chirp, twitter! and again from the next tree, and the next, and nowfrom all the trees, short triads, broken snatches, and at last the fullchorus of song, choir answering to choir, the morning hymn of theforest. 

Now, in the very tree beneath which the man lay, Chrysostom, thethrush, took up his parable, and preached his morning sermon; and if ithad been set to words, they might have been something like these:--

"Sing! sing, brothers, sisters, little tender ones in the nest! Sing, for the morning is come, and God has made us another day. Sing! forpraise is sweet, and our sweetest notes must show it forth. Song isthe voice that God has given us to tell forth His goodness, to speakgladly of the wondrous things He hath made. Sing, brothers andsisters! be joyful, be joyful in the Lord! all sorrow and darkness isgone away, away, and light is here, and morning, and the world wakeswith us to gladness and the new day. Sing, and let your songs be allof joy, joy, lest there be in the wood any sorrowing creature, whomight go sadly through the day for want of a voice of cheer, to tellhim that God is love, is love. Wake from thy dream, sad heart, if thefriendly wood hold such an one! Sorrow is night, and night is good, for rest, and for seeing of many stars, and for coolness and sweetodours; but now awake, awake, for the day is here, and the sun arisesin his might, --the sun, whose name is joy, is joy, and, whose voice ispraise. Sing, sing, and praise the Lord!"

So the bird sang, praising God, and the other birds, from tree andshrub, answered as best they might, each with his song of praise; andthe man, lying motionless beneath the great tree, heard, and listened, and understood. 

Still he lay there, with wide open eyes, while the golden morning brokeover him, and the light came sifting down, through the leaves, checkering all the ground with gold. The wood now glowed with colour, russet and green and brown, wine-like red of the tree-trunks where thesun struck aslant on them, soft yellow greens where the young fernsuncurled their downy heads. The air was sweet, sweet, with the smellof morning; was the whole world new since last night?

Suddenly from the road near by (for he had gone round in a circle, andthe wooded hollow where he lay was out of sight but not out of hearingof the country road which skirted the woods for many miles), from theroad near by came the sound of voices, --men's voices, which fellstrange and harsh on his ears, open for the first time to the music ofthe world, and still ringing with the morning hymn of joy. What werethese harsh voices saying?

"They think she'll live now?"

"Yes, she'll pull through, unless she frets herself bad again aboutJacques. Nobody'd heerd a word of him when I come away. "

"Been out all night, has he?"

"Yes! went away without saying anything to her or anybody, far as I canmake out. Been gone since yesterday afternoon, and some say--" Thevoices died away, and then the footsteps, and silence fell once more. 

CHAPTER XI. 

VITA NUOVA. 

De Arthenay never knew how he reached home that day. The spot where hehad been lying was several miles from the white cottage, yet he wasconscious of no time, no distance. It seemed one burning moment, amoment never to be forgotten while he lived, till he found himself atthe foot of the outer stairway, the stair that led to the attic. Shemight still be living, and he would not go to her without the thing shecraved, the thing which could speak to her in the voice she understood. 

Again a moment of half-consciousness, and he was standing in thedoorway of her bedroom, looking in with blind eyes of dread. Whatshould he see? what still form might break the outline of that whitebed which she always kept so smooth and trim?

The silence cried out to him with a thousand voices, threatening, condemning, blasting; but the next moment it was broken. 

"Mon ami!" said Marie. The words were faint, but there was a tone inthem that had never been there before. "Jacques, mon ami, you arehere! You did not go to leave me?"

The mist cleared from the man's eyes. He did not see Abby Rock, sitting by the bed, crying with joyful indignation; if he had seen her, it would not have been in the least strange for her to be there. Hesaw nothing--the world held nothing--but the face that looked at himfrom the pillow, the pale face, all soft and worn, yet full of light, full--was it true, or was he dreaming in the wood?--of love, of joy. 

"Come in, Jacques!" said Abby, wondering at the look of the man. "Don't make a noise, but come in and sit down!"

De Arthenay did not move, but held out the violin in both hands with astrange gesture of submission. 

"I have brought it, Mary!" he said. "You shall always have it now. I--I have learned a little--I know a little, now, of what it means. Ihadn't understanding before, Mary. I meant no unkindness to you. "

Abby laughed softly. "Jacques De Arthenay, come here!" she said. "What do you suppose Maree's thinking of fiddles now? Come here, manalive, and see your boy!"

But Marie laid one hand softly on the violin, as it lay on the bedbeside her, --the hand that was not patting the baby; then she laid it, still softly, shyly, on her husband's head as he knelt beside her. "Jacques, mon ami, " she whispered, "you are good! I too have learned. I was a child always, I knew nothing. See now, I love always Madame, my friend, and she is mine; but this, this is yours too, and mine too, our life, our own. Jacques, now we both know, and God, He tell us!See, the same God, only we did not know the first times. Now, alwayswe know, and not forget! not forget!"

The baby woke and stirred. The tiny hand was outstretched and touchedits father's hand, and a thrill ran through him from head to foot, softening the hard grain, melting, changing the fibre of his being. The husk that in those lonely hours in the forest had been loosened, broken, now fell away from him, and a new man knelt by the white bed, silent, gazing from child to wife with eyes more eloquent than anywords could be. The baby's hand rested in his, and Marie laid her ownover it; and Abby Rock rose and went away, closing the door softlyafter her. 

THE END.