Sad\eii~y 
 
 L I B R A RY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 U N I VLR5ITY 
 
 or 1 LLl NOIS 

 
 ? . -, I'
 
 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 BY- 
 
 JULIA KAVANAGH, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "NATHALIE," &C. 
 
 "O^orld ! so few the years we live, 
 Would tliat the life which thou dost give 
 
 Were life indeed ! 
 Alas ! thy sori'ows fall so fast, 
 Our happiest hour is when at last 
 
 The soul is freed." 
 
 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 RICHARD BENTLEY & SON. 
 
 1878. 
 
 All rights reserved.
 
 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 OF 
 
 N. 
 
 ^<4 
 
 ^ 
 
 THE FIRST VOLUME, 
 
 ; Preface . 
 Inteoduction 
 By the Well 
 
 <- Sister Anne 
 
 o 
 
 vThe Story of Monique 
 Annette's Love-Story . 
 
 V 
 
 Page 
 V 
 
 ix 
 1 
 
 84 
 167 
 231 
 
 < 
 I
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 ■^ reader the plan Miss Kavanagh had 
 intended to adopt to link together her short tales ^ 
 and thus give to them a more general interest. 
 They all^ . with few exceptions^ treat of the 
 same place^ Manneville : an assumed name for 
 a bright little spot in Normandy The Intro- 
 duction^ up to the first breaks was written by 
 Miss Kavanagh herself : the remainder has been 
 dictated by Mrs. Kavanagh from her recollec- 
 tion of her daughter s scheme as her daughter 
 related it to her. Had Julia Kavanagh lived^
 
 vi PREFACE. 
 
 no doubt this interesting fragment would have 
 been elaborated into a long and still more 
 interesting prologue to the Stories. It was not 
 to be. 
 
 On Sunday^ the i%th of October^ ^^11^ ^^ 
 five o'clock in the morning, Mrs. Kavanagh 
 heard^ in the adjoining chamber, a noise as of a 
 heavy fall. She immediately rose from her bed, 
 and proceeding to her daughter s room, found 
 her upon the flopr. Miss Kavanagh ex- 
 claimed in French, the language in which she 
 usually spoke : " Oh, mamma, how silly I am 
 to have fallen /" She was assisted back to her 
 couch, doctors were called in, and by eight 
 o'clock that same morning the large, beautiful 
 eyes of Julia Kavanagh had closed in their last 
 sleep. An aged mother, so blind as to be able 
 only to distinguish light from darkness, was 
 left to mourn a daughter from whom she had 
 never been separated; a daughter whose life 
 had been devoted to her mother, to whom she 
 was all in all: in whom had lived as bright 
 and pure a spirit as ever breathed.
 
 PREFACE. vii 
 
 The tales now given to the reader in a 
 collected form, are the last words that will 
 ever appear from the -pure and graceful pen of 
 the Author of " Nathalie.'' Hers was a noble 
 life. Occasionally a new work would be an- 
 nounced to the world by Julia Kavanagh ; but 
 it was known only to a few personal friends 
 what an upright, disinterested, altogether good 
 life was that of the writer ; full of beauty ; 
 eloquent from its very silence ; lovely from its 
 modest unobtrusiveness. 
 
 The remains of Julia Kavanagh now rest in 
 the cemetery of Nice. A marble memorial 
 marks the spot, consisting of a small cairn 
 of stones with a cross above. There is a 
 short inscription, and a text in the French 
 language : — 
 
 " She rests from her labours, and her works do follow her." 
 
 C. PF. W.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 a^. 
 
 mn 
 
 
 HERE are little old-fashioned places 
 still left in France, spite revolution, 
 war, and civilization ; and Nor- 
 mandy can boast her share of them ; while 
 Manneville, of all the quaint, green, and 
 charming little nooks of Normandy, can 
 claim to be one of the most characteristic. 
 It is very old, and is very small, it has a little 
 Gothic church with wonderful stained glass, 
 which travellers come miles to see ; it had three 
 churches, one of them an abbey, once upon a
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 time ; it has wood and shingle houses — those 
 with black and white beams, these with gable 
 ends to them and high tiled roofs ; it has 
 a little shining river, swift, narrow, and 
 shaded over by tall trees, that turns ever 
 so many mills on its way to the sea ; for, to 
 crown all, Manneville, which has such a 
 cool, green, inland look, and whose sur- 
 rounding pastures go wild with flowers in 
 spring, lies by a fair blue sea that stretches 
 far away along the tall cliffs of the western 
 coast. 
 
 Manneville has a main street, of course, 
 and around its old church, a place with the 
 Mairie, the schoolhouse, a few shops, and 
 the two rival inns, and there is something 
 in its aspect that tells you how a good, 
 simple, and harmless people dwell here, a 
 people who live, worship, work and die, 
 with few changes, after the fashion of those 
 forefathers of theirs who, their day's labour 
 over, now sleep so soundly in the church-
 
 INTRODUCTION. xi 
 
 yard on the hill nigh the old ruined 
 abbey. 
 
 The two rival inns are the " Golden Lion" 
 and the " White Horse." He, poor fellow, 
 gets the worst of the battle. 
 
 Manneville is built in a sheltered little 
 valley whence the ocean seems miles away, 
 but in reality land and sea lie close to one 
 another here. The place that looks so snug 
 is only divided by a narrow strip of cliff 
 from the angry waves that roar in foam and 
 fury 
 
 Here the pen falls from the hand, never 
 to be taken up again, and what follows of 
 the Introduction is dictated from memory. 
 
 Caroline de Manneville, the heroine, was 
 the daughter of a French Count and his 
 English wife ; she was brought up in their 
 chateau in Normandy until her father, having 
 lost the greater part of his property in
 
 xii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 speculations, fell into reduced circumstances. 
 This compelled him to leave the home of 
 his ancestors, and live on a moderate income 
 with his daughter amidst new scenes. 
 
 Madame de Manneville had but lately- 
 died, and the loss of his fortune, added to 
 his grief at being bereft of his life's partner, 
 so shattered his health that he only survived 
 her a few months. 
 
 Caroline thus found herself alone, still 
 young, and mistress of the small chateau of 
 Manneville and an income sufficient for her 
 requirements, although no longer enough for 
 luxury. 
 
 The opening fragment describes the place 
 to which she then was journeying — her 
 future home. Arriving there towards even- 
 ing, she puts up at the " White Horse" inn, 
 where she encounters Monsieur Bertier, who, 
 struck with the beauty of the orphan, and 
 with sympathy for her loneliness, falls in love 
 with her.
 
 INTRODUCTION. xiii 
 
 Established in her chateau, visiting and 
 being visited by her neighbours, she next 
 fires the heart of Count de Mirancourt, an 
 old and wealthy man. Caroline, however, 
 cares little for either admirer, and goes on 
 her quiet way, neither accepting nor refusing 
 their addresses. 
 
 She visits a cousin at a short distance 
 from Manneville, and finds him absent from 
 home with his wife ; his daughter by a 
 former union is, however, in the house : a 
 sickly girl, living almost in solitude in her 
 own apartments, treated with indifference by 
 both her father and step-mother. 
 
 Caroline feels drawn towards her young 
 cousin Lucile, and invites her to accompany 
 her back to Manneville to spend a week or 
 so with her. 
 
 Lucile accepts this invitation, and remains 
 on from week to week at Manneville. She 
 sets Caroline's house in order, converting 
 the somewhat dreary little chateau into a
 
 xiv INTRODUCTION. 
 
 comfortable home — makes herself indispens- 
 able to her cousin, and finally, with her 
 father's consent, decides on remaining alto- 
 gether in her new position. 
 
 Caroline de Manneville had, in the early 
 days of her bereavement, confided all busi- 
 ness arrangements to an old nurse, whose 
 devoted care of her parents in their last 
 illness had won for her the unbounded 
 confidence of the orphan girl. This woman, 
 to save Caroline anxiety, had contracted 
 heavy debts to usurers, from whom she 
 borrowed largely when money was scarce, 
 or rents from the cottagers on her property 
 came slowly in — the payment of which swal- 
 lowed up much of her income, threatening 
 her with embarrassment, if not poverty. 
 
 At the time of Lucile's visit, she was in 
 some pecuniary difficulty, which the former 
 perceiving, she begged Caroline to allow her 
 to examine her accounts and help her to 
 arrange her business matters. With Lucile's
 
 INTRODUCTION. xv 
 
 practical and efficient help, she tided over 
 her troubles, and became, if not rich, at least 
 independent once more. 
 
 M. Bertier, Caroline's younger suitor, 
 having waited long in vain for a favourable 
 hearing to his suit, began at length to appre- 
 ciate the more unobtrusive charms and pleas- 
 ing disposition of Lucile. He finally spoke 
 to Caroline of his love for her young cousin, 
 obtained her consent to woo her, and they 
 were married. 
 
 Caroline subsided quietly into old-maiden- 
 hood, and in her leisure, observing the 
 characters and lives of those around her, 
 collected the materials for the series of stories 
 which form the " Leaves from an Old Maid's 
 Book."
 
 Jfarget-me-it0ts,
 
 Bs tfje Witll 
 
 
 
 I. 
 
 SE farm of the Lenudslies just out- 
 side of the little village of Manne- 
 ville. It is a great rambling 
 old stone house, with numerous 
 sheds and outhouses that grow around it 
 like mushrooms, and a rare old courtyard, 
 large and sunny. There is great bleating 
 of invisible calves and great cackling of 
 hens, who seem to be ever laying eggs, 
 and great cooing of pigeons beneath the 
 sunny eaves, in this grande cour. You 
 are also apt to stumble over sacks of 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 corn, or bundles of onions, or tubs full 
 of cider-apples, when these good things 
 are in season, in this same courtyard. 
 And all the year round a little river flows 
 past it, being one of its boundaries, and 
 flocks of ducks float up and down the 
 stream within the shadow of grey wil- 
 lows, and troops of geese meet in council, 
 like solemn senators, round an old pear- 
 tree, tall and sturdy as an oak, and on 
 which the pears are more plentiful than 
 acorns; and the pigeons, when they are 
 tired with cooing, strut about an old 
 well, so pretty and so picturesque, that a 
 painter w^ould travel miles just to look 
 at it. 
 
 It has a roof, as most wells have in 
 Normandy : a low thatched roof, shaggy, 
 brown, and old, but made rich and gor- 
 geous when the sun shines upon it by 
 many a tuft of deep green fern, and 
 many a cluster of pink sedum and golden 
 stone-crop. Beneath that roof, in per- 
 petual shade and freshness, lies the low 
 round margin built of heavy ill-jointed
 
 BY THE WELL. 
 
 stones, gvej and discoloured witli damp 
 and age; and within this, at the mouth 
 of the deep dark shaft, spreads an irre- 
 gular but lovely fringe of hart's-tongue. 
 The long glossy leaves of a cool pale- 
 green grow in the clefts of the inner wall, 
 far as the eye can reach, stretching and 
 vanishing into the darkness, at the bottom 
 of which you see a little tremulous circle 
 of watery light. This well is invaluable 
 to the Lenuds, for, as they pass by the 
 farm, the waters of the little river grow 
 brackish and almost unfit for use. So 
 long ago, before they were rich, the 
 Lenuds having discovered this spring 
 through the means of a neighbouring 
 mason, named Delpierre, got him to sink 
 and make the well, in exchange for what 
 is called a servitude, in French legal 
 phrase ; that is to say, that he and his 
 were to have the use of the well for ever 
 and ever. Bitter strife was the result of 
 this agreement. The feud lasted genera- 
 tions, during which the Lenuds throve 
 and grew rich, and the Delpierres got so 
 
 B 2
 
 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 poor, that, at the time when this story 
 opens, the last had just died, leaving a 
 widow and three young children in bitter 
 destitution. Maitre Louis Lenud, for the 
 Parisian monsieur had not yet reached 
 Manneville, immediately availed himself 
 of this fact to bolt and bar the postern 
 door through which his enemy had daily 
 invaded the courtyard to go to the well. 
 The widow claimed the servitude ; Maitre 
 Louis denied it, and tauntingly bade her 
 drink river- water, or go to law to prove 
 her riofht. The widow felt the force of 
 the argument, and submitted, with many 
 bitter complaints, to the rich man's 
 tyranny. 
 
 " It was easily done, and it cost me 
 nothing — not a sou," exultingly thought 
 Maitre Louis Lenud, coming to this con- 
 clusion for the hundredth time on a warm 
 eveninof in July. The evening: was more 
 than warm — it was sultry ; yet Maitre 
 Louis sat by the kitchen- fire, watching 
 his old servant, Madeleine, as she got 
 onion soup ready for the evening meal,
 
 BY THE WELL. 
 
 utterly careless of the scorching blaze 
 which shot up the deep dark funnel of the 
 chimney. Pierre, his son, unable to bear 
 this additional heat, stood in the open 
 doorway, waiting with the impatience of 
 eighteen for his sapper, occasionally look- 
 ing out on the farm-yard, grey and quiet 
 at this hour, but oftener casting a glance 
 within. The fire-light danced about the 
 stone kitchen, now lighting up the armoire 
 in the corner, with cupids and guitars, 
 and shepherds' pipes and tabors, and 
 lovers' knots, carved on its brown oak 
 panels, now showing the lad the bright 
 copper saucepans, hung in rows upon the 
 walls, now revealing the stern grim figure 
 of his father, with his heavy grey eye- 
 brows, and his long Norman features both 
 harsh and acute, and veiy stern could 
 Maitre Louis look, though he wore a 
 faded blue blouse, an old handkerchief 
 round his neck, and on his head a white 
 cotton nightcap, with a stiff tassel to it, 
 now suddenly subsiding and leaving all in 
 the dim uncertain shadows of twilight.
 
 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 During one of these grey intervals, the 
 long drawling Norman voice of Maitre 
 Louis spoke : 
 
 '' The Delpierres have given up the 
 well," he said, Avith grim triumph. 
 
 " Ay, but Fifine comes and draws 
 water every night," tauntingly answered 
 Pierre. 
 
 '' Hem !" the old man exclaimed, with 
 a growd which was known in his house- 
 hold as a sort of cave canem ! Beware the 
 dog ! 
 
 " Fifine comes and draws water every 
 night," reiterated Pierre, and he strength- 
 ened his assertion with proof. Passing 
 by the cottage of the Delpierres that 
 morning, he had seen the eldest child, 
 Fifine, a girl of eight or ten, sitting on 
 the door-step singing her little brother to 
 sleep, with a wreath of hart's-tongue 
 around her head, and a band of it around 
 her waist ; " and a little beggar too she 
 looked," scornfully added Pierre, '' with 
 her uncombed hair and her ra^rs." Now, 
 there was no hart's-ton2:ue to be found
 
 BY THE WELL. 
 
 for more than a mile, unless in Maitre 
 Louis Lenud's old well. The inference 
 was clear — so clear tliat, on liearino^ 
 Pierre's statement, the farmer uttered a 
 fierce oath, then was silent. The fire- 
 light, which had shot up again, lit his 
 moody face. Pierre bent forward and 
 read it eagerly, and his dark eyes flashed 
 like those of a young hawk, and his 
 aquiline features worked with the strong 
 hate of the young, as he said : " Shall we 
 let the doo- loose to-nio'ht ?" 
 
 Maitre Louis uttered his deepest growl, 
 and promised to break every bone in 
 Pierre's body if he attempted such a 
 thing. That promise, though often made, 
 had never been kept yet. There was a 
 dangerous rebellious light in Pierre's eye ; 
 but Maitre Louis, though fierce and vio- 
 lent, was also astute — far too astute to 
 let the dog loose on Fifine. For if the 
 child were half throttled or wounded, 
 would not the law step in and test his 
 right to the well, and, maybe, midct him 
 in heavy damages ? So, though he had
 
 8 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 fostered hate of the Delpierres in his son's 
 heart till it broke out thus, he now gave 
 him a silent wink of his left eye, which 
 was as menacing as the growl, then took 
 in sulky silence the large plateful of soup 
 which Madeleine poured out for him. 
 Pierre, too, gulped down silently his onion 
 soup, but the " do it if you dare," of the 
 paternal wink, only spurred him on. He 
 gave up the dog, as too cruel, but not his 
 revenge. 
 
 Accordingly, when the family had re- 
 tired to rest, Pierre, who had not gone 
 to bed, took off his thick-nailed shoes, 
 and softly groped down the dark staircase. 
 In the stillness of the house he could hear 
 Maitre Lenud's loud snoring, and the 
 rustling of old Turc in his straw ; but 
 the farmer did not waken, and the doe 
 was too keen-scented to mistake his young 
 master for a burglar. A little oil enabled 
 the lad to open the kitchen door without 
 making the least noise, and, his heart 
 beating with a guilty joy, he stood out 
 in the clear and cool moonlight. He threw
 
 BY THE WELL. 
 
 himself in the shadow of the nearest 
 outhouse, then crept on towards the well, 
 as slowly and as stealthily as an Indian 
 when his war-paint is on and he is on the 
 track of the white man ; or, better still, 
 when he pursues and hopes to scalp some 
 fellow Indian, member of a rival tribe. 
 There must be a fierce sort of pleasure 
 in hate, else, surely, men and women, 
 children even, would not like it so. Yet we 
 rarely hate for hatred's own sake. There 
 is ever something else, some greed to 
 satisfy, some wrong to revenge, which 
 whets the sinner's appetite, and with the 
 plausible or the ignorant almost turns it 
 into a sort of virtue. No remorseful feel- 
 ing towards the poor orphan child came 
 to Pierre as he reached the well and 
 crouched down beside it. He too hated 
 and denied the '' servitude," but with 
 perfect sincerity; and to defend the pa- 
 ternal courtyard against those low beg- 
 garly Delpierres, seemed an act of filial 
 duty, to which the creeping out thus 
 stealthily, the watching and the waiting,
 
 lo FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 gave a touch of romantic lieroisra. His 
 hereditary enemy, indeed, was of the sex 
 which chivah^y is bound to guard, and of 
 the years which manhood scorns to attack. 
 But Pierre was no knight, you see, nor 
 was he yet a man. He was but a surly 
 Norman peasant lad, reared in that doc- 
 trine of the strong, " Might makes right ;" 
 and, to do him justice, believing in it most 
 devoutly. 
 
 The night was a lovely one, and its 
 tender and subdued meaning^ mitrht have 
 reached Pierre's heart — but did not. He 
 saw, as he crouched in the grass near the 
 old well, that the full round moon hunor 
 in the sky ; he saw that the willows, by 
 the little river, looked very calm and still, 
 and lay bathed in pale grey light ; he saw 
 that there was deep repose everywhere, 
 that labour had ceased in his father's 
 house, that birds were sleeping soundly 
 in every nest; he would have wagered, 
 if questioned, that Turc himself was 
 snoring ; nay, so conscious was he of this 
 universal rest, that he almost fancied the
 
 BY THE WELL. ii 
 
 gentle ripple of the river on its pebbly 
 bed was fainter than by day; and all this, 
 as Pierre vaguely felt, was beautiful, for 
 a full sense of Nature's loveliness seldom 
 reaches the peasant's heart : but there he 
 stopped. Nothing said to him : '' This is 
 wearied Nature's hour for peace. This is 
 the time when evil passions themselves 
 must pause and rest. This is the great 
 truce between all living creatures, save the 
 perfidious and the cruel; obey it, then, if 
 vou would not be like unto them." 
 
 No such sweet persuasive voice addressed 
 the lad; or,, if it spoke, it was neither 
 heard nor heeded. His blood was warm 
 and young, his passions were keen and 
 strong, and he waited for his feudal enemy, 
 Fifine Capulet, without the least passing 
 thought of becoming a Pierre Montague. 
 
 But Night, the mighty goddess, would 
 not be outraged in vain by this young 
 rebel. As her silver car was passing over 
 the old well, which had led to such 
 bitter warfare, she saw Pierre in the 
 dewy grass, and, bending over him with
 
 12 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 a haughty smile, she just shook one or 
 two poppies, then went on her starry 
 path and thought no more about him. 
 No knisfht of romance ever succumbed to 
 the evil fairy's spell with more fatal 
 
 rapidit}^ than poor Pierre 
 
 In a moment, in a second — before he had 
 time to think about it or to resist — his 
 head had fallen on his knees, and he was 
 fast asleep. And there must have been 
 something very baleful in these poppies, 
 we fear, for Pierre's dreams were of the 
 fiercest cast. In the cool moonlight, as 
 he dreamed, he saw little Fifine stealing 
 out of her mother's cottas^e. He saw the 
 pale widow, in her black garments, hoist- 
 ing the child over the wall, dropping her 
 down, then handing over to her a bright 
 new pitcher, of which Pierre thought, 
 as its glazed coating shone in the moon- 
 light, *' What a hole I shall make in thee 
 yet !" But this was not all. Pierre saw 
 Fifine tripping with her little bare feet 
 across the yard till she stood by the well. 
 Then, suddenly, he became an actor in the
 
 BY THE WELL. 13 
 
 drama. Starting like a young tiger from 
 his lair, the lad pounced upon the child, 
 seized her in his strong hands, then, hold- 
 ing her aloft for a moment, he deliberately- 
 dropped her down into the well. A plash 
 into the deep dark waters below, and all 
 was over. Pierre looked in, however ; 
 and, seeing something white still flutter- 
 ing at the bottom, he remembered the 
 pitcher, and though not versed in Roman 
 history, he asserted his Gallic blood by 
 throwing it down upon the unhappy little 
 maiden. All this he accomplished with 
 the calm cruelty of a dreamer, but also 
 with such a sense of exultation and 
 triumph that it awoke him, and lo and 
 behold you ! there was little Fifine with 
 her pitcher, standing in the moonlight by 
 his side. 
 
 Such as he had seen her in his dreams, 
 such as he saw her daily, she stood there 
 with her hair falling about her face, her 
 torn bodice, her scanty petticoats, and 
 her little bare feet. How the little 
 traitress had got in, whilst he, the care-
 
 14 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 less dragon, slept, Pierre could not 
 imagine ; but she was evidently quite un- 
 conscious of his presence, and he never 
 stirred, and scarcely breathed, lest she 
 should find him out too soon and cheat 
 him of his revenge. Remember that 
 hatred had been taught him, and not 
 merely hatred, but also abhorrence and 
 contempt. Such mercy as is shown to 
 wolves and their young, he held, figura- 
 tively speaking, to be the due of the widow 
 and her children. 
 
 No presentiment of impending calamity 
 came to little Fifine in this hour. The 
 child set her pitcher down very softly, 
 shook back the hanging hair from her 
 face, and peeped into the well. Poor 
 little things ! She liked to look thus into 
 that deep dark hole, with its damp walls 
 clothed with the lonof green hart's-tono^ue 
 that had betrayed her. She liked also 
 to look at that white circle of water 
 below ; for you see, if there was a wrath- 
 ful Adam by her ready for violence and 
 revenge, she was a daughter of Eve, and,
 
 BY THE WELL. 15 
 
 Eve-like, enjoyed the sweet flavour of this 
 forbidden fruit. But her mother's last 
 behest had been, '' Do not be long;" and 
 Fifine's obedience being quickened by a 
 little personal fear, which long impunity 
 had not been able to deaden, she now set 
 about her task. She softly lowered one 
 of Maitre Louis Lenud's two new buckets 
 — " the little thief," thought Pierre wrath- 
 fully — dipped it into the water below, 
 then carefully drew it up again ; and all 
 this Fifine did with ease, for, slight 
 though she looked, she had the strength 
 of a peasant girl. When she had filled 
 her pitcher the child turned to go, and 
 now Pierre, anxious to see the mode of 
 her exit, stretched out his head and 
 watched her motions eagerly. Fifine 
 crossed the court as noiselessly as if she 
 had been her own little ghost; but when she 
 had reached the pear-tree she rested for 
 awhile within its deep black shadow. 
 '' The pitcher is heavy ; it will be lighter 
 by-and-by, Fifine," grimly thought Pierre ; 
 " but which way art thou going ? not over
 
 i6 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 the wall with a pitcher full of water ?" 
 Fifine did not keep him long in sus- 
 pense. She took up her pitcher again 
 and walked straight on to the river. 
 Pierre stared amazed ; then suddenly he 
 understood it all. There w^as an old 
 forgotten gap in the hedge beyond 
 the little stream, and through that gap 
 Fifine and her pitcher nightly invaded 
 Maitre Louis Lenud's territory. Her 
 back was now turned to the well ; besides, 
 she was too far away to hear ; so having 
 first picked up a sharp flint which lay in 
 the grass by him, Pierre rose and bided 
 his opportunity. Fifine went on till she 
 had half crossed a bridge-like plank which 
 spanned the stream, then, as her ill-luck 
 would have it, she stood still to listen to 
 the distant hooting of an owl, in the 
 old church tower on the hill. Pierre 
 saw the child's black fimire in the moon- 
 light, standing out clearly against the 
 background of grey willows ; he saw the 
 white plank, and the dark river tipped 
 with litrht flowincr on beneath it. Above
 
 BY THE WELL. 17 
 
 all, he saw Fifine's glazed pitcher, bright 
 as silver : he was an unerring marksman, 
 and took a sure aim at this. The flint sped 
 swiftly through the air — there was a crash, 
 a low cry, and all was suddenly still. 
 Both Fifine and her pitcher had tumbled 
 into the river below — and vanished there. 
 
 II. 
 
 Pierre was stunned at first. He could 
 not believe the truth of what his eyes 
 had seen. It had all been so sudden that he 
 looked vacantly for Fifine, expecting to see 
 her climbing up hastily the opposite bank 
 on her way to the gap in the hedge. But he 
 saw nothing — nothing save the moon 
 shining in the sky, the grey willows, and 
 the river flowing on, and above it the lone 
 bare plank on which Fifine had been stand- 
 ing. In one moment, with one spring, 
 Pierre had reached the stream and was 
 wading through it ; and there, in its shallow 
 bed, with her pale face turned upwards, 
 her little hand still grasping the pitcher, 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 l8 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 lay Fifine ! Some broad trailing bushes 
 had caught her garments, and prevented 
 her from drifting down with the current 
 of the river. Pierre snatched her up and 
 shook her, with mingled despair and grief. 
 Fifine's eyelids fluttered ; she heaved 
 two or three deep sighs, and uttered one 
 little moan ; then her head sank back 
 heavily, and she lay a dead weight 
 in the lad's arms. He thought her really 
 dead, and he felt half frantic with remorse 
 and fear. He had meant to break the 
 pitcher, and he had killed the child. He 
 heard her mother's shriek, his father's 
 growl, and he saw a young Pierre Lenud 
 ascending the steps of the guillotine — all 
 in one moment ; and all were so terribly 
 real that he stood in the cold river with 
 Fifine still dripping in his arms, nor 
 thought of doing anything till she moaned 
 again. With a deep sigh of relief he got 
 out and laid her in the high grass. Fifine 
 was not dead, but she shivered from head 
 to foot and looked ghastly white. He 
 felt her all over, in search of some injured
 
 BY THE WELL. 19 
 
 limb, but she whimpered pitifully that the 
 stone had hit her ankle. '' No, it hit the 
 pitcher," jealously corrected Pierre, who 
 would not hear his skill as a marksman 
 impugned ; but that, in breaking, had hit 
 Fifine. And now, where was her ankle ? 
 
 She held out her bare foot, and, seeing 
 it dabbled in gore, Pierre felt no better 
 than a murderer. In vain he washed the 
 wound with water from the river ; the 
 blood still flowed on, and then the child 
 still shook and shivered like an aspen 
 leaf. But one course lay before him : to 
 put her on his back and take her home 
 to her mother : and Pierre did so. 
 
 " You cannot pass through the hedge ; 
 you are too big," said little Fifine, faintly ; 
 but, with a groan, Pierre said they would 
 go through the postern door — how he 
 wished it had never been locked ! — and he 
 took her up. 
 
 " I want my pitcher, please," said 
 Fifine, still speaking very faintly. With 
 another groan Pierre replied that her 
 pitcher was broken ; and without heeding 
 
 c 2
 
 ao FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 the child, whose mind seemed confused 
 with the fall, and who still claimed her 
 pitcher, he waded back through the river, 
 crossed the court, unbarred the postern 
 door, and took her at once to the low, 
 thatched cottage of the Delpierres. 
 
 Pierre crossed a little orchard of apple- 
 trees, pushed a low door open, stooped to 
 enter, and found himself in a dark, bare 
 room, where a pale, worn woman sat 
 spinning by rushlight. He quickly spied 
 out a low pallet in which the two youngest 
 children lay fast asleep, and, setting down 
 Fifine upon it, he said, briefly : '' Fifine 
 fell into the river, and her pitcher is 
 broken." 
 
 The amazed widow, who had started 
 up on his entrance, looked at him, then 
 at the child. She saw Fifine sitting on 
 the edge of the bed, with the wet hair 
 clinging around her pale face, and her 
 clothes all dripping, and her little, bleed- 
 ing foot hanging down ; and she set up a 
 cry of wrath and grief. 
 
 " I only meant to hit the pitcher," sul- 
 lenly said Pierre.
 
 BY THE WELL. 21 
 
 This was pouring oil on a raging fire. 
 So he had broken the pitcher ! — the 
 widow's pitcher ! Did he know how many 
 nights she had sat up spinning, whilst he 
 was snoring, to earn that pitcher ? Did 
 
 he know Pierre sternly interrupted 
 
 her, to say that if she did not at once 
 dress Fifine's foot and give her dry clothes, 
 he should just take the child home, put 
 her in his bed, and do it all himself. His 
 look and tone mastered her ; she turned 
 to Fifine ; but on seeing the bleeding 
 wound, her fury woke anew, and, raising 
 a threatening hand towards Pierre : 
 
 '' Coward !" she said, " coward !" 
 
 " It does not hurt me much,'* faintly 
 put in Fifine. 
 
 " It does hurt thee," groaned Pierre ; 
 " and I am a coward — though I did not 
 
 mean that — but thou shalt have a new 
 pitcher, and money, and clothes, if only 
 thou wilt not tell," added Pierre, unable to 
 forget his grim father spite Fifine's pain. 
 " I shall not tell," replied Fifine, look- 
 ing all the time, thought Pierre, like
 
 22 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 a poor dying bird ; but the mother 
 turned on him fiercely, bade him keep 
 his pitcher, and begone. His father had 
 robbed her of the well, but this place 
 was hers. 
 
 " The well is our well, and thou hast 
 no right to it," doggedly said Pierre ; and, 
 scorning to ask his old enemy for mercy, 
 he turned his back upon her and was 
 gone. 
 
 Pierre looked very haggard at breakfast 
 the next morning, and Maitre Louis very 
 cheerful. The fragments of the pitcher 
 and a pool of blood convinced him that 
 Fifine had walked on broken glass. She 
 would probably be maimed for life, he 
 said, with a wink ; and, at all events, she 
 could come no more to the well. Pierre 
 thrust his soup-plate away, and said he 
 could not eat, his head ached so ; and 
 Maitre Louis contemptuously called him 
 pnule mouilleel Wet hen! and gobbled 
 down his son's portion lest it should 
 be wasted. Pierre scarcely cared now 
 whether the widow told bis father or not —
 
 BY THE WELL. 23 
 
 SO distracted did lie feel. She did not 
 betray liim, however — perhaps for pru- 
 dential reasons : and Fifine was not 
 maimed for life, but she lay in a burn- 
 ing fever for many days, during which 
 the family did not lack for pure water 
 from the well. Every morning the widow 
 found a pitcherf ull of it at her door, and 
 she so far accepted this peace-offering, 
 that she put the pitcher out every night 
 for the invisible brownie to replenish it. 
 
 Maitre Louis Lenud went off to Fontaine 
 on a mysterious errand one Sunday after- 
 noon, and his son, finding himself alone 
 and unwatched, at once slipped out to see 
 how Fifine was going on. The cottage- 
 door was on the latch. A little feeble 
 voice asked, " Who was there ?" when 
 Pierre entered. He saw no one at first ; 
 then a little pale, pinched face peered up 
 at him from one of the beds. *' Holy 
 Virgin!" he cried, aghast; "when didst 
 thou eat, Fifine ? When didst thou eat ?" 
 Fifine faintly replied that she had eaten 
 yesterday evening. Pierre heard her, and
 
 24 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 vanislied. When he came back he carried 
 one of Maitre Louis's huge twelve-pound 
 loaves under his left arm, and a large 
 jugfull of cider in his right hand. Fifine 
 burst out crying at the sight of the food. 
 She thought of her mother and of her 
 little brothers, and of their joy when they 
 would come home and see these good 
 things ; for Fifine's illness, by keeping 
 the widow within, had deprived her of 
 field work, and, spinning having failed 
 her at the same time, grim hunger had 
 entered the poor cottage. Pierre sat 
 down on the edge of the bed and fed 
 Fifine, sparingly at first, then with a more 
 liberal hand ; and, as she eat and drank, 
 Fifine got talkative and tipsy, said Pierre, 
 and Fifine laughed, with her nightcap 
 rather on one side, and said. Yes, it was 
 the cider ; she never drank cider ; they 
 sold their apples, you &ee. But Pierre 
 looked very grave, and bade Fifine attend 
 to him. He took five bright new napoleons 
 out of his pocket, and showed them to 
 her, and whilst she rolled her eyes in
 
 BY THE WELL. 25 
 
 amazement at tlie sight, he unfolded his 
 plans. That money was for her mother. 
 She was a good spinner. The best in 
 Manneville, put in Fifine, Just so. Well, 
 then, let her pay him, Pierre, back in 
 spinning. Fifine got much excited. She 
 sat up in bed with her tangled hair hang- 
 ing round her thin flushed cheeks, and 
 her black eyes sparkling. What yarn 
 would he have ? twenty-two ? That was 
 for sheets, she added, with that acuteness 
 which poverty gives to children, making 
 men and women of them before their time ; 
 twenty-six was for table linen, you know. 
 So much finer ! As she made this artful 
 suggestion — for her mother was the only 
 spinner of twenty-six in all Manneville — 
 Fifine looked at Pierre with an eagerness 
 he could not fathom. He was shrewd, 
 but his was only male shrewdness, and 
 Fifine's was feminine ; and just as a 
 woman's voice is an octave higher than 
 man's, it is said, so is her wit keener and 
 more subtle than his. Pierre fell into the 
 trap, and gave ample orders for twenty-
 
 26 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 six. The five napoleons were the hoard- 
 ings of his lifetime, and he was too true a 
 Norman not to be fond of his money ; but 
 he could be liberal as an emperor when 
 his heart was stirred, and both his heart 
 and his conscience were touched in this 
 case. Yet Pierre felt uneasy as he left 
 Fifine. There was little doubt that if 
 Maitre Louis discovered how his son had 
 disposed of his money, he would attempt 
 to fulfill his old promise of breaking the 
 young man's bones ; but it was not that 
 discovery Pierre dreaded just then. The 
 cider barrel would tell no tales ; but how 
 was the missing loaf to be accounted for to 
 that keen widowed housekeeper, his father ? 
 Once more, however, the lad's sin es- 
 caped detection. When supper-time came 
 round, Maitre Louis Lenud cleared his 
 throat, gave his deepest growl, and in- 
 formed his son that he was going to be 
 married next Saturday to a widow in 
 Fontaine. Pierre was silent. ** And you 
 had better behave well to your stepmother, 
 that is all," said his father, with the wink 
 of his left eye.
 
 BY THE WELL. 27 
 
 Madame Louis Lenud proved to be a 
 thin, clever little woraaii of fifty, with a 
 sharp brown eye, and plenty of money. 
 She came resolved to rule her husband and 
 to fascinate her stepson, and the latter 
 portion of her project was all but accom- 
 plished, when Maitre Louis, detecting her 
 aim, resolved to defeat it by separating 
 these unexpected allies. He could not 
 decently bid Madame Lenud go back to 
 Fontaine after a fortnight's sojourn in 
 Manneville; so he sent off Pierre to man- 
 age a distant farm before the honeymoon 
 was out. The young man went, and when 
 he came back at the end of four years, and 
 settled down once more in Manneville, it 
 was because Maitre Louis Lenud was lying 
 in the churchyard on the hill. 
 
 The first act of Pierre's new reign was 
 to unbar the postern door, and tell Fifine 
 that she might come and draw water as 
 often as she pleased. The second was not 
 of so gracious a kind, being a dire quarrel 
 with his old ally — his stepmother. It hap- 
 pened thus : Madame Lenud was sitting
 
 28 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 by ttie fire-side in the great stone kitchen 
 knittinof woollen stockinets for Maitre 
 Pierre, who sat opposite her smoking his 
 pipe, and looking rather moodily at the logs 
 of wood blazing on the hearth. He was 
 twenty-two now, tall, broad-shouldered, 
 handsome, strong, and his own master. 
 He was wealthy ; he owned field after field 
 of corn ; whole orchards full of apples were 
 his, and horses, and sheep, and cows, and 
 noble Norman mares, with their foals, 
 grazed in his rich pastures ; but young 
 Maitre Pierre, thinking of the late owner 
 of these things, wondered why the old 
 house could not have held them both — why 
 the son could not enjoy wealth and freedom 
 till the father was nailed down in his coffin, 
 and safe in his grave. Madame Lenud 
 knitting in her corner looked keenly at her 
 stepson. She saw his heavy brow, his deep- 
 set eyes sullenly bent, his handsome mouth 
 firmly compressed, and fancying she knew 
 what ailed him, remembering also that she 
 had an unmarried niece in Fontaine, she 
 said, shrewdly :
 
 BY THE WELL. 29 
 
 " Thou must soon take a wife, Pierre." 
 Pierre liad had his share of the word 
 '' must." On hearing it he frowned, and 
 said : 
 
 " I shall marry when I am thirty." 
 "I say, thou must take a wife — a 
 young wife — rich and pretty," persisted 
 Madame Lenud. Now, womankind had 
 no attractions for young Maitre Pierre. 
 He could look with impunity on the 
 prettiest face of any rosy Norman girl. 
 He meant to wed, of course — kings 
 marry — but in due time. 
 
 " I shall see about that when I am 
 thirty," was his reply. 
 
 Madame Lenud turned wrathful, and 
 asked her stepson if he thought she was 
 going to stay and manage for him till 
 he was thirty, when her own house and 
 friends were all waiting for her in Fon- 
 taine, and he knew she had always hated 
 Manneville. Pierre's answer was that 
 Madame Lenud might go back to Fon- 
 taine whenever she pleased to do so ; and 
 Madame Lenud, taking him at his word.
 
 30 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 went the very next morning. The breach 
 was made up in time; but Madame Le- 
 nud no more attempted to interfere with 
 her stepson's celibacy. 
 
 Young Maitre Pierre led an austere sort 
 of life, and took pride in it. He showed 
 the world around him that his own will, 
 and not his father's, had curbed him in. 
 He had no vices, no weaknesses, and 
 continued to look coldly on the beauty 
 of Manneville, which, to say the truth, 
 happened to be just then at rather a low 
 ebb. 
 
 Two years after Madame Lenud had 
 left the farm, Fifine was alone in the 
 cottage, sitting on the edge of the bed, 
 and mending her skirt, the only one 
 which Fifine had, when the door opened, 
 and a tall, dark young man walked in. 
 She let her skirt fall down hastily over 
 her bare feet, but not before young Mai- 
 tre Pierre had seen the deep scar above 
 the left foot. He saw it, and winced. 
 If there was a deed in his life he wished 
 to forget, it was that of which this scar
 
 BY THE WELL. 31 
 
 reminded him. Fifine gave tlie stern- 
 looking young man a frightened look. 
 At his father's death he had volunteered 
 a fresh order for spinning, and advanced 
 both flax and money, but the widow had 
 been ailing, and unable to fulfill her 
 promise. Fifine thought Maitre Pierre, 
 who never came near them, nor took 
 the least notice of her when she went 
 to the well, had surely come to get his 
 money back, and she stammered an ex- 
 cuse, which he at once interrupted. He 
 was in no hurry, he said. He came with 
 a message from his stepmother. She 
 had, from opposition to her husband, 
 always sided with the Delpierres; she had, 
 also, it seems, taken a sort of fancy to 
 Fifine, for she now sent to know if she 
 would go and be her servant in Fon- 
 taine. 
 
 A sudden flush overspread Fifine's pale 
 face, and hght came to her sunken eyes. 
 
 " What wao^es did Madame Lenud 
 give?" she asked, eagerly. 
 
 " Ten francs a month," replied Maitre
 
 32 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 Pierre ; and looking at the poor, thin, 
 half -starved, and half -naked little crea- 
 ture before him, he thought it was a 
 good deal more than she was worth. He 
 had not seen her of late, or, seeing her, 
 he had not looked at her. He now did 
 so, keenly. Whilst he was scanning her 
 little figure, with a half -pitying, half- 
 scornful eye, thinking, " and is it to 
 that these Delpierres have come ?" Fifine, 
 still sitting on the edge of the bed, with her 
 hands clasped around her knees, went 
 through silent struggles of which Maitre 
 Pierre had no conception. She thought 
 of leaving the mother who scolded and 
 who loved her; the little brothers who 
 tormented, but could not bear to be with- 
 out her ; and Fifine's heart felt very full, 
 even though the ten francs a month would 
 be as a small fortune for the widow and 
 her children. But this was not all. 
 Fifine dearly loved her miserable home. 
 There was but one window to the front 
 room of the cottage ; it had panes of the 
 dullest glass ; it gave little light, and that
 
 BY THE WELL. 33 
 
 little the deep low eaves of the thatched 
 roof made less, yet through that window 
 Fifine looked out on a little world which , 
 was more to her than all his possessions 
 to Maitre Pierre, for through that window 
 she saw the narrow orchard of cider apple 
 trees, where she had sat and played alone 
 in the grass, or sung her little baby 
 brothers to sleep as long as she could re- 
 member. Oh ! how beautiful was that 
 orchard in spring, when the trees were in 
 bloom, and the ground beneath was white 
 as after a fall of snow. How beautiful ! 
 and then there was the linnet's nest in the 
 pear-tree; only a week ago her brother 
 Andr^ had robbed it, and put the young 
 birds in a cage which hung close by the 
 cottage window, and the old birds had 
 come and fed the little captives, to the 
 admiration and wonder of Fifine, who 
 could have sat hours watching them. 
 There were other delights connected with 
 this spot. Her mother's cousin, Fifine' s 
 godfather, had promised them a young 
 pig the day before ; her mother was now 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 gone to fetch it, with the two little 
 brothers, and Fifine had not been able 
 to sleep all night for thinking of that pig's 
 advent. What wonderful contrivances 
 she had imagined during those waking 
 hours ! What a stye she and her brothers 
 were to make ! AYhat lapsfull of acorns 
 they were to pick up on the road to 
 Fontaine, in order to feed that pig, which 
 was to be the fattest and the fairest that 
 had ever been seen ! And now was she 
 to bid adieu to all these joys ? not to see 
 her mother and her little brothers, unless 
 once or twice a year maybe, and go and 
 be a servant in Fontaine, which was dull 
 as a town, they said, far away from friends, 
 pigs, and linnets' nests ? 
 
 "Well !" said Maitre Pierre impatiently. 
 
 " I shall go," replied Fifine, gulping 
 down the tears which would come and 
 blind her. " I shall go at once before 
 mother comes back." 
 
 Fifine felt, perhaps, she would not have 
 the heart to do it, if she waited till her 
 mother and her little brothers — and the
 
 BY THE WELL. 35 
 
 pig — returned . So, jumping up hurriedly, 
 she tied up a scanty bundle. Maitre 
 Pierre saw and felt the heroism of the brave 
 little creature. He laid his hand on her 
 shoulder, and said approvingly : 
 
 '' Thou art a good girl, Fifine, and thy 
 mother shall have more spinning to do 
 whilst thou art away, and thy little 
 brothers may come and have some of my 
 best apples whenever they choose." 
 
 Fifine was stooping over her bundle. 
 She turned round, and softly laid her little 
 pale lips on the hand which still rested 
 upon her shoulder. 
 
 "Oh, Fifine!" ruefully said Maitre 
 Pierre, '' that is the hand which broke thy 
 pitcher." 
 
 But Fifine, parting the brown hair from 
 her face, to see him better, looked up at 
 him wistfully, and smiled, though her eyes 
 were still full of tears. 
 
 Fifine was soon ready. She left the 
 cottage door on the latch, and, with a 
 wistful look and a sigh, she crossed the 
 orchard. The young linnets in the cage 
 
 D 2
 
 36 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 were crying clamorously for food, and the 
 old birds were feeding them as Fifine 
 turned her back on her home. A long 
 walk of two leagues in the hot sun lay 
 before her, but, though she did not shrink 
 from it, she had not to undergo that 
 fatigue. She was scarcely out of Manne- 
 ville when a horse and cart overtook her, 
 and Basile, Maitre Pierre Lenud's plough- 
 boy, told her to get up. Fifine obeyed, 
 a little shamefaced at receiving so much 
 honour, but proud and glad too ; for the 
 people who met them, and saw her in so 
 strange an equipage, laughed, and said 
 the quarrel was surely made up between 
 the Lenuds and the Delpierres. Un- 
 luckily, Basile, who was a rough, coarse 
 lad, jeeringly replied, *' Yes, Maitre Pierre 
 is going to marry Fifine," and by that 
 taunt turned all her little triumph to tears 
 and humiliation. 
 
 Fifine' s journey to Fontaine was at- 
 tended with some unpleasant consequences. 
 On seeing her in rags, Madame Lenud at 
 once deducted two francs, a month from
 
 BY THE WELL. 37 
 
 her wages, and this breach of faith led to 
 another breach between herself and her 
 stepson which it took years to heal. The 
 widow Delpierre, too, on coming home — 
 without the pig, for the cousin broke his 
 word shamelessly — and learning that 
 Fifine was gone, was much incensed, and, 
 instead of sending for her daughter, railed 
 at Maitre Pierre. His having sent Basile 
 and the cart to take up Fifine and convey 
 her to Fontaine, she represented as little 
 better than an abduction. She indig- 
 nantly rejected the proffered spinning, 
 and so revived the dormant feud that her 
 eldest boy Andr^, who was a lad of spirit, 
 took it up on his own account, and, under 
 pretence of going to the well, slily per- 
 petrated many acts of petty mischief. 
 Maitre Pierre was blind, or seemed to be 
 so ; but having one day caught the offen- 
 der in the act of breaking up a hen's nest, 
 he said not a word, but took him up in 
 his strong arms and put him out of the 
 postern door, which he barred and bolted. 
 The boy went home with a piteous tale
 
 38 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 of ill-usage. The widow was clamorous 
 about her wrono^s till all Manneville ranor 
 with them. But Maitre Pierre was obdu- 
 rate ; the postern door remained bolted, 
 and the old quarrel about the well was 
 renewed in all its bitterness. 
 
 HI. 
 
 On a cold winter's mornins^ Maitre 
 Pierre Lenud told Basile to harness La 
 Grise, his stout ISTorman mare, and put 
 her to the covered cart. And where 
 could Maitre Pierre be going on this 
 dreary day ? asked Madeleine, standing 
 still in the middle of the great farm 
 kitchen, to put the question. Maitre 
 Pierre laconically answered that he was 
 going to Fontaine. Why, there would be 
 a snowstorm ! argued Madeleine. Maitre 
 Pierre looked at the patch of dull grey 
 sky beyond the one deep wide window of 
 the kitchen. '' Yes, it would snow," he 
 said, throwing a heavy woollen cloak 
 around him, and as horse and cart were both
 
 BY THE WELL. 39 
 
 ready in the yard, lie got up and cracked 
 liis whip. La Grise answered with a loud 
 neigh ; a toss of her shaggy mane and a 
 great jingling of bells, and they were 
 gone. 
 
 Now what did he want in Fontaine ? 
 grumbled Madeleine indignantly ; and 
 Basile, a tall, fair, and slim young Nor- 
 man, sententiously replied, " Nothing.'* 
 But tapping his forehead, he added, that 
 when the master had anything there, why 
 that thing must be, that was all. 
 
 Basile was right so far that Maitre 
 Pierre had no particular business in 
 Fontaine ; but perhaps he was tired of the 
 warmth and comfort within — perhaps he 
 wanted to exchange the roaring of the 
 logs on the hearth of the great stone 
 kitchen for the chill breath of this bleak 
 winter's day. If so, he had his wish. 
 
 The road from Manneville to Fontaine, 
 which is so beautiful and lovely in the 
 summer time, looks very wild, barren, and 
 desolate in winter. Not a farm, not a 
 homestead, not a cottage, do you see —
 
 40 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 nothing but the sky above, and beneath 
 slope after slope on your right, and on your 
 left undulating plains that stretch for ever 
 away to a low misty horizon. Scarcely 
 had the young farmer got on this road 
 when the snow began. It fell slowly at 
 first ; then it grew thicker and thicker ; 
 then the green fields vanished, the brown 
 leafless oaks turned white, and it was as if 
 a vast pall had been thrown over all things, 
 so pale, so silent, so drearily calm grew 
 the whole landscape. And still the snow 
 fell on thick, noiseless, and unwearied. 
 
 Maitre Pierre had reached a thorough- 
 fare, and was still about halfway to Fon- 
 taine, when he saw a woman sitting on 
 the last step of the old stone cross which 
 seems to guard that lonely spot. Her 
 cloak and hood were white with snow, 
 her head was bowed over her knees to 
 shun the blinding drift which the wind 
 sent full in her face; yet bleak though 
 the spot was, she sat there like one too 
 wearied to go on. The sound of La 
 Grise's bells roused the wayfarer, for she
 
 BY THE WELL. 41 
 
 looked up. The cart was standing still in 
 the middle of the road, and Maitre Pierre 
 was hailing her and asking if she would have 
 a lift on to Fontaine. She looked at him 
 awhile. The handsome bronze face which 
 she saw beneath a fur cap was honest, 
 though somewhat stern. The woman 
 rose without a word, handed Maitre Pierre 
 a little basket which she was carrrying, 
 then lightly climbed up and sat down by 
 his side. La G-rise went off again, and 
 for awhile the jingling of her bells alone 
 was heard. 
 
 " Thy cloak is all wet with snow," at 
 length said Maitre Pierre ; " take it off 
 and have mine. There is a blanket under 
 the seat that will do me." 
 
 The stranger obeyed. Whilst she un- 
 did the broad silver clasp which fastened 
 the hooded cloak around her neck, Maitre 
 Pierre, holding the reins with one hand 
 — La Grise was very good, but her master 
 never trusted her — groped with the other 
 under the seat. As he dragged forth a 
 shaggy covering that had seen some
 
 43 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 wear, and donned it instead of the woollen 
 houppelande wliich lie handed over to his 
 companion, the hood of her cloak fell back, 
 and he saw a young face, very sweet and 
 fair, and eyes so beautiful that he sat 
 staring, with his blanket half off and half 
 on, like one bewitched. He let her take 
 off her cloak and put on his, and he never 
 assisted her, never moved, never spoke. 
 The young girl returned his look very 
 steadily for a few seconds ; then bending 
 her gaze on the snow-covered landscape, 
 she folded her hands upon her lap in an 
 attitude which, like her whole bearing, was 
 both modest and composed. After awhile, 
 during which Maitre Pierre's eyes had not 
 left her, he drew a deep breath and said, 
 abruptly, "Who art thou?" 
 
 The girl looked round slowly at him. 
 
 '* Why do you ask ?" she said. 
 
 The blood rushed up to Maitre Pierre's 
 dark cheek and dyed it crimson. The 
 truth : '* I ask because I want to see thee 
 again," stuck in his throat and would not 
 pass his lips. She waited for his reply ;
 
 BY THE WELL, 43 
 
 then, seeing tliat none came, she gave 
 him a look of quiet scorn, and turning 
 away said, very composedly, " I took you 
 upon trust, so must you take me." 
 
 Maitre Pierre, unused to such curt 
 replies, bit his lip, and stared at her 
 angrily ; but the young girl once more 
 sat in her quiet attitude, looking straight 
 before her and without heeding him. 
 Spite all his w^rath Maitre Pierre could 
 not help looking at her. He did not 
 mind the snow which still fell on ; he 
 did not mind La Grise, though he vaguely 
 heard the jingling of her bells ; he minded 
 nothing save that young face with the 
 bloom of a wild rose upon it, and from 
 which he could not take his eyes. 
 
 " I shall get down here," said the 
 young girl, and, looking round, Maitre 
 Pierre saw that, slowly though he had 
 driven, they were near Fontaine. It did 
 not occur to him to remonstrate or dis- 
 pute her will. He mechanically took 
 back his cloak and gave her hers ; he 
 helped her to alight, he handed her her
 
 44 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 basket, he looked after her as she struck 
 into a path on her left, after briefly thank- 
 ing him, and he never so much as uttered 
 a word. It seemed as if speech and 
 thought and power had all left him, 
 or been taken from him in one terrible 
 sweep. 
 
 Maitre Pierre could scarcely eat or drink 
 that day, nor could he sleep that night. 
 Yet he did not rightly know what ailed him. 
 He was feverish, and thought he had taken 
 cold, which did not prevent him from going 
 to Fontaine the next morninof. He went 
 dail}^ for weeks, but neither by the cross 
 nor in the street of Fontaine, nor behind the 
 windows of its little brick houses, did he 
 ever see a sweet young face and beautiful 
 eyes : they had vanished like the snow of 
 that winter's morning. 
 
 The stormy element is part of man's 
 nature : and when his outward life does not 
 supply food for that craving — when war, 
 revolutions, and the world's great drama do 
 not go on around him, but only reach him in 
 dull sounds like the deadened roar of a
 
 BY THE WELL. 45 
 
 distant battle — lie is apt to seek for turmoil 
 within the world of his own heart. Hence, 
 secluded spots, where the flow of life is 
 monotonous, so often see the greatest 
 tragedies. There hate rises strong, and 
 there, too, love, rocky though may be the 
 soil in which it grows, can strike roots that 
 are both fast and deep. Maitre Pierre be- 
 came very fitful and moody about this time. 
 Old Madeleine wondered to Basile what 
 ailed the master, and Basile replied 
 " temper," and Maitre Pierre being a 
 rebel, still tried to cheat himself into the 
 belief that it was fever which brought the 
 girl's face for ever before his eyes. He had 
 heard that, when people took low fever, 
 certain fancies were apt to cling to them, 
 and such he held to be his case. You see, 
 though he was twenty-eight, he had no past 
 experience to fall back upon, and novels 
 being unknown in Manneville, Maitre 
 Pierre had not that accurate knowledge of 
 the early symptoms of his disease which he 
 must needs have acquired had he been a 
 member of a novel-reading community.
 
 46 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 Old Madeleine, being a woman, was more 
 clear-sighted, and made at least a shrewd 
 p'uess. She was alone in the kitchen with 
 her master on an afternoon of clear cold 
 frost. He sat by the fire smoking, and 
 looking thin, worn, and unhappy. After 
 watching him awhile, Madeleine put down 
 the copper saucepan she was scouring, to 
 say, *' Maitre Pierre, you want a wife." 
 
 Maitre Pierre started amazed, then 
 blushed like a boy, for, as Madeleine uttered 
 the word *' wife," the fair face and the 
 beautiful eyes flashed before him, and, for 
 a moment, he saw them by the fire-side, 
 just there opposite him, — and they were 
 his. The next moment indeed they were 
 gone, and he saw Madeleine's faded face 
 and keen look in their stead. Maitre 
 Pierre muttered something: about the heat 
 of the fire, and, rising, walked out into the 
 courtyard. It was very cold and still. 
 The hens were already going to roost, the 
 ice crackled under the young farmer's heavy 
 shoes, the air was keen and frosty, and the 
 last pale flush of sunset was fading from
 
 BY THE WELL. 47 
 
 the wintry sky above the little river. But 
 Madeleine's words had set the young man's 
 blood on fire, and put the sweet fervour 
 of a summer noon in his heart. He knew 
 what ailed him ; he knew what he wanted ; 
 he knew what, cost what it might, he was 
 resolved to win. Restless, though happy, 
 he walked up and down the yard, when 
 suddenly he paused in amazement ; for 
 there he saw her standing before him in 
 her hood and cloak. Close by the old well 
 she stood, and but that her clothes were 
 dry, she might have come up out of it for 
 all Maitre Pierre knew. 
 
 " I am Josephine Delpierre, your step- 
 mother's servant," she said ; " I left a 
 napkin of hers in the cart on the day when 
 you took me on to Fontaine, and I have 
 come for it. I spoke to you as I came in 
 at the gate, but you did not hear me." 
 
 Maitre Pierre never moved whilst she 
 spoke, and he did not answer her at once. 
 " Come with me," he said at length. 
 
 Josephine obeyed, silently, taking off her 
 black sabots at the kitchen door. Madeleine
 
 48 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 was gone, and Maitre Pierre said they must 
 have a light, but he seemed unable to find 
 the candlestick till the girl impatiently 
 pointed it out to him on the mantelshelf. 
 He then took it down, lit the candle, and, 
 saying the linen was upstairs, he showed 
 her the way. She followed him, making 
 no more noise in her little felt slippers 
 than if she had been barefoot. The farm 
 of the Lenuds was a large one ; to Josephine 
 it seemed like a town. Up the old oak 
 staircase, with heavy balusters, they went, 
 through store-rooms which could have fed 
 all Manneville, Josephine thought, so full 
 of bacon and hams, and dried vegetables, 
 and pears and apples, they were; through 
 other rooms again with large old presses, 
 whose locked doors told nothing of the 
 treasures within, or through bedrooms 
 with big square beds piled high with 
 mattresses, which showed that the Lenuds 
 could maintain a large family, and that if 
 they did not have such, it was not for want 
 of means. They went on till Josephine was 
 almost wearied, and began to look timor-
 
 BY THE WELL. ^g 
 
 ously at these great gloomy chambers, 
 where Maitre Pierre's tallow candle shed 
 but a dull light. At length, when they 
 reached the last room, and not till then, 
 Maitre Pierre stood still, fumbled in his 
 pocket for the key of a large armoire, in 
 which the table-linen was kept, did not 
 find the key, called Madeleine, who, being 
 deaf, did not answer, and finally, as Jose- 
 phine began looking at the door, discovered 
 that he had got the key all the time. The 
 armoire on being opened displayed a goodly 
 stock of table-linen all new, all spotlessly 
 white, all shining damask of the richest 
 patterns. But though Maitre Pierre looked 
 through the whole stock he could not dis- 
 cover Madame Lenud's missing napkin, 
 which, considering that he had never found 
 it in the cart and never brought it home, 
 was not surprising. Still he seemed as- 
 tonished. He remembered it and its 
 pattern — an oak-leaf and acorn — so well, 
 would Josephine come and look for it with 
 Madeleine some other day. Josephine said 
 neither Yes nor No, but turned to the door, 
 
 VOL I. B
 
 50 FORGET ME NOTS. 
 
 and Maitre Pierre followed her out, locking 
 all tlie doors which he had found unlocked 
 behind him ; many of the keys were rusty, 
 so this took time. As they passed through 
 the room in which the fruit was stored, he 
 took down four large Calville apples — 
 beautiful, glossy, ribbed apples — fit for the 
 table of a prince, and without looking at 
 her he said, " Take these to thy little 
 brothers." 
 
 Josephine took the apples and put them 
 back on the shelf whence he had taken 
 them. " My brothers have done without 
 apples all these years," she said, " and 
 can do without them still." 
 
 Maitre Pierre bit his lips, but he uttered 
 not a word of justification. Perhaps he 
 could not, perhaps he would not. He only 
 said as they reached the foot of the stair- 
 case : 
 
 " It is too late for a young girl like thee 
 to go back to Fontaine on foot. I am 
 going there, and can take thee in the cart." 
 
 '* I sleep at my mother's to-night," re- 
 plied Josephine.
 
 BY THE WELL, 51 
 
 When she went out of the house, and 
 was putting on the sabots she had left at 
 the kitchen door, Maitre Pierre said : 
 " Thou canst go out by the postern door ; 
 it is the readier way." But Josephine an- 
 swered, like dear old candid La Fontaine : 
 "I like the long road best;" and out 
 through the great gate and by that long 
 road she went. 
 
 Maitre Pierre's business in Fontaine 
 that night took him no farther than the 
 cottage of the Delpierres, around which 
 he lurked as stealthily as if he had come 
 to carry out the old feud in some deadly 
 fashion or other. A feeble glow-worm 
 light stole out from the one window on 
 to the frost-bitten grass of the orchard. 
 Neither shutter nor curtain screened those 
 within from Maitre Pierre's keen eye. 
 They were gathered round the miserable 
 fire of rape stalks and roots, which the 
 poor of these regions are glad to get. It 
 crackled and sparkled on the hearth, 
 giving light, but little warmth, and Maitre 
 Pierre saw that the younger boy, who 
 
 E 2 
 
 UBRARV 
 
 UNIVERSnY OF lUUIIOli
 
 52 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 squatted on the floor in its blaze, had his 
 sister's woollen scarf tied under his chin ; 
 he saw that the sickly, shivering widow 
 had her daughter's cloak around her, and, 
 spite the silver clasps to that cloak, one 
 of those heir-looms from which the poor 
 are loath to part; he saw, too, that 
 Josephine, whose face was turned to- 
 wards him, was very poorly and thinly 
 clad. How Maitre Pierre longed to wrap 
 her once more in his own warm garments, 
 to cherish her and hers, and thrust love- 
 gifts, everything [ he had, upon her and 
 them, as he thus saw their bitter poverty ! 
 But where was the use of that longing ! 
 Josephine would rather be in that hovel 
 with those she loved than in the warm 
 farm with the man she hated, for as he 
 watched her thus, he saw her slily looking 
 at her brother Andre, who, unconscious 
 of observation, stood near the table with 
 his hands in his pockets, greedily eyeing 
 three little shrivelled pippins, which 
 Josephine had brought from Fontaine. 
 "I would not give them to my pigs,"
 
 BY THE WELL. 53 
 
 angrily thought Maitre Pierre, as he 
 turned away, '' but she thinks them 
 sweeter than my Calville apples, which 
 are just fit for a queen." 
 
 IV. 
 
 These unlucky apples stuck long in 
 Maitre Pierre's throat, but he got rid of 
 them at last, for on a pleasant sunny 
 morning, when winter was just melting 
 into spring, he went off to Fontaine to 
 make it up with his step-mother ; and 
 laden with such a peace-offering of game 
 and poultry, that Madame Lenud's heart 
 must have been a flint, indeed, if it did 
 not relent towards him. Fontaine is a 
 little town with a very wide street, on 
 either side of which there is a row of very 
 little and very bright brick houses. Fon- 
 taine has a notary with a gilt scutcheon 
 hanging over his door : a lady bookseller, 
 who deals in books on one side of the 
 shop, and in bonnets on the other ; and a 
 linen-draper, who wears a velveteen jacket
 
 54 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 and a slouched hat, and who, when he 
 stands smoking on his doorstep with his 
 hands in his pockets, looks like a Neapo- 
 litan brigand " on guard," whilst his 
 comrades may be supposed to be making 
 up bales of the goods within. Fontaine, 
 like many little places, thinks a great deal 
 of itself, and conceit — obstinate self- 
 conceit — is the failing of its sons and 
 daughters. There was just a touch of 
 uneasiness about Maitre Pierre, as, after 
 leaving his horse and cart at the best inn, 
 he came to Madame Lenud's house. She 
 was a woman of spirit. She might de- 
 cline his offerings, and so virtually close 
 her door on him for the future. 
 
 For the present at least that door 
 opened, and behind it appeared the sweet 
 modest face of Josephine. Without giving 
 him time to speak, she said at once that 
 her mistress was out. Was she ? replied 
 Maitre Pierre. Why, then he would wait 
 for her. Josephine allowed him to pass, 
 then opened a door at the end of the little 
 hall, and wanted to show him into the
 
 BY THE WELL. 55 
 
 best room, a square apartment with six 
 yellow chairs, a round table, a gilt clock, 
 not going, and the brightest of shining 
 red floors. 
 
 " I prefer the kitchen," very coolly said 
 Maitre Pierre, and before Josephine could 
 remonstrate, he had entered that apart- 
 ment, and was sitting in Madame Lenud's 
 favourite chair by the wood fire, on which 
 a poule aux salsifis of most savoury odour 
 was stewing. That hen compelled Jose- 
 phine to keep her unbidden visitor com- 
 pany ; but she was too much engaged with 
 it to give him either a word or a look. 
 Maitre Pierre too was silent. This 
 kitchen, which was his step-mother's 
 sitting-room, was a warm and pleasant 
 place. Everything, from the bright brass 
 candlesticks on the mantelshelf down to 
 the spotless tile floor, was exquisitely neat 
 and clean. Comfort, too, abounded here. 
 That hen had a delicious smell, and 
 Madame Lenud's chair was wonderfully 
 soft and easy. How pleasant she must 
 find life, sitting in it with that brass
 
 56 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 chaufferette under her feet, and that 
 bright glimpse of the sunny garden in 
 front of her, and that young graceful 
 Josephine moving about or spinning at 
 her wheel, for that was her wheel in 
 yonder corner, Maitre Pierre felt sure. 
 What a gaunt, dreary place the kitchen 
 at the farm seemed, with old Madeleine 
 and two blowsy girls, when compared to 
 this little nest of comfort. All these 
 things Maitre Pierre saw and noted and 
 commented upon, whilst with that double 
 sight which is the gift of his disease, he 
 never lost one of Josephine's looks and 
 motions. As he sat watching this young 
 girl, who without seeking it displayed to 
 his gaze the hundred graces which are the 
 charm of woman in her youth, he felt 
 again all he had felt in the cart, but with 
 far more power. This Josephine Del- 
 pierre was to him the revelation of all 
 feminine loveliness, so no wonder that he 
 looked at her with such ravished eyes. 
 Ah ! what divine poems there would be, 
 if the true and tender feelings which
 
 BY THE WELL. 57 
 
 spring in a man's heart could but be put 
 into speech every now and then. But all 
 Maitre Pierre's poetry, after half an hour's 
 silence, was the abrupt question : 
 
 "Are these Madame Lenud's specta- 
 cles ?" And he took them up from the 
 table as he spoke, and looked hard at 
 Josephine, as if wondering whether they 
 might not be hers. 
 
 Josephine looked up from the pot she 
 was stirring, and there was just a pair of 
 little mischievous dimples in her rosy 
 cheeks, which said that Josephine was 
 much inclined to laugh at Maitre Pierre 
 just then, but she demurely replied that 
 the spectacles were Madame Lenud's. 
 Maitre Pierre had seen the dimples, and 
 read their meaning, but they charmed 
 him for all that. They reminded him of 
 little Fifine, who had had them, and he 
 could not help saying : ''I wonder I did 
 not know thee at once. Thou art not so 
 much altered, Fifine." 
 
 Fifine ! the homely, childish name was 
 full of eloquence for Maitre Pierre. Was
 
 58 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 it not Fifine whose pitcher he had broken ? 
 Fifine whom he had taken out of the river, 
 and carried home to her mother on his 
 back ? Fifine whom he had fed when she 
 was hungry — whom he had caught mend- 
 ing her torn skirt ? Fifine who had kissed 
 his hand so humbly, and looked up into 
 his face with eyes so wistful, that the re- 
 membrance thrilled his very heart now? 
 Ah ! if he could get that Fifine back again, 
 it seemed to him that, pale, childish, and 
 wretched though she was, he must have 
 loved her all the same. 
 
 But on hearing her old name, Josephine 
 rose abruptly from her half-kneeling pos- 
 ture on the hearth. She stood before him 
 straight, pale, and coldly angry. 
 
 " You are mistaken, Maitre Pierre," 
 she said ; " I am much, very much 
 altered." 
 
 " She hates me," thought Maitre Pierre, 
 as he caught the look she cast upon him 
 before she turned back to her task ; " she 
 hates me !" And the conviction was so 
 bitter that if Madame Lenud had not at
 
 BY THE WELL. 59 
 
 that moment come in, her stepson would 
 have left the house without waiting to see 
 her. The reconciliation took place in due 
 form. Madame Lenud was chill at first, 
 then she thawed, then she gave her 
 cheeks to her stepson for him to kiss, 
 then she asked him to have a share of the 
 hen. Maitre Pierre accepted. In the 
 rank to which he belonged servants eat 
 from their master's table^ but he had for- 
 gotten that Madame Lenud was a sort of 
 bourgeoise, so, to his great mortification, 
 he had Josephine waiting upon him in- 
 stead of sitting by his side. He could not 
 bear it, made a hurried meal, and rose to 
 go as soon as he could. Turning to Jose- 
 phine, he asked if she had any message 
 for her mother. No, she had none. None ! 
 tartly put in Madame Lenud ; could not 
 Maitre Pierre take that petticoat of hers 
 which she had long promised the widow ? 
 Let Josephine fetch it directly. Madame 
 Lenud had no prudery about petticoats in 
 general and her own in particular, and, 
 being stingy, she took great glory in her
 
 6o FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 gifts. When Josephine came down with 
 the garment, her mistress displayed it to 
 the young farmer's view, slighting its 
 drawbacks, and praising its virtues. It 
 had cost four francs a yard, and not been 
 worn more than ten years. Whilst she 
 thus expatiated, Josephine slipped out, 
 and was seen no more by Maitre Pierre. 
 
 Towards dark that same evening he 
 entered the cottage of the Delpierres with 
 a bundle under his arm. 
 
 "Madame Lenud bade me give you 
 this," he said, in his short w^ay; and 
 without another word he was gone. 
 
 Madame Lenud's petticoat had under- 
 gone a wonderful transformation on its 
 way from Fontaine to Manneville. It had 
 lost the traces of its ten years' wear, and, 
 more fortunate than its donor, recovered 
 all the youthful freshness of its hues, and 
 all the early strength of its texture. It 
 was a sort of wishing petticoat, too, for 
 within its folds was to be found almost 
 every article that the widow could have 
 wished for — caps, cotton kerchiefs, stock-
 
 BY THE WELL. 6l 
 
 ings, sabots, and slippers, tumbled out 
 about the cottage as Josephine's mother 
 opened the parcel. At first she was 
 amazed, then she was grateful, then she 
 began to think that some one in Fontaine 
 had attempted to seduce Josephine away 
 from her mistress, and that Madame Lenud 
 had taken these means to keep her. The 
 next day Andre came in breathless with 
 the news that the postern door was wide 
 open. But Andr^ was like Hamlet; he 
 thought he smelt a rat, and he said so. 
 But the widow, on whom new clothes pro- 
 duced a rather intoxicating effect, said, 
 tauntingly, that Maitre Pierre had found 
 out at last it would not do to keep people 
 out of their right ; he was afraid, he was, 
 and let Andre take the pitcher and go for 
 water directly. Andre obeyed, very reluc- 
 tantly ; but though Maitre Pierre was in the 
 yard talking to Basile, and must have seen 
 him, he took no notice of the boy, and let 
 him draw water unmolested. The widow 
 shook her head. The sous-prefet had been 
 in Manneville two days ago ; the sous prefet 
 had heard about the well, and Maitre
 
 62 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 Pierre was quaking in his shoes, or, to 
 use Madame Delpierre's own words and 
 expressive French phrase, he was shaking 
 in his skin. 
 
 La Grrise now went very often to Fon- 
 taine, but these journeys only made Maitre 
 Pierre irritable and gloomy. Somehow or 
 other he never once saw Josephine alone. 
 The case was a desperate one, and he 
 took a desperate remedy. Summer had 
 set in, and he asked Madame Lenud to 
 come and spend the harvest time with 
 him. The farm was going to be swarmed 
 with reapers — a bad lot, put in Madame 
 Lenud — just so. Well, Madeleine and the 
 blowsy servant-girls had quarrelled and 
 parted, so would she come, and bring 
 Josephine to help Madeleine, and would 
 she have an eye to their doings ? Now, to 
 have an eye to other people's doings was 
 Madame Lenud's weak point ; besides, 
 her niece was still unmarried, so she fell 
 into the snare, and gave the readiest con- 
 sent. She came the very next day, and 
 Josephine with her. How the young girl
 
 BY THE WELL. 63 
 
 liked this plan Maitre Pierre did not 
 know ; but he saw her pale face, and he 
 met her reproachful look, when she came 
 back from seeing her mother, and he 
 slunk guiltily away. And, alas ! Jose- 
 phine, who had been haughty before, was 
 now mistrustful. Maitre Pierre might see 
 her helping Madeleine, or sitting at her 
 wheel, which she had brought with her, 
 but she never gave him the chance of say- 
 ing a private word to her. With such 
 pleasure as looks can give he had to be 
 content. 
 
 Maitre Pierre stood by the open kitchen 
 window, smoking and looking out, one 
 evening, on the grey court-yard, with the 
 well, and the pear-tree, and the little 
 river flowing on, all framed by that stone 
 aperture, and thinking perhaps that they 
 were pleasant to see, or perhaps, too, 
 listening to the harsh voice of Madeleine, 
 with which a little, low laugh blended 
 every now and then — a sweet, young, gay 
 laugh, full of music; he stood thus, we 
 say, smoking placidly, when Madame
 
 64 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 Lenud, lookiDg up from her knitting, said 
 abruptly : 
 
 " Has Basile saved any money?" 
 
 Maitre Pierre took out his pipe and 
 stared. " Money ? no !" was his con- 
 temptuous reply. Madame Lenud looked 
 disappointed. 
 
 " No more has Josephine," she said ; 
 " so they can't " 
 
 '' Can't what?" asked her stepson, sud- 
 denly, glaring like a wolf. 
 
 " Marry," coolly answered Madame Le- 
 nud, who, whilst she was going through 
 the heel of her stocking, had also been 
 building a matrimonial castle, whereof 
 several very expressive looks' cast by 
 Basile on her servant-girl were the foun- 
 dation. 
 
 Maitre Pierre said nothing, but went 
 out into the court-yard. Madeleine was 
 gone, but Basile was there, to all seeming 
 very busy with the handle of his scythe, 
 and Jos^phme stood near him, with a 
 pail of water. They both ceased talking 
 when Maitre Pierre drew near. Takinsr
 
 BY THE WELL. 65 
 
 no more notice of tlie young girl than if 
 the stone flags on which she stood had 
 lain cold and bare before him, the farmer 
 told Basile to go off at once to Fontaine, 
 and fetch La Grise's harness, which had 
 been left there to be mended. It rarely 
 happened that any order given by Maitre 
 Pierre was questioned by one of his ser- 
 vants. But this request was either very 
 unreasonable or very obnoxious, for Basile 
 demurred. The harness would not be 
 ready, he said. 
 
 " Do as I bid thee," sternly rejoined his 
 master. 
 
 Basile sulkily asked, how he was to 
 walk to Fontaine and back and be in time 
 for the next morning's work in the har- 
 vest-field ? Maitre Pierre replied, that 
 Basile need not come back till after to- 
 morrow if it so pleased him, and he stood 
 there watching the lad, till he put by his 
 scythe, and reluctantly went and did his 
 master's bidding. 
 
 Josephine was alone in the kitchen 
 when Maitre Pierre went back to it. She 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 66 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 sat by the door, spinning in the fading 
 twilight. He leaned against the door 
 post, and looked down at her slight figure 
 and bending head ; she must have known 
 he was there, but she never raised her 
 eyes, never looked at him, never seemed 
 conscious of his presence. 
 
 " Thou art wonderfully fond of spin- 
 ning," sarcastically said Maitre Pierre; 
 ''is it for thy manage, when thou art 
 married to Basile ?" 
 
 Josephine now looked up, and there 
 was a deeper tint on her cheek and a sud- 
 den light in her beautiful dark eyes, as 
 she said : 
 
 " I spin to work out an old debt of my 
 mother's, and, Maitre Pierre, I would sit 
 up and spin every night of my life rather 
 than leave that debt unpaid." 
 
 He answered not a word, but walked 
 away moodily. 
 
 Maitre Pierre rose with the dawn the 
 next morning. He thought to be, as he 
 always was, first up in the house. Great 
 was his amazement, therefore, when, on
 
 BY THE WELL. 67 
 
 entering tlie court-yard, lie found Basile 
 there, again setting the handle of his 
 scythe. Had the young man cheated and 
 disobeyed him ? But, no ! La Grise's 
 harness, which Basile had brought back 
 all right and mended, was certain proof 
 that he had been to Fontaine. He had 
 been there, and, without taking time to 
 rest, he had walked home in the freshness 
 of the night, to be back for the harvest 
 labour. Maitre Pierre gave him an angry 
 frown, and heard Basile' s account of his 
 errand without uttering: a word of thanks 
 or praise. 
 
 That year was a Yerj hot year, but, of 
 all its hot days this promised to be the 
 hottest. Yet, to Maitre Pierre's surprise, 
 his step-mother declared that she would 
 go and look on at the reapers. Old 
 Madeleine was unwell, and in bed upstairs. 
 " So Josephine will have all to do," re- 
 marked Maitre Pierre. Josephine briefly 
 replied, that she did not mind that. 
 " And to remain by herself," he continued ; 
 but Josephine did not mind that either. 
 They all went, and left her alone.
 
 68 FOR GET- ME NOTS. 
 
 The reapers were to come back at noon, 
 for the field where they were working did 
 not lie very far from the farm. They 
 were numerous ; they were sure to have 
 a keen appetite spite the heat, and as 
 Maitre Pierre's housekeeping was liberal, 
 Josephine had plenty to do. She sat in 
 the cool kitchen — the wooden shutters 
 were half closed, and only let in one 
 golden sunbeam each — peeling vegetables. 
 Heaps of big round cabbages, with crisp 
 outer leaves of a deep green, and white 
 hearts, bunches upon bunches of carrots 
 and turnips, bundles of long large leeks, 
 parsnips and beans — to be all boiled with 
 a savoury piece of bacon — were scattered 
 on the red stone floor around her in abun- 
 dance, sufficient to have made a decent 
 show at many a greengrocer's stall. And 
 Josephine sat in the midst of them all, 
 Looking, with her large white apron and 
 bib, like a fair young Dutch housekeeper. 
 The morning was hot and still; the old 
 clock ticked behind her, the hens cackled 
 feebly in the yard, and now and then the
 
 BY THE WELL. 69 
 
 cock crowed. There was also a low and 
 monotonous cooing of pigeons somewhere, 
 but no other sounds than these reached 
 Josephine's ear, and little by little there 
 crept over her the sense of a great loneli- 
 ness. At length the vegetables were all 
 pruned, and sliced and cut and peeled, and 
 Josephine lit the fire, which soon blazed 
 and crackled on the hearth as willingly as if 
 there were no burning August sun scorch- 
 ing up the world without. When this 
 was done, Josephine reached down a huge 
 copper caldron and gave it a pensive look. 
 " It will take three bucketsfuU," she 
 thought, and she took a pitcher and went 
 out to the well to draw water. 
 
 The old well was unchanged. The 
 little thatched roof still sheltered it, the 
 long green hart's tongue still grew in thick 
 and rich clusters within the cool shadow 
 of its damp stones. Josephine looked at 
 them, and remembered how she had made 
 wreaths and bands of them when she was 
 a child. And looking down she saw the 
 white circle of light, and remembered
 
 70 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 perhaps that memorable night on which 
 her pitcher was broken, for she stood 
 there forgetting the errand which had 
 brought her, and not seeming to feel the 
 hot sun pouring on her bare head. But 
 suddenly Josephine became aware that 
 some one was standing behind her, and, 
 turning quickly round, she saw Maitre 
 Pierre looking at her very strangely. At 
 first she thought that she had mistaken 
 the hour, and that the reapers had come 
 back. 
 
 " Is it twelve, Maitre Pierre ?" she 
 asked. 
 
 " No," he answered, still looking at 
 her in the same strange way, "it is barely 
 eleven." 
 
 Josephine saw now that he was alone. 
 She saw also that he was very pa'le. Her 
 heart leaped up into her mouth, but she 
 tried to look cheerful as she said : 
 
 " I am drawing plenty of water. They 
 will be hungry surely." 
 
 " Thou ueedst draw none for Basile," 
 he remarked sternly.
 
 BY THE WELL. 71 
 
 Josephine did not answer this, but 
 dropped one of the two buckets into the 
 well. 
 
 " I say, thou needst draw none for 
 Basile," continued Maitre Pierre, " nor 
 cider nor — nor anything," he added, stam- 
 mering with anger. 
 
 "Very well," replied Josephine, filling 
 her pitcher ; but before she took it up 
 again Maitre Pierre had seized and broken 
 it passionately. 
 
 " Dost thou see that ?" he asked. 
 
 " I see that you have broken your 
 pitcher," composedly answered Josephine ; 
 " but what is that to me ?" 
 
 " Nothing, save that thus I shall break 
 or destroy him, or any man, who comes 
 to this house sneaking after thee." 
 
 Josephine looked at him with great 
 scorn. 
 
 " I can leave your house," she said, 
 composedly. '' Thank heaven, Maitre 
 Pierre, you are not my master." 
 
 " No, I am not thv master, thou little 
 vixen !" he cried, in a voice half choked
 
 72 FORGET-ME NOTS. 
 
 with rage; ''but attempt to leave this 
 house, or to raarry Basile, or any man 
 whilst I live — attempt it, and as true as 
 that sun is shining above us, thou shalt 
 repent it !" 
 
 He was very pale as he uttered the 
 threat, and very pale too was Josephine 
 as she heard it. They stood in the hot 
 August sun with the broken pitcher lying 
 at their feet, and the spilt water flowing 
 away on the parched flags : he a desperate 
 man, maddened by the jealousy of an un- 
 spoken love, she a frail girl, alone and 
 utterly at his mercy. Josephine was no 
 coward, but she saw his wild looks ; she 
 thought, perhaps, of the deep well behind 
 her, and she quailed. 
 
 "I do not want to go away, or to 
 marry any one,'* she said, faintly. 
 
 " Thou hadst better not," he grimly 
 replied, and kicking away the broken 
 fragments of the pitcher, he went into 
 the house, brought out the caldron, filled 
 it with water to the brim, then took it in 
 again, and set it on the fire, after which
 
 BY THE WELL. 73 
 
 lie went away, slamming the great gate 
 behind him. 
 
 How Josephine went through the cook- 
 ing of that meal she never knew. She 
 started and turned round at every sound, 
 ever thinking to see Maitre Pierre's pale 
 face and angry eyes behind her ; but he 
 did not appear till he-^ came back with the 
 reapers. Need we say Basile was not 
 amongst them, and when they all sat 
 down to the meal Josephine had prepared, 
 she saw that the master's looks shunned 
 hers, also that he did not eat. 
 
 All Madame Lenud knew of what had 
 taken place was, that Basile had been 
 turned off, and that Jos(^phine had lost 
 her colour ; shrewdly connecting the two 
 facts, she said to her stepson that the girl 
 was fretting for that fellow. Maitre 
 Pierre turned very pale, and he bit his 
 lip ; but his head was averted, and Madame 
 Lenud was knitting, so she saw nothing. 
 
 Two days passed : they were strictly 
 uneventful, yet Madeleine and Madame 
 Lenud both felt something had hap-
 
 74 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 pened. Never, said Madeleine, had the 
 master been less at home ; he was off with 
 dawn, and came back late at night. 
 Never, said Madame Lenud, had Jose- 
 phine been so assiduous at her wheel ; the 
 constant whirr of the thing set her crazy. 
 
 On the evening of the third day she 
 could bear it no longer. She entered the 
 kitchen where Josephine sat spinning as 
 usual, and she crossly told the girl : 
 
 " It was time for supper, and there was 
 no water, and she had better go and draw 
 some than be always treading that wheel." 
 
 Josephine answered not a word; she 
 rose, took the pitcher, and went out. 
 
 The evening was calm and fair. The 
 broad harvest moon rose slowly in the 
 east and bathed the whole farm-yard in a 
 mellow golden light. Not a breath of air 
 stirred the leaves of the tall pear-tree; 
 the willows and aspens were very still ; 
 only the little brackish river gurgled on 
 its way, with its faint querulous voice of 
 ceaseless complaint. Jos(^phine crossed 
 the court, wakening its quiet echoes with
 
 BY THE WELL, 75 
 
 the clattering of her little high-heeled 
 sabots, and when she reached the well all 
 was still again. With a heavy, wearied 
 sigh she put her pitcher down, and dropped 
 the bucket in ; it splashed as it reached 
 the water below ; but the brown old rope 
 which Josephine held never moved in the 
 groove of the pulley above ; it remained 
 idle in her hand, as if she were in a dream : 
 and so she was — far gone in a dream so 
 sorrowful that ere long her tears fell fast 
 into the well over which she stood half 
 bending. Suddenly she gave a start, and 
 looked round : a tall dark figure stood 
 behind her. 
 
 " Do not be afraid," said Maitre Pierre. 
 " I was mad on that Tuesday morning 
 when I threatened Basile out of Manne- 
 ville, and when I came home and frightened 
 thee, my poor little Josephine. I was mad, 
 or I who am strong would not have 
 threatened him who is weak, least of all 
 would I have spoken as I spoke to thee, 
 a woman. But Madame Lenud said some- 
 thing that set my blood on fire, and I
 
 76 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 got mad — mad. It is all over now ; only 
 do not think I ever could have hurt thee 
 — no, not the tip of thy little finger ; and, 
 Josephine, I cannot bear to see thee so 
 frightened of me : do not be afraid — 
 do not!" 
 
 '' I am not afraid of you, Maitre Pierre," 
 replied Josephine, but her voice shook as 
 she uttered the words. 
 
 " Thou hast been crying," he retorted 
 quickly, '' and I know why — I know why. 
 Well, take whom thou likest ; I must bear 
 it — only — only, Josephine, do not let me 
 see it. I — I might get mad again." 
 
 " You mistake, Maitre Pierre," answered 
 Josephine. '' I was not thinking of that, 
 nor of anything like it ; so let there be no 
 more mischief through me." 
 
 Her voice was subdued and low, but so 
 sweet and gentle too that Maitre Pierre 
 was emboldened to say : " Josephine, what 
 wert thou crying for ?" 
 
 '' I was crying," answered Josephine, 
 " because, as I stood here by this old well, 
 my whole life, and more than my life,
 
 BY THE WELL. 77 
 
 seemed to rise up from it and come out 
 before me : and, Maitre Pierre, I thouglit 
 my lot a very hard one. I was crying 
 because this well was dug by my grand- 
 father." 
 
 " No, no, by mine, Josephine," mur- 
 mured Mattre Pierre, who could not give 
 in even then. 
 
 "And that I, his grandchild," con- 
 tinued Josephine, without heeding the 
 interruption, " must draw water from it 
 at the bidding of his old enemies. I was 
 crying because, all my life long, I have 
 been in the bonds of those who wronged 
 me and mine. As a child I stole in here, 
 like a thief, to get what was our own, 
 and like a thief you know, Maitre Pierre, 
 I was treated. As a girl I can find no 
 bread to eat save that which I earn with 
 yours and you. If evening after evening 
 I sit and spin flax to weave into linen, it 
 is for the bed that your wife shall lie on, 
 for the table from which she will eat. If 
 I light a fire in this house, draw water, 
 or prepare a meal, it is for you and your
 
 78 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 servants, Maitre Pierre. You are not my 
 master, and you pay me no wages, but 
 from the day when you took me up on the 
 road to Fontaine, from that day down to 
 this, you have been the rich man and I 
 have been the poor girl. Why did you 
 come after me to Madame Lenud's — why 
 did you bring me to this house — why did 
 you give my poor mother those things 
 which she needs so much that I said no- 
 thing, and let her keep them, though it 
 broke my heart ? And that is not all," 
 added Josephine, her clear voice rising, 
 and her pale face turning towards him in 
 sad reproach : " you would scorn to ask 
 me to be your wife, but if a poor fellow 
 loves me, he is threatened; and I must 
 not love nor be loved unless at your bid- 
 ding, Maitre Pierre. And the hard, hard 
 part of it is that I must defend myself as 
 best I may, but that I must submit for the 
 sake of the three in the old cottage 
 yonder. And I do submit — only the yoke 
 is heavy, and so perhaps you will not 
 wonder that I was crying as I looked into
 
 BY THE WELL. 79 
 
 the well whicli my grandfather dug, and 
 around which he raised these stones with 
 his own hands." 
 
 This time Maitre Pierre raised no pro- 
 test against the assertion. But it was 
 vehemently, almost passionately that he 
 said: 
 
 " I do not deserve this. I have been a 
 great brute to thee, from the night when 
 I broke thy poor little pitcher down to 
 that Tuesday morning, but I would just 
 pitch down that well the fellow who would 
 dare to say thou art not good enough to 
 be Maitre Pierre Lenud's wife ! How 
 canst thou say I scorn thee ?" he added, 
 moodily. " Have I forgotten thy scornful 
 looks in the cart, or thy look of hate in 
 Madame Lenud's kitchen, when I called 
 "thee Fifine, or thy looks of fear on that 
 Tuesday morning, by this luckless old 
 well, which I shall get blocked up as never 
 having been good for anything save to 
 breed mischief ? I cannot make thee love 
 me, rich as I am and poor as thou art, 
 but never say I scorn thee — and do not 
 fear me — do not !'*
 
 So FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 Josephine did not answer; but she 
 turned her head away, and he could hear 
 that she was crying. He looked around 
 him desperately. All he saw, and more 
 than he saw, was his ; but all he could do 
 was to make this girl weep, when he did 
 not make her tremble. 
 
 '' 'Tis Madame Lenud's petticoat has 
 done all the mischief," he said, gloomily. 
 " I should have remembered the Calville 
 apples, and known better. I wish it were 
 stuck to her," he added, angrily ; " or 
 rather," he resumed — struck, perhaps, 
 with the cruelty of this wish, which con- 
 verted Madame Lenud's petticoat into the 
 tunic of Nessus, and inflicted upon her 
 the fate of Dejanira — *' I wish I were at 
 the bottom of the well, and so thou wouldst 
 be rid of me once for all. It would not 
 be so hard to see thy mother use gifts 
 from Maitre Pierre if he were dead — 
 would it?" 
 
 " Oh, my master !" said Josephine, 
 turning her head back to him, " do not 
 speak so — do not."
 
 BY THE WELL. 8i 
 
 " Thy master !" he retorted, with bitter 
 emphasis. " No, Josephine, thou hast said 
 it twice by this old well, I am not thy 
 master. 'Tis Basile, 'tis any lucky wretch 
 who takes thy fancy ; but 'tis not Maitre 
 Pierre, who would give anything — any- 
 thing to hav€ thee mistress here with 
 him." 
 
 Oh ! what a vision the words conjured up. 
 What a sweet, bright face lit up the rooms of 
 the old farm ! What a light and gay young 
 figure moved about house and garden whilst 
 it lasted ! He saw her sitting at his table ; 
 he saw her at his fireside, with its light 
 shining in her eyes, and wakening from 
 the dream; he saw her standing by the 
 well in the moonlight, a poor penniless 
 girl, his step-mother's servant, who either 
 scorned, or hated, or worst of all, feared 
 him; and only mocked him with those 
 words, " My master." 
 
 She said them again, as she looked up 
 into his face with tears in her eyes. ''You 
 are my master," said Josephine, in her low 
 voice — " my dear master ; the only master 
 
 VOL I.. G
 
 82 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 I shall ever have ; the master to whom I 
 will be ever faithful till I die." 
 
 He heard, but could not believe words 
 so sweet. He made her turn her face to 
 the moonlight, and he saw Josephine look- 
 ing up at him, not with scorn, or hate, or 
 fear, but with love in her dark eyes — love 
 which, though he had never seen it, had 
 been lying there for him many years — ay, 
 long before he gave her that lift in the 
 cart which had led to his undoing. 
 
 *' Oh, my master !" she said, laughing 
 and crying, " did you never see how Fifine 
 liked and admired you and was afraid of 
 you ? Did you not guess it cut her to 
 the heart you should not know her again 
 in the cart, when at a glance she had 
 known you ? Did you never find out why 
 Josephine, your step-mother's servant, must 
 look as if she hated Maitre Pierre, for fear 
 he should see that she cared for him so very 
 much ? Above all, how could you think 
 she liked that Basile, who had taunted 
 and scorned her on the day when you were 
 so kind, though she was in rags ?"
 
 BY THE WELL. 83 
 
 We do not know what Maitre Pierre said 
 to this, but when Madame Lenud, wonder- 
 ing whj the pitcher did not comeback, went 
 out to the well to see, she found that the 
 old feud of the Lenuds and the Delpierres 
 had been for ever made up. 
 
 G 2
 
 Sisttx f nnt 
 
 I. 
 
 T is well for me that when I settled 
 down here, at Manneville, a lonely 
 old maid I gave up the world, and 
 such praise or blame as attaches 
 to actions of which the motives lie hidden 
 and buried far beyond its ken. It is well 
 for me, but it is a good that has its draw- 
 backs, and my heart ached last night 
 when Mrs. Bugden left me. 
 
 I sat by the open window looking out 
 on the grey coast that wound away 
 through the blue evening mists, and at
 
 SISTER ANNE. 85 
 
 the dark sea breaking on tlie shingle with 
 a broad white edge of foam. I watched 
 the stars coming out in the sky with a 
 timid glittering light, and as the breeze 
 passed over my little garden and brought 
 me the fragrance of the flowers which are 
 now my great dehght, I thought: " Have 
 I deserved this ? Have I deserved, be- 
 cause, for reasons which my Judge in 
 Heaven alone must know, 1 have severed 
 myself from the society that was most 
 dear to my heart, have I deserved to be 
 thought heartless ?" Quick and sure came 
 an avenging " No !" But who heard, who 
 will ever hear it ? Not poor Mrs. Bugden, 
 nor that world of which she so zealously 
 made herself the echo. Then it is well for 
 me, as I said, that I gave up the world 
 and its praise and blame when I chose 
 this for my last resting place. 
 
 I must not complain ; my home though 
 lonely is very pleasant. My cottage is 
 small, but then I have few visitors and no 
 friends to come and share it, so there is 
 no need for more room. If the furniture
 
 86 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 is plain, dark and brown, it is sucli as I 
 like. And then I have books, and goodly 
 company for winter. Noble poets, wise 
 philosophers, and pleasant garrulous 
 novelists, dealers in wonderful or simple 
 tales, who can still lure me from myself 
 and charm my old heart — old I call it, 
 though my hair is black as when I was 
 twenty ; but it is not always by years 
 that one must reckon a lonely woman's 
 age. When I am tired of reading I turn 
 to music ; there, too, I deal with wonder- 
 ful minds, souls great and tender, whose 
 converse is very sweet. And then have 
 I not my garden, my flowers, my exotics, 
 and my ferns ? For the climate is so mild 
 that almost all the year round I can take 
 pleasure in surveying or adorning the 
 little world that calls me queen. 
 
 I came back here three years ago, and 
 I have not forgotten how sad and lonely I 
 felt when I entered this place. Here, 
 then, I was to live and die. This little 
 cottage, not half so large as the tombs the 
 old Romans reared on the Appian way,
 
 SISTER ASSE. ^7 
 
 was to be mj last abode upon earth. The 
 choice was mine and could be rescinded, 
 but I knew it would not be — I knew it 
 was final ; twice I had been wrecked, and 
 I would not make a third venture. And 
 yet I will not repine ; if twice the wreck 
 was bitter, twice too the voyage was sweet 
 and fair ; if twice I went through a great 
 agony, it came after long happiness. 
 
 I was a very happy child. My father 
 was wealthy, and we lived in an old 
 Elizabethan mansion with a background 
 of noble trees and a bright Dutch flower 
 garden in front. My mother died before 
 I could feel her loss ; my godmother, 
 Aunt Anne, replaced her for a time, and 
 when she married and left us, my father 
 found Miss Graeme. I was sitting in the 
 garden reading a fairy tale by the little 
 trickling fountain, when I saw her first. 
 I had been looking at the old red house, 
 with its flight of steps and the terrace, 
 and the vases of scarlet geraniums, until 
 I had turned all these into the good fairy's 
 palace. My book was on my lap, and as
 
 S8 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 I listened to the plash, plash of the water 
 which danced in the sunlight, and fell 
 back bubbling over its broad stone cup 
 into the basin below, I entered fairy land 
 with the lovely little princess, whom the 
 handsome prince was ever seekino^ and 
 never finding, though even to my childish 
 mind, it would have been so easy. 
 
 " Anne," said my father's voice. I 
 looked up with a start, and there in the 
 sunlight I saw Miss Grseme. Was it the 
 fairy tale I had been reading, was it 
 something in her own young and gracious 
 aspect that made her so lovely in my 
 childish eyes ? I have been assured since 
 then that Mary Grasme was by no means 
 beautiful, though every one agreed that 
 her dark eyes were very fine, and that 
 her smile was irresistible. That smile 
 shone on me when glancing up. I saw 
 a young and slender girl in deep mourn- 
 ing, and who looked almost a child — the 
 lovely little princess — as she stood by my 
 stalwart father's side. 
 
 This was my governess. I soon loved
 
 SISTER ANNE. 89 
 
 her with a sort of passion. Miss Grseme 
 found in me a willing and docile pupil, 
 and she did not merely teach me as she 
 was bound to do, she also imparted to me 
 some of her own tastes, and with them 
 much endearing happiness. To her I 
 owe not only my knowledge of, but also 
 my love for music and flowers. How 
 often, as I sit alone and play some grand 
 passage from Beethoven, some tender and 
 lovely air from Mozart, does Miss Graeme's 
 young face, lit by those soft dark eyes 
 of hers, rise by my side, and smile on me 
 once more — sweet, loving, and, oh ! have 
 I not proved it, and may I not say it, 
 beloved ? But even more than music do 
 my walks in the country recall her. Many 
 a time have we wandered together, she a 
 happy girl, and I a happy child, in the 
 green lanes where we watched the birth 
 of the early flowers, the primrose, the 
 violet, the lily of the valley, and others 
 more humble still. Many a time have we 
 gone forth to steal ferns from their shady 
 haunts, glossy hart's-tongue, delicate
 
 90 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 maiden -hair, stately polipodies, wherewitli 
 to adorn our fernery ! I am lonely now, 
 but I will not deny you, my bappy days, 
 because you were followed by some sad and 
 dark hours ! You did not pass away from 
 my life, like sunlight from the landscape 
 in summer time. When I look back I 
 see you still in tlie past, bright, warm, 
 and beautiful, in ever-abiding light. I 
 do not know why my Aunt Anne did not 
 like Miss G-raeme. Whenever she came 
 to see us she had something unpleasant to 
 say about that young lady herself, or 
 about her mode of teaching me. Either I 
 did not improve enough, or when that 
 line of attack could not be taken. Miss 
 Graeme was not what she should be, or 
 sometimes, by a subtle difference, was 
 what she should not be. " I must say 
 she is a little bit of a princess," once said 
 Aunt Anne within my hearing. 
 
 My father raised his eyebrows, and 
 burst out into one of his joyous genial 
 laughs. 
 
 I have seen some princesses in my 

 
 SISTER ANNE. g^ 
 
 time," he said gaily, '' and my experience 
 of the royal ladies is that there are not 
 many of them half so charming as Miss 
 Grseme." 
 
 Now I was quite of my father's opinion ; 
 from the beginning I had identified my 
 dear Miss Graeme with the princess whose 
 story I was reading when T first saw her, 
 and as the love of children is not a silent 
 discreet love, I took the very earliest op- 
 portunity I got of repeating to my young 
 governess both Aunt Anne's speech and 
 my father's answer. 
 
 " Aunt Anne says you are a little bit of 
 a princess," said I, " and papa says he 
 wishes princesses were half so charming 
 as you are," I added triumphantly. 
 
 Poor Miss Grseme turned crimson as 
 she heard me, and no wonder — my father 
 was in the room. His presence, which 
 had seemed no objection to me, gave rather 
 too much force to the compliment I con- 
 veyed. 
 
 ''You little tell-tale," said my father, 
 pulling my ear, but all the time he was
 
 92 FORGET ME-NOTS. 
 
 looking at Miss Grseme, who blushed more 
 and more. 
 
 Two months after this he married her. 
 I wonder who was happiest on this wed- 
 ding day ! I have often thought it was 
 I. It seemed such a grand thing that 
 my dear princess should have found her 
 prince in my tall handsome father ; that 
 she should no longer be Miss Graeme, but 
 Lady William Sydney ! Besides I was 
 eight years old, and was to be bridesmaid ; 
 the only one Miss Grseme would have, 
 though in other respects the marriage 
 ceremony was performed with great pomp, 
 great ringing of bells, great strewing of 
 flowers, and, as if Heaven itself had 
 blessed it, with a great and glorious flood 
 of the summer sunshine pouring down 
 upon it. My father looked supremely 
 blest. He was fifteen years older tlian his 
 little bride, who seemed more childish 
 than ever by his side ; but I think the 
 disparity in their years only endeared 
 them the more to each other ; as he loved 
 her youth, so she loved his strength.
 
 SISTER ANNE. 93 
 
 The Tvorld, I believe, spoke of folly on 
 one side and of designing art on the other ; 
 but I, who loved them both, thought 
 there never had been such a pair out of 
 my old friend, the Fairy Tales. 
 
 1 was old enough to know better, but 
 when I saw them entering the carriage 
 which was to take them away, and realised 
 for the first time that I was to remain 
 behind alone with Aunt Anne, my grief 
 resembled frenzy. They could not drive 
 off and leave me in that state, yet every 
 attempt at consolation only made me 
 worse. It was unreasonable, vexatious, 
 and absurd ; but the very folly of children 
 makes them strong. I saw my father and 
 his wife exchange perplexed and distressed 
 looks ; then I heard her whisper timidly, 
 with her hand on his arm, and her dark 
 eyes raised to his, " Shall we take her, 
 William ?'' 
 
 He could not resist that pleading look 
 to which paternal weakness in his own 
 heart responded ; they did not exactly 
 take me, indeed, but I followed them in
 
 94 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 another carriage with my maid. We 
 joined them at the station, and I accom- 
 panied them to the little seaside town up 
 the coast, where they spent their honey- 
 moon. On a beach like this I played and 
 Avandered with my dear young stepmother, 
 and heard my genial father's happy voice 
 calling us his two little girls. Very often 
 when I go out alone of an evening and 
 wander on the shore, I see myself a child 
 again, with my hand in her kind hand. 
 The tide which murmurs up to my feet 
 is the tide of those bygone years ; the 
 faces which come out of the darkness of 
 the past are those two dear faces, and I 
 am happy, oh ! very happy, and I pity 
 those, from my heart I pity those, to whom 
 such remembrances only bring sorrow. 
 
 Lady William Sydney's honours did not 
 deprive me of my governess. She con- 
 tinued to teach me until my brother Wil- 
 liam was born, and though other cares 
 then partly took her from me, she still 
 superintended my education. The birth 
 of that child was a great event in our
 
 SISTER ANNE. 95 
 
 circle. My father was never weary of 
 looking at and admiring him, and I loved 
 him more than I can say. He was like 
 his mother, and I believe I loved him for 
 her sake as well as for his own. He had 
 her smile and her eyes, and though he 
 was sadly indulged, he had her sweetness 
 and rare charm. Every one loved that 
 boy, so what wonder that I, his sister, 
 and his elder by ten years, should love 
 him with something of a mother's passion 
 in my childish heart ! He was my treasure 
 and my darling, and I firmly believed this 
 world held not another child so beautiful 
 and so good as my little brother. 
 
 I was fifteen and William was five years 
 old when my dear young step-mother one 
 evening complained of a sore throat. She 
 complained still more the next morning. 
 The doctor was sent for, and his first act 
 was to order the children out of the house. 
 Spite of my protests and tears, we were 
 at once removed to the abode of my step- 
 mother's cousin, a widowed Mrs. Gibson, 
 who lived with her two children at the 
 other end of the village.
 
 96 FORGET ME NOTS. 
 
 Mrs. Gibson was a new comer amongst 
 us. She owned two little cottages by 
 tbe sea, in one of which she resided. She 
 was a lady, but she was poor and I knew 
 it; I did not know, however, that she 
 lived in a house so small and so dreary as 
 that to which Martha Vincent, my maid, 
 now took William and me. The ruinous 
 aspect of the place without, the low mean 
 rooms within, depressed me, and when I 
 went up to the apartment assigned to us, 
 and looked down on the poor bare garden 
 below, I felt strangely disconsolate. 
 
 " That's Rosebower," glibly said little 
 Ellen Gribson, who had followed me in. 
 
 " Ma wants a tenant, but she can't get 
 one." 
 
 A sky black as ink and which spoke of 
 coming rain, lowered above a dilapidated 
 cottage. A weather-stained board with 
 the words to let upon it stared at me 
 over the garden hedge ; but, young as I 
 was, I wondered Mrs. Gibson expected a 
 tenant for this desolate dwelling. The 
 garden had gone wild and was full of
 
 SISTER ANNE. 97 
 
 weeds. Clematis had so overrun the porch 
 that the door was half hidden with it. 
 The roof looked mossv and insecure, and 
 the window panes were shattered or 
 broken. I thought of my fatlier's Eliza- 
 bethan mansion, so warm and red in the 
 sunshine, of the old ancestral elms which 
 grew around it, of the sunny garden and 
 the fountain, and, above all, I thought of 
 my dear step-mother, from whose pre- 
 sence I had been so ruthlessly banished; 
 and hiding my face in my hands, I began 
 to cry. 
 
 " What are you crying for ?" asked 
 Ellen Gibson crossly. '' William," she 
 called out, *' do come and look at her — 
 she's crying." 
 
 " Hush !" said I, showing her the bed 
 on which my little brother already lay 
 sleeping, with his rosy face turned to us ; 
 '' do not waken him." 
 
 " I don't mean him," tartly replied 
 E^len, shaking her golden curls. " 1 mean 
 my brother William," she added, nodding 
 VOL. I. H
 
 gS FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 towards the garden where a young man 
 was busy digging. 
 
 I peeped down at him, then drew back 
 a little sullenly, I fear ; it seemed as if 
 there should be no William save mine, 
 and I suppose Ellen, though by some 
 years my junior, had the same feeling, for 
 she said, with a little scornful toss of her 
 pretty head : 
 
 " Is that stupid little boy called Wil- 
 liam ?" 
 
 I felt my cheeks burn with indignation. 
 
 " He is not stupid," I replied, hotly ; 
 *' he is very clever." 
 
 "He is stupid," persisted Ellen; " Wil- 
 liam says so." 
 
 If my William was perfect, her William 
 was infallible, and his sentence was with- 
 out appeal. 
 
 "William is not stupid," I said again, 
 and I added, with stinging emphasis, 
 " and he is not awkward, not at all — he 
 knows how to sit on a chair, and how to 
 avoid treading on people's clothes." 
 
 The words were repented as soon as
 
 SISTER ANNE. gg 
 
 uttered, for though William Gibson was 
 awkward, and thouo^h he fidg^etted on his 
 chair so as to make me unhappy, though 
 he had trod on and torn my step-motlier's 
 dress when he came to our house with his 
 mother and sister, I had no wish to make 
 impertinent comments. But, to my great 
 relief, Ellen stared up at me and did not 
 answer ; she had not understood. 
 
 '' He is going to sleep at Rosebower to- 
 night," she said ; '' mamma told Jane to 
 make up a bed for him." 
 
 Alas ! what did I care for tliat informa- 
 tion. The passing curiosity with which 
 I had looked at the dreary untenanted 
 cottage was over, and I was again desolate 
 and heart- stricken. I could not sleep 
 that night ; I had no rest, no peace, the 
 next day, and when evening came round I 
 left my William playing with Ellen in the 
 garden, and stole out unperceived. A 
 lane at the back of the village led to my 
 father's house. It was lonely, and along 
 that lane I swiftly stole in the grey gloom- 
 ing; I was doing a wrong thing and I 
 
 H 2
 
 100 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 knew it, but the longing wish to see my 
 step-mother again was stronger than con- 
 science or duty. I reached the house un- 
 perceived, and so bided my opportunity 
 that I crept up the staircase and entered 
 her room unheard. My father was with 
 the doctor below, the nurse, exhausted by 
 her vigil, was sleeping in her chair at the 
 foot of the bed. A night lamp burned 
 on the table and lit the room very dimly. 
 I remember how the tall mirror spread 
 like a sheet of pale gleaming light before 
 me, how the white curtains looked grey 
 and dim as they fell around the bed where 
 my mother had died thirteen years before 
 this, and where my second mother, so 
 tender and so dear, was soon to breathe 
 her last. But I did not fear that then. 
 I could not imagine anything like it. I 
 came not for a last parting on this side of 
 the grave ; but because absence seemed in- 
 tolerable and love had drawn me. My 
 great fear was that I should startle her ; 
 also that I should hear reproof from those 
 kind lips that were ever so reluctant to
 
 SISTER ANNE. loi 
 
 censure my childish misdoings. So my 
 first words were : 
 
 " Dear mamma, pray don't scold me." 
 She started, she motioned me away with 
 her poor trembling hand. 
 
 " Go, go," she said in a voice so altered 
 that I scarcely knew it : " don't come 
 near me." 
 
 I thought her angry, and did not dare 
 to approach, but neither could I bear to 
 go at once. 
 
 '' Oh, go, my darling !" she entreated : 
 «« go !" Then, with sudden fear she added, 
 looking round, " Where is William ?" 
 
 I replied that I had left the child at 
 Mrs. Gibson's. This seemed to relieve 
 her. She looked at me, and altered though 
 she was, I knew the tender look of her 
 eyes again. 
 
 " I was true to you," she said, " be true 
 to the boy, be true to him after I am 
 gone. And now go — go if you love me, 
 Anne." 
 
 I obeyed her, but as I stood on the 
 threshold of the door, I stopped to look 
 at her and say softly :
 
 I02 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 '' I will be true to William, I will be 
 true." I said it meaning it, and yet not 
 knowing how deep lay the meaning of my 
 own words, nor how far into future years 
 my promise extended. My step-mother 
 smiled very sweetly as she heard me, and 
 I went away rejoicing that I had seen 
 her, bearing that smile with me along the 
 lonely lane, till I came back to Mrs. 
 Gibson's cottage, and found William, who 
 had not missed me, still playing with Ellen. 
 I took him in my arms and kissed him. 
 I will be true to you, my pet," I said, 
 
 won't I, that's all !" I said it, I meant 
 it ; but little did I know that my eyes had 
 seen their last of William's mother. It 
 was William Gibson who told me of my 
 step-mother's death. In what words he 
 put the news, or how I bore them, I do 
 not remember. I only remember that as 
 he looked down into my face and held my 
 hands in his, there was a great pity in his 
 deep grey eyes. William Gibson had a 
 grave kind face for one so young. I saw 
 that even then ; but just as I saw the 
 
 6i
 
 SISTER ANNE. 103 
 
 little garden in which I stood, and the 
 red sunho:ht flashino; back from the broken 
 windows of Rosebower, whilst a stormy 
 sky brooded over its low roof. What 
 passed on that first dreary day I scarcely 
 know now ; all is swallowed up in the- sense 
 of a great desolation, but the next morning 
 I remembered all. 
 
 I felt unutterably wretched. I wished 
 to see no one, to speak to no one. I stole 
 away from Mrs. Gibson who wanted to 
 comfort me, from Ellen who teased me, 
 from my poor little William who was 
 playing and laughing though his mother 
 lay pale and dead in her room, and not 
 knowing where to hide, I crept round to 
 Rosebower. The little garden-gate stood 
 open. I passed in and stole up to the 
 cottage ; the door was open too, and push- 
 ing back the drooping clematis, I entered 
 a low dark parlour. Beyond the window 
 I saw and heard the sounding sea rolling 
 up the beach with great heavy waves. It 
 was moaning and lamenting, and its sad 
 voice went to my very heart. I sank
 
 I04 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 down on my knees, and leaning my bead 
 on the window-sill, I cried bitterly. 
 
 *' Hush ! hush !" said William Gibson's 
 grave tones behind me : " pray don't." 
 
 " I must, oh, I must !" I replied, look- 
 ing round at him through my tears, " I 
 must cry because she is dead." 
 
 William Gribson, so shy, so nervous 
 and awkward in every-day life, ceased to 
 be so when anything moved him. He now^ 
 gave me a clear resolute look ; he took my 
 hand and made me rise; he led me out of 
 that dull dark room into the open air, 
 and walking with me by the shore, with 
 my hand still in his, he admonished me 
 gently. He was my elder by some years. 
 He was my superior in a hundred ways. 
 He was good and he was strong, and 
 goodness and strength have a rare power. 
 He did not charm my grief away, for who 
 could have done that, child thouofh I was 
 still, but he soothed the fever of the 
 wound it was past his skill to cure. Ah, 
 how gently, how tenderly, and how wasely, 
 too, for a man so young, he dealt with me
 
 SISTER ANNE. 105 
 
 on that sad morniug, and how my whole 
 heart yearned towards him. I longed to 
 tell him what I had said to his sister, and 
 to ask him to forgive me. 
 
 " T am very sorry," T began, then 
 I stopped short. 
 
 " For what ?" he asked, kindly. 
 
 I felt myself turning crimson, and Wil- 
 liam Gribson, who was delicate as well as 
 kind, put no further questions. And, 
 alas ! my penitent confession was not 
 spoken. Many years later he asked me 
 what it was that I had meant to say then, 
 and when I told him, he shook his head 
 and sighed. 
 
 II. 
 
 The death of my dear step-mother was 
 the first great calamity of my life, the first 
 at least of which I was conscious. It did 
 not merely pierce my very heart with 
 grief, it was also the leading cause of al- 
 most every subsequent affliction which be- 
 fel me. My father never recovered the
 
 io6 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 blow. He had been a bappy and pros- 
 perous man till then, but after his wife's 
 death he became both sad and unfortunate. 
 The judgment and industry which had 
 won him wealth and his kniofhthood failed 
 him in this great grief. He had heavy 
 losses, speculated to redeem, became the 
 prey of designing men, and died broken- 
 hearted and ruined before I was twenty. 
 My brother William was left wholly un- 
 provided for : but from my mother I de- 
 rived a small income on which we could 
 live, and, thanks to my trustee and to 
 William's guardian and mine, Mr. Rolt, 
 we were not divided. We had to leave 
 our old home, however, and oh ! how my 
 heart ached as, standing on the threshold 
 of my dead step-mother's room, I looked 
 back on everything which recalled her so 
 vividly. Five years had not effaced her 
 from my heart, or made her memory less 
 dear ; and when, leading little William by 
 the hand, I passed by the little fountain 
 with its waters dancing in the sun, I 
 seemed to see her dear face lookino- ten-
 
 SISTER ANNE. 107 
 
 derly at her child and me through the 
 shining spray. 
 
 Mr. Rolt was married, and with his 
 wife and him we went to live, at Bromp- 
 ton. They were very good-natm^ed 
 people, and both belonged to what I will 
 venture to call the sleeping tribe. Few 
 things roused them ; yet I should have 
 been happy enough with them if my 
 darling's prospects had not given me many 
 an anxious thought. 
 
 Whenever I spoke to Mr. E-olt of my 
 late father's affairs, he raised his hands 
 and turned up his eyes to signify the de- 
 plorable state in which they had been left. 
 Whenever I attempted to get hold of 
 something like clear and definite informa- 
 tion, he put me away with a " Oh, you 
 girl ! you girl !" that was both sweeping 
 and contemptuous. 
 
 But when I was twenty-one matters 
 changed. I then insisted on knowing 
 how and w^hy my father's property had 
 melted away ; I insisted on talking to 
 the lawyer myself, and that gentleman
 
 io8 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 was heard to declare that " Miss Sydney 
 was an extraordinary young lady. Such 
 a head for business in a girl of her years 
 was simply fabulous." Good old gentle- 
 man, I don't think my head was fabulous 
 at all, nor were my abilities so very won- 
 derful. If my interest alone had been at 
 stake J dare say I should have let matters 
 take their course, nor troubled my brain 
 with the recovery of seemingly lost 
 thousands. But you see there was Wil- 
 liam ! William, my darling boy ; William, 
 my father's child, who looked at me with 
 his mother's eyes and smiled that smile I 
 had seen on her poor dear face the night 
 before she died. I had promised her that 
 I would be true to him, and feeling as I 
 did, that if I did not care for him, no one 
 would, I set my mind, my heart, my whole 
 energies to the task of saving something 
 for him out of our great wreck. Alas ! I 
 saved very little, not enough to give him 
 the education of a gentleman. I had two 
 hundred a-year of my own ; I resolved to 
 spare out of that whatever he might need.
 
 SISTER ANNE. 109 
 
 In order to live cheaply and yet not be alone 
 in a strange place — William was to go to 
 a German university — I wrote to Mrs. 
 Gibson and asked her for that dreary 
 Rosebower, which, as I knew, the poor 
 lady still found it hard to let. Both Mr. 
 Rolt and the lawyer approved the course I 
 .was taking. I could not do better for the 
 boy, they said. 
 
 *' But you will find it lonely," remarked 
 Mr. Eolt, '' very lonely." 
 
 " I shall not mind, Mr. Rolt ; besides, 
 who knows but we may yet recover the 
 forty thousand pounds that West Indian 
 Monsieur Thomas owed my poor father ?" 
 
 " Oh, you girl !" ejaculated Mr. Rolt. 
 
 ** My dear young lady," coolly remarked 
 the lawyer, " you will get the forty 
 thousand pounds when Monsieur Thomas 
 turns up — and he never will turn up in 
 this world. I have told you again and 
 again that according to my information 
 the man is dead." 
 
 '* My dear sir, the man cheated my poor 
 father out of his money, but having heard
 
 no FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 of my Avouderful talents for business, and 
 being afraid of them, he pretends to be 
 dead. Insects do it constantly, why 
 should not a thief do it too ?" 
 
 They laughed, and that was all the com- 
 fort I got from tbem. It was very liard 
 to part from my dear boy, who was now 
 eleven years old, but I went through it 
 bravely, I believe. I know that women 
 seldom make men, and I loved him far 
 too much to wisb to keep him near me, 
 and ruin, may be, the whole of his future 
 life : so we parted. I gave him up to the 
 friend who was to see him safe to Ger- 
 many, and I went alone to Rosebower. 
 
 I had not visited the village since my 
 father's death, and the carriage had to 
 drive me past the old red brick mansion 
 which had been my home. I looked wist- 
 fully at the tall elms and beeches beneath 
 which William and I had played. The 
 great gate was open, and in the sunlight 
 I saw a child sitting by the plashing foun- 
 tain near which my father and Miss Gr^me 
 had found mc reading. The carriage
 
 SISTER ANNE. iii 
 
 drove on and the glimpse vanished, but 
 not the thoughts it had called up. Of all 
 that dear past, lost as well as dear, what 
 remained to me now — the boy from whom 
 I had parted that morning, and to whose 
 mother I had promised that I would be 
 true. 
 
 The sun was setting as I reached Rose- 
 bower ; a red light flashed back from the 
 windows but no one came forth to receive 
 me when I alighted from the carriage. 
 Mrs. Gibson had not got my last letter, 
 and she was away on a visit with her 
 daughter. So said a servant who did 
 not know me. She added that Mr. Wil- 
 liam Gibson had unexpectedly arrived 
 that afternoon ; would I see him ? I said 
 yes, and he came forth. He was now a 
 tall handsome man with a grave brown 
 face, but alas ! he was as nervous as ever, 
 and so shy and awkward that he made 
 me feel very uncomfortable indeed. I did 
 my best to put him at his ease, but the 
 girl whose hand he had taken, as he spoke 
 to her, by the sea shore, was now a young
 
 1 1 2 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 woman, " very stately," as lie said to me 
 later, and sbe evidently inspired him with 
 a feeling akin to awe. Then he was so 
 distressed that Rosebower should not be 
 quite ready for me. "Well it was a dreary 
 place, and I wondered at myself for 
 coming to it, whilst William Gibson 
 showed me through the low rooms that 
 looked so grey and chill in the twilight, 
 and kept stammering apologies, and open- 
 ing windows, and expressing regret at the 
 neglected state in which I found the cot- 
 tage. But he did more than all this. 
 When he returned to his mother's house 
 and sent me the servant to attend to my 
 first wants, he also sent me everything 
 he could think of as likely to add to my 
 comfort. An arm-chair came up on his 
 head to my room door and was wheeled 
 in by the girl ; then a small bureau fol- 
 lowed, then a little table which would do 
 for me instead of a work-table. I know 
 not what else would not have come if 
 I had not laughingly put an end to his 
 proceedings by going out to him on the 
 staircase.
 
 SISTER ANNE. 113 
 
 " Now, Mr. Gribson," I said severely, 
 " I am not going to allow any more of this. 
 You are stripping Mrs. Gibson's rooms, 
 and what will she think when she comes 
 back ?" 
 
 He looked chagrined, and replied hesi- 
 tatingly. 
 
 " This is such a wretched place for you, 
 and — and — the things came out of a lum- 
 ber-room no one ever looks at; no one 
 ever uses them." 
 
 " At all events," said I, rather doubt- 
 ing this statement — they all came from his 
 room — " I am amply provided for, thanks 
 to you, and I really want nothing more." 
 I wonder if I really was so handsome 
 then, as he told me later, that he found 
 me. There was something of it in his 
 eyes, as, looking up at me from the bot- 
 tom of the staircase, he muttered that 
 E/Osebower was a wretched place for one 
 like me. 
 
 I had my way about the furniture ; 
 after that indistinct protest of which the 
 purport, not the actual words, reached my 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 1 14 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 ear, William Gibson vanished, and I re- 
 mained alone. Tt was tlie autumn time 
 and I felt very chill. The servant lit me 
 a fire in the grate, and as it burned 
 and crackled I looked around me and 
 thought : " This is my home, the home 
 I have chosen, let me make the best of 
 it." 
 
 I said the same words three years back, 
 when I came here, but not in the same 
 spirit, nor with the same light hope in 
 future good within my heart as I had 
 then. Amongst the plans which I laid 
 as I sat thus by the fire and saw the light 
 playing on the mouldy furniture of Rose- 
 bower, my garden held a chief part, but 
 William Gibson's zeal forestalled me 
 there. Long before I was up the next 
 morning he was working and toiling for 
 me, setting flowers, trimming hedges, and 
 doing all a gardener's part with far more 
 than a gardener's zeal. I would have 
 protested against this if I could have seen 
 him, but I could not catch a glimpse 
 of my kind brownie. Neither that day
 
 SISTER ANNE, 115 
 
 nor the next, not till his mother and 
 sister returned and I called upon them, 
 did I see William Gibson again. I could 
 but thank him then ; protest, when he 
 had done all he could do and my little 
 garden was one mass of blooming flowers, 
 came too late, so I thanked him cordially ; 
 he heard me with a shy nervous smile, 
 then glanced up at me with such frank 
 adoration in his grey eyes, that I should 
 have been very blind indeed if I had not 
 known the meaning of that look. So 
 from the first I saw that William Gibson 
 loved me. He never said it, not a word 
 that fell from him ever implied it, but 
 I saw it, and seeing his goodness I loved 
 him too. 
 
 I loved him, but I did not know it, 
 and was the happier for my ignorance. 
 No thought of the future marred the 
 sweetness of the present time, or passed 
 like a cloud over the bright sunshine. I 
 sometimes wondered whv, thousfh Mrs. 
 Gibson was so prosy and Ellen so flip- 
 pant, the evenings I spent with them 
 
 I 2
 
 1 1 6 FORGE T-ME-NO TS. 
 
 seemed so delightful, but even that won- 
 der did not enlighten me. At last I 
 learned the truth. 
 
 I used to speak of my brother to Wil- 
 liam Gibson, whose nervousness had much 
 worn off. He listened to me with a 
 marked attention that bespoke interest, 
 and once he said, " You love your brother 
 very much ?" 
 
 " Of course I do !" I exclaimed, amused. 
 " He is such a darling," I added. *' Oh, 
 if you were to see the letters he writes 
 to me !" 
 
 " I should very much like to see them," 
 promptly replied Wilham Gibson; then, 
 looking at me, he added, " Of course, 
 
 he is like vou." 
 
 1/ 
 
 We happened to be alone in his mo- 
 ther's parlour, I sitting on a low chair, 
 looking at the fire, he standing by the 
 chimney, looking down at me. I felt 
 myself turn crimson when he spoke thus. 
 Why should William be like me, and why 
 did William Gibson care for that like- 
 ness ? Ah ! I knew it, I knew it very
 
 SISTER ANNE. 117 
 
 well, and knowing it I was glad, in a 
 vague, confused way, which I did not 
 quite understand as yet. But, as I said, 
 the knowledge came at last. I went, as 
 usual, to Mrs. Gibson's on the next even- 
 ing. My heart felt light and joyous ; I 
 had received a letter from my darling 
 that morning; he was working hard to 
 be a credit to me yet, and he was already 
 quite fluent in German. How could I 
 but be glad? In that bright mood, and 
 with my letter to show to Mr. Gibson, I 
 entered his mother's parlour, and, as 
 usual, that dull, low room, so shabbily 
 furnished, looked gay to me as a fairy 
 palace. There was an antique charm 
 about the old chiffonier ; perfumed oil 
 burning in a silver lamp could not have 
 shed a purer light in my eyes than that 
 of Mrs. Gibson's moderator. Everything 
 was dear, everything was delightful about 
 the place where I thought to meet Wil- 
 liam Gibson. 
 
 At once I missed him, at once I saw 
 Ellen's red eyes and Mrs. Gibson's woeful
 
 1 18 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 face, and with a cold chill at my heart I 
 guessed what had happened. 
 
 '' My dear boy is gone," plaintively 
 said Mrs. Gibson — '' gone to Poland for 
 two years." 
 
 William Gibson was a civil engineer, 
 and once or twice he had said something 
 about going to the north of Europe, but 
 still I had not anticipated a departure so 
 sudden. I had been out rambling all 
 day, and during my absence the summons 
 had come, and been obeyed at once. 
 
 " Willie asked to be very kindly remem- 
 bered to you," resumed Mrs. Gibson, in 
 the same dolorous tone. 
 
 I heard her with my useless letter in 
 my hand. He had asked to be very 
 kindly remembered to me. He could not 
 say more ; but he could not say less 
 either. This was his adieu, this our part- 
 ing. By the keen pang I felt, I learned 
 how dear he had become to me, and by 
 the changed eyes with which I viewed 
 the house he had left, and the rooms in 
 which I saw him no more. I knew how 
 delightful had been his presence.
 
 SISTER ANNE. HQ 
 
 I was very sad when I went home that 
 evening, and I cried myself to sleep. I 
 was sad for many days ; then I rallied, 
 and Hope, who had folded her wings 
 awhile, came and whispered some of her 
 sweet nonsense in my ear. I was sure 
 that William Gibson loved me ; I was 
 sure that he would be true to me ; and I 
 was sure that my love was his for ever. 
 He was not rich, indeed, and his mother 
 and sister were dependent upon him. I 
 also had William, my darling, to see and 
 help on, but for all that we were not too 
 poor to marry. Why should not my 
 brother be a civil engineer, later ? Happy 
 dreams, happy hours, in which you came 
 near me, turning Rosebower into a para- 
 dise. Two years did you last — two bliss- 
 full happy years— during which, all I 
 knew of William Gibson was that he was 
 well, and be2:o;ed to be rememberd to me 
 whenever he wrote home. 
 
 He had been gone two years, and I 
 knew he was expected home shortly, when 
 my darling came back from Germany.
 
 I20 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 I bad sent for him, but he arrived a day 
 earlier than I anticipated. I was sitting 
 alone, thinking of him as I looked at 
 the coal fire, when the parlour door 
 opened, and a blithe voice said, " Sister 
 Anne !" 
 
 I started up and saw him — tall, hand- 
 some, bright as sunshine, and so like his 
 dear mother ! I wept, and he laughed, 
 and we were both too happy. My eyes 
 feasted on his radiant face ; and then to 
 hear him saying, in his young voice : 
 
 " Sister Anne" — he always called me so 
 — " you are prettier than ever !" Or, 
 again, " Sister Anne, when will you leave 
 this merry cottage and go back to the old 
 house ?" 
 
 " When you are a rich man, my darling," 
 I replied, gaily. 
 
 I thought nothing of that speech of his 
 then ; I only thought that I had him back, 
 that Mr. Gibson was coming, and that my 
 cup of happiness was very nearly full ; but 
 when, the next day, William said to me, 
 almost gravely, " So the old house is to
 
 SISTER ANNE. 121 
 
 let ?" I began to wonder that he thought 
 so much about it. I asked if he had seen it. 
 
 *' Yes, I went round that way. It is a 
 noble place, Sister Anne. The gate was 
 shut, but I could see the fountain. It 
 was not playing." 
 
 " My darling," I said, with a little sigh 
 — for when he spoke of the fountain the 
 memory of many lost and happy hours 
 came back to me — " we must not think of 
 that now. You are to be a civil engineer, 
 please Heaven, and civil engineers don't 
 live in Elizabethan mansions, as a rule." 
 
 " Then I'll be an exception," he said, 
 walking about my little parlour with his 
 hands in his pockets, laughing so joyously 
 that it made my heart glad within me to 
 hear him. 
 
 But, alas ! my gladness was all gone the 
 next morning ; for my poor boy was in a 
 burning fever. Three weeks of suspense 
 and misery followed ; then he was saved, 
 said the doctor ; but, oh ! how weak and 
 languid, how pale and worn and altered ! 
 He had the strangest fancies. Nothing
 
 122 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 would do for him one day but to send me 
 
 off to W for some particular lozenges. 
 
 I wanted the servant to go, but he was 
 pettish and fretful; she was stupid, and 
 would commit some mistake, he said ; I 
 must go myself ; and so, to please him, I 
 went. 
 
 W is two miles away from Kose- 
 
 bower, but I walked fast, and soon reached 
 it. I despatched my errand quickly, and 
 made haste home. I felt all eagerness to 
 return, for, to say the truth, William Gib- 
 son had arrived that morning, and I feared 
 he would call whilst I was out. To miss 
 seeing him, even one day, seemed hard 
 after so long a separation. My way home 
 was up-hill, and I walked so swiftly that I 
 was soon breathless. I was obliged to sit 
 down by a stile and rest for a few minutes. 
 A strong high hedge divided the broad 
 field I had been crossing from the next. 
 Along that hedge there ran a low path, 
 which had been well known to dear Miss 
 Graeme and me in days gone by. I was 
 thinking of her when I heard Ellen's voice
 
 SISTER ANNE. 123 
 
 close to me. I looked, but, thougli I could 
 not see her, my heart beat fast ; for I 
 guessed to whom she was speaking. I was 
 so moved that I could not stir ; I could not 
 even speak ; I could only sit there, lost in 
 a joy which soon passed away. 
 
 " I tell you she does not care about you, 
 and never will," pettishly said Ellen. " I 
 wonder you will think of her." 
 
 " I suppose I cannot help it," answered 
 William Gibson's voice, rather sadly. 
 
 " She is so wrapped up in her brother 
 that it makes me sick," continued Ellen. 
 
 " Have you seen him ?" 
 
 " No ; but I hate him, big stupid boy ! 
 What right has she to praise him so, and 
 then throw it in my face that you are awk- 
 ward, that you don't know how to sit on a 
 chair, and that you tread on ladies' 
 dresses ?" 
 
 I heard Ellen, and felt petrified with 
 anger and amazement. I started to my 
 feet to contradict and deny, but they had 
 already passed on. " No matter," I 
 thought, as I too rose and walked away ;
 
 124 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 " Mr. Gibson shall know the truth, Ellen. 
 He shall know that the words you have so 
 cruelly remembered and repeated to him 
 were uttered eight years back when we 
 were all children. He shall know it, 
 though Heaven knows what he will think 
 of me for volunteering such a confession !" 
 I could have cried with shame at the 
 thought, and yet I was quite determined. 
 No pride, no reserve should prevent me 
 from undeceiving William Gibson. He 
 should not think, no matter what the cost 
 might be, that T slighted him because he 
 was nervous and shy. I do not know how 
 I should have done this, but I never had 
 the opportunity. When I got home I 
 found my poor boy once more very ill ; he 
 had a relapse that lasted weeks ; and during 
 all that time I never left him night or day. 
 At length he got well again, and on a lovely 
 morning in April I could take him down to 
 the garden. He sat in an arm-chair, in the 
 sun, looking at the early flowers, at the 
 green hedge, at a broad field in which a 
 cow was grazing, at the blue sky, along
 
 SISTER ANNE. 125 
 
 wTiich little fleecy clouds sailed awaj ; and 
 he looked so like his dear mother that my 
 whole heart yearned towards him. 
 
 " Grod bless you, my darling !" I could 
 not help saying — " God bless you !" 
 
 He smiled, and was going to say some- 
 thing, when the garden-gate opened ; two 
 dark figures stepped between us and the 
 sun, and, looking up, I saw Ellen and her 
 brother coming towards us. As I saw 
 them then, I see them still as I write. 
 She, a tall, elegant, and beautiful girl of 
 nineteen, with long golden curls and the 
 freshness of a rose ; he, pale, nervous, and 
 much altered. Was that her doing ? Had 
 that lovely but very selfish sister improved 
 her opportunity all this time, and stabbed 
 him day after day with those little thrusts 
 of unkind speech which can wound so 
 deeply? She did not like me, that I had 
 always known; but might she not have 
 spared him ? J suppose she did not wish 
 him to marry. The sin sat very lightly on 
 her conscience, however ; for she came to- 
 wards us with a happy smile on her rosy
 
 1 26 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 lips, and her charming face full of pretty 
 dimples. 
 
 *' Give William a good scolding, Miss 
 Sydney," she said, gaily ; '' he wanted to 
 go away without bidding you good-bye, 
 but I would not allow that." 
 
 So he was going again — going, and I 
 had not seen him once ; and his sister and 
 my brother were present, and what could 
 I do or say now ? 
 
 " I should have been very sorry not to 
 see Mr. Gibson," I replied. 
 
 *' I — I was afraid of intruding," he 
 stammered. 
 
 I called Jane, and bade her bring out 
 chairs ; but Ellen interfered. 
 
 " Bless you, he has not a minute to 
 spare," she said; " and he is going for I 
 don't know how long." 
 
 I looked at him ; I could not help it ; 
 and he has told me since how that look 
 
 startled and staggered him. But he did 
 not understand its meaning, I suppose ; 
 for he said a few words more, then he 
 went. He went, and I could not call him
 
 SISTER ANNE. 127 
 
 back ; I could not say to him, '' Stay ; I 
 love you ! Do not believe her ; she is false, 
 she is selfish ; she wants to keep you un- 
 married for her own ends ; but Hove you. 
 I esteem, I admire you, and I love you 
 with my whole soul, with my whole heart !" 
 I could say nothing. He took my hand, 
 and it lay cold and passive in his, and did 
 not betrav the secret I would have laid 
 before him so willingly. He went, and I 
 let him go, feeling all the time that he 
 took with him my little share of woman's 
 happiness here below. 
 
 " What a great baby !" said my darling. 
 My heart was very full. My love for him 
 had cost me very dear ; since, but for his 
 relapse, William Gibson had never been 
 lost to me ; but I bless heaven that, heavy 
 though my heart felt just then, neither 
 that petulant speech of a boy, nor the 
 heavy price I had paid for his love, could 
 raise one bitter thought against him in my 
 heart. I threw my arms around his neck 
 and kissed him. 
 
 " God bless you, my darling !" I said,
 
 128 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 *' God bless you — it shall make no dif- 
 ference." 
 
 "Why, Sister Anne, you are not crying?" 
 he said, with a gay laugh. 
 
 " What if I am ?" I replied, trying to 
 smile. " What if I am, you foolish boy ? 
 All my tears are not shed yet, are they ?" 
 
 He patted my cheek and bade me not 
 fret, for that he was getting well and strong 
 again. I was then nearly twenty-four, and 
 a woman of twenty-four can suffer and not 
 show it. William never suspected, and 
 Ellen never saw, my grief. She had rob- 
 bed me of my great happiness, but I kept 
 my sorrow sacred from her cruel eyes. 
 The task was an easy one. She soon left 
 the place and got married, her mother went 
 to live with her, and died after a little while. 
 Their cottage could find no tenant, and ere 
 long became as wild and drearily forlorn as 
 Rosebower was when I first saw it; and 
 thus my link with William Gibson, who had 
 gone abroad, as I learned, was utterly 
 broken. Once I inquired after him from 
 the agent to whom I paid the rent.
 
 SISTER ANNE. 129 
 
 '' Oh ! I believe he has got married," 
 the man replied — " yes, he is married to 
 some foreign ladj or other." 
 
 III. 
 
 Many women have such sorrows, and 
 go through them, as I went through 
 mine, with silent endurance. Time did 
 its work with me, as it does with thou- 
 sands daily ; the wound healed, and only 
 now and then a thrill reminded me of the 
 old pain. Through some fond and foolish 
 memory of the past, I suppose, I made 
 my darling a civil engineer. He was in 
 London away from me, working hard, and 
 full of hopes of success ; and I remained 
 in Rosebower till the happy time should 
 come that would re-unite us for ever. On 
 this dream I fed and lived, not unhappy 
 though lonely ; and day after day the still- 
 ness that was flowing over my life grew 
 deeper, till once more it was broken. 
 
 I was coming in one evening from a 
 long walk, when, leaning over my garden 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 FORGET-ME-NOTS, 
 
 gate, and looking full at me, like tlie ghost 
 of my former years, I saw William Gibson. 
 He was much altered ; a thin, worn, un- 
 happy-looking man, verging on middle 
 age ; but I knew him in a moment. He 
 did not stir until I stood within a few 
 paces of the gate ; then he opened it for 
 me, and held out his hand in a calm, 
 self-possessed man-of-the-world manner, 
 which showed me that the shy nervous 
 William Gibson was no more. We entered 
 the house together, and what that first 
 glimpse had revealed, everything I saw 
 and heard rapidly confirmed. In a few 
 brief words he told me his story. He had 
 married a foreign lady, as I had been 
 told, but his wedded life liad proved 
 miserable from the first day to the last. 
 
 ** My wife was attached to another 
 man," said William Gibson, very calmly, 
 '* and was forced into marrying me. She 
 never forg^ave me the offence of having: 
 believed in her willingness, and I never 
 could forgive her for robbing me of my 
 liberty. After a few wretched years,
 
 SISTER ANNE. 131 
 
 during which I vainly tried to win her 
 affections, we parted by mutual consent. 
 She is living with her parents, and I am 
 thrown back on solitude. You did well 
 not to marry, Miss Sydney; you never 
 ran the venture, and never paid the cost." 
 There was a touch of bitterness in his 
 tone, but I did not seem to notice it. 
 Where was the use ? All was over ; he 
 did not know, he never must know, what 
 he had been once to me, what I might 
 have been to him. Only once more did 
 we touch on the subject. Mr. Gibson 
 stayed a fortnight in the village. I never 
 met him all that time, and when he called 
 on me again, it was to bid me good-bye. 
 The autumn evening was chill, and I had 
 a fire. He leaned forward, so as to get 
 the heat, and the ruddy flame played on 
 his bending face. My heart ached to see 
 how pale and worn he was. Oh ! what a 
 different fate might have been his and 
 mine, but for his sister ! For a third 
 time we were going to part, and this time 
 there was no one by to check him or to 
 
 K 2
 
 132 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 keep me mute ; but it was too late, for 
 ever too late ! We were both silent. At 
 length, raising up his head, he said, 
 abruptly : 
 
 " You little know what my life might 
 have been but for you. You little know, 
 Miss Sydney, that you once held my fate 
 in your hands." 
 
 I looked at him till I could not see him 
 for blinding tears. 
 
 " Do I not know it ?" I asked. " Had 
 I not seen it, though you never spoke; 
 and did I not hear your sister Ellen speak- 
 ing to you along the hedge as I sat by 
 the stile, years ago ? She sealed my fate 
 and yours then. 1 do not complain, I 
 forgive her; but do not blame me for 
 your sorrows. She spoke, and you lis- 
 tened — and what could I do, Mr. Gibson ? 
 I was a woman condemned to silence ; a 
 woman compelled to wait for a wooing 
 that came not. She repeated words that 
 had been spoken many years, and used 
 them against me, and you believed her, 
 and had no faith in me, and what could
 
 SISTER ANNE. 133 
 
 I do ? I never so much, as saw you once 
 before you left. Did you make one at- 
 tempt, Mr. Gibson, to learn the truth, 
 from me? Not one. Remember that, 
 and never reproach me for what was your 
 own doing." 
 
 He looked at me like one transfixed, 
 then his lip quivered and his eye grew dim. 
 
 " Then it might have been," he said, in 
 a low tone — " it might have been !" 
 
 " Yes," I replied, trying to smile, " it 
 might have been, and now it is too late; 
 and even if it were not, we both have 
 passed that time, and should bury it far 
 and deep, and set a gravestone over it, 
 with a hie jacet epitaph as final as any ever 
 engraved in a churchyard." 
 
 He was silent for a while. I believe 
 his heart was very full, and when he did 
 speak at length, it was to tell me how 
 dear I had been to him in these lost days, 
 which might have been so blessed. It 
 was also then he said how beautiful he 
 thought me when I came to live at Rose- 
 bower. Well, he was the first and last
 
 134 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 wlio ever told me such a tale, and as I 
 stood on the hearth before him, with my 
 hand clasped in his for our last adieu, I 
 could smile at the pale face I saw in the 
 tarnished mirror; poor pale face, as pale 
 and as faded as these last years of my 
 youth. 
 
 It was late when he atleno^th said orood- 
 bye. I walked out with him through the 
 chill garden, and parted from him at the 
 gate, whilst he went on to the village inn 
 where he slept. He left early the next morn- 
 ing, and I saw him no more. I have heard 
 about him since then, but we have never 
 met again. It is better so. Why go back 
 to a lost past — lost and barren ! I am not 
 unhappy, though I cannot forget him, but 
 I do not care to think of him in the time 
 when he was my shy nervous lover. When 
 I remember William Gibson, it is as a kind 
 grave youth, who found me crying in the 
 lonely parlour of Rosebower, and w^ho, 
 taking me by the hand, led me out on the 
 shore, and there spoke words of wise and 
 gentle comfort to a weeping girl.
 
 SISTER ANXE. 135 
 
 About a month after his departure, mj 
 dear boy paid me a very unexpected visit. 
 He was twenty-four then, quite a man, and 
 doing wonderfully, according to his ac- 
 count — more moderately, in my opinion. 
 I wondered what had brought him. He 
 soon told me. 
 
 " Sister Anne,*' he said, when our first 
 greeting was over, " Monsieur Thomas has 
 turned up. He has been heard of in 
 Algeria." 
 
 Monsieur Thomas was the gentleman 
 who owed us forty thousand pounds. I 
 shook my head rather doubtfully. 
 
 " There are so many Thomases all over 
 the world," said I. ^^^ 
 
 " Oh, but this is the one," eargerly re- 
 plied William ; " and he is quite a rich man, 
 and can pay us principal and interest, you 
 know, and we can get back the old house, 
 and live in it, and bid a last good-bye to 
 Rosebower." 
 
 "My dear William, do not be too hope- 
 ful. Depend upon it this Thomas is not 
 the right one, or if he is, he will never 
 pay us."
 
 136 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 " You are a Thomas of Didjmus, Sister 
 Anne. I tell vou this is the man." And 
 he proceeded to give me proofs which 
 convinced me. 
 
 Yes, this Thomas was our Thomas, but 
 my older knowledge of the world would not 
 allow me now the illusions I had formerly 
 indulged in. William got vexed with my 
 scepticism, and said rather warmly : 
 
 " I tell you he shall pay us, and, what is 
 more, I shall be off to Algiers next week." 
 
 " My dear boy, you do not mean it !" 
 
 But he did mean it, and meant it very 
 seriously too. Now, I knew this was ruin. 
 To leave his work when he was just be- 
 ginning to be known in it was ruin, and I 
 tried to impress this truth upon him, in 
 vain. The forty thousand pounds dazzled 
 him, and for that ignis fatuus he was will- 
 ing to forego the steady flow of his little 
 prosperity at home. I took a desperate 
 resolve. 
 
 ''I shall go to Algiers," I said, " and so 
 you will run no risk of loss, and be no 
 worse off if the money cannot be re- 
 covered."
 
 SISTER ANNE. 137 
 
 William's face fell. I suspect the plea- 
 sure of seeing Africa, palm-trees, and tur- 
 baned Arabs had had something to do with 
 his eagerness to hunt down Monsieur 
 Thomas. But my proposal was so reason- 
 able, that he did not dare to resist it ; he 
 raised, indeed, a few objections, which I 
 promptly overruled, and my journey was 
 decided. 
 
 / never look back to that time without 
 sorrow. It was a great trial for me to 
 leave my quiet home, cross the sea twice, 
 and seek an unwilling debtor in a strange 
 land ; but I undertook it willingly, for his 
 dear sake. Neither that, nor the fatigue I 
 underwent, nor the tribulations — for they 
 were many — which awaited me, would 
 now cost me a sigh, but for other things 
 which this ill-fated journey led to. Ill- 
 fated I call it, though I wonder if forty 
 thousand pounds were ever got back 
 so easily as I got ours. Monsieur 
 Thomas had just died when I arrived in 
 Algiers, and as he was a foundling by 
 birth, the state was his only heir. I set
 
 138 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 fortli my claim, it was indisputable, and 
 was granted almost without contest, though 
 not without some delay. So far, surely, 
 I had no reason to complain. Everything 
 was, or seemed to be, over. Yet a strange 
 presentiment of coming misfortune, which 
 I could not conquer, induced me to send 
 on the money beforehand. A terrible 
 storm overtook our boat the day after we 
 left Africa, and seemed destined to justify 
 my worst forebodings. Sea and sky met 
 in a darkness so fearful, that we could 
 scarcely see the white crests of the angry 
 waves roaring around us, as if eager to 
 devour and swallow us up. An agony 
 like that of death came over me. Oh ! to 
 see him again, my boy, my darling — to 
 see him once more, and then, if it were 
 God's will, to die; I remember that I 
 prayed thus, not once, but all the time 
 the storm lasted. When the sky cleared, 
 and the great waves fell, and danger went 
 by, T rejoiced, thinking I had prevailed. 
 And so I had, but I little guessed at what 
 cost.
 
 SISTER ANNE. 139 
 
 In Paris I found a letter from my clear 
 boy, telling me not merely that the money 
 had reached him safely, but also that he 
 had at once secured our old home ''on a 
 long lease." It was a great piece of folly, 
 and I knew it, but I could not be angry 
 with him, do what I would. He wrote so 
 joyously, he seemed so happy, so hope- 
 ful ! And, after all, we were rich. Our 
 forty thousand pounds had been bearing 
 fair interest all these years, and of that 
 interest, owing to rare good fortune, 
 we were not defrauded. If we chose to 
 shut up part of the house and to be pru- 
 dent, we could indulge ourselves with 
 sleeping once more beneath the old roof. 
 William's children might play by the foun- 
 tain where my father and Miss G-raeme 
 had found me reading long ago, and I 
 might know happy hours again within 
 those dear and stately rooms whence I 
 had been banished so many years. The 
 thought made me happy, very happy. I 
 sat by the open window of my room in 
 the Hotel Meyerbeer. It was night, and
 
 140 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 lights were burning brightly along the 
 dark avenues of the Champs Elysees ; I 
 heard the roll of carriages, and every now 
 and then bursts of music and thunders of 
 applause from the Cirque close by. I saw 
 and heard all this, but as in a dream. 
 The reality was not the gay scene I gazed 
 on ; it was that fair home to which I was 
 returning, as I thought, on the morrow. 
 That dear face, that kind voice, that 
 warm clasp and fond embrace, which were 
 to be mine so soon, alone were real ; the 
 carriages, the lights, the music, the 
 sounds of the foreign city were the dream. 
 But it was not to be, I had not felt quite 
 well during my journey, and I was very 
 ill the next morning. The English doctor 
 I sent for told me at once that I had 
 brought fever with me from Africa. If it 
 had been possible for me to travel on I 
 would have done so, but I could not. All 
 I could do was to write to my brother, 
 and telling him that Paris was a very 
 fascinating city, I bade him not expect 
 me just yet. I would not say more, I
 
 SISTER ANNE. 141 
 
 would not alarm him, I would not bring 
 him from his new-found joy to my sick 
 bed ; but the self-denial cost me very dear. 
 I did not know^ if my life was in danger. 
 I only knew that the thought of dying in 
 a strange city, of being laid amongst un- 
 known dead, and, above all, of never 
 seeing my darling again, haunted me night 
 and day, like a perpetual nightmare. Ah ! 
 what visions were with me as I lay there 
 looking at the light stealing through the 
 grey persiennes, conning over the strange 
 furniture, listening to voices which, 
 though kind, were foreign, and pining for 
 my own speech and my own kindred in 
 my own land ! At length the probation 
 was over. I got well again, and though 
 the doctor said I was far too weak to 
 travel, I went, spite his warnings and 
 grave looks. This journey was safe, easy 
 and rapid ; I wonder if there was a hap- 
 pier heart than mine when I reached our 
 village, and, alighting from the carriage 
 that had brought me, I passed through the 
 open gates of our old home and saw the
 
 142 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 fountain dancing in the red sunlight which 
 lit up the front of the house with a deep 
 gorgeous glow. No one, save a servant- 
 girl, came out to meet me. I did not 
 wonder at it ; lest fatigue or illness should 
 detain me, I had not fixed the day of my 
 return when I wrote to my dear brother. 
 But he was well, quite well, the servant 
 told me, and out in the grounds walking. 
 I would not let her go and fetch him. I 
 wished to seek him myself. My heart 
 beat with rapture, as, for the first time 
 after so many years, I found myself again 
 in these dear alleys, and saw the same 
 flowers, it seemed to me, that used to 
 bloom there when Miss Graeme and I 
 passed them hand-in-hand. And I had 
 helped to win all this back for her son ! 
 The thought was very sweet. It was en- 
 chanting, and paid me back tenfold for 
 fatigue, and danger, and sickness, and 
 all I had undergone. I walked very far, 
 still seeking my brother, but I could not 
 find him ; yet a sound of voices lured and 
 led me from path to path, and alley to
 
 SISTER ANNE. 143 
 
 alley, till I turned back dislieartened. I 
 had entered the lime-tree avenue, at the 
 end of which one sees the little fountain 
 with the red house, and a solemn back- 
 ground of deep dark verdure behind it. 
 I was walking slowly, for I felt tired, 
 when I heard the voices again. I stole 
 into the side path, and lurking there, I 
 waited to see who was coming. Hiding 
 behind a thick clump of trees, I saw this. 
 
 A handsome child, a boy richly dressed, 
 came up the avenue, throwing his ball 
 and shouting gaily. After him appeared 
 my brother, and a lady, a beautiful woman, 
 walked by his side. In a moment I knew 
 her; this was Ellen Gibson. My heart 
 seemed to cease to beat. What had 
 brought her here ? She spoke. In that 
 light voice which had once sealed my fate, 
 and which I knew so well, she said : 
 
 " I wish, Mr. Gibson, you would plant 
 evergreens at the gate. People do stare 
 in so, and I am sure I saw some one just 
 now moving amongst those trees. And 
 if it were not that there is no banshee — "
 
 144 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 " And how do you know there is no 
 banshee ?" he interrupted in his gay voice.' 
 '* Well, at all events it is a comfort to know 
 that dreadful old woman is getting civilized , 
 and wears gloves," said Ellen, pushing 
 away with her foot a glove which I had 
 dropped in my hurry to hide from them. 
 
 He laughed. He did not see me, but 
 oh ! how I saw him, and how happy, how 
 blest he looked, with the strong light 
 shining on his handsome face. The boy 
 had run on, and was now shouting far 
 away. William thought himself alone 
 with Ellen. 
 
 ' *' My darling — my darling wife !" he 
 said; and he took her in his arms, and 
 kissed her. 
 
 I leaned against the trunk of a tree, and 
 groaned aloud in my agony. But they 
 had walked on ; they did not hear me ; they 
 did not see me ; they left me there alone in 
 my misery. There is a legend of a 
 maiden's soul in Purgatory who bought, 
 at the cost of a thousand years of pain, 
 the boon of visiting earth to console her
 
 SISTER ANNE. 145 
 
 lover, and who, finding that he had for- 
 gotten her for another love, fulfilled her 
 compact in that one moment. Whilst the 
 tempest was howling around the ship that 
 bore me, I had asked of Heaven to see my 
 brother again, and see him well, pros- 
 perous, and happy ; and now was not my 
 prayer granted, like that poor soul's ? Did 
 I not see him again ? Was he not pros- 
 perous, thanks to me ? And after what 
 I had beheld, could I doubt that he was 
 happy ? Ah ! I can say it from the 
 depths of my heart, I wished him to 
 marry — I wished him to know whatever 
 joy had been denied to my life ; I grudged 
 no good woman his love, and even could 
 have felt satisfied to look on and see 
 another loved far more fondly than I had 
 ever been. But that Ellen Gibson should 
 be the one ! That she who had so wantonlj^^ 
 destroyed my happiness should reap the 
 fruit of every sacrifice ! That she who 
 had robbed me of her brother should 
 have stolen mine from me whilst I was 
 away toiling and suffering for him ! That 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 M6 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 she and her child, strangers to ray blood, 
 should come and possess the lost home 
 I had redeemed for him- — all this it was 
 that seemed too much, and overpowered 
 me ! I could not bear it. I sank down on the 
 grass, and wept and moaned there as if 
 my heart would break. 
 
 A rustling sound roused me. I looked 
 up and saw her. She stood before me in 
 her rich silks, and with her still voungr 
 
 I/O 
 
 beauty seeming to triumph over my ruined 
 life. The fountain played behind her 
 with a low pleasant sound, but instead of 
 my dear Miss Grgeme, I saw the evil sor- 
 ceress who had stolen Miss Graeme's son 
 from me. She was alone. She did not 
 know me at first, but on recoofnisino- me 
 she turned pale and stepped back. 
 
 " What are you afraid of ?" I asked, 
 bitterly. " Have I not retmmed too late 
 to save him from you ? Are you not his 
 wife ? You were a widow, it seems, though 
 you cannot long have been such. I do 
 not know and do not care by what arts 
 you made him forget that you are almost
 
 SISTER ANNE. 147 
 
 as old as I am — far too old for him ; you 
 did it. You made him so far forget the 
 sister who was away toiling for him, that 
 he did not await her return to marry you. 
 Well, you have prevailed a second time 
 over me. Your brother loved me, and 
 you took him from me, and helped to make, 
 him wretched. And, now that you have 
 taken my brother, my child, my darling, 
 make him happy at least, and it will atone, 
 perhaps it will atone, for all the weight of 
 grief you have laid upon me. Tell my 
 brother that he will find me at Rosebower. 
 Here I will never set my foot again." 
 
 She did not answer me one word, she 
 looked thunderstruck, nor did I give her 
 time to speak. As fast as I could I 
 walked away. I forgot the carriage, and, 
 leaving by a postern door, i went on to 
 Rosebower like one pursued ; it was only 
 the amazed look of the servant who came 
 and opened the door for me that recalled 
 me to myself. I sent her for the driver 
 and my luggage, and sat down in the 
 lonely parlour. How chill, how dreary it 
 
 L 2
 
 148 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 looked, with the blinds down and the 
 blank fireplace ! Was this my welcome 
 home after near a year's parting ? A quick 
 step along the gravel path roused me, and, 
 looking out, I saw my brother. He entered 
 the room pale, disturbed, and half angry. 
 " Anne," he said, taking me in his arms, 
 " Anne, how is this ? Why are you here ?" 
 "My darling," I replied, kissing him, 
 " I am here because it is best for me to be so." 
 He thought I was angry with him for 
 not waiting my return to marry Ellen, 
 and he proceeded to give me all sorts of 
 reasons, which he had found very con- 
 vincing, for having taken that step with- 
 out my knowledge. I heard him out, and 
 seeing she had been silent on m}^ real 
 grievance against her, I was silent too. 
 
 ''My dear boy," I said, "I love you 
 dearly, and I think I have proved it, but 
 it is not in my power to live at the old 
 house now, so I came here." 
 
 " You don't know Ellen," he said, red- 
 dening with displeasure ; " she is an angel, 
 and your unkindnessis breaking her heart."
 
 SISTER ANNE. 149 
 
 It was very hard to bear that, but 1 bore 
 it too. He did all he could to prevail 
 over me, and not succeeding he left me, 
 not in anger, indeed, but in some bitter- 
 ness. And from that day forth to this 
 he has never been the same to me — never, 
 and he never will be — never. She has 
 conquered him, and she will keep him. 
 
 Mrs. Sydney took a dislike to this part 
 of the country soon after my return, and 
 made her husband leave it. They live in 
 town, and lead a gay life I am told, for Wil- 
 liam makes a great deal of money by civil 
 engineering, and the old house is once more 
 shut up and deserted. William comes 
 down in the autumn, when his wife goes 
 to a fashionable watering-place. It is 
 then I see him. He says he is happy, but 
 I cannot believe it. He looks pale and 
 careworn. The bright happy boy I had 
 once, the hopeful young man who longed 
 for his paternal home are gone, and in 
 their stead I have the pale, sullen, and dis- 
 contented husband of Ellen Gibson. 
 
 Time went on ; matters grew more un-
 
 150 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 comfortable, and I could bear them no 
 longer ; I was tired and weary of Eng- 
 land, and felt that I must have change of 
 scene and ideas. A friend had written to 
 me frequently from Manneville, describing 
 the pastoral beauties of the little place. 
 One fine morning, I bade adieu to Rose- 
 bower, crossed the water, and settled down 
 in Manneville, into the quiet life of an old 
 maid. 
 
 I had written thus far, thinking my 
 tale ended and my little dream of life over. 
 Alas ! life never ends ; great joy and great 
 sorrow were yet in store for me. 
 
 IV. 
 
 As I sat one evening reading, and 
 wondering at the might of the solace which 
 lies in books, and listening to the low 
 moaning of the wind which came from 
 the shore, the parlour door opened, and 
 Marie, saying " Mr. Gibson, ma'am," 
 showed William Gibson in. 
 
 '' I did not know you were in France," 
 said I, trying not to seem flurried, and to
 
 SISTER ANNE. 151 
 
 look simply glad, as one should be, on 
 seeing an old acquaintance. 
 
 " I am on my way to England from 
 Spain," lie replied. 
 
 From Spain ! The word called up a 
 wonderful vision of Moorish palaces, 
 beautiful women, and gardens full of 
 orange-trees. I questioned him eagerly, 
 seeming to show, perhaps, more interest 
 than I felt. He answered me shortly 
 enough. William Gibson did not seem to 
 care much about Spain, but even whilst 
 he spoke took down and looked at a little 
 drawing. 
 
 '' You remember it," I said. " You 
 gave me that thirteen years ago." 
 Not thirteen," he said quickly. 
 Thirteen, wanting three months," I 
 replied. 
 
 He put down the drawing, as if it 
 burned him, and looked rather gloomy. 
 
 "Which do you prefer," I asked in 
 
 order to say something, " north or south ?" 
 
 " I have not been in the north for many 
 
 a 
 
 i( 
 
 years. 
 
 J J 
 
 he answered.
 
 152 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 '' Yes," said I, perversely, '* it is 
 fifteen years since you went to Poland. I 
 remember." 
 
 William Gibson looked at me very 
 earnestly. 
 
 '' It is on purpose," he said, '' you say 
 this to remind me that time has been hard 
 iipon me since those days, and yet I will 
 not go without saying what I meant to 
 say. Will you marry me ?" 
 
 ''Marry you?" I exclaimed, bewildered. 
 " Are you a widower, then ?" 
 
 " Yes. I have been so for some time. 
 Did you not know it ?" 
 
 I did not answer him. I could not. 
 Alas ! my dead love rising from its grave 
 looked very pale and ghostlike. William 
 Gibson gazed at me with evident sorrow. 
 
 '* I ought to have known it," he said. 
 '' I did know it, and yet I would not lose 
 my second chance." 
 
 " You want to marry again," I said, at 
 length. 
 
 *' Marry again !" he replied, impatiently. 
 " I want to marry you !"
 
 SISTER ANNE. 153 
 
 I shook my head. 
 
 " We are both too old, both of us," I 
 answered, after a while. " What would 
 have been well years ago would not be 
 well now. I could not make you happy, 
 Mr. Gibson." 
 
 "You mean that you could not be 
 happy with me," he replied, looking much 
 mortified . " Well that may be — that may be." 
 
 I could not bear this. All prudence 
 forsook me. 
 
 " As I liked you fifteen years ago, so I 
 like you now," I exclaimed, from the full- 
 ness of my heart; '' and if you think — " 
 
 " I don't think — I know," interrupted 
 William Gribson, with a decision very un- 
 like his former self; and thus, before I 
 almost knew how, I was engaged to be his 
 wife. 
 
 No April smile lit earth and sky as 
 on the sad day of our parting. The 
 night wind sighed around the cottage 
 eaves, and the fire burned brightly on the 
 hearth. And like the season and the 
 hour, so were we. The vexing fever of
 
 154 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 passion was over with its delights and its 
 torments, but warm and bright was what 
 yet remained in .our two hearts. The 
 freshness of youth, the glow of manhood 
 were gone ; but what matter ! Enough 
 love was left to give sweetness to the last 
 years of two vexed lives. 
 
 Poets and painters never weary of sun- 
 sets, but late love is not a favoured theme. 
 The sunset of life is not so fair to the out- 
 ward eye as that of nature. What mat- 
 ter, I say again. William Gibson and I 
 felt very happy, and for a week — a whole 
 week — no cloud passed between us and 
 that happiness. Then I left Manneville, 
 and went back to Rosebower. 
 
 As I came home from a pleasant ram- 
 ble with him one afternoon, and entered 
 Rosebower alone, I found a pale, haggard 
 man sitting in my chair. I paused at the 
 door, and looked in doubt at that dreary 
 face. I looked and could not believe my 
 eyes. Was this William — my William ! 
 
 " Well, sister Anne," he said, '' why do 
 you look at me so ? I have come back to
 
 SISTER ANNE. 155 
 
 3^ou a broken, ruined man. You did mucli 
 for me ; you got me a noble inheritance, 
 and I have lost it all — all — and here I 
 am a burden on you once more; but not 
 for long, Anne — not for long." 
 
 I threw my arms around his neck. 
 
 " You are my boy, my dear boy still !" 
 I said fondly. 
 
 I did not speak of his wife, nor did he 
 mention her name then or later ; but I 
 learned throus^h another channel that 
 when the crash in their fortunes came, 
 she, forsaking the husband on whom her 
 extravagance had helped to bring such 
 sorrow, had gone to a distant relation's 
 with her child. 
 
 It was sorrow, but not dishonour, thank 
 Heaven. He had gone far, but stopped 
 short of that. But it was ruin, deep, 
 irremediable and complete. Of that, the 
 little he said soon convinced me. I felt 
 so sure of it, that my course, at once, lay 
 clear before me. My poor boy's health 
 was shattered, his spirit was conquered, 
 and, thanks to Ellen, his heart was
 
 156 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 broken. That dear burden I could bear, 
 but I could never entail it on William 
 Gibson ! 
 
 So, whilst William sat shivering by the 
 fire, I put on my hat, and walked out 
 along the road by which I knew Mr. Gib- 
 son was to come, and where, indeed, I 
 had appointed to meet him. The Novem- 
 ber afternoon was calm and still, and the 
 landscape very silent. There had been 
 a sprinkling of snow in the morning, and 
 it had not yet melted away from the trees 
 and hedges ; a grey sky, with here and 
 there a faint patch of red caught from the 
 setting sun, bent low over all. 
 
 " I, too, have reached my November 
 season," I thought ; " and what have I 
 to do with hopes and desires that are only 
 fit for young life in the spring? What 
 should I think of trees and flowers that 
 would want to give forth leaves and blos- 
 soms beneath this grey leaden sky ? It is 
 too late — for ever too late. I forgot it 
 for a few days, and such forgetfulness 
 was sweet while it lasted ; but I remem-
 
 SISTER ANNE. 157 
 
 ber it now, and can no longer delude 
 myself, or be deluded. 
 
 As I came to this conclusion, Mr. Gib- 
 son appeared, and walked briskly towards 
 me. My heart failed me a little. He 
 seemed so happy ! And as he came up 
 to me and passed my arm within his, and 
 looked at me, he seemed so sure of me — 
 and why should I be ashamed to write 
 it ? — so glad to have me. I did not know 
 how to begin ; but he was quick to see 
 that something ailed me. He questioned, 
 and I replied. I told him how and why 
 William had come back, and also the re- 
 solve 1 had taken. 
 
 He heard me out with more composure 
 than I expected. 
 
 " That's Ellen's doing," he said ; " I 
 knew it would come to this, and told her 
 so. Poor boy, and so she is not with 
 with him ! Dragged him down the 
 pit, then left him there." 
 
 " And now," I said, feeling he had not 
 understood me, "you see and know, Mr. 
 Gibson, why all that we had planned must
 
 158 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 be over. iVIy boy has come back to me 
 a cliild again, and again I am bis mother, 
 and — " 
 
 " You mean that you consider our en- 
 gagement broken." 
 
 *' It cannot be helped, Mr. Gibson." 
 
 " Then, Miss Sydney, you may as well 
 prepare for an action for breach of pro- 
 mise. I shall certainly not submit to such 
 treatment." 
 
 Tears rose to my eyes. 
 
 '* I cannot — I cannot put that burden 
 upon you," I said passionately ; " I tell 
 you he is ruined in purse, in mind, in 
 body. I tell you that what remains to 
 him of life is a wreck." 
 
 *' Matters may not be so bad as you 
 think," he replied, still speaking very 
 composedly; " and granting that they are, 
 you have all the more need for help. 
 And surely if any one is bound to assist 
 the poor young fellow, Ellen's brother is 
 the man." 
 
 " Mr. Gibson, if my boy hears that 1 
 am going to marry you — "
 
 SISTER ANNE. 159 
 
 "Don't let liim hear it," he interrupted, 
 coolly; "do as he did; marry me first, 
 and then tell him." 
 
 Here was a cool proposal from a shy 
 man ! But, you see, he was shy no longer. 
 I told him so, and he shook his head, 
 and replied that his shyness had cost him 
 too dear not to be put by for ever, and 
 again he proposed a speedy and secret 
 marriao^e. At first I was vehement in 
 denial, then little by little I yielded, and 
 began to thmk he might be right and I 
 wrong. My poor boy had never much 
 liked his brother-in-law, and was so accus- 
 tomed to be everything to me, that if he 
 learned that I was going to get married, 
 he might just walk off and leave me in 
 a pet. But if I was really married, he 
 would submit to that which could not be 
 undone; or, at all events, he need only 
 learn the truth when it pleased me to tell 
 it to him. I cannot say that I find these 
 arguments very convincing now ; then 
 they were irresistibly clear and persuasive, 
 and at their breath all my November
 
 i6o FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 theory melted away. So I stole out one 
 morniDg and got married, a few miles 
 off, and came back feeling very guilty. 
 
 '' How long you have been away," said 
 William, poking the fire very crossly. 
 
 I did not answer. 
 
 '' Luckily, Mr. Gibson did not look in," 
 he added, more good-humouredly. '' Why, 
 how scared you look ?" 
 
 Well might I looked scared on hearing 
 such a speech from my darling on my 
 wedding-day. 
 
 " Why do you dislike Mr. Gibson ?" I 
 asked. 
 
 '' Oh, I don't dislike him. He is a 
 good-natured fellow, only I do not delight 
 in his company. I care for none save 
 yours. Sister Anne, and, what is more, 
 I do not think I shall leave you again — 
 if you will keep me," he added, drawing 
 me to his side, and resting his head on 
 my shoulder as he used to do when he 
 was a child and felt tired. 
 
 I kissed him fondly, but did not dare 
 to say one word.
 
 SISTER ANNE. i6t 
 
 " I have a fancy that we shall be very 
 happy together," he resumed, more cheer- 
 fully; " I have not behaved well to you, 
 and I know it now, though I never meant 
 to be unkind. I thous^ht then it could 
 make no difference — I mean about my 
 marriage ; but I have lived to see the 
 evils of concealment in such grave mat- 
 ters." 
 
 I had never felt more disconcerted m 
 my life than when my dear boy spoke 
 thus. Besides, this fancy of his to leave 
 me no more, joined to his little relish for 
 my poor husband's company distracted 
 me. I do not know how I answered him, 
 but it must have been very foolishly, for 
 he laughed almost gaily, and said : 
 
 " Of course you love me, of course there 
 is, there can be, no one as dear to you as 
 your good-for-nothing William." 
 
 I had not said this, but I did not dare 
 to contradict him. I felt greatly troubled, 
 however, and confided my imeasiness to 
 Mr. Gibson. 
 
 '' Poor boy," he said, kindly, '' we must 
 
 VOL I. M
 
 i62 FORGET-ME NOTS. 
 
 not tell liim yet. It would cut him up, 
 but liis plan of staying here is all nonsense. 
 He would not like it long, nor should we. 
 When his health mends, he will think very 
 differently of the future. In the mean- 
 while we must humour him. Eh, little 
 lady ?" 
 
 I am afraid little lady's heart was sad 
 and heavy that day, for what was she to 
 do between these two ? Never so well as 
 after I became his wife did I know the 
 goodness of the man I married. His 
 gentleness, his patience, firmness, and good 
 sense, did more to cure mj poor boy's 
 mind and body than all my love aud my 
 nursing. He roused him from his despair 
 to a mood more manlv. He showed him 
 exertion to be both possible and desirable, 
 and when we at length acknowledged our 
 marriage to him, William, though he looked 
 a little disconcerted, took it very well, and 
 said to me : 
 
 " Well, it was natural, being so lonely, 
 that you should wish for a companion ; of 
 course it was."
 
 SISTER ANNE. 163 
 
 He spoke apologetically, as if willing to 
 make every allowance for my weakness. 
 He spoke, too, in profound, and I suppose 
 natiiral, ignorance of my long love and 
 wasted years. All ! William, William, did 
 it not occur to you that Sister Anne, too, 
 had been young, and that she had had the 
 hopes of youth, whilst you were still in 
 your teens ! I suppose the faded cheek 
 could tell no tale of past blushes, and that 
 there was no record of once happy dreams 
 in her eyes ! 
 
 " I hope you will be very happy," con- 
 tinued my brother, in the same tone; '' I 
 hope and believe it. Gibson is a thoroughly 
 good fellow." 
 
 I was much nettled to hear my dear 
 husband, the best and noblest of men, 
 called a good fellow, but I must confess 
 that his estimate of my brother was equally 
 moderate. 
 
 " There is no harm in him," he said to 
 me ; " and now that he has had so severe 
 a lesson, he will do very well." 
 
 You see, no man is a hero to his valet, and 
 
 M 2
 
 1 64 FOR GE T-ME-NOTS. 
 
 brotliers-in-law are very rarely heroes to one 
 another. It was clecided that my brother, who 
 was now quite well again, should once more 
 go to London, and try his fortunes there. 
 To this I could have no objection, but there 
 was an abruptness and a haste about his 
 departure which pained me, and for which I 
 could not help reproaching him when we 
 parted at the station. He heard me with- 
 out answering one word, but his first letter 
 contained a long justification of his conduct. 
 It was a very fond and foolish letter, and I 
 could not help shedding a few tears as I 
 read it. 
 
 " Little lady, little lady," said my hus- 
 band, as he sat watching me across the 
 breakfast-iable, " I know what is passing 
 in your mind. You are vexed with your 
 boy because he left you rather suddenly, 
 and, as you fancy, unkindly. You are 
 clever, little lady, but not very deep. 
 William went aAvay so because the boy 
 was jealous of 7n^. Of course you love 
 your brother, but of course you love your 
 husband a good deal more. And when he
 
 SISTER ANNE. 165 
 
 saw that, he could not bear it. That is 
 why he left us in such a hurry." 
 
 I could not help laughing in my hus- 
 band's face, and I put my brother's letter 
 in his hand, pointing to the following para- 
 graph : 
 
 " Ever since I can remember, I have 
 been a trouble to you, and I lately put a 
 climax to my sins by making your poor 
 good-natured husband jealous of me. Of 
 course I know that Sister Anne will never 
 love any man as she loves the boy she has 
 reared and been a mother to, but of course, 
 too, it was not pleasant for poor Mr. Gribson 
 to see it, and the only return I could make 
 for all his kindness to me — and it has been 
 great — was to let him have his wife to him- 
 self." 
 
 My husband having read thus far be- 
 came very red, and gave me a shy, demure 
 look of his grey eyes. 
 
 " Well," he said bravely, " and which of 
 the two do you love best, little lady ?" 
 
 "Find it out," I replied— "find it 
 out."
 
 i66 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 '' Not I ; I am sure of you. Find it out 
 indeed !" 
 
 I could not help smiling through mj 
 tears as I heard him. I loved them both 
 so much that each thought himself the 
 most beloved. 
 
 I had a letter from my dear boy yester- 
 day. He is doing very well again, he says, 
 and Ellen is coming back to him. '' She 
 left with the shade, and returns with the 
 sunshine," said her brother. I said nothing. 
 Let her but make her husband happy — as 
 happy, if she can, as her brother has made 
 me. The past is a dream to Sister Anne 
 now — a dream from which the sadness daily 
 fades away in the calm joys of the present.
 
 ^Ijt St0rg of iloniqut. 
 
 VINT JOHN THE BAPTIST is 
 
 tlie patron Saint of Manneville. 
 On the twenty-fourth of June 
 the little village wakens from its 
 yearly quietness into clamorous life. High 
 mass opens the festivities. White booths, 
 that have sprung up in the night like so 
 many mushrooms, are scattered on the 
 " place," and all Manneville gathers there, 
 and stands and stares, and can never have 
 its fill of dramas so marvellous as that of 
 Genevieve de Brabant, and of the merry- 
 go-rounds, and of the stalls where such
 
 i68 - FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 wonders are to be had for five sous a-piece. 
 
 On the twenty-fourth of June some 
 years ago, a youth and a little girl stood 
 foremost in the crowd that had gathered 
 round a wonderful collection of beasts, 
 birds, and fishes, called " Noah's Ark." 
 The youth, a tall, dark lad of seventeen, 
 handsome and grave, looked on with stoic 
 indifference, but the little girl was lost in 
 admiration. She was about ten years old, 
 fair as a lily, fresh as a rose, blue-eyed 
 and fair-haired, a Norman blossom, with 
 all the promise of Norman beauty in her 
 delicate, refined features and her slender 
 little figure. 
 
 " Come along, Monique, your uncle will 
 be angry," said Severe. 
 
 " Let me look at the bird. Severe," 
 entreated Monique. " It talks — oh ! — so 
 well." 
 
 " Only a magpie," was the curt answer. 
 
 " Oh ! but such a magpie !" 
 
 '' Monique, you know that Maitre Louis 
 David will be angry." 
 
 " Good-bye," said Monique to the mag-
 
 THE STORY OF MONIQUE. 169 
 
 pie. The bird laughed shrilly, and an- 
 swered, " Bonjour" in a little treble 
 voice, and hopped in its cage with a 
 sneaking air. 
 
 " When are you coming ?" asked Severe. 
 
 " When I please," answered Monique, 
 pertly ; but when he turned away at once 
 the child stole after him with a demure 
 air, and followed him silently to the old 
 abbey, which was turned into a farm- 
 house in '93. They both lived there under 
 the care of Maitre Louis David, the uncle 
 of Monique, and the fourth or fifth cousin 
 of Severe. Maitre Louis had no daughters, 
 and Monique, his brother's orphan child, 
 was petted by him and his two stalwart 
 sons after a fashion. Her elder brother, 
 Jean, he had turned out of the house for 
 bad conduct six months before this, and 
 whenever he was out of temper — a fre- 
 quent occurrence — he would say to his 
 little niece, '' Do you want to be sent 
 after your brother, my girl ?" Severe, 
 who was also an orphan, he had taken in 
 more out of pride than from pity, not
 
 I70 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 choosing that one who bore the name of 
 David should be a servant in a strange 
 house. The lad proved a good servant, 
 but there was in him a haughty stubborn- 
 ness which irritated his wealthy cousin. 
 He was pitiless whenever he could find 
 him at fault, and . every day of his life he 
 reminded him that he had long eaten the 
 bread of charity. 
 
 Severe only grew up harder, prouder, 
 and more stubborn for the taunt. He 
 cared for no one save little Monique. She 
 tyrannized over him, but she also admired 
 him prodigiously. " You are so clever, 
 Severe," she would say; "and you are 
 strong, too — as strong as my uncle. And, 
 oh ! Severe, I do love you !" 
 
 When the old farm, with its high slate 
 roof, its broad, arched gateway and its 
 two turrets appeared before them in the 
 warm sunlight, Monique suddenly stood 
 still, and said, in coaxing accents : 
 
 " Severe, go and get that bird for me ! 
 Here is the two-franc piece uncle gave me. 
 Try and get the bird for one or for thirty
 
 THE STORY OF MONIQUE. 171 
 
 SOUS ; but if jou canaotj why give the two 
 francs, Severe !" 
 
 The lad laug:hed outrigfht. '' Two francs 
 for a magpie !" But Monique had been a 
 spirited child in her father's house, and 
 warmly said she would give ten francs if 
 she had them. Severe, who held magpies 
 cheap, thought her crazy. A fierce argu- 
 ment followed. He was worsted, of course, 
 and taking Monique' s silver coin, he went 
 back alone to the place and to Noah's 
 ark. Noah was refreshing: himself with 
 bread and cheese and a glass of cider when 
 the canvass of his booth was raised, and 
 Severe' s tall, straight figure appeared. 
 
 '' How much will you take for your 
 magpie?" said he, bluntly. 
 
 '' Yoang man," answered Noah, in- 
 censed at his cool tone, '' my magpie is 
 not for sale." 
 
 " Take a franc ?" said Severe. " Well, 
 then, thirty sous. Will you have two ?" 
 he impatiently added. And he held up 
 the coin to tempt him. 
 
 " Two francs for a magpie that says
 
 172 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 * Bonjour/ dances, and tells fortunes !" 
 was the indignant answer. 
 
 " I will add a franc of my own," said 
 Severe, who could not believe in his anger. 
 " Three francs for the magpie in its cage," 
 he prudently added. But Noah, who was 
 of an irritable temper, became so wroth 
 on hearing this, that Severe, cool and 
 stubborn though he was, had to desist. 
 He stared, raised his eyebrows, shrugged 
 his shoulders, and walked out. He went 
 straight back to the farm. The first thing 
 he saw was Monique's fair head looking 
 out of the window above the arched gate- 
 way. 
 
 '' Well," said she eagerly, as soon as 
 she perceived him, and thrusting half her 
 little body out as she spoke. " Where is 
 the bird?" 
 
 Her fair hair had got all loose, and fell 
 on her blue bodice ; her pretty face was 
 beaming with eager desire, and the old 
 ivy which covers the front of the farm, 
 and which grew there long ago, when the 
 monks held the place, made a dark frame
 
 THE STORY OF MONIQUE. 173 
 
 round the window, and set off her delicate 
 and bright beauty. 
 
 '* Our Monique should be a demoiselle," 
 thought Severe, looking up at her ad- 
 miringly. '' She will have to work hard, 
 spite her little white hands; and she 
 should be a fine lady, with maids and 
 servant-men to do her bidding, for she is 
 as pretty as a blue corn-flower, is our 
 
 Monique, and " 
 
 " You have not got it," cried the child, 
 in sudden wrath. *' Oh ! you wicked 
 Severe, you know you could have got it if 
 you pleased." 
 
 Severe laconically bade her wait till the 
 day was over. Upon which Monique' s 
 face beamed with joy, and she called him 
 a treasure. 
 
 " Who is a treasure ?" suspiciously asked 
 Maitre Louis David, coming out from 
 under the arched gateway. But no mouse 
 ever retreated more quickly in its hole 
 than Monique vanished from her window, 
 and Severe walked away, whistling coolly. 
 Manneville ends its fete-day with a bon-
 
 174 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 fire, whicli is kindled on the Place. Severe, 
 Moniqiie, and Themire, a little girl of her 
 own age, stood together looking at the 
 bright flames which lit the country round 
 for miles. 
 
 '' I like that," said Severe emphatically. 
 
 '' It shines so," put in Themire. 
 
 " Yes, but IN'oah's ark is gone," sobbed 
 Monique, " and the bird is gone, and — " 
 another sob completed the sentence. 
 
 " Go home with her presently, Themire," 
 hastily said Severe, and without waiting 
 for an answer he was gone. 
 
 '' The man shall sell that magpie to 
 me," angrily thought Severe, as he w^alked 
 alono* the hio^h road that leads to St. Lau- 
 rent. " I will add my five francs to her 
 two. How can I look at Monique again 
 if I do not get it. Besides, it will make 
 her ill, as not going to the fair did last 
 year. My poor little Monique ! I will 
 tell him so !" 
 
 But, alas ! even this argument failed as 
 much in its effect as the eight francs 
 whicli Severe magnanimously offered, and
 
 THE STORY OF MONIQUE. 175 
 
 an hour later, after a quick walk to over- 
 take the van, and a warm, though brief 
 argument with its owner, the youth was 
 slowly coming back to Manneville without 
 the magpie. " What shall I say to her," 
 he thought, standing still near the great 
 old oak which is called Varhre a la croix. 
 It is a thousand years old people say, and 
 it has lost many a bough and many a 
 miglity limb in its long battle with time. 
 In its trunk, which is all hollow, a David 
 who lived in Manneville long ago, and 
 was the ancestor of all the Davids of the 
 present day, had an iron cross set. Young 
 boughs grew round it, and almost hid it 
 from view, and it was only when Severe 
 held her up in his strong arms that 
 Monique could peep within and catch a 
 glimpse of the rusty iron. That oak still 
 stood in the David land, and all the 
 Davids, rich and poor, took a family pride 
 in it, remembering what their forefather 
 had done, and how wealthy he had been. 
 " The beggarly mountebank," thought 
 Severe, looking at the tree, '' to refuse
 
 176 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 eight francs for a roagpie, and tell me it 
 was worth more than all I or mine ever 
 had ! The " 
 
 " Bonjonr," said a little shrill voice. 
 Severe gave a start and looked around 
 him. The road to St. Laurant stretches 
 along the brow of a hill and overlooks 
 both the valley and the village of Manne- 
 ville. The light from the bonfire was 
 dying away, and the church spire rose 
 dark against the glow that still lingered 
 in the sky, but the moon shone broad and 
 clear, and in its light he saw a little black 
 thing hopping on the path before him, 
 flapping its wings and looking like a goblin. 
 
 Monique had seen the last of the bonfire. 
 She had come home with Th^mire, and 
 supped with her uncle and his sons upon 
 douillons and cider. She was now in her 
 little room, and had just knelt down to 
 say her prayers, when a tap came at her 
 door. Her heart beat. Had Grermaine, 
 her uncle's old servant, who ruled the 
 house since the death of his wife, found 
 her out in some delinquency ?
 
 THE STORY OF MONIQUE. 177 
 
 '' Open tlie door wide enougli to let my 
 hand in ?" said tlie voice of Severe. 
 
 Monique obeyed. Severe' s strong- 
 brown hand appeared in the opening, and 
 the next moment the magpie hopped on 
 the floor, and greeted its new mistress 
 with a shrill lauo^h. 
 
 ." Oh ! Severe !" cried Moniqne, clapping 
 her hands for joy. " How I love you !" 
 
 '' You shall have a cage to-morrow," 
 said S6vere, closing the door. And the 
 next morning Monique had a brand-new 
 osier cage, and the magpie was put in it 
 and hung out at her window over the 
 gateway, where he screamed '' Bonj our " 
 so loud that her uncle heard him. It was 
 only a magpie, said Monique. Severe had 
 bought it at the fair, and gave her two- 
 franc piece for it. 
 
 Maitre Louis asked with a growl if she 
 wanted to go the way her precious brother 
 had gone, but little Monique was too hapj^y 
 to care for the taunt. 
 
 A few days after this, Severe was 
 coming in rather late in the evening, when 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 Monique met him under the great arched 
 gateway and said, breathlessly, " Oh, 
 Severe, uncle has just come back from the 
 fair of St. Laurent^ and he looks so black, 
 and your little old godfather is with him, 
 and, Severe, they want you at once — at 
 once — in the great room." 
 
 Severe knit his brows. The great room 
 was rarely used save on judicial occasions, 
 and he guessed what was coming, but he 
 only uttered a careless '' Very well," and 
 went in to meet his fate. 
 
 " Severe," said his cousin and master, 
 giving him a hard, stern look, " how did 
 you get the bird you sold to Monique for 
 her two-franc piece." 
 
 " I found it in the wood. I did not sell 
 her the bird. The two francs went for 
 the cao^e." 
 
 "And I say you stole the bird," cried 
 his master, starting to his feet, and 
 shaking his fist at him. " And I have 
 called in your godfather to tell you in his 
 presence that 1 will have no thief in my 
 house."
 
 THE STORY OF MONIQUE. 179 
 
 " I found the bird ; I am no thief," 
 said Severe sullenly, " but I am willing to 
 leave you. Maitre Mathieu wants a plough- 
 boy — he will take me." 
 
 " Will he ! you viper. Do you know 
 that I am to pay fifty francs down to save 
 you from a prison, and our name from 
 disgrace, and do you think I will let you 
 shame us again. No, my lad. Either 
 you do as I bid you, or I give you up to 
 the law." 
 
 There was a pause. Severe looked at 
 his master, then at his godfather, a thin 
 old man, who only shrugged his shoulders, 
 and raised his eyebrows, as much as to 
 say, '' Your own look-out, my lad." The 
 youth's brown cheek turned a little pale, 
 perhaps, but he asked calmly what he was 
 to do. 
 
 " To enlist, and never let us see your 
 black face again," was the bitter answer. 
 
 Severe's dark eyes seemed to flash fire 
 as he replied, '' I hope that I shall never 
 see your face again, Maitre Louis. I know 
 that I have done wrong ; but you know 
 
 N 2
 
 i8o FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 too, that I am no thief ; in your heart you 
 know it. I only wanted to please Monique. 
 As to fighting, I fear it no more than I 
 feared hard work. I shall go to-morrow 
 to Saint Laurent and enlist there." 
 
 '' The end of the week will do," said 
 Maitre Louis, remembering how short of 
 hands he was just then. 
 
 " I shall go to-morrow," returned 
 Severe, sternly. '' This evening I shall 
 sup at your table because I have earned 
 the meal, but to-morrow I shall go with 
 dawn, and I will not break my fast in 
 your house, Maitre Louis David." 
 
 '' As you please, my lad," was the care- 
 less answer. 
 
 Severe was true to his word ; he went 
 and had his supper, and was silent over 
 the meal as usual. When he walked out 
 into the court, and saw to some work 
 there, his godfather joined him, and slip- 
 ping a franc piece in his hand, hoped this 
 would be a warning to him. But Severe 
 thrust back the coin. 
 
 *' Thank you, uncle," said he; *' if T 
 enlist I shall be provided for."
 
 THE STORY OF MONIQUE. i8i 
 
 Maitre Severe David wlio was indeed 
 the youth's uncle as well as godfather, 
 did not press his gift upon him. With a 
 short laugh he replied that was quite true. 
 " A fool, like his father," he muttered, as 
 he came out on the moonlit road, for he 
 was one of the Davids who lived in Fon- 
 taine. " A fool indeed." 
 
 With cockcrow, Severe rose, took his 
 lifctle bundle, and stole down-stairs, hoping 
 to meet no one ; but Pascal, a ploughboy, 
 a year older than himself, and with whom 
 he had a feud of long standing, was 
 already up. As Severe went by him, his 
 head erect, his bearing proud, but his 
 significant bundle slung over his shoul- 
 der, Pascal laughed a low jeering laugh. 
 The lad's heart burned with wrath as he 
 left the house ; yet when he had passed 
 beneath the arched gateway, he could not 
 help looking up at little Monique's ivyed 
 window between the two turrets. The cage 
 was hanging outside, and the magpie 
 screamed " Bonjour" to him, then laughed 
 shrilly, as if it were such a good joke.
 
 ] 82 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 99 
 99 
 
 '' I have not bidden her good-bye 
 thought Severe, sadly ; " it is better not. 
 
 Manneville was not awake yet as he 
 passed through its silent streets. He was 
 soon on the road to Saint Laurent, and 
 near the old oak. When he reached it, 
 he stood and looked back. The village, 
 the church spire, the valley, the old abbey 
 where little Monique lay sleeping, seemed 
 very still and fair in the cool morning 
 light. He gazed long at all he was 
 leaving, and as he gazed poor Severe 
 foretasted the bitterness of exile. " No 
 more," they all seemed to say to him ; 
 " you are going away, and you will see us 
 
 no more — no more." 
 
 A panting breath and a pattering of 
 little feet made him turn round. It was 
 Monique, running through the high grass 
 towards him. Monique with her head 
 bare, and her clothes half on, and her 
 naked feet all wet with dew, and the cage 
 and the magpie in her hand. 
 
 *' Oh ! Severe," she said, all out of 
 breath, " how wicked of you to go and
 
 THE STORY OF MONIQUE. 183 
 
 not say good-bye. I know — I know it is 
 all tlie magpie. 1 listenscl at the keyhole 
 yesterday, and I thought to see you this 
 morning, and Pascal told me you were 
 gone, and he laughed because I cried ; 
 and I know it is all the magpie, and I 
 have brought him, and give him back, 
 Severe ; and oh," she added, bursting into 
 tears, " do not go." 
 
 She cried so bitterly that all Severe 
 could do at first was to make her sit down 
 on the root of the old oak tree, and sitting 
 down by her side to try and comfort her. 
 A hard task, for Severe could not say 
 when he would come back. Never, so 
 had he resolved in his inmost heart, 
 would he live in the same place with the 
 man who had insulted and injured him. 
 
 " I know I did wrong," said he to 
 Monique, '' but not the wrong he said 
 that I did. I wanted to buy the bird, 
 and when I found it I took it for you, 
 but I had never meant to steal it. If the 
 man had come back and claimed it, I 
 would have returned it or paid him for
 
 i84 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 it ; but I intended no tlieft, and Maitre 
 Lcuis knew it, Monique, only he hates 
 me, and I have to leave Manneville or to 
 be disgraced." 
 
 " And what shall I do when you are 
 gone ?" sobbed the child, '' what shall I 
 do, Severe ?" 
 
 " Yes," he answered, moodily, " they 
 like you here, they make a toy of you ; 
 but when you grow up you will be a 
 drudge in your grandfather's house. I 
 used to think — Never mind, when they 
 are too hard upon her, I will carry water 
 for her and help her by stealth ; for, 
 Monique, your little hands were not made 
 for rough work, and you ought not to 
 spoil your pretty face over kitchen fires, 
 and get red-eyed like old Germaine. 
 Poor little Monique, if you would only 
 stay little and pretty till I come back 
 some day ; but you will grow up, and I 
 dare say they will make you marry Pascal, 
 because he is your uncle's godson. But do 
 not, Monique; let him marry Thdmire, or 
 anyone else. Never marry him ; he is lazy,
 
 THE STORY OF M ON I QUE, 185 
 
 and will make you work like a slave." 
 
 Monique sobbed that she would never 
 marry Pascal, and again entreated Severe 
 not to go. 
 
 "I must," he said, rising. " Look, there 
 is the sun taking that grey cloak off, and 
 showing us his red face above the green 
 edge of the cornfield. I must go on, 
 Monique, and you must go back, and take 
 the bird back to your uncle." 
 
 " Bonjour," said a voice in the tree, and 
 with a laugh the magpie flew away. Whilst 
 they were talking he had found the door of 
 his cage loose, and slipped out, and now 
 he was free. 
 
 " Groaway, you bad bird," said Monique, 
 " I hate you." 
 
 '' Poor little Monique," sighed Severe; 
 " you too will be scolded for that magpie." 
 
 And now came the parting, and the last 
 w^ords, and the last tears, and Severe's 
 farewell kiss on either of Monique' s tear- 
 stained cheeks; and the lad Avas gone, 
 and the child stood looking after him, her 
 eyes so dim that she could not see, and 
 the empty cage in her hand.
 
 i86 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 Eleven years had passed, and Maitre 
 Severe David sat by the parlour window 
 of his house in Fontaine, watching the 
 people of Manneville going by on their 
 way home from the fair of Saint Laurent. 
 
 *' Now who is that," thought he, as a 
 tall, dark peasant, with a grave, handsome 
 face, which he seemed to know, came down 
 the street, stopped at his door, and raising 
 the latch, entered his room. 
 
 " Grood morning, godfather," said he. 
 
 " Why, Severe, is it you ? and where is 
 3^our knapsack?" 
 
 '' I have not been a soldier these four 
 years," answered Severe, dryly. " I wrote 
 it to you at the time. 
 
 Maitre Severe confessed remembering it, 
 but was so evidently on his guard that his 
 godson said impatiently : 
 
 " Uncle, I would not have your franc 
 piece when we last parted, and I do not 
 want your five-franc pieces now." 
 
 He spoke with the good-humoured as- 
 surance of a man of twenty-eight, whom 
 life has taught, and Maitre Severe David's
 
 THE STORY OF MONIQUE. 1S7 
 
 instinctive mistrust of a poor relative 
 yielded to tlie evidence of his senses. The 
 tall, strong, well-clothed man before him 
 had not come as a supplicant ; still pru- 
 dence suggested a few questions. Maitre 
 Severe remembered that his godson was 
 manager or something on a farm in Lower 
 Normandy. How came he to have left 
 so excellent a position. The old man was 
 dead, answered Severe ; but he could go 
 on another farm next his late master's to- 
 morrow, if he pleased. 
 
 "Then why do you not?" asked his 
 amiable relative. '' Never lose such a 
 chance as that." 
 
 " Thank you, uncle. I had a foolish 
 fancy to see the old place again, and to 
 know how you were all getting on. You 
 are well, as I see, and I think I met 
 Th^mire a while ago. She has grown a 
 pretty girl; and Maitre Louis David is 
 dead they tell me, and how is little Mo- 
 nique r 
 
 '' Little Monique, indeed !" echoed his 
 uncle. " Don't you know that six
 
 i88 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 months back her two cousins died of the 
 same fever, both childless, and that three 
 months ago Louis died and left her all 
 he had. Mamzelle Monique is a rich wo- 
 man now, but it will not last. Everyone 
 says it will not last. Louis made her 
 promise not to keep her good-for-nothing 
 brother in the house ; but he comes and 
 goes, and he will make short work of her 
 money, unless she marries one of the 
 gallants who are always after her : M^d^ric 
 Chevalier, Vincent Blondet, and the lot of 
 them." 
 
 '' Little Monique with a lot of gal- 
 lants ?" said Severe, seeming amused. 
 *' Well, uncle, you are giving me news ; 
 and now that I have seen you I will go 
 and have a look at Manneville," he added, 
 rising, " so good-bye, for we may not meet 
 for another dozen years." 
 
 Maitre Severe David launched. Severe 
 was his godson, his nephew and only heir, 
 but Maitre S6v^re hoped to live many 
 years yet, and did not want the young 
 man to stay in Manneville, and wait there
 
 THE STORY OF MONIQUB. 189 
 
 for his inheritance. Nevertheless, he 
 offered him a bed for one night, and with 
 faint hospitality, he reminded him that 
 no one in Manneville would do as much 
 for him now. 
 
 But Severe, chinking iiie silver in his 
 pocket, said he was sure of a welcome at 
 the Silver Lion, with which philosophic 
 remark he departed. 
 
 The fair was nearly over, and the peo- 
 ple that came home from it having ceased 
 to pass by Maitre Severe' s window, he was 
 leaving his post, when a Norman carriole 
 stopped at his door, and a young woman 
 in black alighted from it. He had scarcely 
 caught a glimpse of her tall, light figure 
 when she walked in. She gave a quick 
 disappointed look round the room, then 
 throwing back the hood of her mourning 
 cloak, she showed him a fair and lovely 
 face, with a rich crown of golden hair, 
 scarcely hid by a little white cap. 
 
 '' You have forgotten your little cousin 
 Monique, Maitre Severe," said she, with 
 a bright smile that lit the dull and dingy 
 room.
 
 igo FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 *' Ah ! SO you are Monique, are you ?" 
 said Maitre Severe, coolly shading his 
 eyes with his hand the better to see her. 
 " Well, well," he added more graciously, 
 " sit down, Mamzelle Monique;" and after 
 a pause : '' Cousin, they tell no lies who 
 say that you are a beautiful young wo- 
 
 man." 
 
 Monique laughed carelessly, glanced at 
 herself in a little tarnished mirror at the 
 other end of the room, and said " Thank 
 you, cousin." 
 
 " And your pretty little hands with 
 such long white fingers," said Maitre 
 Severe ; " where did you get them, Mo- 
 nique ? Not milking the cows, or scour- 
 ing the saucepans." 
 
 " Why should I ?" answered she, 
 shortly. " I am rich now." 
 
 " Get married, Mamzelle Monique, or 
 you will not be rich long. Your good- 
 for-nothino^ brother — " 
 
 *' We will not speak of him," she in- 
 terrupted, impatiently. '' Can you tell 
 me, cousin, if Severe David be really 
 come back P' 
 
 'j>>
 
 THE STORY OF MONIQUE. 191 
 
 Mattre Severe laconically replied tliat 
 Severe had come back. Monique's ira- 
 patient questions soon drew tlie rest from 
 him. In five minutes she knew all he 
 had to tell. She heard him leaning back 
 in her chair, with her rosj cheek on her 
 hand, and her dark-blue eyes gazing on 
 the floor. 
 
 " And so he means to stop at the Silver 
 Lion," was the only comment she made. 
 " Thank you, cousin ; I must go. I see 
 Pascal can scarcely hold the mare. Do 
 not forget to look in at me when you 
 come to Manneville." 
 
 She wrapped her cloak around her, 
 walked out, stepped into the carriole, and 
 was gone in no time. 
 
 " Take me to the white house," said she 
 to Pascal. 
 
 The white house is a farm on the road 
 to Saint Laurent, with the owner of which 
 Monique had business. Pascal pointed 
 with his whip to the young green corn 
 on either side of the road, and nodded. 
 Yes, it was hers, and Monique knew it.
 
 192 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 Hers too was the great old oak, the king 
 of that wide corn land, that spread its 
 mighty boughs on the summer air, on a 
 background of pale blue summer sky. She 
 bade Pascal drive slowly as they passed 
 by it. And standing up in the cart, she 
 looked at the rusty iron cross as she had 
 looked at it so often when uplifted in the 
 strong arms of Severe, and she crossed 
 herself devoutly in memory of the Passion 
 of our Lord. 
 
 " Why, surely that is Severe," said 
 Pascal, as they drove on again. 
 
 She looked, and saw a tall, dark man 
 walking steadily along the road. He saw 
 a fair woman driving past him, and it was 
 over. It was Severe. Monique stopped 
 an hour at the white house. It was dark 
 when she reached her own old farm. She 
 asked at once who had come whilst she 
 was away, and reddened when Germaine 
 answered that Maitre Jean was in the 
 kitchen, with Maitre Vincent Blondel, and 
 Maitre Mederic Chevalier, all waiting for 
 the mistress of the house ; they were also
 
 THE STORY OF MONIQUE. 193 
 
 drinking her cider, and singing uproar- 
 iously to beguile the time. With a raised 
 colour Monique bade Grermaine send out 
 her brother to her, and when the mes- 
 sage had been delivered, and the young 
 man came out with bloodshot eyes and 
 reeling steps, his sister, looking at him 
 with a pale, grave face, signed him to 
 enter the room where eleven years before 
 Severe David had heard his doom. 
 
 ''Jean," said she, coldly, "I am wearied 
 of all this. It must cease. You fill this 
 house with noise, you give a bad example 
 to my servants, you waste my substance. 
 It cannot last ; you must come no more." 
 
 Jean, a bloated, red-faced man burst 
 out lauo'hino^ in his sister's face. 
 
 '' She is mad," said he, " a girl of 
 twenty-one to want to manage this farm ! 
 She is mad. She must marry Vincent. 
 I promised you to him the day uncle was 
 buried," he added with drunken gravity. 
 " No, you will not have Vincent, then 
 take Chevalier. I promised you to him 
 too." 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 194 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 " That will do, Jean," said Moniquo 
 quietly, " remember my last words : come 
 no more." 
 
 She left him and walked out. With a 
 sore and troubled heart she went to the 
 evening prayer in the church of Manne- 
 ville. Old women whom the burdens of 
 life troubled no more, mothers with their 
 young ones clinging to them, little chil- 
 dren ever looking round, labourers coming 
 in from work, had met to pray, and 
 Monique, sitting solitary on the great old 
 oaken bench of the Davids, envied them 
 all, and felt very lonely. 
 
 The Silver Lion is on the Place of 
 Manneville, looking at the church, as it 
 were, and, as it well may, being a 
 decent inn, where even hard-drinking^ 
 Normans are kept in order. Severe was 
 smoking outside the door, when the little 
 cong:reo:ation came out of the church in 
 the cool twilight. Monique saw him at 
 once, and went straight up to him. He 
 took out his pipe, and gazed at her as she 
 gazed at him, and for a moment they were 
 both silent.
 
 THE STORY OF MONIQUE. 195 
 
 " Severe," slie said at length, '' have 
 you forgotten Monique ?" 
 
 " Has Monique remembered Severe all 
 these years ?" he asked briefly. 
 
 " What would you have had me do ?" 
 said she, wondering. 
 
 '^ Do ! Oh ! nothing," was his careless 
 answer. 
 
 She walked away in offended silence. 
 He watched her going, then followed her, 
 and soon stood by her side on the road 
 that leads straight to the abbey. 
 
 " Monique," said he, holding out his 
 hand, " I am going away to-morrow ; let 
 us be friends." 
 
 "And why do you go?" she asked, 
 almost indignantly. " Was it only to look at 
 the stones of Manneville you came back ?" 
 
 " Who wants me here ?" he retorted. 
 " Not you, Monique : you are rich now, 
 you want no one." 
 
 '* I want a friend," answered Monique, 
 very sadly, " it is no use telling you why 
 or when, you do not care, and — you are 
 going away." 
 
 2
 
 196 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 They had gone on walking along the 
 quiet road, which just then was very 
 lonely. The fields stretched away on 
 either side in the grey evening light. The 
 new-mown hay filled the air with its wild 
 sweet scent, little moths flitted about, and 
 far away before them a light burned in 
 the old abbey, Monique's home, where 
 her brother and his friends were carousinsf. 
 severe could not see her face well, but 
 from the sound of her voice he thouo^ht 
 she was crying. He forgot the long 
 oblivion which had stung him, he only 
 remembered his old affection and her 
 trouble. 
 
 " You know I cared for you once, 
 Monique," he said; ''why should I not 
 care now ?" 
 
 *' Yes, you cared for me once," said 
 Monique, still speaking sadly. " I thought 
 of it as I drove past the old tree to-day — 
 tliat tree by which we parted. I thought 
 of it as I remembered what you had suf- 
 fered for my sake. You cared for me 
 once, St^vere, but I was a little child
 
 THE STORY OF MONIQUE. 197 
 
 then — a poor one, too. Now I am rich, 
 and I am a woman of twenty- one, and 
 you care no more !" 
 
 He was silent; but with every word 
 she spoke the httle Monique of long ago 
 rose before him. He saw her looking out 
 of the ivyed window, with her fair hair 
 falling down her white neck over her blue 
 bodice. He saw her running breathless 
 through the green corn, to bid him good- 
 bye, her eyes streaming with tears, her 
 bare feet wet with dew, and the ill-fated 
 cage in her hand ; and the hardness which 
 years and pride had brought round his 
 heart seemed to melt away with that vision 
 of the past. 
 
 " What can I do for you?" he asked. 
 
 *' What you will not do. Severe," she 
 answered. " I am rich, but I have an 
 enemy in my own flesh and blood, from 
 whom no one will defend me. People bid 
 me marry. I will not ; I will be Monique 
 David, and no more." 
 
 '' What can I do for you ?" he asked 
 again.
 
 igS FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 " What jou are going to do for a stran- 
 ger," slie said, with stidden eagerness. 
 " Take the management of my farm, and 
 save me from the misery that turns my 
 inheritance into a curse. I shall interfere 
 with nothing — nothing. You shall be 
 master on the land — sow, reap, till, buy, 
 and sell as you please, and you will deliver 
 me from a yoke which makes my old hard 
 days of servitude seem a blessed time." 
 
 Severe did not answer. There was a 
 long silence, during which Monique's 
 heart beat fast. 
 
 " And when you marry ?" he said at 
 length. 
 
 "• I tell you I shall not marry. Shall I 
 promise ?" she added, half in jest, half in 
 earnest. 
 
 " There is no need, Monique. When 
 you marry, I go. I may have a mistress, 
 but I will have no master." 
 
 The young moon had risen in the even- 
 ing sky. By its pale light she saw his 
 grave, stern face. It half frightened her, 
 and her voice was not quite steady as she
 
 THE STORY OF MONIQUE. 199 
 
 answered : " Very well, Severe ;" then 
 after a little pause, " Thank you," she 
 added, in a tone so low that he scarcely 
 heard her. 
 
 All Manneville conned and wondered 
 when Severe became Monique's vicegerent, 
 and Jean was virtually excluded from his 
 sister's little dominions. In vain he 
 clamoured and upbraided. She pleaded 
 her uncle's behests and was firm, and 
 Severe, impervious to reproach or blame, 
 simply said : "I am here to manage 
 Mademoiselle Monique's farm, and I have 
 nothing to do with you." With his new 
 mistress. Severe was as cool and civil as if 
 they had always been strangers. The 
 authority she had given him he took, but 
 he never went beyond it. He neither 
 sought nor shunned her presence. He 
 addressed her as Mademoiselle Monique, 
 and again he seemed to have forgotten 
 the past. At first she tried to draw him 
 out of his cold reserve, but failing utterly, 
 she too became distant, and was to him 
 as a mistress may be to her trusted and
 
 200 FORGET ME NOTS. 
 
 honoured servant. And so weeks and 
 montlis went by. 
 
 One November morning, Germaine 
 ofrumbled so bard at some orders which 
 she had just received from her young 
 mistress, that the overflow of her indigna- 
 tion reached Severe's ears in the yard. 
 He sharply asked what she was saying 
 about Mademoiselle Monique. 
 
 '' Mamzelle Monique, indeed !" echoed 
 Germaine. " What was she before Mai tre 
 Louis died ?" 
 
 *' She was our master's niece, and now 
 she is our mistress," was the brief reply. 
 
 " Yes ; and you have the high hand 
 now," sneered Germaine ; " but wait till 
 young Blondel, or Mederic, or any of 
 them, turns our Mamzelle into Madame !" 
 
 Severe looked gloomily at the grey old 
 walls and straggling brown roof of the 
 farm, then he frowned as a flock of geese 
 strutted past him, and without looking at 
 Germaine, he asked what she meant. 
 
 Germaine half leaned out of the kitchen 
 window, and said mysteriously :
 
 THE STORY OF MONIQUE. 201 
 
 " Blondel is her cousin, and Mederic's 
 mother is coming, and she has the others 
 for the look of it ; and the best turkey is 
 to be killed, and we are to get seven 
 pounds of beef from the butcher's, and we 
 shall all have meat soup to-morrow." 
 
 " AVho cares about meat soup ?" asked 
 Severe, walking away. 
 
 Grermaine, who had never liked him, 
 nodded her white cap at him, and went 
 back to her cooking. 
 
 Severe had to go out on business that 
 day, but he came back before supper. 
 He found his young mistress in the kit- 
 chen, talking there to Themire, now the 
 best dressmaker in Manneville, who had 
 come in the afternoon to alter the fashion 
 of a dress. 
 
 The two girls stood side by side in the 
 lamplight, and set off one another. The- 
 mire was short, dark, and very pretty. 
 She had quick black ejes, a little pert, 
 turned-up nose, dimples, and the prettiest 
 little white teeth in the world ; and 
 Monique, when seen near her, looked
 
 202 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 fairer, taller, and more lovely than ever, 
 a Norman maid, with almost classic fea- 
 tures, and the bloom of a rose on her fair 
 young face. Themire was ardently plead- 
 ing the cause of gimp trimming for sleeve 
 cuffs. 
 
 " But could it be ready for the morn- 
 ing ?" asked Monique, and Themire bravely 
 volunteered to sit up all night if it were 
 needful. 
 
 Monique smiled sweetly, and had begun 
 to say this would be a pity, when her eye 
 fell on Severe, who stood near the door 
 looking on. 
 
 " I did not know you had come back, 
 Severe," she said. '' Do you want me ?" 
 
 '' I want to give you money," he an- 
 swered, and he brought out a bagful of 
 five-franc pieces, which he laid on the 
 table before her. 
 
 " And so he has actually paid you," 
 said Monique, admiringly. '' Ho"\v did you 
 manage. Severe ?" 
 
 " I asked for the money and he gave 
 it," replied Severe, quietly; and in the
 
 THE STORY OF MONIQUE. 203 
 
 same breath, " Is it true, Mademoiselle 
 Monique, that Maitre Vincent Blondel is 
 coming to-morrow?" 
 
 " Yes," answered Monique, '' he is 
 coming ; he is my cousin, you know. Why 
 do you ask. Severe ?" 
 
 " I want to know how prices went at 
 the last fair down his way," answered 
 Severe. " Have you given me my change, 
 Mademoiselle Monique ? four francs." 
 
 Monique handed him the money. Severe 
 weighed one of the two-franc pieces she 
 gave him, found it light, and asked for 
 another. This he looked at carefully and 
 found defaced and old. His young mis- 
 tress bit her lip, and gave him another 
 again ; then, as he took it and turned to 
 leave the kitchen, she reminded him that 
 supper was ready. But Severe answered 
 that he had supped at Saint Laurent, and 
 without looking round, closed the door 
 after him. With a raised colour Monique 
 turned to Themire, and asked if she could 
 certainly have the dress by the morrow. 
 Themire zealously replied there was not a
 
 204 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 doubt of it; then in tlie same breath 
 wondered on what herb Severe had trod 
 that he came home with such sour looks. 
 
 " He often treads on that sort of herb," 
 muttered Germaine, stooping over a huge 
 marmite, whence a soupe aux choux was 
 sending forth a most savoury odour. 
 
 Severe had gone straight up to his own 
 room, in a remote part of the farm. He 
 changed his clothes, put on his best blouse, 
 his smartest cap, and his new necktie (a 
 present Monique had made him) ; then, 
 knowing that supper was over, he went 
 back to the kitchen. Themire was gone, 
 and Monique had retired to a little parlour 
 where she always sat alone in the long 
 winter evenings. "As if she were too 
 good for the kitchen," Germaine often 
 muttered under her breath. 
 
 "Well, and what do you want?" she 
 asked, as Severe' s tall form darkened the 
 doorway. " Supper is over, and the kit- 
 chen is mine." 
 
 *' And so is the poultry, Germaine. I 
 want a fat turkey."
 
 THE STORY OF M ON I QUE. 205 
 
 Germaine, amazed, asked what lie could 
 want a fat turkey for. Severe replied tliat 
 he wanted to make a present of it to his 
 godfather, whose saint's day it was, and 
 added that he was in a hurry. 
 
 " Have Gogo," said Germaine, pro- 
 ducing a magnificent turkey. " Another 
 will do as well for Yincent and Mederic 
 and the lot of them to-morrow. Take 
 Gogo at seven francs. Severe." 
 
 This Severe declined doing. Seven 
 francs ! Well, Mademoiselle Monique had 
 a mind to get rich ! After some hard bar- 
 gaining he took Gogo at six francs fifty, 
 tied him up in a clean handkerchief, and 
 walked out, again muttering that Made- 
 moiselle Monique had a mind to get rich. 
 
 Maitre Severe David's house was the 
 last of the High Street in Fontaine. He 
 lived alone in it, after his own miserly 
 fashion. When Severe knocked at the 
 door, it was his uncle's head that looked 
 out from the first-floor window, and his 
 voice that said sharply : 
 
 '' Jules, have I not told you that I have
 
 2o6 FORGE T-ME -NOTS. 
 
 not and never will liave anything for you ?" 
 
 " I am not Jules, godfather," answered 
 S^v^re, laughing at this reception, " but 
 your own godson, Sevh^e." 
 
 " And what brings you here this even- 
 ing ?" inquired Maitre Severe, with mis- 
 trustful surprise. 
 
 " Open, and you shall know," answered 
 his godson, shortly. 
 
 Maitre Severe drew in his head, closed 
 the window, and presently, opened the 
 door and admitted his nephew. 
 
 " Good night to you, godfather," said 
 Severe as he entered the house. " To- 
 morrow is your f^te-day, and so I came 
 to-night to give you my best wishes, for 
 we are busy just now, and I must be 
 home before day." 
 
 " And what have you got there ?" asked 
 Maitre Severe, peering in the dim light of 
 the rush candle he held. 
 
 '' Only a turkey for you," replied Severe, 
 as they entered the kitchen together, and 
 taking Gogo out of his handkerchief, he 
 placed him on the table.
 
 THE STORY OF MONIQUE. 207 
 
 Maitre Severe quietly set down his iron 
 candlestick near Grogo, and without giving 
 that luckless bird a look, he laid his thin 
 hand on the young man's shoulder and said 
 deliberately : 
 
 '' My boy, you want something from 
 me. My fete-day comes round every year, 
 but never before did you give me a turkey." 
 
 S^vere's bronzed cheek reddened a little, 
 but he tried to reply carelessly : 
 
 " Of course I want something from you, 
 uncle, but as to the turkey, I got it cheap, 
 though it is a fine one. Look at its 
 breast, white as milk and tender like a 
 chicken." 
 
 Norman cider plays sad havoc with 
 Norman teeth, and this insidious praise of 
 Gogo's breast was assailing Severe's god- 
 father in a tender point. He took the 
 turkey, weighed it in his hand, poked it 
 all over, and said, with a chuckle, 
 
 " I never saw such a fine bird, so white, 
 so plump, and cheap too." 
 
 '' Not too cheap," answered Severe. " I 
 suppose I may sit down, uncle."
 
 2o8 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 The old man nodded, but did not sit 
 down himself. To all appearance he was 
 taken np with Gogo, on whom he pro- 
 nounced quite a panegyric. Such a turkey ! 
 so large, so plump. 
 
 '' Uncle," interrupted Severe, " you said 
 I wanted something from you. Suppose 
 you hear what it is." 
 
 Maitre S^vere's small grey eyes twinkled ; 
 he drew his chair to the hearth, looked at 
 the faint embers burning there, and laying 
 his hands on his knees, he set his head on 
 one side and listened to his godson. 
 
 " Uncle, I want to many Mademoiselle 
 Monique." 
 
 Maitre Severe David whistled softly. 
 " Well, marry her," he said, blandly. 
 
 '' She is rich and I am poor," said 
 Severe. '' I cannot ask her to become my 
 wife, when all I have is the w^ages I earn 
 w^th her. But if you, godfather, w^ho 
 have plenty of money and no children, 
 would give me — say ten thousand francs, 
 I could try my chance." 
 
 Maitre Severe did not receive this pro-
 
 THE STORY OF MONIQUE. 209 
 
 posal with the indignation his nephew and 
 godson had expected, and was prepared 
 to combat. He smiled, nodded, and said : 
 " You think you would succeed, do you ? 
 Then I suppose Monique is fond of you." 
 
 " Monique is fond of no one," answered 
 Severe, drily ; '' and if they would let her 
 alone, she would stay as she is till dooms- 
 day. But she likes me well enough, and 
 she is accustomed to me. I am useful to 
 her, and I might have a chance." 
 
 " Then take it," said his uncle, shrewdly. 
 
 " And have it said that Severe David, 
 her uncle's ploughboy, courted her for her 
 money ! Uncle, are the Davids so low down 
 as that ?" 
 
 " The Davids are fools," sententiously re- 
 plied the old man. '' My brother was one 
 and his son is another. But you are 
 my godson, and I know it will vex 
 Jean David to the heart, so I will give you 
 ten thousand francs in notes, gold, and 
 silver on your wedding day ; and at the 
 end of a week you will return it to me. 
 You will also pledge yourself by writing 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 210 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 to do as much, because, though you are 
 young and healthy, there is no knowing 
 who lives and who dies, and " 
 
 Severe, who had heard him thus far, 
 now started to his feet, pale with anger. 
 
 " If you w^ere not an old man," he said, 
 " my father's brother, and my godfather, 
 I would knock you down for daring to 
 propose such a rascal's trick to me ! Do 
 you think I am going to rob the woman I 
 love in order to get her ?" 
 
 *' You have robbed her of a turkey in 
 order to wheedle me out of my money," 
 sneered his uncle. 
 
 " I paid six francs fifty for that bird," 
 answered Severe, angrily ; *' I paid it to 
 Germaine, who will hand it to her mis- 
 tress. I would not touch an apple in 
 Monique's orchard, not an ear of corn on 
 her land, for all your gold ! The more I 
 love her, the less I will wrong her. And 
 now, have I had your yes or no ?" 
 
 " I do not mind leaving you the money 
 in my will," answered tlie old man, who, 
 when he looked at Gogo, and feared to 
 lose him, was bent on conciliation.
 
 THE STORY OF M ON I QUE. 2ti 
 
 "What is a, will?" scornfully asked 
 Severe. " It must be ten thousand francs 
 down or nothing. I must enter her house 
 more than a beggar, or stay as I am !" 
 
 " Then stay as you are ! Ten thousand 
 francs down ! — that would be a dear 
 turkey." 
 
 By this, Severe's wrath had subsided, 
 and he was once more a cool-headed Nor- 
 man. 
 
 " Well, uncle," he said, " you are master 
 of your money, and it is not because you 
 have said me nay that we need be worse 
 friends. I have asked and been denied, 
 and there is an end to the matter. You 
 wronged me in thought and speech ; but 
 when a man goes begging, he must expect 
 some such thing, I suppose. And now I 
 must be off, and so good-night." 
 
 His uncle faintly offered him to take 
 refreshment, but Severe wanted nothing, 
 and said so, and with that they shook 
 hands and parted. 
 
 " He did not take back the turkey after 
 all," thought Maitre Severe, looking 
 
 p 2
 
 212 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 meditatively at Gogo. '' I never saw so 
 "vvhite and plump a bird — never. I must 
 leave him something in my will — I really 
 must." By which, of course, Maitre 
 Severe did not mean Gogo. 
 
 Monique's guests all came the next day, 
 as Germaine had announced. Severe saw 
 nothing of them, for he stayed out till 
 night. When he came home late, Ger- 
 maine gave him a full account of the fes- 
 tivities, and declared that the way Mam- 
 zelle Monique managed her lovers was 
 something to see. " But I think it will 
 be Medcric," was Germaine's conclusion. 
 " They are all staying till to-morrow ; but 
 I fancy Med^ric and his mother remain 
 till after Sunday." 
 
 Severe heard this with stoic indiffer- 
 ence ; but the next morning, as Monique 
 was feeding her hens, he suddenly ap- 
 peared by her side. 
 
 " I have a word or two to say to you. 
 Mademoiselle ]\ronique," said he bluntly. 
 
 She looked round at him, and was struck 
 with the stern gravity of his aspect.
 
 THE STORY OF MO N I QUE. 213 
 
 "It is just this," he continued; "that 
 if these young fellows come to the house, 
 I must leave it. I am willing to go on as 
 we are — you and I — till I am threescore, 
 and you not much less, but if they keep 
 coming to the house, I must leave it. I 
 do not threaten. It would not be my 
 place to do so ; but I give you fair warn- 
 ing. I must not stay !" 
 
 " Say that you will not, Severe," replied 
 Monique, coldly. 
 
 "Because I cannot," he rejoined, in a 
 low tone. 
 
 " And why can you not?" she asked, a 
 little defiantly. 
 
 " You know," said he turning his back 
 upon her. 
 
 The colour faded from Monique's rosy 
 cheeks, and she stood as he had left her, 
 looking like one stricken. M^deric, a 
 brisk little fellow, now came up to her 
 with a happy smile on his red and white 
 Norman face. 
 
 " What makes you keep that surly dog, 
 Mamzelle Monique?" he asked confiden-
 
 214 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 tiallj, nodding as bespoke towards Severe, 
 who had to bend his tall form to enter the 
 low stable door. 
 
 " He is useful," answered Monique, after 
 a pause; "very useful, Maitre M^deric." 
 
 Maitre Mederic raised himself on tip-toe, 
 laid his finger to his nose, and looked 
 knowing. 
 
 " He has made you think so, Mamzelle 
 Monique," said he, with a chuckle ; " he has 
 made you think so. A sly dog, as well as 
 a surly one." 
 
 Monique, who had done feeding her 
 hens, walked away, and said never a word. 
 
 The horses at the farm were always 
 watered beyond the low, straggling out- 
 houses, in a little curve of the river, over 
 which tall trees bent their heavy boughs 
 in the summer time. A pale and misty 
 November moon was lookino: in throui^h 
 the leafless branches, when Severe, com- 
 ing in from the fields, led the team of 
 noble grey Norman mares which called 
 Monique mistress, to the rippling edge of 
 the little river. The white moonbeams
 
 THE STORY OF MONIQUE. 215 
 
 played on the surface of the water, and 
 the horses drank with theh^ heads bent low, 
 when Severe became aware of something 
 like a shadow beside him. He looked up, 
 and at once recognised Monique. She had 
 come out of the farm through a side door, 
 and stood bj him as silent and still as any 
 ghost. 
 
 " Do you want me, Mamzelle Monique ?" 
 asked Severe. 
 
 " You will not go ?" said she. 
 
 '' Not unless I must," was his answer. 
 
 " Because," faltered Monique, " they all 
 leave to-morrow, and I do not think any 
 of them will care to come back !" 
 
 " And I shall not go and look for them, 
 you may be sure," was all Severe said. 
 
 Monique paused awhile ; perhaps she 
 was looking at the moonlight, perhaps she 
 was listening to her horses drinking ; but 
 Severe remained silent. She turned away, 
 and entered the farm through the same low 
 door by which she had left it. 
 
 Nothing else worthy of note took place 
 that winter; nothing until spring was 
 over, and summer came round.
 
 2i6 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 The garden wbich stretclied along the 
 banks of the little river was not much to 
 boast of, but Monique was fond of it, 
 especially in the evening time, when the 
 water was alive with fire and gold, and 
 the trees on the opposite bank rose dark 
 and still on the blue skj. She liked to 
 watch the stars coming out one by one, 
 to breathe the fragrance of her flowers, and 
 perhaps too — for Monique was young — to 
 remember the past and dream of the future. 
 It was a place where no one ever sought 
 her or intruded on her privacy ; and one 
 evening, when she stood there watching 
 the river flowing on to the sea, Monique 
 could not help giving a little start as she 
 heard and saw Severe coming towards her. 
 
 '' Mademoiselle Monique," he said, 
 abruptly, '' I have something to tell you !" 
 
 " What is it. Severe ?" she asked 
 quietly. 
 
 " I am going to get married," he an- 
 swered with something like flurry in his 
 manner. 
 
 Monique was standing by a rose tree.
 
 THE STORY OF MONIQUE. 217 
 
 She plucked a rose and let it fall with a 
 start. A sharp thorn had pierced her hand. 
 
 " Well," she said, wiping the blood off 
 with her handkerchief, '' what about it, 
 Severe? You have a right to marry, I 
 suppose !" 
 
 " I have," he coolly answered ; '' and if 
 I tell you about it. Mademoiselle, it is 
 that you may know my marrying will make 
 no change. Themire and I will live in a 
 home of our own, of course, but I shall be 
 none the less upon the farm than I am 
 now." 
 
 '' Themire !" slowly repeated Monique ; 
 ''it is Themire whom you marry ?" 
 
 '' Oh ! only after the harvest. I never 
 spoke to her till this afternoon !" 
 
 Monique laughed. 
 
 " How fond of one another you must 
 have been all this time to make it up so 
 quickly," she said. " You never spoke 
 till this afternoon, and yet you are to be 
 married when the harvest is over ! Poor 
 Themire must have been breaking her 
 heart for you. Severe !"
 
 2i8 FORGET-ME-NOTS, 
 
 " Themire will never break her heart 
 for anyone; but she will make me an 
 honest wife," answered Severe coldly ; 
 *' and I told you about it, Mademoiselle 
 Monique, because, as she is working in 
 your house to-day, it is fair you should 
 know.'* 
 
 He awaited awhile ; Monique was silent. 
 Then he bade her good-night, and without 
 looking round, '' Grood-night, Severe," 
 answered she. 
 
 She lingered awhile longer in the garden, 
 listening to the murmuring voice of the 
 river; then she went back to the house, 
 crossing the yard. As she passed by the 
 window of the kitchen, from which a 
 ruddy glow streamed out, she paused and 
 gave a look within. Themire was stitch- 
 ing away by lamplight ; Severe stood by 
 her, leaning against the high and massive 
 stone chimney. He said something which 
 Monique did not hear, but Themire put 
 down her work to glance laughingly up in 
 his face. And with her black eves, her 
 little turned-up nose, her cherry mouth.
 
 THE STORY OF MONIQUE. 219 
 
 and her dimples, Tliemire looked very 
 pretty. Severe remained grave, but there 
 was kindness in his downward gaze. 
 Moniqne looked at him awhile, then 
 walked back to the garden. She went 
 and sat on the river bank, and stayed 
 there till the white stars shone through 
 chill mists, and she rose shivering. 
 
 Germaine had just left the kitchen, and 
 Themire was alone in it when the young 
 mistress of the house entered it. Her fair 
 cheeks were somewhat flushed, an un- 
 usual light shone in her blue eyes. " Was 
 not Severe here ?" said she, looking round 
 for him. 
 
 Themire demurely replied that Severe 
 was gone to the barber's to get shaved, 
 and offered to call him. Monique laughed 
 a little bitterly. '' That would be a pity," 
 she said, "for she was sure Themire liked 
 Severe better without than with his beard." 
 
 '' But what have I to do with Severe's 
 beard?" cried Themire, reddening; "he 
 may wear it a yard long for all T care." 
 
 " You would not like it a yard long on
 
 220 FORGE T-ME-NO TS. 
 
 your wedding-day," retorted Monique. 
 " Come, Tbemire, Severe has told rae you 
 are to marry him after the harvest." 
 
 " Then, if Severe is shaving for that, let 
 him keep his beard," angrily said Themire. 
 " After the harvest ! why, I might, if I 
 chose, have been Pascal's wife this spring." 
 
 " Ah ! but Themire did not care for 
 Pascal, and she was fond of Severe," said 
 Monique, smiling, a remark which added 
 to Themire's indignation. Fond of Severe ! 
 a surly fellow who asked one to marry 
 him, and had not even a kind word to 
 say ! Pascal was a much pleasanter young 
 man, thought Themire, though Mademoi- 
 selle Monique had never liked him. But 
 this, too, turned out to be a mistake. With 
 ablush, Monique assured Themire she had 
 always liked Pascal. *' Was he not her 
 uncle's godson, and when he marries," 
 added Monique, looking straight before 
 her, " I shall give him a thousand francs. 
 For Severe of course I can do nothing of 
 the kind; though I really like him too. I 
 can only give him a silver watch ; but do 
 not tell him so, Themire."
 
 THE STORY OF MONIQUE. 221 
 
 Mademoiselle Monique might give 
 liim a dozen watches, for all Themire 
 cared. He might say she was going to 
 marry him, but she, Themire, had promised 
 nothing of the kind. Besides, she knew it 
 would break Pascal's heart, and that went 
 against her conscience. 
 
 " Severe has savings," began Monique. 
 
 " Mademoiselle Monique, I do not think 
 of the money," said Themire, vir- 
 tuously, '' but I cannot make Pascal un- 
 happy. I shall tell Severe so, and I 
 hope he will not be after me or w^orry me, 
 because it will be of no use," said Themire, 
 resolutely. 
 
 " But suppose Severe should be angry," 
 suggested Monique. " Perhaps you had 
 better keep out of his way, Themire." 
 
 The two girls laid their heads together, 
 and when Germaine came back with the 
 cider that she had been drawing, she 
 learned that Themire, seized with a sudden 
 and violent headache, had been obliged to 
 take her work home, and leave without 
 her supper. Monique said this so low.
 
 222 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 that Severe, who was coming in, scarcely 
 heard her ; but Pascal heard, and gave him 
 a scowl that meant, " this is your doing." 
 
 Monique was very silent during the meal. 
 Severe never opened his lips, and every 
 now and then Pascal uttered a low groan, 
 which made Germaine ask him what he 
 meant by grunting so. 
 
 " I know," sulkily answered Pascal, 
 and again he scowled at Severe, Avho was 
 looking at Monique^'s pale, grave face. 
 
 Early the next morning, Pascal, to his 
 great surprise, was sent by his young 
 mistress to Themire's house with a piece 
 of trimming for the dress which she had 
 taken away to finish at home. He soon 
 came back looking sheepish, exchanged a 
 few words with Monique in the yard, then 
 went his way. A little before now, Monique, 
 with her round straw hat on, passed by the 
 door of the kitchen where Germaine sat 
 picking vegetables. " I am going to 
 look at the reapers," said she. 
 
 " You will have a hot walk, Mamzclle 
 Monique," was the answer.
 
 THE STORY OF MONIQUE. 223 
 
 The morning was a hot one. The fierce 
 sun poui-ed down on a land of yellow corn. 
 There was not a cloud in the deep blue of 
 the sky, not a breath of air stirred the 
 leaves of the trees that grew by the road, 
 along which walked Monique. Now and 
 then she stood still and gazed dreamily 
 before her. On either hand stretched 
 broad fields of wheat, and they were hers. 
 " I am a rich woman," thought Monique, 
 with a weary sigh, '' a very rich woman, 
 the richest woman in all Manneville ! and 
 — where is the use of it all." So she went 
 on till she came to the reapers. Severe 
 spied her out at once, and came up to her. 
 
 " You want to see the look of the corn, 
 Mademoiselle Monique," said he. 
 
 '' Yes," she answered hesitatingly, " I 
 do. "What do you think of it. Severe ?" 
 
 " I think this a good wheat year, Made- 
 moiselle Monique, and this is one of your 
 best pieces of land." 
 
 '' I suppose so," she said looking vague- 
 ly around her. '' Well, good morning. 
 Severe."
 
 224 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 " AYas she going so soon ?" asked Severe, 
 with some wonder. " "Why she had seen 
 nothing, not said a word to the reapers, 
 not even rested a minute." 
 
 Monique went amongst the men who 
 had nearly cleared the field, and did her 
 best to be gracious ; but Severe, who eyed 
 her closely, saw well enough that her mind 
 was ill at ease. Her words were hesitating 
 and low, her smile was troubled, her eyes 
 shunned his, and when she at length 
 turned away, there was a look of relief on 
 her face. He walked to the end of the field 
 W'ith her, then was leaving her with a quiet 
 " Good morning. Mademoiselle Monique." 
 
 '* Walk a little way with me, Severe," 
 she said in a very low tone. 
 
 He followed her without a word aloncr 
 a narrow path which passed through the 
 waving corn. When they came to the 
 spot where the great oak with the cross in 
 it flung its broad shadow round, Monique 
 stood still. 
 
 " Have you seen Thcmire to-day. 
 Severe ?" she asked.
 
 THE STORY OF M ON I QUE. 225 
 
 Severe replied tliat he had not. He 
 spoke very calmly, but never took his eyes 
 off Monique's face. She was pale and 
 flushed by turns, and her little white hand 
 was nervously shelling the tall ears of 
 corn by which she stood. 
 
 " She is not coming to the farm to-day," 
 resumed Monique hesitatingly. " I thought 
 it better not." 
 
 Severe said not a word. 
 
 " I believe," continued Monique, after a 
 pause, " that there must have been some 
 mistake in what you told me yesterday. 
 Severe, for — for — Th^mire, I fancy, is 
 going to marry some one else." 
 
 '' Who else?" sharply asked Severe. 
 
 " Pascal," answered Monique, without 
 looking up. 
 
 '' How do you know it ?" And as he put 
 the question. Severe bent his keen eyes 
 upon her face. 
 
 " Pascal has just told me so." 
 
 " But you had a long talk with Themire 
 last night," said Severe briefly. '' I saw 
 you both in the kitchen." 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 Monique coloured, raised her head 
 proudly, and scorned to deny. '' Yes, 
 Themire and she had had a long talk." 
 
 " And what did you do, or promise to 
 do, that she veered like a little weather- 
 cock (which she is, and always was),*' 
 added this fond lover, " from Severe to 
 Pascal." 
 
 '' I only told her the truth," said 
 Monique a little angrily : '' that I would 
 give Pascal a thousand francs when he 
 married, and to you a silver watch." 
 
 " Thank you !" laughed Severe. " And 
 now," he resumed after a pause, "shall I 
 tell you what you have done, Monique? 
 You have sent me for ever away from 
 Manneville, and whether I am useful to 
 you or not, whether the farm will thrive 
 or go to ruin, when I am no longer there 
 to stand between you and the set of plun- 
 derers whose business it seems to be to 
 rob you — I must go." 
 
 *' Why so ?" asked Monique, looking 
 scared. 
 
 " When I told you, last night, that I
 
 THE STORY OF MONIQUE. 227 
 
 was going to marry Themire, what did 
 you think was my motive ?" asked Severe 
 very gravely. 
 
 '' I thought you liked her," faltered 
 Monique. 
 
 *' And therefore you did your best that 
 another should have her," said Severe 
 bitterly. " Well, let that be ; after a 
 fashion I liked her. She has no more 
 head than a linnet, but she is honest. 
 She did not care for me, but she would 
 never have been a false wife, and T — why 
 I would have made her a good husband, 
 as husbands go. But as I said, what did 
 you think was my motive for taking her ? 
 Why, this : that I found out we two, you 
 and I, could not stay as we are, and now 
 I must go, Monique, and it is your doing." 
 
 '' But I cannot let you go. Severe," said 
 Monique pitifully, ''you know I cannot 
 do without you. You know that my 
 brother will come back if you leave me. 
 How can you talk of going ?" 
 
 " Is it possible you do not understand?" 
 said S^v^re almost angrily. " Can you not 
 
 Q 2
 
 228 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 guess that, thanks to your brother, Manne- 
 ville has been busy with our two names, 
 and that, since you would not let me 
 marry Themire, why, I must go, or — 
 you must marry me ?" he added with a 
 bitter laugh. 
 
 The blood left Monique's cheeks, and 
 her very lips were white. For a while she 
 could not speak, then she said in a low 
 tone : 
 
 " Well, Severe, and would that be so 
 hard ?" 
 
 For a moment he was silent. The 
 noonday hour was very still ; then sud- 
 denly a little breeze rose and passing in the 
 great green boughs of the old tree shook 
 them, and the tall red poppies, and the 
 blue corn flowers shivered gladly as they 
 felt the sweet breath of the sea. Strong 
 man though he was, Severe shivered too 
 as the words of Monique fell upon his 
 heart. 
 
 " You mean it !" he said at lenerth. 
 
 Monique hung her head and was mute. 
 
 " You mean it !" he said again ; '' you
 
 THE STORY OF M ON I QUE. 229 
 
 mean tliat you will marry me ?" And tlie 
 passionate longing of the last years was in 
 his voice and in his look. 
 
 " Why not ?" was all she answered at 
 length, for, Norman like, she could not 
 give him a plain yea or nay. 
 
 '' Monique ! Monique !" he cried with a 
 sort of anguish, " do you care for me, or 
 is it only that you want me ?" 
 
 Monique shook her pretty head and 
 laughed, though there were tears in her 
 eyes. 
 
 " It is not that," said she ; " it is all the 
 magpie, for you have forgotten. Severe, 
 but I — I remember." 
 
 " Now, who is that ?" thought Maitre 
 Severe David as a loud knock came at his 
 door one Saturday evening. 
 
 " Jules," said he, thrusting his head out 
 of the window, " I have told you that not 
 a sou " 
 
 " Let me in, uncle," answered Sev^re's 
 clear ringing voice. " I have something 
 for you." 
 
 A vision of another Gogo flitted across
 
 230 FORGET-ME'SOTS. 
 
 Maitre Severe' s mind as he went and let 
 his godson in : but Severe only brought a 
 most wonderful tale. He was going to 
 marry Monique. Their banns were to be 
 published the next morning and not wish- 
 ing to marry her from her own house, he 
 came to ask his uncle to give him a bed 
 for a week. 
 
 " You are going to marry Monique," 
 said Maitre S(5vere. " Then," added he, 
 striking a great blow on the table with his 
 fist, ''you shall have the ten thousand 
 francs. That sneak Jean shall not have 
 it to say that my nephew married his 
 sister and had never a sou." 
 
 And this is the story of Monique.
 
 ^mtcttt's io&t-Storij. 
 
 I. 
 
 EEP in tlie heart of JSTormandy 
 lies Manneville, and very green 
 and quiet it is, as a true Norman 
 village should be. It is pretty 
 too, and is both picturesque and homel}^ 
 Its one street, with gray stone houses 
 and tiled roofs brown with age, climb up 
 a low hill with a straggling, halting 
 ascent; just as if, though glad to rest by 
 the way, it were also very anxious to 
 reach the little Gothic church perched on 
 the top, and thence have a look down
 
 2^2 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 below into the pleasant valley where the 
 little shining river glides through the 
 orchards which replace the vineyards in 
 Western France. 
 
 Manneville is very old, says tradition. 
 It was Celtic once, asserts the venerable 
 authority; then it became strongly Nor- 
 man ; then devoutly Christian, raising 
 three churches for its own use ; then it 
 dozed for a few centuries, during which 
 two of the churches decayed and became 
 picturesque ruins. When Manneville 
 awoke one morning from this long sleep, 
 it was to cry out, " Yive la R^publique !" 
 and send forth a few boyish conscripts, 
 w^ho began by fighting for the rights of 
 man, and who ended by giving their 
 young blood to make an Emperor and 
 found a dynasty. 
 
 In these days, the cavees were, as they 
 are still — for Manneville is alive and well, 
 thank heaven — one of the chief features 
 and great attractions of this little place. 
 A cavee in Normandy is a long, winding 
 road, cut through the country, and lying
 
 ANNETTE'S LOVE-STORY. 233 
 
 several feet deep beneath its level. It 
 is not imperial ; no telegraphic wires fol- 
 low its course, no diligence wheels speed 
 along its uneven soil. A cavee is never 
 traced in a map, or recorded in a chro- 
 nicle, but for all that a cavee is a lovely 
 thing. It is winding, and as you rarely 
 see for more than forty yards before you, 
 it looks endless. Sometimes its green 
 banks are merely clothed with furze, tall 
 grasses, and a world of lovely wild 
 flowers, whilst field after field of yellow 
 corn looks down from above, and the 
 lark sings far away in the blue sky. This 
 is the sunny cav^e, delightful in the early 
 morning, or towards evening time ; plea- 
 sant too, when its high banks shelter you 
 from the keen north-easterly wind in 
 spring or in autumn, but intolerable in 
 the hot glare of noonday and summer sun. 
 Such sunny cavees Manneville has in 
 plenty; it also abounds in specimens of 
 the cool and shady cavee, the most beau- 
 tiful and sequestered of which bears the 
 name of Cav^e de la Dame. Tradition,
 
 234 FORGET ME NOTS. 
 
 which has kept the name, has forgotten 
 to give it a meaning. The Lady's Cavee 
 is a deep, dark, winding path, lovely and 
 mysterious, a spot much frequented by 
 blackbirds and lovers in spring. Trees 
 grow on either of its steep banks, and 
 they are ages old, says tradition. Time 
 has worn away the earth from their 
 gnarled roots, and their broad heavy 
 branches meet close above, and shut out 
 sunshine and sky. 
 
 Yet there is light in this place — a cool, 
 ofreen lis^ht — delicious contrast to the 
 glare without ; light by which you can see 
 your way, and the tall ferns, and luxu- 
 riant ivy, and deep golden moss that 
 clothe the banks on either hand, and add 
 to the sylvan look of the old cavt^e. Here, 
 on a bright May morning, forty odd years 
 ago, Annette came to meet her lover. 
 The day was warm, Annette had walked 
 fast, and Jean had not come yet, so she 
 sat down to rest, and looked up the path 
 with eager eyes and a beating heart. 
 There is little joy in the lot of a servant
 
 ANNETTE'S LOVE-STORY. 235 
 
 girl on a Norman farm. Love is much 
 to her, and a meeting in the cavee with 
 her lover has more of the flavour of lost 
 Paradise than to many another young 
 woman of her years. Annette was an 
 orphan; she worked hard, rose early, 
 went to bed late, and had but that one bit 
 of pure, true sunshine in her life, her 
 love for a young man as poor as herself — 
 he was but a plough-boy, and he lived 
 miles away — whom she saw rarely, and 
 of whom she thought night and day, noon 
 and morning. 
 
 Annette was poor, but she was very 
 handsome— a grand young creature of 
 eighteen, a noble specimen of rich peasant 
 blood. She had dark hair and darker 
 eyes, a laughing mouth, a stately car- 
 riage, and a fond, warm heart. No sooner 
 did she now see a stalwart young peasant 
 in a blue blouse slowly coming down the 
 path, than she rose and sprang towards 
 him, ardent, joyous, and free. 
 
 "Laggard!" she cried, "laggard! I 
 have been here this hour."
 
 236 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 But Jean gazed at her with a troubled 
 mien, and there was no response to her 
 fond reproaches in his white face and 
 sunken blue eyes. 
 
 " I am going," he said. 
 
 " When ?" asked Annette, from whose 
 brown cheeks the rich warm blood had 
 suddenly fled. 
 
 '' In an hour." 
 
 Annette said not a word, but sank 
 down, like one stunned, at the root of a 
 tree. Jean sat down by her. He, too, 
 was silent, and leaning his two elbows on 
 his knees, and his cheeks on the palms 
 of bis hands, he stared moodily before 
 him. 
 
 These were the palmy days of the First 
 Napoleon's reign, days of mighty battles 
 and great victories. But Manneville, 
 which had liked the excitement of the 
 thing at first, had got tired of it with 
 time, and was now utterly sick of its 
 yearly contributions to glory in the shape 
 of taxes and men. From the moment that 
 Jean had put his hand in the fatal urn
 
 ANNETTE'S LOVE-STORY. 237 
 
 and drawn fortli tlie number that doomed 
 him to go, he had hated his lot ; and now 
 that his hour had come, now that he 
 must leave the old aunt who had reared 
 him, and who, without him, might starve 
 and die; the handsome girl who loved 
 him, and who gave his life its one bit of 
 gladness ; now that he must exchange 
 field labour for fighting, and green and 
 cool Normandy for hot battle-fields in 
 parched countries, or forced marches in 
 frozen lands ; Jean hated it ten times 
 more, with the sullen despondent hatred 
 of a man who knows that he is powerless 
 against his fate. 
 
 Annette was the first to rally from the 
 blow. She raised her bowed head. She 
 looked around her. Through a gap in 
 the foliage a bright sunbeam stole in, and 
 a linnet, perched on a bough above her 
 head, was singing gaily its little rounde- 
 lay. Now could there be abiding grief, 
 or trouble with that bright sun, and that 
 cheerful little songster? Jean must go, 
 of course he must; but then, of course
 
 238 rORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 too, he must come back. All would be 
 well, oh ! so well yet. 
 
 " Cheer up," she said, with a tear in 
 her eye, and a smile on her lip ; '' cheer 
 up, all will be well yet." 
 
 But if the liberty ,"if the joy and hopeful 
 life of Nature were the gifts which daily 
 communion with her had bestowed upon 
 Annette, very different had been Nature's 
 meaning to Annette's lover. He had seen 
 her ploughed, conquered, and plundered by 
 man, and as her lot was, so did his seem 
 to be. In vain his fair hair, blue eyes, 
 and aquiline features, proclaimed his 
 Scandinavian descent ; Jean, having left off 
 piracy, and riding the waves, and calling 
 on Odin and Walhalla, in order to till 
 the soil, wear a blue blouse, and utter 
 forbidden oaths between his teeth when 
 anything vexed him, had allowed the 
 servile yoke of his latter ancestors to enter 
 his very soul, not in resignation, but in 
 sullen admission. What avails strife 
 when defeat is sure to be the end ? What 
 is the use of listening to Hope when yoii 
 know that her promises are all false lures ?
 
 ANNETTE'S LOVE-STORY. 239 
 
 " Cheer up !" he echoed with something 
 hke a sneer ; " and who will take care of 
 mj Aunt Denise when I am gone ?" 
 
 " I will," answered Annette stoutly. 
 " I know she never liked that w^e should 
 marry, but what matter? She is thy aunt, 
 she reared thee, and every sou I earn I 
 will share with her. Ay, and she shall 
 tell thee so when thou comest back." 
 
 " When I come back !" interrupted 
 Jean, Avith a loud and bitter laugh; ''come 
 back indeed ! why, I shall get knocked 
 on the head in the first skirmish." 
 
 '' Thou shalt not," cried Annette, olivine 
 her brown head a defiant toss, and stamp- 
 ing her foot with something like wrath. 
 " Thou shalt not be killed. How canst 
 thou talk of it with the sun shining and 
 the linnet singing ?" 
 
 " Is he singing ?" asked Jean, picking 
 up a pebble, and looking up angrily at the 
 tree in which the bird sang on, uncon- 
 scious of its danger. 
 
 But Annette snatched the stone from 
 her lover's hand, and throwing it away,
 
 240 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 asked reproachfully : '' What has the bird 
 done to thee that thou shouldst wish to 
 hurt it ?" 
 
 " Why is he singing up there ?" asked 
 Jean sullenly; *' why is he happy whilst 
 I must work here like a slave, or go and 
 be shot like a dog ?" 
 
 " But thou shalt not be shot," cried 
 Annette, fondly throwing her arms around 
 his neck. " Thou shalt come back and 
 marry Annette, and die when thou art 
 ninety !" she added with a joyous laugh 
 at her own prophecy, for Jean w^as young 
 and handsome too, so Annette could 
 laugh at the prospect of his wrinkles and 
 white hair. 
 
 " Ay, come back and marry," he said 
 bitterly ; " come back and toil, and rear 
 children on bread and water, and die a 
 pair of beggars like Mathurin and his wife.*' 
 
 Annette drew back from him with of- 
 fended love and wounded pride. 
 
 '' Is there no God ?" she asked. '* Wilt 
 thou not w^ork for me, and shall I not 
 work for thee ? Is there no God, I say ?"
 
 ANNETTE'S LOVE-STORY. 241 
 
 Jean did not answer this. He only 
 said, with a deep, sad sigh : '' It is tims 
 — I must be going now — good-bye." 
 
 All Annette's displeasure, and all her 
 fortitude too, fell as he uttered the words. 
 Again she threw her arms around his neck, 
 but this time it was to weep and sob on 
 his breast. And now came the parting, 
 the caresses, the vows, the tears, the fond 
 promises, all that from time immemorial 
 has marked the sundering of two young 
 hearts. Then Jean said again that he 
 must go, and he did not merely say it — he 
 went. 
 
 Annette sat as he had left her, at the 
 root of the tree, and at first she was mute ; 
 but when she saw that Jean did not look 
 round, that he walked away steadily, and 
 that eYerj step took him more surely from 
 her, she stretched out her arms and she 
 raised her voice, fond and imploring : 
 " Jean, come back — come back to me," 
 she cried. 
 
 But Jean had not heard her, or if he 
 did hear her, he heeded her not. A wind- 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 242 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 ing of the lane soon hid liim from her 
 view, and all was over — Jean was gone. 
 Annette longed to rise and follow him, 
 but she did not. All was over, and it was 
 best for him that it should be over. 
 
 So she stayed where he had left her, 
 and flinging herself on the earth she gave 
 way to her grief. It was violent, but 
 brief. In the first place because it was 
 not Annette's temper to grieve long, in 
 the second because it was noonday, and 
 Annette had her cows to milk. " And 
 the poor brutes will be lowing and lowing," 
 thought Annette, with remorseful fond- 
 ness, as she sat up and roused herself. 
 The glimpse of sunshine was all gone from 
 the cav^e, it looked once more very green 
 and lonely; but the little linnet, after 
 being silent awhile, began its song anew, 
 and Annette almost smiled as she heard 
 it. Surely there could be no enduring 
 pain or sorrow in a world in which linnets 
 sang so joyously ! Such were not indeed 
 Annette's thoughts, but thus she felt, and 
 a girl goes more by her feelings than by
 
 ANNETTE'S LOVE-STORY. 243 
 
 her tlioughts all tlie world over. So she 
 rose, if not gaily, at least cheerfully, and 
 answering a faint lowing which she heard 
 from afar, she said, in a clear high voice : 
 *' I am coming, La Brune ! I am coming, 
 Blanchette ! I am coming." 
 
 La Brune and Blanchette were two 
 stately Norman cows, and they stood next 
 to Jean in Annette's heart. She had a 
 foible for Blanchette, who was white, and 
 spotless, and young, but she would not ac- 
 knowledge ifc, and always made most of 
 La Brune. She now found the pair 
 grazing on a slope of the hill, near the 
 entrance of the cav^e. When they saw 
 their faithful handmaiden coming towards 
 them, they raised their voices again and 
 lowed a rejDroachful welcome. 
 
 " Yes, I am late. La Brune, I know I 
 am," confessed Annette ; " but thou 
 seeest, my daughter, I should part with 
 poor Jean ; and just tell me, if thou canst, 
 how much water will flow down the river 
 before my Jean comes back ?" 
 
 To this question La Brune gave no sort 
 
 E 2
 
 244 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 of reply, but she looked meekly witli her 
 large brown eye at Annette, who somehow 
 or other felt both understood and com- 
 forted. What the convenient friend, 
 nurse, or slave was to the heroine of the 
 ancient drama. La Brune and Blanchette 
 were to Annette. When she came to them 
 in the lonely pasture she told them her 
 troubles ; and once, when she had had a 
 little quarrel with Jean, she had, after 
 leaving him in great anger in the cavee, 
 come to La Brune, and leaning against 
 her glossy shoulder, cried both her grief 
 and her anger away, and walked ten 
 miles the next morning to make it up 
 again with her lover. 
 
 " The patient dumb beast seemed to 
 think I had been too hasty," she confessed 
 to Jean ; '' and she looked at me with such 
 eyes, such eyes that I felt I must come 
 back to thee." Do not laugh at Annette, 
 reader, as did Jean, for her simplicity. 
 Gentle, patient La Brune might be as good 
 a confidant and as safe an adviser as any, 
 and as Annette now sat down and milked
 
 - ANNETTE'S LOVE-STORY. 245 
 
 her and again told Iter and Blancliette how 
 she and Jean had parted, do not won- 
 der if the poor girl's heart felt less 
 heavy. 
 
 " Thou art in a great hurry, Blan- 
 chette," she said, nodding towards her 
 favourite, who lowed rather impatiently ; 
 '' but never mind, my girl, I shall be with 
 thee soon, and this is the last time for 
 long that I shall leave either of you to go 
 and meet Jean in the cavee. And who 
 makes thee fat and fair as thou art, Blan- 
 chette ? I know — I know ! Maitre Blon- 
 del wonders why you both thrive so since 
 I am with him, but I know who gets up 
 with dawn and who steals Maitre Blon- 
 del's bran and hay to give to Maitre 
 Blondel's two cows. He is none the 
 poorer, since you are his, and your milk is 
 all the better, and your coat is all the 
 more glossy for it ; and if he were to find 
 it out to-morrow I should not care," 
 thought Annette, tossing her brown head 
 defiantly at her absent master. And 
 so she went on talking to the two cows
 
 246 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 till she suddenly remembered that Jean 
 was marching farther and farther away 
 from her, and, overpowered with sorrow, 
 she cried as if her heart would break, be- 
 fore poor Blanchette was half milked. 
 
 When Annette reached her master's 
 farm, on her return from the pasture, she 
 met in the courtyard, which she crossed 
 on her way to the kitchen, that Job's 
 comforter who from time immemorial has 
 been found at the elbow of lovers in dis- 
 tress. Alexandrine, called Andrine for 
 short, was, like Annette, Maitre Blondel's 
 servant, but she was also his cousin fourth 
 removed, and though this did not lighten 
 her share of the work, it gave her tongue 
 considerable privileges. To the rights of 
 cousinship, her forty odd years she con- 
 sidered added those of experience ; and as 
 this seemed to have been of the dark kind, 
 her greeting to Annette was not exactly 
 cheerful. 
 
 ** So poor Jean is gone," she said, 
 plaintively. *' Poor fellows, they go, but 
 they never come back. My sister's Alexis
 
 ANNETTE'S LOVE-STORY. 247 
 
 went last year, and he never came back." 
 
 " Alexis sent word that he was alive and 
 well last Easter Snndaj," replied Annette. 
 
 " So he did, but he may have been 
 killed on the Monday," retorted Andrine, 
 gloomily. 
 
 Annette coloured angrily, but did not 
 reply. 
 
 "And poor Denise, Jean's old aunt, 
 may starve now," continued Andrine. 
 
 " She shall not starve," said Annette, 
 and swinging her milk-pail, to the immi- 
 nent peril of its contents, she walked into 
 the great farm kitchen. 
 
 Maitre Blondel, a shrewd keen old Nor- 
 man, shook his head dolefully as he saw 
 his handsome servant girl. 
 
 " Never mind, Annette," he said, 
 "never mind, thou'lt get another." And 
 having thus implied that Jean was defunct 
 so far as his lover-like usefulness went, he 
 walked away, leaving Annette to her in- 
 dignation. 
 
 " Does he, too, think poor old Denise 
 will starve ?" wrathfully thought Annette.
 
 248 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 '' Well, they shall see, all of them, whether 
 she shall want or not, and they shall see, 
 too, whether I shall not have my Jean 
 back again !'' 
 
 Denise lived at the top of the hill up 
 which climbed the one street of Manneville, 
 and up that street Annette walked alone 
 that same evening^. The red sunlicrht 
 crept up the hill, turning the old gray 
 houses into golden palaces, whilst a rosy 
 flush passed across the blue sky, and the 
 little church above sent forth a merry peal 
 of bells for a christening. Children played 
 noisily ; women in white caps listened, 
 with their pitchers, on their way from the 
 river ; old men stood at their doors ; 
 everything looked fair and everyone looked 
 happy. " And everything shall look ten 
 times prettier, and everyone shall look ten 
 times happier, when my Jean comes back," 
 thought Annette, with a swelling heart. 
 In that mood, sad though hopeful, she 
 reached the house of Denise. It was one 
 of the oldest in all Manneville. It stood 
 on the top of the hill, close to the church,
 
 ANNETTE'S LOVE-STORY. 249 
 
 and its back windows overlooked the 
 churchyard. It had been strong and 
 sturdy once, but now it looked crumbling 
 and loose. The broad, low arch above 
 which it was built showed many a perilous 
 gap in its stone ribs, and had neither gate 
 nor barrier. Beyond that arch there was 
 a glimpse of a green, weedy garden, of 
 desolate aspect ; and beneath it, on the 
 right hand side, two insecure stone steps 
 and a wooden door gave admittance to the 
 rooms which Denise had kept for her own 
 use. The upper portion of the house was 
 too unsafe to be tenanted, and Denise was 
 too poor to keep it in repair. " The place 
 will last my time," she used to say, but 
 though she was old and infirm there were 
 people who thought that Denise would 
 outlive her dwelling. 
 
 Annette's foot was light, yet as she 
 went up the steps a loose stone rolled 
 away. Her hand was already on the latch, 
 and she had half opened the door, when a 
 shrill voice within cried out : 
 
 " Ah ! you know I cannot go to you.
 
 250 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 You know I cannot, yon little vagabonds. 
 But I shall tell your father when he comes 
 home. I will, I tell you that I will." 
 
 Annette pushed the door open, and 
 stepped into the dark and dingy room 
 where Denise sat, day after day, moaning 
 and lamenting. The old woman bent for- 
 ward and shaded her eyes with her palsied 
 hand to look at the intruder. Annette 
 had left the door open, and a stream of 
 rich red sunshine came in with her and lit 
 her stately young figure and bright hand- 
 some face till Denise was dazzled. 
 
 '' Who is it ?" she asked feebly. " Who 
 is it?" 
 
 " J am Annette," answered the young 
 girl. " I come to see you, Denise, and to 
 tell you that since Jean is gone I will be 
 to you as he was. He was as a son, and 
 I shall be as a daughter." 
 
 Denise knew her now. She did not 
 answer. She turned her head away in 
 remorse and grief, in joy and shame ; for 
 poor old Denise had been selfish, and 
 fearing lest her share of Jean's love and,
 
 ANNETTE'S LOVE-STORY. 251 
 
 alas ! of Jean's money, sliould be less be- 
 cause of Annette, she had done all she 
 could to part the lovers. And now it was 
 Annette, who knew all this, Annette who 
 came to her in her loneliness and desola- 
 tion. It was the story of Ruth and Naomi 
 over again — that story eternally young in 
 its beautiful truth : and Denise, like a 
 Scripture woman of old, raised her voice 
 and wept. 
 
 '' You must not cry, you shall not cry," 
 said Annette, flinging her arms round the 
 neck of Denise ; and laying her young 
 warm head on the old woman's heart, she 
 said cheerfully, almost gaily, " Ah ! how 
 happy we both shall be when Jean comes 
 back!" 
 
 And Annette was faithful to her pro- 
 mise. She did not wrong her master, but 
 she was far more to old Denise than Jean 
 had ever been. She rose before dawn to 
 go and wash her linen and prepare her 
 food for the day. She mended her clothes, 
 she kept her poor house clean, and, better 
 than all, she filled that house with bright
 
 252 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 glimpses of youth. Only one part of her 
 pledge Annette could not redeem : Denise 
 died two years after Jean had gone away, 
 and never saw him again. 
 
 This one hope then had dropped out of 
 her life, but Annette would not read its 
 meaning. Denise was old, and would 
 have died if Jean had been at home. She 
 mourned for her because she loved her, 
 but Jean was well ; he had not been 
 wounded once, though he had already 
 been in two pitched battles, and he must 
 return when all these weary wars were 
 over. In the meanwhile, and because she 
 thought he would like it, Annette bought 
 his aunt's old tumble-down house. Money 
 was scarce, and everything else was cheap, 
 so she got it for a song, and the money 
 was sent to Jean, who, poor fellow, must 
 need it, leading the hard life he led. 
 
 Jean had been gone four years, and it 
 was the harvest time. A band of reapers 
 wound through the plains of Manneville 
 on their way back to the village. They 
 were chiefly women : the men had been
 
 ANNETTE'S LOVE-STORY. 253 
 
 called year after year to another harvest — ■ 
 sown in tears and reaped in blood; the 
 last had been gathered on the field of 
 Waterloo, and many a son, many a brother, 
 was never to see Manneville again. Yet, 
 though she had not heard of Jean for 
 some weeks, Annette walked at the head 
 of the reapers, bearing lightly a heavy 
 sheaf of corn upon her brown head, and 
 looking free from thought or care. She 
 could feel sorrow, but not its apprehen- 
 sions, and what she felt she always showed 
 with the daring frankness of her nature. 
 
 " Some people can be merry when they 
 should be crying," bitterly said one of the 
 women behind her. " Why, Jean may be 
 dead, Annette." 
 
 Annette turned round and faced her 
 with flashing eyes. 
 
 " Jean is not dead," she answered an- 
 grily, and she stamped her foot and shook 
 her brown head, so that it was as if a 
 strong breeze had passed through the sheaf 
 of corn. 
 
 " And how canst thou tell ?" moaned
 
 254 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 the woman behind her ; " how canst thou 
 tell, Annette ?" 
 
 Before Annette could answer, Andrine 
 came down the hill to meet them, waving 
 her arms, and exclaiming, in broken 
 words : 
 
 " News — Alexis ! — my sister's Alexis ! 
 He is here ! Oh, there has been such ter- 
 rible fighting !" 
 
 Annette stepped up to her, and seized 
 her arm with a strong, hard grasp : 
 
 " Jean !" she said, gasping. 
 
 " He has been badly wounded," an- 
 swered Andrine ; '' but " 
 
 "Will he live?" 
 
 *' Yes ; but " 
 
 Annette did not stay to hear the rest. 
 Her keen eyes had seen the group of which 
 Alexis was the centre, and with the swift, 
 straight flight of a bird she sped towards 
 it up the hill. He would live — a cripple, 
 maybe, a poor, mutilated creature — she 
 did not care. He would live, and she 
 would toil from morning till night, and 
 from night till morning again, if need be.
 
 ANNETTE'S LOVE-STORY. 255 
 
 for her liusband. She did not hear An- 
 drine's voice calling her back. She only 
 saw the church looking^ so red in the sun- 
 light, the low, broken churchyard wall, 
 on which Alexis sat, with his arm in a 
 sling, and the eager men and women, 
 who listened breathless to his woful tale. 
 Alas ! Annette did not think of that tale 
 then. Lost battles, invading armies, and 
 the humiliation of her country were for- 
 gotten. She only remembered her own 
 love-story and its young hero. 
 
 " Tell him to come back," she cried, all 
 breathless ; " tell him that I will nurse 
 him, work for him ; that I do not care 
 for poverty or toil ; tell him to come back." 
 
 She had not taken time to throw down 
 her burden ; and as she stood in the centre 
 of the group, with the sheaf of yellow corn, 
 full of red poppies and blue corn-flowers, 
 resting on her brown head, Annette looked 
 wonderfully handsome, for her cheeks were 
 flushed, and her dark eyes shone like fire. 
 But there are days and hours when even 
 beauty loses her boasted empire over the
 
 256 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 heart of man. Alexis frowned, and looked 
 askance at the ardent girl who so readily 
 forgot her country and its woes. 
 
 " Do hearken to her !" he grumbled 
 indignantly. " It is all her Jean, is it ? 
 Why, Jean is married," he added, turning 
 full upon her. 
 
 The cruel words were repented as soon 
 as they had been uttered ; but nothing 
 could recall them. 
 
 " I was not to tell thee so bluntly," 
 resumed Alexis, looking rather remorseful. 
 " Jean is sorry, and as fond of thee as 
 ever; but he was left for dead, and a 
 farmer in those parts picked him up, and 
 the farmer's daughter must needs fall in 
 love with him. Jean was sick of figfhtinor, 
 and he told me to tell thee this also : that, 
 being both so poor, it was no use for you 
 to marry and be wretched in your old age ; 
 and you must bear him no ill-will, Annette, 
 for he could not help himself ; and she is 
 not at all handsome," added Alexis, con- 
 solatorily. 
 
 But Annette did not speak. She stood,
 
 ANNETTE'S LOVE-STORY. 257 
 
 with her upraised hands still supporting 
 her sheaf of corn, in the attitude of the 
 captive Carian women, whose bearing of 
 burdens for their masters gave a name, it 
 is said, to the Cariatidse. But if she had 
 been one of those sad women in very truth, 
 Annette could not have looked more full of 
 grief than she looked ; and their stone 
 effigy was surely never colder and more 
 rigid than this girl as she listened to the 
 soldier's tidings. She saw him sitting on 
 the broken churchyard wall ; she saw the 
 red light passing away from the faces 
 around her, from the gravestones sunken 
 low in the grass ; she saw it stealing up to 
 the church belfry and melting into the 
 pale upper air, and as that light left every- 
 thing cold, wan, and chill when it had 
 vanished, so from that hour forth became 
 the outer world to this stricken girl. The 
 sunlight had departed from her life, and 
 upon it there had fallen the grayness of 
 evening. The grayness was on the fair 
 face of nature no less than on every coun- 
 tenance she saw ; and as all things were to 
 
 VOL. I. s
 
 258 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 her, so did she become in the eyes of others. 
 From that hour forth the joyous beauty died 
 out of her young face; the light passed from 
 her eyes, even as love and faith went out 
 of her full, warm heart. When she now 
 spoke — and her pause of silence was no 
 longer than strange tidings warrant — 
 every one who saw and heard Annette 
 felt that she was a changed woman. 
 
 *' Tell him," she said, in a cold, hard 
 voice, " that the man who grudged his 
 blood to his country is a coward ; tell him 
 that the man who broke his faith to his 
 promised wife is a traitor ; and tell him," 
 she added, as if this were the culminating 
 point of her revengeful denunciation, 
 " that he will die on the straw like a 
 beggar, and that Annette, poor though 
 he thought her, will die on a good warm 
 bed, and leave something wherewith to 
 bury her." 
 
 She said it ; and neither putting down 
 her burden, nor faltering in step or look, 
 she went her way. 
 
 ''Is she mad?" said Alexis, starine:. 
 " How am I to tell Jean all that ?"
 
 ANNETTE'S LOVE-STORY. 259 
 
 II. 
 
 Forty odd years liad gone by, and 
 Manneville was much the same as ever. 
 It was rather less agricultural than it had 
 been under the First Napoleon's reign, 
 but then it had a good deal less of fighting 
 than in those days of epic victories. It 
 had also taken to weaving, and become 
 a cotton district. From five in the morn- 
 ing till ten of the night, you could hear 
 the click of the loom in its long, lonely 
 street; and in the summer time the old 
 women, who sat by their open doors croon- 
 ing endless songs, were unwinding cotton 
 for the labour of the young. Strength 
 was spent and gone, but patience and use- 
 less time were theirs still. 
 
 On a calm summer evening an aged 
 woman sat thus at the door of a little low 
 house in the street of Manneville; with a 
 feeble and palsied hand she unwound a 
 skein of blue cotton, but no song passed 
 
 s 2
 
 26o FORGET-ME NOTS. 
 
 her lips. She was too old and wearied for 
 tlie effort. 
 
 " Is it ready, Aunt Andrine ?" asked a 
 man's voice within. 
 
 " Not yet, Alexis," feebly answered 
 Andrine, who, since Maitre Blondel's 
 death, had been living with her late 
 nephew's son. 
 
 The loom in the room within ceased its 
 labour, and Alexis came forth and stood 
 looking at his great-aunt from the thres- 
 hold. This was not the Alexis who had 
 come back from the wars with his arm in a 
 sling — he had been dead some years, but 
 his second son, a handsome, bright-haired 
 young Norman, who worked hard and 
 supported his mother, his great-aunt, and 
 two little twin sisters, who had most in- 
 opportunely made their appearance six 
 months before his father's death, by his 
 labour. He was a gay, frank-looking 
 young fellow, with a little touch of red in 
 his hair, and a spark ever ready to kindle 
 in his blue eye. He looked tenderly at his 
 great-aunt, and taking the cotton from 
 her hand, he said :
 
 ANNETTE'S LOVE-STORY. 261 
 
 "Go in and rest, aunt ; Annette shall 
 do that." 
 
 ''But Annette must be paid," said 
 Andrine, looking frightened. 
 
 " Of course she must," replied Alexis. 
 
 " And she will not give credit." 
 
 " Do I ask it, aunt ?" 
 
 ''But Alexis, my boy, think of the 
 money ; and we are so many, and it all 
 falls on thee, and I am useless and a 
 burden " 
 
 "And I am the best weaver in Manne- 
 ville," interrupted Alexis, whose fault was 
 not excess of modesty ; "so I say you 
 shall unwind no more cotton from this 
 day forth, and that old miser Annette 
 shall work for us." 
 
 Andrine was going to utter another 
 feeble remonstrance, but Alexis, who had 
 no time to spare, walked away briskly up 
 the hill, and soon reached the house that 
 had of yore belonged to Denise. 
 
 Manneville is one of those places over 
 which years pass and leave no trace, unless 
 when they reckon up into centuries. The
 
 262 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 houses around this dwelling were all un- 
 altered ; and the more striking therefore 
 seemed the change which Time had 
 wrought in this one. It had been firmly 
 repaired to begin with ; then the room 
 below, in which old Denise had lived her 
 sad life, had been turned into a shop, and 
 now opened in the street. It was invit- 
 ingly full of the most varied goods. Sugar, 
 tape, baskets, wooden shoes, brooms, 
 coffee, and list slippers, appeared there in 
 seductive profusion ; for this was the shop 
 of Manneville, its only one, and almost 
 everything that Manneville needed that 
 shop could supply. And here, for forty 
 odd years, Annette had been making 
 money; and the more she made the 
 more she craved, said the little cen- 
 sorious world around her. This shop 
 Alexis now entered. It was vacant. 
 He walked on to a cold and bare-looking 
 kitchen behind ; that too was empty ; then 
 looking through a dull window into a little 
 courtyard, beyond which stood an out- 
 house whence came the click of a loom,
 
 ANNETTE'S LOVE-STORY. 263 
 
 he said aloud : " Here is work for you, 
 Annette." 
 
 " Who is there ?" asked a voice, which 
 came not from the outhouse at which 
 Alexis was staring, but from a room up- 
 stairs. 
 
 " Leave off counting your gold and come 
 down," said Alexis, a little brusquely ; 
 " I bring you money under the shape of 
 work." 
 
 " Leave it on the counter, then, for I 
 am not going down just yet," answered 
 Annette's voice ; " as for my gold, I do 
 not keep it here, but in the drawer of the 
 dresser, and if thou choosest to count it 
 for me thou mayest do so." 
 
 *' Mind, I shall come for this cotton in 
 an hour," replied Alexis, without deign- 
 ing to notice Annette's taunting remark ; 
 and he walked away, slamming the shop- 
 door after him with some temper. If 
 there was a woman in all Manneville 
 whom he hated that woman was Annette. 
 
 She soon came down, took the cotton 
 from the counter, and began unwinding
 
 264 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 it by the kitchen window, and so she sat 
 in the deepening twihght, till the sound 
 of ihe loom in the outhouse ceased, and a 
 young girl crossed the yard and entered 
 the kitchen. 
 
 *' Here, finish this, Rose," said Annette, 
 rising; ''I will kindle the fire; its light 
 will do for thee." She threw a few 
 splinters of wood on the hearth, and set 
 fire to them. Presently the bright flame 
 shot up, and in its glow appeared Rose, 
 a blooming girl, with a demure, dimpled 
 face, who sat unwinding assiduously and 
 said not a word. The flickering firelight 
 also lit up Annette's pale and withered 
 features, and spite that vivid glow, very 
 aged and wan did Annette look, as, after 
 setting a large saucepan full of water on 
 the trivet, she crouched on a low stool, 
 with her hands clasped around her knees. 
 
 " Rose," she said, *' who took thee when 
 thou wert a poor forlorn orphan ?" 
 
 " You did," briskly replied Rose. 
 
 " Who taught thee weaving?" 
 
 " You did," again promptly answered
 
 ANNETTE'S LOVE-STORY. 265 
 
 Rose, who seemed to be going tlirougti a 
 sort of catecliism. 
 
 " Who put the bread into thy mouth ?" 
 
 " You did, Annette." 
 
 '' Rose, men are bad." 
 
 "All?" suggested Rose. 
 
 '' All," answered Annette ; '* so bad." 
 
 " So bad !" repeated Rose with perfect 
 docility. 
 
 " Ha ! ha !" lauo-hed Annette, trium- 
 phantly; *'! taught thee that too. Thou 
 wilt remember it. Rose, work hard, save 
 money, and live alone — live alone." 
 
 There was a pause : then Annette re- 
 sumed : 
 
 " When I found that money was so 
 good a thing I gave up being a farm ser- 
 vant and took to weaving. When I had 
 earned and saved money by that, I opened 
 a shop. They laughed at me — they said 
 I was crazy ; but they found out that my 
 sugar, and coffee, and brandy, were good ; 
 so, instead of walking two leagues to get 
 the like, they bought from me. And 
 Jean — where is Jean now, Rose ? On the
 
 266 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 straw somewhere, as I foretold. I wish 
 him no evil — there is no need; but his 
 cattle died, his wife died, his children died, 
 and he went away in the night, and they 
 found his house empty the next morning. 
 Some say he went and drowned himself. 
 But Jean loved life too well to do that. 
 He is living still. Rose : only on what road 
 is he wandering, at whose door is he 
 knocking with a beggar's stick in his 
 hand and a beggar's wallet on his back ? 
 And Annette, whom he cast away for her 
 poverty — Annette has a shop, a roof, and 
 a home, — and Annette has two thousand 
 francs saved up for her old age. Thou 
 hast seen them, Rose — all Manneville has 
 seen my two thousand francs. It is no lie, 
 no invention. I have them there in gold ; 
 let Jean come and see them when he 
 pleases. I have got them, one hundred 
 Napoleons." And she rocked herself to 
 and fro in triumph of a resentment which 
 years had not abated or worn out. 
 
 " Is that cotton ready ?" asked Alexis, 
 
 commg m.
 
 ANNETTE'S LOVE-STORY. 267 
 
 " It will soon be," answered Rose. 
 
 *' So thou wert listening outside ?" said 
 Annette, rising and confronting the young 
 man. '' Well, the money is there, and 
 thou shalt see it." She went to the 
 dresser, pulled a drawer open, and took it 
 out, so that he should see the gold pieces 
 scattered within. 
 
 " There they are," she said trium- 
 phantly; "all Manneville knows it, and 
 who dare touch them ? This is bread, 
 this is house, this is clothes for Annette 
 when she can work no more." 
 
 *' What do I care for your money ?" 
 curtly replied Alexis. " I am young and 
 strong, and I can work and earn plenty 
 for myself and mine." 
 
 " Canst thou ? And suppose thou hast 
 to go away and be a soldier like Jean, 
 what money wilt thou earn then ?" 
 
 ** Is that cotton ready ?" asked Alexis. 
 
 " Almost ready," replied Rose. 
 
 *' I know what thou wilt do," continued 
 Annette. "Thou wilt do as Jean did. 
 Have as little fighting as thou canst, and 
 marry the farmer's daughter."
 
 268 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 " And what is it to you whom I marry ?" 
 asked the young man angrily. " Do I not 
 pay you for whatsoever work you do for 
 me ?" he added, throwing a copper coin 
 on the table. 
 
 " Do I ever give credit ?" retorted An- 
 nette. 
 
 '' Of one thing be sure," he added, 
 taking the cotton from the hand of Rose, 
 " that none belonging to me shall ever 
 come for help to you.'* 
 
 " I should think not," laughed Annette, 
 in great scorn, as he walked away. 
 " Come to me, indeed !" 
 
 She stood with the drawer in her hand, 
 looking at the gold within with greedy, 
 loving eyes. She loved it, and it was the 
 only thing she loved now ; but that love 
 had bred no miser's dread or mistrust in 
 her heart. A defiant sense of her own 
 power to guard and protect it, was what 
 still remained to Annette of the original 
 nobleness of her nature. 
 
 Annette was a sound sleeper, spite her 
 years, but on this night her slumbers
 
 ANNETTE'S LOVE-STORY. 269 
 
 were liglit and broken. She felt restless 
 too, and got up and walked about her 
 room. The night was bright and clear, 
 a nio^ht of white summer moonlio^ht. 
 Annette opened her window, and looked 
 out on the little churchyard that lay be- 
 low. It had black crosses, a few sunken 
 graves, and, at its further end, the ruins of 
 an old abbey church. Annette had looked 
 at this narrow spot so often, that she knew 
 its aspect as well by night as by day. In 
 a moment, therefore, she saw that there 
 was a change in the shadow of the ruin on 
 the grass. That shadow was deeper and 
 darker than on other nights, and once it 
 moved. Annette left her window, and 
 entered the room of little Rose ; it was 
 vacant, and the bed had not been slept in. 
 Annette walked downstairs, left the house 
 by a back door, and entered the church- 
 yard through a gap in the wall that was 
 ever open. Very softly Annette stole 
 round the ruins, and presently she saw 
 little Rose sitting alone on the pedestal 
 of a broken pillar. What was she doing
 
 270 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 there ? Was this young girl thinking of 
 her quiet neighbours — the dead ? Did she 
 in whose veins the tide of life was so fresh 
 and quick, wonder at their long calm 
 sleep, and, maybe, pity them for the cold 
 passionless trance in which they lay, with 
 the dull earth above their mouldering 
 coffins, deadening all the pleasant sounds 
 of life ! Alas, little Rose would have 
 stared and opened her round black eyes 
 indeed at the good sentimental soul 
 that had propounded such strange ques- 
 tions. Why should she wonder that the 
 dead were dead? Or, why should she 
 think of them save in her prayers for 
 their poor souls ? Above all, why should 
 she fear them ? As a child. Rose had 
 played amongst the graves with the sex- 
 ton's children, gathering the wild flowers 
 which grow profusely there ; day after 
 day she had looked at them from her win- 
 dow, and these silent dead, who never 
 railed, who never scolded, could not awe 
 her now. 
 
 She could have sat and looked at their
 
 ANNETTE'S LOVE-STORY. 271 
 
 graves till morning, just as she listened all 
 the day long to Annette's little railings at 
 love and mankind, and hope and faith. 
 And Annette knew well enough what Rose 
 was doing there. Of course the girl was 
 waiting for her lover — only, who was he ? 
 Annette was not kept long in suspense. 
 She heard a step, and presently Alexis ap- 
 peared in the moonlight, stepping quickly 
 amongst the grass-grown graves. So 
 eager was he to meet his pretty Rose, 
 that he brushed by Annette without see- 
 ing her. His father had been the sexton 
 many years, and no more than Rose 
 did Alexis fear the dead. The young 
 girl rose on seeing him, and the lovers, 
 walking quickly round the ruins, vanished 
 from Annette's view. She stole after 
 them till she saw them again. They 
 were outside the churchyard now, and 
 stood in the deep shadow of the wall, 
 speaking in whispers so low that only 
 now and then could Annette catch a few 
 words of their discourse. What she heard 
 was enough to show her its purport.
 
 272 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 " But I do not believe her," little Rose 
 said once, with a soft, low laugh. " I 
 know thou wilt always be true to me. I 
 let her talk on, and I say no or yes ; but, 
 of course, I know better than Annette." 
 
 Something else said by Alexis drew 
 forth the same protest under another form. 
 
 " Poor Annette !" kindly said Rose, " she 
 is very good to me — only, she is crazy 
 on that score. She cannot forget that 
 Jean ; and then she is old — so very old !" 
 she added pityingly. 
 
 " Old people should hold their tongues 
 then," sententiously remarked Alexis, " and 
 not talk about love. They know nothing 
 about it." 
 
 Not far from the spot where Annette 
 stood lay the grave of old Denise, a grave 
 forgotten by them all save her ; and as she 
 heard the young man's sentence upon age, 
 she smiled to herself — an odd, bitter 
 smile. Oh, strange folly of the young, 
 who think that love dies with the rosy 
 cheeks and bright eyes that gave it birth ! 
 What did that boy, in the pride of his young 
 manhood, know of love — of such love as
 
 ANNETTE'S LOVE-STORY. 273 
 
 had left its burning traces in Annette's 
 life ? She had heard enough— she cared 
 to hear no more. She passed through the 
 gap in the wall, and walked away, leaving 
 the lovers to their stolen meeting by the 
 graves of the dead. 
 
 To have suffered much is, in some sort, 
 not to be able to suffer again. The 
 treachery of the child she had reared did 
 not affect Annette in the least. Her heart 
 was seared ; besides, she remembered her 
 own youth, and knew that neither bars, 
 nor bolts, nor affection, nor duty, nor 
 anything mortal would have kept her from 
 her Jean. Eose was but following the 
 law of her nature, and Annette did not 
 sit up to tax her with her folly. She did 
 not upbraid her the next morning, or scold, 
 or rail in any fashion ; but two months 
 later she quietly said to her one day : 
 
 " Rose, thou dost not want me any 
 longer, and I never wanted thee. Thy 
 cousin, the farrier's widow, has asked 
 thee to go and live with her, I know — 
 wilt thou do so ?" 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 The bright black eyes of Rose filled 
 with tears, and she looked at Annette in 
 silent dismay. 
 
 '* Then — then you never cared about 
 me ?'* exclaimed the girl in a broken voice. 
 
 "I? No, indeed. But what matter — 
 thou hast got Alexis !" 
 
 Rose turned pale, but she answered not 
 a word, and left the next day. Alexis was 
 very angry at all this, and turned his 
 head aside when he met Annette. Rose, 
 on the other hand, gave many a soft, 
 pleading look to the woman who had 
 reared her ; but all she ever got in return 
 was a careless nod when they crossed each 
 other in the street of Manneville. 
 
 Time, which brought no changes to 
 the solitaiy woman, told heavily upon 
 some in the little world around her. 
 Amongst the most afflicted was Andrine, 
 who became bed-ridden that winter; and, 
 as the mother of Alexis had been weak 
 and ailing since her husband's death, the 
 burden upon the young man grew very 
 heavy. To crown all, and verify the sad
 
 ANNETTE'S LOVE-STORY. 275 
 
 dictum that misfortunes never come singly, 
 he got a bad number at the yearly con- 
 scription in spring. Had Alexis been a 
 widow's eldest son, he would have been 
 j^erforce exempted from a soldier's fate ; 
 but his elder brother had already availed 
 himself of the privilege, and Alexis must 
 leave his home, his aunt, his little sisters, 
 and his mother to the care of that elder 
 brother, who had managed to provide 
 himself with a wife and half a dozen chil- 
 dren of his own. It was a hard case, and 
 all Manneville was full of pity for it ; but 
 when Annette heard of it she only smiled, 
 and said grimly : '' Oh, bah ! he will marry 
 the farmer's daughter." 
 
 She stopped little Rose to tell her so 
 the next time they met, but the girl only 
 looked at her with sad eyes and a very 
 white face, and, shaking her head, walked 
 on and answered not one word. A faint 
 gleam of pity shot across Annette's heart, 
 but no wintry sun was ever colder. Had 
 she not suffered, and did she not know 
 how grief had to be borne and conquered ? 
 
 T 2
 
 276 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 Early in the summer, Annette found it 
 n(3edful to go to Fontaine on matters con- 
 nected with her trade. She was thinking 
 of extending her business by adding cot- 
 ton and woollen cloths to her stock ; and 
 as she never took anything upon trust, 
 Annette shut up her shop one morning, 
 and went off to Fontaine, which is two 
 leagues distant, in order to see about this 
 matter herself. The walk was a long one, 
 for Annette was not so strong as she once 
 had been, and the heat soon overpowered 
 her. She left the hio:h road for a bve- 
 path, in the hope of getting some shade, 
 but there was none. Field after field of 
 yellow corn spread before her. She looked 
 far and wide, and wondered if she must 
 cross that burning plain. Had she not 
 mistaken the way ? She had kept a shop 
 so long that she had surely forgotten the 
 paths with which she had once been so 
 familiar ? So thinking, Annette turned to 
 the right, where she saw a low ridge of 
 green rising above a yellow corn-field, and 
 after walking a few minutes, found her-
 
 ANNETTE'S LOVE-STOEY. 277 
 
 self at the entrance of a cool and shady 
 path, that very Lady's Cavee that had 
 been a spot so memorable in Annette's life. 
 It went down between its steep green 
 banks, with its thick, dark trees, taller 
 than of yore, meeting high above and 
 shutting out the sky : a fresh, verdant 
 and lovely avenue still. For forty odd 
 years Annette's feet had not trod that 
 path — for forty odd years she had shunned 
 it like a pestilence, and shut it out from 
 her memory as a spot accursed ; yet now 
 she stood gazing at it like one entranced ; 
 and when a sunbeam suddenly peeped 
 through a gap in the foliage, and threw 
 itself like a bar of pure red gold across the 
 brown earth ; when a little linnet, perched 
 on a bough, grew blithe to see that 
 glimpse of bright sun, and, raising its 
 voice, piped forth his pleasant lay, Annette 
 sat down upon the earth, and, turning 
 pale as death, let her head sink upon her 
 lap. 
 
 The sunbeam, the linnet, the green old 
 path, had brought it all back. The
 
 278 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 treachery, the abandonment after long 
 waiting, the intolerable grief of Alexis' 
 tidings, had vanished. The forty odd 
 years of lonely bitterness had fled. It was 
 as if some kind fairy's wand had touched 
 Annette, had sent the bloom back to her 
 faded cheeks and the fond warmth to her 
 withered heart. In that lane she and 
 Jean had met forty odd years before. In 
 that lane she and Jean had parted. Vows, 
 caresses, hopes, and fervent desires had 
 haunted that green path, which had kept 
 no more token of those bygone things 
 than of the footsteps that trod it daily. 
 More than a generation had passed away 
 since those lost days of Annette's youth. 
 Other happy or sorrowful lovers had met 
 here and heard the linnet's sooof. Other 
 fond hearts had outlived their woes like 
 Annette, and sadder fate tlian hers buried 
 their dead love and thought no more about 
 it. But, warm and living, hers now rose 
 from its cold grave. " I cannot bear it," 
 sobbed and moaned Annette. '' Jean, 
 Jean, come back to me — come back !"
 
 ANNETTE'S LOVE-STORY. 279 
 
 Poor white-baired, wrinkled Annette call- 
 ing on her lost or dead lover ! But the 
 tide of life so unnaturally checked within 
 her had returned with a force equally un- 
 natural. For that moment she forgot 
 years and their changes ; for that moment 
 she was a girl again ; and sitting thus on 
 the earth, with outstretched arms, she 
 unconsciously took the very attitude, and 
 uttered the very words, of the forty odd 
 years old parting. But then Jean had 
 walked away with downcast eyes, and 
 never looked round; and now, as she 
 stared wildly before her, Annette saw but 
 the cav^e — very green and lovely. The 
 streak of sunshine was gone, the little 
 linnet was mute, and the sweet light and 
 pleasant song of love had again died away 
 out of her heart. With a dreary sigh she 
 rose, and not entering the cavee — she felt 
 she could not — walked along its green row 
 of trees in the field above it. But it was 
 as if this revulsion of feeling had taken 
 away from Annette not merely the bitter- 
 ness but also such strength as had sur-
 
 28o FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 vived her youth and its grief. She had 
 not walked long when she felt so wearied 
 that she was fain to rest once more ; so 
 she sat down on an old grey stone, the 
 landmark between broad fields of corn and 
 wide plains of pasture. 
 
 " It was harvest time, and I had my 
 sheaf of corn on my head when Alexis told 
 me," thought Annette. But something — 
 some cloud had passed away from the old 
 woman's heart, for the remembrance of 
 that dark hour brought back no bitterness 
 with it. '' Poor fellow," she thought in 
 her reverie, " he meant to fly from poverty, 
 and he was only rushing into her very 
 arms. Poor fellow, I wonder where he is 
 now r 
 
 Her eye wandered over the wide lonely 
 field, then came back to the tall nodding 
 trees of the cavee. She sat near the gap 
 throuofh which the sunbeam had stolen in, 
 and she could not resist the temptation of 
 looking down and seeing the very spot 
 where she and Jean had parted. She rose, 
 she made a wide break in the tangled
 
 ANNETTE'S LOVE-STORY. 2S1 
 
 hedge of sweet honeysuckle and marjoram, 
 whence bees came out much disturbed and 
 rather angry, and bending forward An- 
 nette looked wistfully below. Yes, they 
 had walked along that path many a time, 
 her hand locked in his, his arm around 
 her, their eyes fastened on each other in 
 fond adoration ; and once, oh ! in such 
 yearning sorrow. And one last time they 
 had sat at the root of that gnarled oak, 
 and whilst Annette was weepmg on Jean's 
 shoulder, the careless linnet above them 
 had broken forth into song, and, listening 
 to that false little prophet, Annette had 
 thought " Thus our grief will end in glad- 
 ness." But she forgot that now, she only 
 thought '' Yes, it was here ; and here too, 
 other girls will come and bid him good- 
 bye, and go through it all — the love, the 
 parting, the bitterness, and the forget- 
 ing." 
 
 And even as Annette thought thus, a 
 young man and a young girl came step- 
 ping out of the green gloom arm-in-arm, 
 and Rose and Alexis suddenly stood still
 
 2l2 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 in the path below her. She looked at 
 them in silent amazement. It was all like 
 a dream ; and like a sleeper in a dream 
 she felt, as she gazed and listened to these 
 two. What had brought them here ? she 
 vaguely wondered. Alas ! she soon knew. 
 Alexis was going to join his regiment in a 
 few days, and being slack of work this 
 morning, he and Rose had come here to 
 pour out the fulness of their hearts in 
 peace before the hour for the final parting 
 came. 
 
 " Oh ! what shall I do ?" said Rose, in 
 a broken voice. '' What shall I do when 
 thou art gone ?" 
 
 "Wait for me, Rose," he replied stoutly. 
 " Wait, and as true as I am a living man 
 I will come back." 
 
 " I know it, and I will wait. But, oh ! 
 the seven years — the seven weary years of 
 waiting !" 
 
 She had raised her face to his — her 
 pretty, dimpled, childish face, that was 
 now pale and wan with sorrow. She 
 looked at him with those merry brown
 
 ANNETTE'S LOVE-STORY. 283 
 
 eyes that were now full of tears, and 
 Annette felt sorry for her — only sorry, for 
 though she had reared that child, she had 
 given her no share of her heart's love. 
 
 " Oh ! my darling, my darling," said 
 
 Alexis, with a groan. ''It is hard to 
 
 leave thee. I do not grudge the fighting 
 
 and the danger ; but I grudge the parting. 
 
 Yet I could bear it ; for we are young and 
 
 true, and can wait. But the two old ones 
 
 and the little ones — what is to become of 
 
 them ? My poor brother will do his best ; 
 
 but he has a wife and six children, and, 
 
 I do not say it to boast, he is not what I 
 
 am — the best workman in Manneville. 
 
 Where I can earn two francs, he gets 
 
 little more than one. Poor fellow, it is 
 
 not in him. And what can he do for the 
 
 two poor old ones, who eat little enough, 
 
 but who want dainty bits of things to 
 
 tempt them now and then ? And then, 
 
 my little sisters, how are they to go to 
 
 school when I am away ? They will have 
 
 to work, to go weeding, or to keep the 
 
 birds from the corn, or to do anything
 
 284 FORGET ME NOTS. 
 
 for a bit or a sup ; and when I come back 
 at the end of seven years, 1 shall see two 
 rough, untaught, slatternly girls — pro- 
 viding they are no worse," added Alexis, 
 with a groan. " As to the old ones, they 
 will be dead, of course; and when the 
 seven years are out, I shall find two 
 graves in the churchyard, where you and 
 I, Eose, have been so happy together, 
 talking at night, whilst Annette slept." 
 
 " But it shall not be so bad as all that," 
 cried poor Rose, sobbing, though she 
 tried to speak of comfort. '' I have got a 
 hundred francs in the savings-bank at 
 Fontaine. Only think — one hundred 
 francs, Alexis ! And I will get Andrioe 
 and your mother things which will tempt 
 them to eat. A fresh egg, a little coffee, 
 and meat to make broth now and then. 
 And thy little sisters shall come to me of 
 an evening, and T will teach them how 
 to read and write ; and they shall not be 
 good-for-nothing slatterns when thou 
 comes t back ; and, please God, there 
 shall not be two graves more in the
 
 ANNETTE'S LOVE-STORY. 285 
 
 cburcliyard when thy seven years are out." 
 
 '' Thou art a good girl; the best girl 
 alive," said Alexis with fond eyes. " And 
 thou wilt not believe that old witch, An- 
 nette ?" 
 
 '' Do not call her so. Annette has been 
 very good to me." 
 
 *' I know she has ; but it maddens me 
 that she should be ever dinning in thy 
 ears that I too shall marry the farmer's 
 daughter." 
 
 " What matter since I do not believe 
 her ?" 
 
 " And thou wilt never believe her ?" 
 
 " Never, living or dead. I know thou 
 wilt be true to me." 
 
 She had laid her two little hands on his 
 shoulders, and was looking up at him 
 with the perfect faith which had once 
 burned in Annette's heart for Jean. Trees 
 give out their green leaves year after year, 
 year after year birds sing the same songs, 
 year after year, too, lovers go through 
 the same blissful story. As Annette had 
 felt, as Annette had loved, as Annette 
 had trusted, so did Rose, with less of
 
 286 FORGET-ME-NOrS. 
 
 passion but not with less of sincerity. 
 And would her fate be as that of Annette 
 had been ? The pale old woman who sat 
 listening above did not know. She could 
 not have vowed now that Alexis would 
 marry the farmer's daughter. She might 
 be mistaken in her prophecy after all. 
 Jean had deceived her ; but this young 
 man, who now slowly walked down the 
 green cavee, with his arm around Rose, 
 miofht be true. She could not know, she 
 could not tell. For a long time after the 
 lovers had vanished, Annette sat still, 
 speculating vaguely, as if her dream were 
 not yet out. Rose and Alexis had sat 
 down again a little lower in the cavee, for 
 she heard their voices near her ; but she 
 made no attempt to follow them, or to 
 listen to their discourse. A torpor, which 
 she could not shake off, was upon her; 
 and when she at length aroused herself 
 from that long reverie, Annette felt that 
 she was not able to go to Fontaine. *' I 
 must go home," she said ; and home she 
 went forthwith.
 
 ANNETTE'S LOVE-STORY. 287 
 
 " What ails Annette ?" said several 
 people who entered her shop during the 
 day. 
 
 They all wondered to find her so dull, 
 so apathetic, so careless. One woman had 
 to speak twice before Annette answered 
 her. Another, after fumbling in her 
 pocket, stammered something about having 
 forgotten her money, and Annette, to her 
 great amazement, said, in a low, wearied 
 voice : " Never mind ; it will do another 
 time." 
 
 Annette herself felt that she was 
 strangely altered. When the brightness 
 of love had left her life, the burning fire 
 of hate had come in its stead ; and now 
 that love was gone, and that hate seemed 
 dead, her life felt as a cold white blank. 
 She tried to rouse herself, and went to 
 look at her money. The shining Napo- 
 leons rolled one over another as she drew 
 the drawer out ; they made a pleasant 
 jingle, and glittered in Annette's dark 
 kitchen ; and for a moment her eye lit, 
 but she soon fell back into her apathy.
 
 288 FOR GE T-ME-NOTS. 
 
 and shut the drawer with a sigh. Even 
 that was gone. The gold was not so 
 bright as it had been, and it no longer 
 made sweet music in Annette's ear. She 
 sat down in a chair, and, clasping her 
 hands around her knees, stared around 
 her lonely home. She was still too brave 
 to care for her solitude ; and she had left 
 off loving too long to grieve because she 
 had nothing to cherish in her old age. 
 But those sweet fountains of human kind- 
 liness which had once welled so freely 
 from her generous heart, had been un- 
 sealed since the morning, and now poured 
 forth an abundant flow. She thought of 
 Alexis — not of the Alexis who hated her, 
 but of the brave young fellow who was 
 leaving his mother, his aunt, his little 
 sisters, his young mistress — and her heart 
 ached for him. Jean, too, had loved a 
 poor forlorn creature. To her he had 
 been false; but to old Denise, at least, 
 he had been true. And she knew Rose. 
 What she had been to Denise, that girl 
 would be to the forsaken family in will,
 
 ANNETTE'S LOVE-STORY. 289 
 
 though assuredly not in deed ; for how 
 far could her poor earnings go towards 
 the lightening of such a burden ? And 
 then the slow misery of those seven years 
 rose before Annette, and sickened her. 
 " If they had only had two thousand 
 francs, my two thousand francs," she 
 thought, " they would buy off Alexis, and 
 then how they would all laugh and be 
 glad !" Then Annette shook her head 
 and sighed. Two thousand francs ! They 
 might as well hope to get the Emperor's 
 crown as so huge a sum. No one would 
 even lend it to them, for as they were 
 far too poor to pay it back, this must 
 be a gift, not a loan. And who gives 
 two thousand francs away? Annette 
 laughed aloud at the thought, and steeled 
 her heart against the stricken family. 
 Were they not one and all her enemies ? An- 
 drine had never had a good word for her ; 
 Alexis' mother had boasted of her hus- 
 band's constancy again and again ; Alexis 
 himself had reviled her ; and Rose, whom 
 she had reared, had deceived her and 
 VOL. I. u
 
 290 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 laughed at her counsel. " I will not think 
 about them," said Annette to her own 
 thoughts ; but she thought about them 
 through the whole of that day, and through 
 the whole of the following night. " I 
 wish, since he must go, that he were 
 gone," she said wearily to her own heart. 
 
 The eve of that day for which Annette 
 longed came at length, and it saw a sad 
 gathering in the home of Alexis. The 
 young man was out on some needful 
 business ; but Rose and a neighbour sat 
 with the two sorrowful old women. An- 
 drine was moaning feebly from her bed, 
 Alexis' mother sat wxeping silently in her 
 chair, and the two twins crouched to- 
 gether on a low seat in a dark corner, 
 looking scared. Rose was getting the 
 supper ready ; and the neighbour, a stout 
 florid woman, was holding forth. 
 
 '* I say it is no good fretting," she said, 
 in her long, drawling Norman voice, " no 
 good at all. There may be no war to 
 begin with, and even if there should be a 
 war, there is no more than forty or fifty
 
 ANNETTE'S LOVE-STORY. 291 
 
 thousand killed in a battle, and out of 
 all the hundred thousand men that are 
 soldiers " 
 
 Here the latch of the door was raised, 
 and Annette entered the room and stood 
 amongst them. Never before had Annette 
 crossed the threshold of that dwelling, and 
 they all stared at her in silent amazement, 
 and none more so than Rose, who, turning 
 round from the hearth with a saucepan in 
 her hand and the flickering light of the 
 fire on her pale face, seemed speechless, 
 and motionless too, with surprise. 
 
 " I can bear it no longer," said Annette, 
 without uttering a word of greeting. 
 '' Your trouble is too much for me. I 
 have not slept for five nights ; I never 
 can sleep again unless you take this 
 money," she added, laying her two thou- 
 sand francs, which she had brought tied 
 up in a cloth, upon the table before them. 
 
 *' What matter about me ? I do not 
 want it now, and may never want it. Tell 
 Alexis so, and that he may as well have 
 it as the Emperor, for you all know I have 
 
 u 2
 
 292 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 not a soul to claim it. The Emperor does 
 not want that money, does he ? Well 
 then, have it, and let me not be always 
 hearing your weeping and wailing as I lie 
 awake at night ; let me not be ever think- 
 ing of what your sorrow and your bitter 
 need would be if he went from you. Let 
 me not think that you two old ones would 
 starve perhaps, and you two little ones do 
 worse, and go wrong without him." 
 
 She was turning to the door, and still 
 no one had spoken, not even the neighbour, 
 the width of whose open mouth testified to 
 the extent of her amazement, when Rose 
 stopped her. 
 
 ''Annette, Annette," she said, "you 
 must not. You want that money ; you 
 are old yourself ; Alexis will never take it 
 from you ; you may want it yet." 
 
 " Never mind," replied Annette, gently 
 putting the girl by. '' I can work on for a 
 little while yet, and when I cannot, God 
 will provide. God will provide," she re- 
 peated in a low voice, as she went forth 
 into the dark night.
 
 ANNETTE'S LOVE-STORY. 293 
 
 Annette had not walked many steps 
 when Rose overtook her. The young girl 
 flung her arms around the old woman's 
 neck, and sobbed passionately upon her 
 breast. '* Oh ! Annette, Alexis will not 
 take that money. I know he will not," 
 she said, in a low broken voice ; '* but, oh ! 
 we never knew either of us how good you 
 are; never, never !" 
 
 Annette sighed. " Let me go, child," 
 she said, gently. " You are not heavy, I 
 dare say, but 1 feel weak to-night, and 
 cannot bear your weight." 
 
 She put her away as she spoke, and 
 walked on, and though her heart was very 
 full, Rose did not dare to follow her. 
 
 When she returned to the house, she 
 found Andrine and the widow hysterical 
 with joy. They seemed unable to conceive 
 that Alexis should reject this godsend, and 
 were angry with Rose when she said 
 sadly : *' Alexis will never take it, never." 
 
 The twins, roused from their subdued 
 mood by this strange event, had undone 
 the cloth, and were staring in amazement
 
 294 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 at its shining contents ; and the neighbour, 
 looking over tliem, said emphatically : 
 *' Annette must be mad. She who was so 
 fond of her money ! She must be mad ! 
 But it is a good thing for Alexis." 
 
 ** Alexis never will take it," again said 
 Rose, in her sad low voice. 
 
 Annette had gone straight home. She 
 closed her shop at once, and put up the 
 shutters herself, as she did every night ; 
 but they felt unusually heavy, and Annette 
 was a long time about it. So great was 
 this feeling of weariness, that she did not 
 light the fire for her supper that night, 
 according to her wont. " A little bread 
 and milk will do for me," she thought, 
 sitting down by her black and bare hearth. 
 She felt very weak, but with the weakness 
 there blended a happy softness. Annette 
 knew what she had done, and rejoiced in 
 it. She knew that she was old and friend- 
 less, and she felt too that slie was very 
 feeble. Her two thousand francs had been 
 as a strong bolt between her and poverty, 
 and with her own hand she had removed
 
 ANNETTE'S LOVE-STORY. 295 
 
 it, and poverty might cross her threshold 
 any day, enter her home, and leave it no 
 more. And Alexis, though he should toil 
 from dawn till midnight, could not help 
 her much. Annette knew this too. And 
 she expected nothing from him, but was 
 content that her sacrifice should have been 
 entire and deep. The generous reckless- 
 ness of her youth had all come back to 
 her, and conquered the coldness of old age. 
 More things came back to Annette then, 
 for as she sat thus musing, and looking at 
 her lonely hearth, she fell asleep, and bad 
 a dream in which her young love was with 
 her once more. 
 
 Annette dreamed that she was young 
 again, and that, as she walked along a 
 road which she had never seen before, she 
 suddenly met Jean. 
 
 " Oh, Jean !" she said, laying her two 
 hands on his shoulders, and looking up 
 in his face, " I have had such a dream ! 
 I thought you had gone away and married 
 the farmer's daughter; and only think!" 
 she added, with a gay laugh, of which
 
 296 ^ FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 the young music sounded very sweet even 
 in lier dream; ''only think! I dreamed 
 I was an old woman, with white hair !" 
 
 Jean did not answer, but he gently 
 drew forth a brown curl straying from 
 beneath her white coif, and looked down 
 in her face with a smile. And they both 
 lauo^hed aloud to think Annette should 
 have dreamed that her dark hair was 
 white. 
 
 This was Annette's dream — a dream so 
 happy and so deep that a loud knocking 
 at her door did not break it. In vain 
 Alexis called out, " Annette ! do you hear 
 me? Open to me, Annette!" 
 
 Annette only said to Jean : " That is 
 Maitre Blondel calling me — let him wait a 
 while ;" and she dreamed on. 
 
 Early the next morning Alexis was at 
 Annette's door ao-ain, but it was fast and 
 closed. He knocked, and got no answer. 
 Was she doing it on purpose ? Then 
 Alexis remembered that the outhouse in 
 which Rose used to work had a little door 
 which was often on the latch; so he went
 
 ANNETTE'S LOVE-STORY. 297 
 
 round to it, and finding it unlocked, as 
 he had half expected, he entered the out- 
 house, where he had sometimes stolen in 
 to talk to Rose, crossed the yard, and 
 went straight to the kitchen. 
 
 " Annette !" he began. " I bring your 
 money." He paused. The little lamp, 
 of which he had seen the light through 
 the shutters the night before, was burn- 
 ing still on the table, near a cup of milk 
 and a piece of bread, and, sitting by the 
 black, bare hearth was Annette, pale and 
 rigid, with closed eyes, but smiling still. 
 
 " Annette ! Annette !" he cried ; but as 
 he read the meaning of her silent face, he 
 stood awe-struck for a moment ; then he 
 bowed his head in his hands, and burst 
 into a loud passion of remorse and grief. 
 Yes, Annette was cold and dead. After 
 Love, had come Hate, the fierce avenger ; 
 and when he was conquered, Death, the 
 great peacemaker, closed her wearied eyes, 
 and sent the much suffering woman to 
 sleep. 
 
 The village doctor found a long and
 
 298 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 learned name for the cause of Annette's 
 death. It mattered little, after all. 
 AVhat good she could do she had done, 
 and she was not called upon to pay the 
 cost of the generous sacrifice which saved 
 a home in Manneville from despair, and 
 filled with joy two true and loving hearts. 
 And this is the end of Annette's love- 
 story. It began on a lovely May morn- 
 ing, in a green cavee, where a happy girl 
 sat waiting for her lover, and it ended 
 forty odd years later with a dream which 
 left its smile on an old woman's lips. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 Printed bv A. Scliulze, 13, Poland Street. (R T.) 
 
 r