L I B RAFLY OF THE UNIVERSITY Of ILLINOIS 82.3 r.| Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2009 with funding from University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign http://www.archive.org/details/lostroseothersto01macq LOST ROSE AND OTHER STORIES. New Novels at all the Libraries. One Vol. Crown 8vo. THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER. By Marx Twajn. Three Vols. Crovm 8vo. THE ATONEMENT OF LEAM DUN DAS. By E. Lynn Linton. Three Vols. Crown 8vo. MINSTERBOROUGH : A Taie of Engli3h Life, By Humphry Sandwith, C.B., D.C.L. Three Vols. Crown 8vo. THE DEMOCRACY. By Whyte Thokne. Three Vols. Crown 8vo. MR. DORILLION. By Jean Middlemass, Author of '-Wild Georgia, " " Lil," &c. Two Vols. Crcwn 8vo. FIRESIDE STUDIES: Essays. By Henry Kingslet. CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY, W. LOST ROSE Jlnb ether Stories. BY KATHARINE S. MACQUOID, AUTHOR Or " PATTY," "THE EVIL EVE," ETC. IN THREE VOLUMES.— You I. CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY. 1876. All rights reservtd. LONDON : PRINTED BY J, OGDEN AND CO., 172, ST. JOHN STREET, E.G. /. / W^ TO MY DEAR FRIEND, ^ MRS. FITZGERALD, i- ^ 3 IN MEMORY OF JUNE, 1S76, AT SHALSTONE. CONTENTS OF VOL. I. Lost Rose . , . , 1 FiFiNE : A Stohy OF Malines 53 The John Harris 131 The Courtyard of the Ours d'Or . , . . 165 Cleme-xce 207 My Daughter Molly ...... 267 LOST EOSE. PAKT I. A EOAD winds beside green hills, and is carried terrace-like across a valley leading to the sea; a village is scattered along this road in unsociable fashion, two and three cottages at a time, with a space between the groups, as if the inhabitants of the little cob-walled thatched dwellings were too quarrelsome for near neighbourhood. Not quite a mile below the road the sea shows in a large opal triangle against the pale sky ; and on each side of this high cliffs, wooded and grass-grown, guard the shingled entrance to Mercombe Mouth. Three valleys from among the green hills unite to form this one which leads to the sea ; and through it a river winds in and out, bor- dered by ash-trees, and gleams from among them like a silver thread. The village smithy is on the side of the VOL. I. B 2 LOST ROSE. road next the green hills ; the cottage belong- ing to it is larger than most of the others, with a quaint tall stone chimney rising from the ground, on which, carved in the stone, is the date, 1573. The cottage stands at right- angles to the road, with a garden in front, and an orchard with flower-laden apple-trees be- hind. For the last fortnight the whole village of Mercombe has been like an exquisite pink- and-white nosegay of apple-bloom. Mrs. Leir, standing at the back-door of the ancient cottage, looks complacently at the garlands of exquisite blossom relieved by yellow-green grass beneath, and predicts a good cider year for the country. For a few moments the mental prediction has brought smiles to the firm wrinkled mouth ; but these fade, and heavy care contracts her clear brown forehead and makes her eyes appear sad. She is always too anxious in expression, but to-day she looks miserable. Though she is above middle height, she seems short as she stands bowed down beside the old stone trough, at one end of which two black pigs are feeding, while a jackdaw hops at the other end with so humorous a twinkle in his eye — LOST ROSE. 3 he keeps one closed — that you almost fancy he is thinking of tickling the pigs with the straw he holds in his beak. The ground between the house and the trough is soft and swampy — stamped with the frequent tread of pigs and dog and cat and fowls. Three black- and-white ducks have paddled up and down it this morning so often with their broad yellow feet that water oozes up in one comer and forms an inky pool, at which the ducks drink with seeming delight. But when, after this feat, they come waddling to the broad flat stone in front of the back-door, Mrs. Leir rouses from her dreamy mood, and, snatching at the comer of her apron, drives them away. '' I must speak to Reuben," she says, with a sigh ; and then passes round the house, through the orchard, and out at the gate in the low stone fence, to the smithy itself. It is close by, in the road, just divided from the garden by a high hawthorn hedge, white now with blossom and filling the air with perfume. There is no use in describing this smithy - — smithies have a strong family- resemblance ; but it is not always that. the blacksmith's 4 LOST ROSE. hammer is wielded by such* a man as Reuben Leir. Not handsome, but tall and strong and healthy -looking, with rich brown hair and beard suggestive of ripe hazel-nuts, a frank amiable mouth, and a dreamy far-off look in his pale-blue eyes. You would have said, looking at him, a man with energies that might be roused up if some sleeping chord were touched, but unless this happened one just as likely to plod through life without discover- _ ing that he had more wits than his fellows. He was whistling and striking ponderous blows on a little bit of iron, that seemed as if it must surely be dispersed and annihilated in the shower of sparks that flew up from the anvil. He left off whistling when he saw his mother. '' Tea-time is it, mother ? I'm coming," he said, in a strong cheerful voice. Mrs. Leir waited till he put aside his ham- mer and came out of the forge. ** Tea will be ready by the time you're ready for it," she said ; ** but I want three words with you first, Reuben." LOST ROSE, 5 She went on, into the garden again, and her son followed, his head bent forward, and a sort of dogged irresolution showing at the comers of his mouth. When they reached the door he stopped. "I wish you'd say them here then," he said, sulkily. ^' I've got one or two things to do this evening." Mrs. Leir faced round at once ; there was a bright angry spot on each cheek, but there was more sorrow than anger in her eyes. ** Why do you not say out the truth, Eeuben ? you are going to meet Eose Morrison." Eeuben looked pained : he leaned against the door-post without answering. ''I know there's no use in my saying it," she went on, in a hard unconcihating voice ; " but still I must warn yon, Eeuben. You began by admiring, you went on to talking, and you are getting to love that little conceited French girl spite of yourself." Eeuben stood upright, and put up his hand to stop her. *' Don't say what you may be sorry for," he said. '' I do love Eose, but she is not 6 LOST ROSE. French ; its true, her mother's a French- woman, but Bob Morrison was every bit as much an EngHshman as my father was." He nodded, and went away quickly to wash himself at the pump. He was very fond of his mother, and Rose was the first element of discord that had come between them. ''It is always so," he said to himself ; ''if I loved an angel, mother would cry her down. All mothers are the same ; they can't give up their sons to other women." Perhaps, if his mother had heard him, the words would have given keen pain. Martha Leir was not an ordinary woman ; she was unpopular with her neighbours because, being better educated, she held herself a little apart ; but she had no petty jealousies, and if she had thought Eose Morrison likely to make her son happy, she would have taken her to her heart at once. " She will never be content with one man," Mrs. Leir sighed. " Just at first she may be taken up with Reuben, but when the novelty wears off she will flirt as much as her mother has flirted before her. Rose has more LOST ROSE, 7 of her mother than of her father in her. My Reuben is too good for the likes of her, or of any Hookton girl." Hookton is a fishing- village just two miles -from Mereombe, but much farther off than the distance because of the rugged, ill-made, steep high-road. There is another road by the cliffs through the landslip, but that is a long way round. The shoi-test way lies between these two — a climb up the face of the steep cliff, then across fields of young wheat and mangolds till the path falls into the high-road again, which hereabouts is more even and level than it is nearer Mereombe. Just a little w^ay on, a huge stone quari^ opens on either side of the road, and it is here that Eeuben Leir stands waiting. The place is very silent ; the quarry-men have gone home to the little wooden cottages that peep out like birds'-nests where gaps come in the masses of cream-colom-ed stone. Far ofi" in front, beyond the bronze-hued oak-trees which border the road, the cliffs rise high, and part- ing give a sudden vision of sea so blue that it seems almost too vivid for reality. Eeuben has stood for ten minutes waiting near the 8 * LOST ROSE. quarry-opening, but no one comes down the road to meet him. He went on along the high-road till he came to a small gate on the left. The hedge was cut into an arch above the gate, and through this showed a garden glowing with ranunculus and anemones, and behind, a wooden cottage clothed with creeping plants. A girl, in a lilac gown almost hidden by a long white pinafore, was coming up the path that led to the gate, with her hands behind her. Her face was hidden by the straw- coloured sun-bonnet pulled down over her eyes. '* At last," Eeuben said, reproachfully. The face was quickly raised to his. A pretty bright brown face, with laughing sly black eyes, a little nose and mouth, and, as she smiled, white even teeth showed through the red lips. '* Am I late ? " the girl said, carelessly. *' Well, it is better that you should be first." Eeuben opened the gate and held it for her to pass out. ** Never mind, now you are come," he LOST ROSE. 9 said ; ** but I want to talk with you, Rose — I am won-ied to death." Eose gave him a sweet look out of her long narrow dark eyes. ''' You poor old Eeuben ! — who worries you ? " *' Never mind; the very sight of you seems to make me all right, you dear little girl ! " Eeuben looked up and do^\Ti the road, and no one being visible, he put his arm round Eose's waist and drew her towards him. Eose pulled herself away. *^ There, there, that will do. You go on so fast Eeuben. How many times I have told you that I can't take up with a man whose mother does not even speak to me." Eeuben sighed. ** Don't xjou worry too, Eose darling, or it will seem as if all went cross with me. My mother does not know you ; when she does, of course she must love you. Who could help it, my darling child ? " He looked tenderly at the girl, but she tossed her head. '* To hear you talk, Eeuben," — a bright flush rose in her cheeks, and she played lo LOST ROSE. nervously with the long strings of her sun- bonnet — ** one would think your mother was the Queen. You do not seem to see any offence in her holding herself aloof from us. Why, everyone comes to see mother ; and I should have thought her being lame would have served as a reason to Mrs. Leir to call on us long ago, if any reason were wanting." She spoke very angrily, and flung her bonnet- strings wide apart. She had turned away from Keuben while she spoke. He pulled at her pinafore : in Eose's time all Devon girls wore long pinafores. ^' Don't be cross, Eose. I tell you my mother is so good and so loving, that she'll come round when she sees I can't be happy without you." Eose turned round and looked at him. Her eyes shone brightly and her red lips curled with scorn. ** Mr. Eeuben Leir, you scarcely seem to know who I am, or who you are yourself. It seems to me that you take it for granted that I shall be thankful to be your wife, and that your, mother is the only person whose consent has to be asked. Now I am not going to LOST ROSE. II creep into any man's family. It is your mother's place to seek me — that is the way my mother saj's such things should be ar- ranged. Iso ; I say good-bye to you, Eeuben Leir, until your mother comes to her senses." She tossed her pretty head, and walked slowly back to the gate ; but Eeuben was too much vexed to combat her resolution. He did not even follow her ; only, as the gate closed behind her, he gave a sigh that ended in a groan. '^ Why is she so winning ? I can't be angry with her ; and why is mother so pre- judiced ? She will not even trust her own eyes — it's past bearing." Next morning found Eeuben at work early. On the previous evening he went home and upbraided his mother with her pride and exclusiveness. " You make my life miser- able," he said ; and then Mrs. Leir had looked at him out of her deep steadfast eyes, and had told him that the girl he loved was a coquette. ^' She is too studied in all her ways to live only for you or any man, my boy ; she will always want admirers round her." And upon this Eeuben had gone to bed 12 LOST ROSE. without his supper, and started off early in the morning to work at his plot on the land- slip. Looking at the wonderful harvest of all kinds reaped on that bit of land, it is surprising that it has not been blown into the sea, or demolished by some fresh rent in the tall circling cliffs that shelter it north and east ; for, although some of the plots are level, and screened from the precipitous descent to the beach by hedges wreathed with clematis and dog-roses almost in bloom, others of the potato and wheat plots are almost perpendicular, and cling on to those tawny and green-hued cliffs seemingly at great risk of falling into the sea. Eenben's donkey-cart is sheltered in a rude shed just at the entrance to the landslip, and his donkey is tethered near. Far away on the right, through jutting cliffs, which spring up here and there among the less cultivated bits, among the yellow furze and clustering bram- bles, a lovely glimpse may be got of the bay of Sidmouth and its far-reaching crimson cliffs, while on the left a bold chalky headland stands forward barring the passage. But for the sea- birds, which disappear between this headland LOST ROSE. 13 and the intensely blue sky, one might fancy there was no passage round its sharp outline. Eeuben has been hard at work weeding his crops. He stands upright, takes off his hat, and wipes his forehead with a blue handker- chief ; then he goes back to his cart and gets a lump of bread-and-cheese and a draught of cider. In his determination to work off his annoy- ance, he has gone on over-long. He looks out over the shimmering golden waves, and is surprised to see how nearly the sun had reached them. As he stands gazing at the strange colour on the waves, where broad lines of purple and crimson show, as if the fishes had been having fierce battle, he fancies he hears voices below ; but the sea gets rougher every instant, and the waves come dashing up against the loose rocks scattered along the beach with such creaming fury that it is difficult to distinguish sound. But Eeuben has caught a laugh he knows by heart ; and now, in a pause caused by the retreat of the waves, he hears the laugh answered in a man's voice. The hush of the waves is over; 14 LOST ROSE, they have but gone back to kiss their advancing mates and then fling themselves in triumphant thunder at the foot of the precipice on which Eeuben stands. As yet they do not quite reach it, though they send up a shining cloud of empty menace ; and as Eeuben leans over the flowery hedge which grows on the dizzy verge, he sees that a space of some feet is still dry below. He looks onward along this path. At some distance, half-way between him and the headland, are two figures. The girl is Eose, and her companion is a tall French fisherman, named Jacques Gaspard. He is a stranger, who has been staying at the inn at Hookton for a fortnight past. He spends his money freely, and is popular among the rougher fishermen ; but the quieter ones avoid him, and tell one another that he is either a smuggler or a spy — '' No good either v/ay." '' Confound him ! " Eeuben frowns heavily, and leans still farther over the hedge, watch- ing the pair. '^ She knows no better, poor little thing ! But Gaspard's not a fit man for a girl to trust herself alone with." He leaded over, watching eagerly. Just at this moment Gaspard stopped, looked back, and Eeuben LOST ROSE. 15 imagined that he saw triumph in his face. A path led up the sheer face of the cliff at this point, and the Frenchman, seeing the water already dashing against the headland, seemed to be persuading his companion to try and mount the steep path. Eeuben saw his intention. ^^ Come back, Eose ! Come back ! " he cried; but the words were blown back to him by the furious wind. Eose seemed to be tying her bonnet more firmly on her head, and then she turned to mount the cliff; but she was evidently fearful. She clung to Gaspard's arm, and presently he unclasped her fingers, and put the arm round her waist. At this sight Eeuben lost his wits. He leaned over the hedge, and stretched out both arms, as if he thought to reach Eose. " Eose, Eose, come back ! — Ah ! " There came a crash, a frantic scrambling sound, and Eeuben disappeared from the landslip. Martha Leir has had an unhappy day : it is so rarely now that the peace of her life is disturbed by strife. Five years ago, before John Leir went to his rest, there used to be i6 LOST ROSE. frequent discussions — they were hardly quar- rels — between the blacksmith and his son ; the father so greatly deprecated the son's want of energy, and his general easiness of disposi- tion. But when Martha was left alone, Keuben's tenderness and loving care blinded her to all shortcomings, and the mother and son had led a peaceful, happy life, unclouded by any quarrel, till some one told Mrs. Leir that her son was courting Kose Morrison. She had grown so accustomed to his tender care of her, that at first the news came as a painful shock ; then, when her common- sense told her that this was an event which must be looked for sooner or later, she began to study Eose Morrison, and found no comfort either for herself or Eeuben. ** What can be hoped for," she said, bitterly, " from the daughter of a French lady's-maid?" and then she spoke to Eeuben. But her speaking only produced estrangement and coldness, and she avoided the subject until her son's frequent absence and silent moods when at home created an irritation in her mind, which had at last found voice on the previous evening. LOST ROSE. 17 Dinner-time came and no Eeuben, and Mrs. Leir grew troubled. Her son had said he must weed his vegetables ; so she guessed he was on the landslip. But as the day went on she decided that he had driven over to Colyton, and would be home for supper. Evening grew into night ; the wind rose and howled furiously round the cottage, and the rain beat against the window. Mai*tha Leir kept a clear fire on the open hearth till past ten o'clock. Eeuben had never been so late. She could not go to bed. She went to the door and looked out ; but a fierce current of air rushed in, blew out her candlC; and made it hard work to cret the door shut agam. '' He'll never come home through this," she said. '* The wind is enough to blow the cart over." At last she went to bed. But it was not easy to sleep through the wind and rain ; the feeling that she and her son had parted with- out any reconciliation after the hard words that had been said on both sides helped to drive sleep away ; and, even when it came, VOL. I. i8 LOST ROSE. she roused from it with a terrified start at the dreams that came along with it. She waked up fully ahout four o'clock. Her room was filled with sunshine, and all traces of the storm had disappeared. When she last fell asleep she had resolved to seek for Eeuben on the landslip : but now the bright morning light made her ashamed of the terror that she had suffered through the night. All at once she started and listened eagerly, and then dressing herself as quickly as possible she hurried downstairs. Eogerthe donkey had been reared by her husband, and it was his bray that she had heard. She w^as sure she should know it among a hundred, and she ran down stairs in the glad hope that Eebuen would meet her at the gate. '' How frightened I must have been about him to have felt so down-hearted ! " she said, with a smile of pity at her own weakness. Her heart beat so fast that she could not move as quickly as she wished. But when she reached the gate her face changed to a pale-gray hue and her limbs shook ; she stretched out one hand mechani- cally, and clung for support to the gate. LOST ROSE. 19 There was Eoger trying to raise the latch with his broad soft nose, but Reuben was not to be seen. Mrs. Leir looked at the donkey as if she expected it to speak, to say what had happened ; for she saw that the cord by which it had been tied was hanging from its neck — it had broken loose from its fastenings, and had come home without its master. But her spirit soon reyived. It was possible that if Reuben had been at work some distance off he might not at first have seen Roger escape, and the search for his donkey might have kept him out too late to come home. And yet there were no signs of fatigue about the donkey ; he was plainly hungrj% and Mrs. Leir opened the gate and let him find his way to the shed he occupied at the back of the house ; then she hurried back to her room, put on her bonnet and cloak, and set off towards the sea. The village round the vicarage and the inn was still asleep when she reached it ; but in the green lane leading up from the beach she saw coming towards her a well-known figure in the blue garb of a fisherman. This was old Peter, and the basket he carried showed 20 LOST ROSE. his calling ; it was filled with dabs and gurnet, and over all was stretched a huge and hideous skate, more like a sea-monster than a fish fit for human food. Peter was a short square man, with little twinkling eyes that were never still. ** You be out early, missus. Now I had a call to be stirring betimes, seeing as the storm perwented I over night from so doing, and 'twad a-bin mortal foolish to leave good victual to go stinkin' afore it were cooked ; so I just brings un across, and betime I be in Mercombe and has had a bit to eat and drink they'll be up and stirring. But why be ee so early, missus, if I may be so bold ? " and he peered at her curiously with his small eyes. Martha Leir asked herself the same ques- tion ; she had not courage to tell the universal gossip Peter that she was out thus early because Keuben had not come home all night ; but the twinkling eyes were fixed upon her. She was obliged to answer. '* I'm going to the landslip," she said, trying to look unconcerned. *^ Eeuben has a bit of land there.'* ' ** Aha ! that minds me there were summat LOST ROSE. 21 I had to say io ee, Missus Leir. Tell Eeuben he'd best not waste his time ^\ith Miss Rosie at quarry-side. Old Peter keeps his eyes open. Her likes summat a trifle faster than Eeuben. I sighted her and that there French Gaspard a-walking like sweethearts yester- day. A fine lad like Reuben should not be content with other men's leavings." Peter chuckled ; he never took his eyes from Mrs. Leir's face, and he saw that she winced at his words. ''Good-morning, Peter," she said, stiffly. '' I wish you luck with your fish;" and she climbed the stile, and proceeded to mount the grassed cliff which leads to the landslip. But before she had taken many steps she wished she had asked for Peter's company, he knew the countiy so thoroughly ; and besides, he would have been a help — help in what she dared not think of. She turned to look, but Peter was already out of sight. She must go on bravely, and face whatever she had to encounter alone. She reached the little shed, and looked under its wet thatched eaves. Yes, there was the donkey cai*t, and hanging to a post the 22 LOST ROSE. broken bit of cord by which Eoger had been fastened. A cormorant soared over the cliffs, flapping his huge black wings. On the path close by the hedge lay Keuben's weeding spud, and then all at once Martha Leir saw that the hedge itself was broken away. She stood still an instant, unable to move, and then she leaned forward and looked over the cliff. It was again high tide, and the waves had nearly reached the wall of cliff, but it was a quiet lapping sea ; there was no blinding haze of spray to bewilder eyesight ; nothing to hide from the mother's eyes the sight that was there waiting for her. Many feet down the cliff, between the rock itself and one of the fantastic crags that pro- ject from it here and there she saw Eeuben. He lay on his back, and the white upturned face looked ghastly in the early light. *' May the Lord have mercy on me ! " broke involuntarily from Mrs. Leir's blanched lips, but she did not even sob or wring her hands as a less self-contained woman would have done ; she forced herself to act. She saw she could not reach her son. It was impossible to get down the face of the rock, and certainly LOST ROSE. 23 she could not climb over the rough masses of granite from below. She must seek help. She looked up, and the huge bird again swooped across just over the spot where Eeu- ben lay. She shuddered. If she went away, the foul bird might attack the senseless body. But help must be got. '^ God will care for him better than I can," she said ; and she ran rapidly along the way to Mercombe Mouth. ** They will be stirring at Williams's by now," she thought ; and the hope seemed to give her wings. Williams's farm was a few- hundred yards from the beach, abutting on the green lane which led from Mercombe. A noisy chorus of pigs clamouring for their breakfast greeted her as she opened the five- barred gate ; but she scarcely heard them. She felt almost as if she must fall down on her knees in thankfulness in the midst of the pig-trodden straw that littered the yard, for there stood in front of the farmhouse not only Joe Silly, Mr. Williams's factotum and the most experienced fisherman in Mercombe, but Mr. Williams himself. The farmer was 24 LOST ROSE. dressed ready for a journey, and was busy stowing away parcels in the cart that stood before the garden-gate ; for the house lay some way back from the pig-yard, and he did not see Mrs. Leir. But Joe Silly saw her, and instantly noted the anguish in her face. *' What ails ye, Missus Leir ? " he said, kindly. "• This is early for ye to be out- doors." The kindly voice and the look of sympathy took away her courage — she broke down. *^0 Joe, Mr. Williams!" she sobbed. *' For God's sake, come ! My boy's fallen over the cliff by the landslip, and he lies there now half-way down." Mr. Williams's head had been buried in the cart ; but he drew it out in a hurry. His red face had groT\Ti purple, and his stiff iron-gray hair seemed to be standing on end with the shock of the widow's words. *' Bless my soul ! d'ye mean it ?" he said. ** Good heavens ! how did it happen ?" Then he turned to his man. *' We must leave this job ; mother'll see to the horse," he said. *' I'll go round to the foot of the cliff with Mrs. Leir, and you get a couple of men and LOST ROSE. 25 a long ladder, and ropes and a blanket, and follow over the beach. Mother 11 see to the horse. Come, Mrs. Leir ; come and show me where the poor fellow is down ; " and he led the way to the beach. He did not tell Reuben's mother that he had thus quietly set aside an important jour- ney for her sake ; something in her white agonised face compelled him to help her, and to be silent. By the time they reached the bay below the landslip the tide had turned ; they could stand below, but they could get no glimpse of Eeuben. The projecting crag, which looked so small from above, quite obscured the spot on which his mother had seen him. *^ Are you sure, missus ? " said Williams, speaking for the first time since they had left the farm. '' I'm as sure as I can be," she said sadly. As she spoke, the great black bird swooped slowly down and lighted on the point of the projecting crag. "Williams gave a loud cry, and the star- tled cormorant flew out seawards, uttering a harsh croak as he sailed overhead. 26 LOST ROSE. The waiting seemed interminable ! Mrs. Leir paced up and down, gazing at the chfif with eager eyes to see if the least chance of a footing thereon was practicable ; but there was not a crevice to be found in the hard close-grained rock. Then she went out as far as she could seawards, among the slippery rocks that bordered the sea, to get a glimpse of the precious burden hanging so high in mid -air. She was recalled by a joyful shout from Mr. WilHams. ''Here's Joe," he cried, ''and his ladder and all!" And Joe and his two companions came quickly round the angle of the cliff that formed the near corner of the bay. It was a terrible suspense. Martha Leir could do nothing. She offered to help in holding the ladder, but the men put her gently on one side — they could manage, they said. She could only stand gazing with hard dry eyes while two of them mounted, cord in liand. Mr. Williams stood by the ladder, and she saw them start when they reached the spur of rock on which she knew the body lay, and then thoy stooped down. She LOST ROSE. 27 covered her eyes and prayed for her boy's life. " That's right ; don't look," said kind Mr. Williams. '*' We shall have him down directly. Keep a good heart." It seemed so long standing there with her eyes hidden by her trembling hands. She started when Williams took her arm and led her forwards. '' Good news/' he whispered : ''his heart beats still." 28 LOST ROSE, PAKT II. "DEUBEN LEIR recovered slowly. He was terribly bruised and injured; and his leg was broken in that awful fall — he will never walk again without a stick or a crutch. Martha sits and gazes at her son, scarcely daring to believe he is restored to her ; and yet she is so little softened by the trial she has undergone, that in her heart she curses Rose Morrison as the cause of Reuben's calamity. In one way Mrs. Leir has learned and profited. In all these anxious weeks of nursing she has found out how kind her neighbours are, and also how helpful outward sympathy is to a heart that has to bear its burden alone. From the vicar to the poorest cottager came some tokens of goodwill or offers of help. Some time went by before Reuben showed consciousness of what had befallen him; and, when he learned how grave the injuries were, he relapsed into almost constant silence. LOST ROSE. 29 About two months have gone by, and Mrs. Leir sits knitting beside her son's sofa. Reuben starts. ** There is a tap at the door, mother; are you not going to answer it ?" he says ; such a strange shy tone comes in his voice that his mother looks up. There is a faint pink streak on her son's pale cheeks. She feels uneasy and perplexed ; she hardly knows why ; but she goes to the door and opens it. Eose Morrison is standing in the little garden. Her eyes are full of tears, and she blushes when she sees Martha Leir. '* Wait," the elder w^oman says, holding up her hand ; and she goes back and shuts the door of Eeuben's room. Then she comes back and looks sternly at the frightened girl. '* What do you want. Miss Morrison?" '* 0, Mrs. Leir," — Eose is angry as well as frightened, — ''don't look at me like that — don't now, — you only make me feel wicked." *' I should like to make you feel unhappy, for you desei-ve it. Do you know that it was you that sent my son nearly to his death ? We learned that from his talk in his illnes»» He never speaks of yon now." 30 LOST ROSE. '* Ah !" Eose wipes her eyes. '^ I am so sorry. Please, do let me see him, Mrs. Leir. Poor dear fellow, I know the sight of me would do him good ; and I am so sorry, and he will believe I am sorry. He is not so cruel as you are. Do let me in ; I do long so to see him again." *' You long to see my Eeuben — you who could fancy he was content to share you with that fellow Gaspard ! Go along with you ; you are worse than I thought you. Rose Morrison. You are not fit even to look on Eeuben's face again." She puts her strong bony hand on Eose's shoulder and pushes her from the door, and then closes it behind her. When she goes back to Eeuben, she is amazed to find that he has dragged himself to the window and stands there looking out. ** That was Eose ? " Then, without waiting for his mother to answer, '* How kind of her to come and inquire for me ! " Mrs. Leir turns, full of wrath, and with bitter words ready; but Eeuben is clinging to the casement, trembling and overpowered by the unusual exertion he has made. His LOST ROSE. 3T mother puts her arm round him very ten- derly, and guides him back to the sofa. *' My poor dear lad," she whispers, '' I must only think of you." Another month has gone by, and Eeuben can now get about alone, leaning on a stout stick, a present which Farmer Williams brought him from Exeter. His mother still likes to thinks her arm as necessary as the stick; but Reuben is anxious for independence, and to-day he has persuaded her to drive over to Colyton with a neighbour for the sake of the change. As he paces slowly up and down in front of the cottage, he is thinking of his mother. *' How loving and unselfish her care of me has been, and not one word of reproach! How^ could I have vexed her! for such a girl as Rose Morrison ? " He turns to pass down the road again, and there is Rose. She has come up behind him unobserved. Reuben grows pale and then red, and then he tries to pass her, walking so fast that he stumbles, and would fall but for the stick. 32 LOST ROSE. "• Eeuben,'* the girl cries out, ** won't you even speak to me? You would if you knew how unhappy I am, and could see how I grieve for you." '* I am obliged to you, Eose," he says, in a strange choked voice, '*but there can be no friendsliip between you and me now." She fixes her dark glowing eyes on his changing irresolute face ; then she bursts into passionate weeping. Eeuben is troubled. He stands pale and trembling. The old love tugs at his heart — he forces himself to remember Jacques Gas- pard, and that walk along the beach. But it is very hard to stand unmoved by Eose's tears. *' Don't cry, Eose," the poor fellow says, at last ; '^ I forgive you, and I hope you will be happy." " I shall never be happy again, Eeuben. I was the cause of your accident, your mother says ; and tjou think I deceived you." Eeuben is tired, and this agitation robs him of his little strength. The girl's quick eyes see his weakness. *^Dear Eeuben," she says, tenderly, *'you are not well enough to stand talking ; let me LOST ROSE. 33 help you. There, dear, put your hand on my shoulder and let me come in-doors." Her eyes are so sweet and loving, her whole manner so softened from the petulant Eose he loved so dearly, that Eeuben gives up his resistance. He puts his hand on the little soft shoulder so lovingly offered, which does not give much support after all ; and yet, somehow, by the time he reaches his Bofa, he looks brighter, and more like his old self than he has looked since the accident. Five minutes after, Eose is seated on the sofa beside him, her head nestling on his shoulder. ''And you are not going to many that French fellow ? " says Eeuben, after a little. Eose raises her head and looks at him in her old saucy fashion. *' Many liim ! I am ashamed of you, Eeuben. Why, I never cared a bit for Jacques, and he went away to France evor so long ago, and some people say he has a ^vife there." When Mrs. Leir came home m the evening she was sm-prised at the change for the better in her son. ''I must go away, again, "^ — she smiled VOL. I. D 34 LOST ROSE. lovingly ; " you seem to get on best alone, my boy." Eeuben felt the blood rush to his face. Why should he hide this happiness from his mother ? She had shared all his sorrow, why should she not share his joy ? '^Mother," — she was leaning over him, and he took both her hands in his, — ^* I must tell you what has happened. I have seen Eose, and we are friends again." Mrs. Leir drew her hands away. '' That girl ! Oh, Reuben " — in a broken voice that was full of unutterable pain. ^' Don't say anything against her, dear mother." He raised himself and kissed her face, now turned away from him in bitterness of heart. '' She is so sorry, and she has always loved me. She never cared for Jacques. You will take her for a daughter, won't you, mother dear ? " Mrs. Leir's mouth trembled ; but the earnestness in her son's face conquered. '' I can't stand in the way of your happi- ness," she said sadly : "• and if this is your happiness, I will receive Eose Morrison. But, Oh, my boy, my boy, don't risk yourself a LOST ROSE. 35 second time ; don't give yourself in a hurry to a light woman who has cared for other men before she cared for you, and will care for them again. Ah, my Reuben, you are worth the first place in a girl's heart, instead of coming in at the end." Eeuben had gro^^Ti very red indeed. '' Thank you for your consent," he said ; *' but, mother, please don't speak badly of Eose ; it's unjust, and I can't bear it." Eeuben resented his mother's words, and yet, as soon as he was free from the witchery of Eose's presence, his heart was heavy with doubt. Not because he had seen her with Gaspard ; she had explained that to him, and he knew the man so well, that he could believe he had forced his company on the girl. The doubt that troubled Eeuben was about himself. Could he make Eose happy ? ''I am such a slow, quiet fellow; I can't amuse her," he thought, '' and since my fall I often feel stupid ; and she is such a lively darling." But the strong love he felt — the greater now that it had been repressed — drew him next day to the quarry. 36 LOST ROSE. He lifted the latch of the garden-gate, and went into the pretty tree-shaded garden. The place was so green that the tulips and ane- mones seemed to gain in brilliancy of colour. Eeuben had hurried fast along the road, spite of his weakness ; but by the time he reached the cottage-door he had lost strength and courage, and his knock had a timid sound. Mrs. Morrison's lame tread was heard on the lime-ash floor, and she opened the door. A small dark woman with narrow sharp eyes that seemed to be always prying into those of the people to whom she spoke. She was very trimly dressed, and she looked more like Eose's elder sister than her mother. **Ah!" she smiled up in Eeuben's face, "it is then Monsieur Leir ? I am glad to see you, monsieur, and I am sorry, for you do not come I know to see me. I am glad to see you walk again, but Eose is not at home." ** Where is she ? " Eeuben said abruptly. " Ah, mon Dieu ! " she held up her hands with a gesture of deprecation, "what can I tell you, monsieur ? Eose goes here and she goes there, and I do not ask her where she goes. Believe me, it is a great mistake to LOST ROSE. 37 interfere with young people ; and when you marry Rose, you must treat her as I do ; she likes her own way. I am glad you are friends again, Monsieur Leir." There was such a cunning look in her eyes that Eeuben started. '* I will wait, if you please, Mrs. Morrison," he said. *^I want to see Eose." '' Certainly ; come in. Monsieur Leir." Mrs. Morrison pointed to a chair, and Eeuben seated himself, and looked round the square low-roofed room. Hoy/ much prettier and more trim it was than his own house ! What tasteful muslin curtains those were in the windows, and how charming the little nosegays looked, placed exactly where the room was dark and bare ! Mrs. Morrison watched him as he sat there, and this made him fidgety. *'Eose dresses up the room. Monsieur Eeuben ; she likes pretty tasteful ways, and that is why I am glad she is to marry you. You are able to give her a good home, and money to spend on clothes ; and Eose likes pretty dresses. Monsieur Eeuben." *' I suppose most pretty girls do," he said. 38 LOST ROSE. But the woman's prying eyes and coaxing manner fidgeted him ; he wished he had walked on to meet Rose instead of waiting. He sat silent, and presently Mrs. Morrison began on new ground. ^^ Do you not find Hookton very sad, Mon- sieur Leir?" she said. *^ Ah, mon Dieu ! " — she clasped her hands and threw up her eyes, ** there is not a man in Hookton fit to look at ; unless, indeed, when Monsieur Gaspard arrives. Ah, that is diff'erent ! " Reuben stared; he was not accustomed to this sort of talk from his mother, and he shrank from the mention of the Frenchman. ** He is not here often, I think," he said sullenly. Mrs. Morrison laughed. **He comes and he goes more often than people think. Monsieur Leir. He will be here soon again ; yes, very soon. Ah, he is full of life and spirit !'* Reuben rose hastily, and nearly stumbled. '' I will go and meet Rose. Good after- noon, Mrs. Morrison." She begged him to stay, but he would not. He seemed to breathe more freely when he LOST ROSE. 39 gained the road. There was something oppressive and artificial in Mrs. Morrison's atmosphere. " Eose is so simple, so unlike her mother. She will never speak to Jacqnes Gaspard again. Why should I feel this jealous tor- ture ? '' But he did feel it sharply ; and when at last he saw Eose coming along the road, he resolved to open his mind to her. " Eose darling," — they had walked some way lovingly together, under the shade of the trees that bordered the road, — " I must speak about something that troubles me. Suppose, after all, you do not love me as you think you do. Listen, child!" he spoke with unusual firmness, for she had begun to remonstrate ; '' suppose, when Jacques Gaspard comes back, you find you have made a mistake ?" ''Eeuben!" Eose tossed her head and pouted, but Eeuben's earnest gaze showed her that this was not the assurance he expected. " I have said I love you, Eeuben," she said, sadly; "what more can a girl say ? " 40 LOST ROSE. But Eeuben was strangely moved this afternoon. There was an unusual flush on his cheeks, and a glowing light in his eyes. *^I believe you, my darling," he said fondly; *'but give me a proof you're in earnest. Will you marry me this day fort- night ?" Rose began to exclaim. "• But my clothes, Reuben — I must have proper clothes." He stopped her. *^I asked a proof, Rose; you will not refuse me, my darling girl ? " She looked confused, ready to cry. *'Very well," she said slowly; *^ I will tell mother, and you can settle it with her." They had reached the garden-gate, and she ran in, leaving Reuben gazing with loving eyes after her, a charming vision as she ran through the tree-shaded garden. It is the day before the wedding. Both Hookton and Mercombe have been full of eager anticipation and gossip. Rose has not been so triumphant as some of her neigh- LOST ROSE. 41 bours expected. Mrs. Leir has been pale and sorrowful, but Eeuben lias looked full of happiness, and his recovery has progressed with astonishing rapidity. When he awoke this morning, he said to himself, ^' To-morrow, only till to-morrow ; " and then he went off early, to put the last finish- ing touches to his new home. He will not turn his mother out of the cottage where she has lived so long. His hope is that eventually she will grow to like Eose, and they shall all live there together. For the present, he has rented a small dwelling down in the valley beside the river. Eose has been very restless this morning ; she has promised to wait in for Eeuben, and yet she has a longing to go dowTi to Hookton. She tells her mother this. *^Best keep at home, my girl," the mother says ; and then to herself she adds, '•' Jacques Gaspard came into Hookton last night. She is best out of his way at present." Eose wanders listlessly about the garden. ^' I wish Eeuben v\'as not so slow ; I do like a little more fun in a man," she says. ''He is a kind good soul, but 42 LOST ROSE. he wants life : and I hate that mother of his— I do ! '' She has just turned her back again to the garden-gate, and she hears behind her three distinct taps and a low whistle. Kose stands still ; a rush of warm colour spreads to her forehead. She knows Jacques Gaspard's signal. *'I told him I would never speak to him again," she saj^s, fretfully. '* Well, when he hears I am going to be married, he will go away in a rage." She ran back to the cottage. '^ Mother, don't let Eeuben go after me, if he comes. I shall be back directly." Eose left the garden and went into the quarry. There were caves here running deep into the stone, and yet scarcely showing any opening. Eose paused before one of these and whistled softly. In a moment the whistle came back, like a powerful echo, and the girl went forward into the cave. Light came from above, some way down, through fissures in the stone ; and Eose saw at once that Jacques Gaspard was very angry. She felt frightened and drew away from him, but he grasped her arm firmly. LOST ROSE. 43 *' What is the meaning of all this I hear, you little flirt ? " he said. '' Did you not tell me I was the only man you had ever loved?" ''Oh, don't grip so hard, Jacques; you hurt me. I won't speak while you hold my arm," she said defiantly. The Frenchman let go her arm, hut he stepped forward so as to stand hetween her and the entrance to the cave. '' Speak away," he said ; " hut mind you speak the truth this time. Eemember that I am not a soft fool like like your new lover, Mr. Leir." There was a mocking sound in his voice, and Eose trembled. *' You are cruel," she sobbed; ''you say you love me, and you do not marry me. Why do you come back and spoil my life ? I do not love Reuben Leir ; but he loves me, and I mean to be a good wife to him. He offers me a good comfortable home, and he does not play fast and loose, as you do." Jacques swore fiercely. " That's a lie — I am ready. Say you will come away at once, and I will marry you and give you all that a woman can wish for." Eose gave him a loving wistful look. 44 LOST ROSE. **Will you marry me before you take me away?" she said timidly. ^'Ah, bah!" the sailor said. *' Women are all alike ; they expect unlimited trust to be placed in them, and they don't give any. Why do you doubt me, Kose ? " '* You've made me to. No, I will not listen ; I was wrong to say so much. I have promised Keuben, and I will keep my word. Now I must go. Good-bye." The sailor stood thinking; at last he shrugged his shoulders, and stood aside to let her pass. '* As you will, Eose. My plan v>^ould have made you a happy woman. Well ! I bear you no malice. Marry your Reuben. I will bring you a wedding present, if you care to have it." *'A present! What?" Rose stopped and looked at him. A smile crossed Jacques's face. ** A brooch and a pair of earrings fit for a princess. Listen : I will come to the point below the landslip, if you will meet me there." " There!" Rose shuddered. **Yes, there and nowhere else, at nine o'clock to-night," he said roughly. LOST ROSE. 45 Rose hesitated. ^'All riglit ; I will be there," she said suddenly, and she ran back to the cottage. She was not back a moment too soon. Before she had recovered the fright and flutter of Jacques's visit, Eeuben came limping up the garden-path. *'Ah, how I wish he was more like Jacques ! " she said to herself. Reuben sat talking ; he was in gay spirits, but Rose could not rally. She was by turns cross and tearful, and at last she asked her lover to leave her to herself. '"■ I will go now," he said ; *^ but I've not said all I've got to say, my girl. I'll come down and have a talk in the evening." Rose turned so white that he noticed her paleness. " Not to-night, Reuben, please," she said more gently. ^' My mother wants me all to herself." *' You're rather a tyrant, my pet," he said; *^ but I will obey you. Till to-morrow, then, God bless you, darling ! " and he kissed her fondly. As Reuben went away, he saw Mrs. Mor- 46 LOST ROSE. rison coming back from the draw-well at the other side of the garden ; he went across to her, while Eose walked to the gate. "Mrs. Morrison," he said, eagerly; "do spare Eose to me this evening for a little ; tell her I will meet her soon after nine beside the quarry." Mrs. Morrison nodded. As she and her daughter stood at the gate looking after Eeuben, the mother noticed Eose's pale face. " Go and lie down, child," she said; "you look like a ghost. I have promised you will meet Eeuben Leir this evening beside the quarry." It was a w^arm evening. Mrs. Leir had been busy at the newly-furnished cottage till late, so that she did not see how disappointed and tired Eeuben looked when he came in after a fruitless walk to the quarry. She sat down to supper with her son ; it was no longer so hard to give him up, for she felt that his heart was with Eose Morrison. All she could now hope for was to gain the love of Eeuben's wife. It was now late. They had finished supper. LOST ROSE. 47 Mrs. Leir stood folding her tablecloth ^-hen a knock came at the door, and then, with scarcely any pause, a voice : ** Mrs. Leir, Mrs. Leir ! I want my daughter — where is Eose ? — I want Eose ! " Eeuben got to the door without his stick, and opened it to Mrs. Morrison. The woman tried to smile when she saw him, but she looked frightened. '*Ah, Eeuben," she said, ^•'vou have given me a fright. Come, where have you hidden Eose ? " Eeuben had turned a ghastly white. *'Eose! What do you mean ?" he said hoarsely. ''I have not seen her since I left her mth you at the gate." *'Ah, mon Dieu!" — in her terror the woman shrieked out her words, — •' • and she went out this evening to meet you," she said; ''and — " Here she checked herself suddenly, and dropped trembling into a chair. But Eeuben saw her hesitation. *' Say all you know ; " he stood over her sternly. '' Is Jacques Gaspard in Hookton ? " Mrs Leir stood wonderstruck at her sons strange vehemence. 48 LOST ROSE. *'I heard, he was there," Eose's mother said feebly ; ^^ and he is a bad man, Eeuben. Oh, what has happened ! I know he will not marry my child." But Eeuben did not stay to listen. He felt no fatigue or lameness as he started for the third time that day on the road to Hookton, but he soon failed. Fortunately a chance traveller overtook him and gave him a seat in his dog-cart, or his strength could not have held out. The busy fishing-village had gone to sleep when he reached it ; but some of the men were soon roused, and helped Eeuben in his search. Yes, they told him, Jacques Gaspard had appeared that morning, and a strange-looking cutter had been hovering round the bay ; but the Frenchman had gone away early, and no one had seen Eose Morrison. And no one ever saw saucy, pretty Eose again. Years have gone since that night, and no one now expects to see her but Eeuben Leir, and he, poor fellow, is for ever searching among the rocks and caves for some trace of the girl he still loves. He would believe any- thing rather than that she was false to him. LOST ROSE. 49 And his mother never says a word against Eose. Reuben's dutiful tenderness is her own again ; but she would give it up if she could only see him happy, without that seeking unsatisfied look which will never leave his pale-blue eyes. VOL. 1. X ^ ^ > FiriNE: A STORY OF MALIXES. I. TT is bright July weather — so intensely hot that even Madame Popot, salamander as she is, leans back from her wash-tub and cries out ^' Pouf ! " and — like a flock of sheep following in slavish imitation the one adven- turous mutton which leaps a gap in the hedge — Madame 's three assistants cry out at the same moment, *' Pouf ! " — *' Ciel, que (;a brule!" — '* On etouffe ! " and the shrill chorus mounts up like some heathen invocation to Phcebus. But Madame Popot has four assistants, and the fourth is a young girl who still bends over her wash-tub, as if the heat in no way troubled her. The cloud of steam hides the girl's face, so it is only now and then that you catch a 54 FIFINE : glimpse of it — a vision of sweet blue eyes and shining hair, altogether of a lovely little maid- en ; but the maiden's face is sad, and gazing at her attentively you comprehend that the sor- row that brings tears stealing down her cheek absorbs other feelings, and makes her by far the most industrious to-day among the assist- ants of the respectable Madame Popot. Yes, Madame Popot is very respectable. You only need step outside the archway and see where the wash-house is situated to be sure of this : you will find yourself on the quay of ths principal canal of the quaint little Flemish town ; and, my friend, let me tell you that such a situation is sought after, though it is not everyone who could afford to pay the rent demanded for it. It is such a busy place ; the quay is laden with casks and huge packages, with brilliant red tiles and shining coal-heaps : you can hardly see the old-fashioned houses on the opposite quay, with their high- stepped gables and richly-carved stone fronts, for the masts and brown sails of the barges. The canal is choked with barges, glowing in the sunlight like rose-beetles, with green and crimson A STORY OF MA LINES, 55 paint, each waiting its turn of unlading by the monster crane on the opposite quay, towering above the houses with its slated roof. The crane is so monstrous that, as its unwieldy bulk comes swinging round, you fancy the town has taken to waltzing, and that houses will presently come toppling over into the canal. The women in the barges, with huge gold horns in their caps, screech wildly as they unlade cargoes of red bricks and tiles : and mingled with this din is the crash of the timber and other commodities which the crane lands in its clumsy fashion on the stone flags of the quay. Between the heat and the noise you find yourself driven again under the shadow of Madame Popot's archway. Her sitting-room is on the left of the small yard within the archway. Not much to be seen in it, except a small pale crippled woman crouched together in a chair, her eyes strained on the tower of the Cathedral, visible from the flower-screened window. It is worth while to pass through the second archway facing the first, though on your way you will suffer from the steam of the wash- 56 FIFINE : house on the right-hand side of the yard ; but you had better go in, if only to look at La mere Jacqueline's flowers. Framed by the archway is the bleaching-green, with lines crossing from side to side, covered already with dazzling white, and here and there with blue and scarlet garments ; in the brilliant light each colour outvies the other, till the eye gets dazzled by the rich enamel of green and scarlet, and blue and white, set in gor- geous sunshine ; above rises in massive grandeur the tower of St. Eumbold. No wonder La mere Jacqueline's eyes rest on it with admiring pride. It stands a colossal hint to us housebuilders of the nineteenth century of the way in which pious souls in the '' dark ages" gave glory to God. It is a quarter-past two o'clock, and the chimes play a sweet mournful dirge. As it ends, the young girl with blue eyes and shin- ing hair comes out of the wash-house, bearing a bucketful of freshly-scalded linen. She is going to the river to soap it, and presently La grosse Margotin will come after her, and help her beat it in the fresh flowing water. As the girl passes by the sitting-room door A STORY OF M ALINES. 57 she nods to the crippled woman — ** Au revoir, ma mere." And then she waits while La mere Jacqueline raises her feeble hands slowly to her lips. ** Au revoir, mon enfant — a ce soir, Fifine," she says in a soft weak voice. The smile lingered on the crippled woman's lips even when Fifine's bright young face had gone out of sight. Two years of helpless endurance had taught much patience to La mere Jacqueline. She had always been meek and gentle, but she had been singularly active, and as blithe as a bird. Never so prosperous a laundress as her sister, Madame Popot, but till two years ago in a fair way of business at Louvain. Then a stroke of paralysis came and took away her power of working. She would not ask assistance. For a few months she struggled on ; but Fifine at four- teen could not earn much, and ruin came to the happy little home. Madame Popot heard by chance of her sister's troubles, and she went off at once to Louvain. She bustled about the poor little 58 FIFINE: lodging, and finally brought mother and daughter home with her to Malines. It was a hard trial for mother and daughter to be dependent. At first La mere Jacqueline had shed bitter tears as she looked at her use- less hands and thought over Fifine's future. But comfort came to her. Fifine said her mother got it from gazing at the great tower of the Cathedral, and listening to the sweet music of the chimes. By degrees, the sad weariness left Jacqueline's eyes, and her cheerfulness returned ; listen to her now, as she smiles after Fifine : — " It is God who has laid this on me," she murmurs; *' if I am only patient, good must come. Perhaps it is sent that I may not worry about Fifine — my precious Fifine. Ah, me ! and I thought I could provide for her better than her Father in heaven could." Fifine's smile has faded sooner than her mother's has. As soon as she is in the crowd and bustle of the quay her face clouds over. All the sunshine has departed from her bright young eyes and lips. A group of men are resting while they unload a barge : they smile at Fifine, and one A STORY OF MALIXES. 59 or two address a compliment to her, but she passes on. She is deaf and blind to-day to all but the thought that troubles her ; she has heard Madame Popot whisper to La grosse Margotin that it is all settled, that Monsieur Dusecq is coming on Sunday to be presented to la petite. '' Oh, but it is too hard, I laughed this morning when Margotin said I was in haste to marry. I thought she joked, but I am only sixteen, and Monsieur is sixty, Margotin says so — he is too old for me. And he is a stranger. I do not know if I like him or not." Fifine leaves off crying. She has a spirit, though her blue eyes are so soft and lovely ; and as she thinks of La grosse Margotin craning her long hideous throat so as to hear her aunt's confidences, she could gladly dip her ugly head into her own wash-tub. '' I hate her," the girl says, passionately. She does not think of extendini^ her ven- geance to Madame Popot. Her aunt talks and scolds, and domineers, but she is good at heart, Fifine thinks, and then, ''what has she not done for the dear mother? Ah, yes, she is good." 6o FIFWE : II. TT ALF-Px4ST two — three-quarters — then three strokes from the great clock of the Cathedral, and each time the chimes play different music ; some mournful, some sprightly, but none so plaintive as the little melody that rang out when Fifine went away. Madame Popot has put out her last bucket- ful on the fresh green grass — she comes in panting with heat. Instead of going back to La grosse Margotin and the rest, she steps up the one step that raises the sitting-room above the level of the yard. *'Ah, La mere Jacqueline, I have a fine bit of news for thee.'* ''For me?" A faint flush comes with the smile on the crippled woman's face. '' Yes— chut, chut." Fat, round Madame Popot looks over both shoulders to be sure the gossips of the wash-tub are safe at work, and then she stoops, as much as nature per- mits, over her little sister. *' How would'st A STORY OF MALIXES. 6i thou like Fifine to have a home of her own, with place for thee and to spare ? " ''Ah, no ; how can that he ?" Then the poor woman checks her eager delight : she fears it may seem ungrateful to sister Popot. " But yes, yes, I say," and Madame nods her head repeatedly, for it has somehow got into the mind of the well-to-do laundress that hecause her sister has lost the power of move- ment, it is easier to her to comprehend pantomime than mere unassisted speech, and Madame Popot has in consequence adopted a fashion of nodding her head, stamping with her feet, and pointing with her fingers, which would make her a really useful assistant in a deaf and dumh asylum. She raises one fat finger impressively while she announces her o news. " Jacqueline, I have a hushand for the little one. Monsieur Dusecq, the chef of the Hotel de la Grue, has announced his preten- sions to the hand of my niece Jose2)hine. Ah, mon Dieu ! it is good news, is it not ? " Madame Popot's cheeks puff still larger and pinker with conscious triumph. " Monsieur Dusecq ! " the mother's faint 62 FIFINE : voice trembled. " But, Elise, Monsieur Dusecq must be old — too old for Fifine." Madame Popot stamped both feet, shook her head, and wrung her hands, as if, like a clockwork toy, she had been wound up and set all a-going at once. She was not angry ; she only v/anted to signify annihilation to her sister's objection. '^ Ta, ta, ta, my poor Jacqueline ! And tell me then a little who that is young and rich is likely to marry a beggar like Fifine ? I do not mean to pain thee, my sister — but I do not save money, I spend all I earn. If I die first, what then will happen to thee and the poor child, who is too weak to work with a mistress who would consider her strength less than I do ? Allons, Jacqueline, what are then a few years ? To my taste, a man at Monsieur Dusecq's age is charming ; he is calm, equable, he has no youthful extrava- gancies, and he knows how to treat a woman. He will worship Fifine, and make her as happy as a princess. Come, come, let us have a little common sense in this matter." Jacqueline sighed, but she saw the truth of Madame Popot's words. Fifine was but A STORY OF Af A LINES. 63 a child, and free from any attachment ; how happy it would be to see her released from the need of hard work or pressing care for the rest of her life. Before Madame Popot went back to the wash-house, the mother had promised to aid Monsieur Dusecq's suit, and not to listen to any objections which Fifine might bring against him. And in making this promise the poor crippled woman thought only of her darling Fifine ; she had grown too resigned to her own state to wish to change it. '^ Fifine is so good," she said to herself, '' she cannot help being happy if she is loved ; and Elise is much wiser and cleverer than I am." Meantime, Fifine had reached the end of the quay ; here she turned to the right, and crossing the bridge over the canal, took her way to the Porte des Capucins, a quaint square stone building, with an arched gateway in the middle and round towers at the angles, capped by black conical roofs, recalling the time when Spanish rule was universal in Flanders. At this gate the town made a sudden ending ; there was no attempt at a suburb outside the walls, a row of lime-trees 64 FIFINE: circled the dry moat, and under their shade Fifine walked slowly along, balancing her bucket on her shoulder. About a quarter of a mile on she reached the river, with high sloping grassed banks backed by lime-trees. In two or three places there were flights of rough wooden steps reaching down into the water. Fifine went mechanically down the first of these, and kneeling on the lowest step, spread some of her linen on a board secured to the bottom of a post, and proceeded diligently to soap it. Margotin would come presently and help her beat it. She had taken two bits of wood out of her bucket ready to beat her work when a fish-line came tumbling into the water beside her. Fifine left off soaping, and glanced up the line. Looking down on her were a pair of the darkest, brightest eyes she had ever seen. There was doubtless a face and a body also, but Fifine only saw the eyes, and the glance they gave her full of open intense ad- miration ! She blushed, and her little fair head bent down over her work. The river water was cool and fresh, but Fifine's hands felt on fire. The soap slipped A STORY OF M ALINES. 65 from her fingers. Never had she found wash- ing so tiresome as to-day. Finally, a sliirt, the last left, escaped from her hands, and floated out into the river. " Ciel ! " and Fifine began to cry, for she knew how deep the water was, and how im- possible it was for her to attempt to rescue the shirt. It floated merrily on, making an acquaint- ance with water- weeds and some dragon-flies which were darting at sharp angles over the surface of the water, when suddenly the shui; came to a full stop. '* Ha ! ha ! ha ! " in a ringing peal of laughter, from the bank above, and Fifine looked up hopefully. '* Voila, Mademoiselle ; " and as the fisher- man pulled in the line he had throT^n so dexterously, Fifine saw to her joy the shirt was coming along with it, floating rapidly to her feet. She was so glad, so inexpres- sibly thankful, that she stood there dumb, only clapping her hands in mute ecstasy. She heard a little scramble on the bank above, and there was the fisherman close beside her, knee-deep in the water, while VOL. I. F 66 FIFINE: he carefully extricated his hook from the linen. '* Voila, Mademoiselle," he laughed joyously as he handed the shirt up to Fifine ; *^ it has made a little voyage, that is all." When she found the shirt in her hands again, Fifine's wits came back. *' Ah, Monsieur, thank you so very much ; you do not know how glad you have made me for my aunt must have restored the value of this garment, and do we not already owe her too much ? Ah, but, I can never thank you enough." '' Yes, yes, it is nothing ; " but somehow the fisherman's tongue had grown embarrassed, he stood looking at Fifine, and Fifine stood blushing. She rolled the shirt up, and let it unroll itself again. She had forgotten all about her washing. *'Ah ga, Fifine, ou done es-tu ? " came in a shrill voice from the steps further up the river. It was the voice of La grosse Margotin. Fifine started so suddenly that her com- panion caught her by tlie arm. ** Pardon, Mademoiselle," the young man A STORY OF M ALINES. 67 said, " I was afraid you would fall into the water/' Fifine looked up shyly. ** And if I had, you would have fished me out with your hook, would you not ? " and she laughed and blushed. ''But I must go now, Monsieur; I have not thanked you much, but I am very grateful." The fisherman had let go her arm, but the touch had restored his self-possession. *' Mademoiselle, I deserve no thanks, but if you think differently will you tell me your name ? " " Josephine le Due, but they call me Fifine." " I thank you. Mademoiselle Fifine," and before she could prevent him he had raised her bucket and was carrying it up the bank. He was at the top of the steps holding out his hand to help her when she came up them. *' You will let me say au revoir, will you not ? You must come here to wash, and I must also fish ; it is possible," he said, simply, "you may again be glad of my fish-hook." Fifine smiled. She felt strangely glad and happy ; she forgot all about her aunt's whis- 68 FIFINE: pers and Margotin's hints. It seemed to her that she had found a brave, strong friend to take care of her and of her mother, but she felt very shy again when she asked his name. *' Michel vanOorst." The sight of La grosse Margotin hurrying along the river-bank in search of her put a sudden end to her happiness. " Bon jour. Monsieur," and then she made a little curtsey, and ran away with her bucket. There had been no harm in talking to Monsieur — why, she had only thanked him, and yet Fifine felt heartily glad that the fat gossiping woman was still looking along the river-bank for her. Margotin had passed over-head without glancing down the steep bank. ^* Margotin, Margotin," the girl cried, and at last the great woman turned her ugly face over her shoulder. *' At last ! " she said, as Fifine came up to her, ** where hast thou been hiding, little one? Wasting time, I'll be bound — the time for which thy good aunt pays thee." Margotin shook her deep starched cap-fril A STORY OF M ALINES. 69 at the little maiden. She was Madame Popot's forewoman, and she did not approve of poor relations ; she considered they were best provided for in the Asyle, or the Maison des Pauvres. 70 FIFINE: III. IVTONSIEUE DUSECQ stands before his small looking-glass, while he gives a finish- ing touch to his beard and whiskers. He is not wanting in good looks of a pippin-faced descrip- tion. His head is so round and hard-looking, that one fancies it might serve as a cannon-ball; his small bright eyes twinkle with intelligence, and he is proud of his Koman nose. He is best with his hat on, for though his beard and moustaches are fairly luxuriant, the hair has deserted the top of his head for his chin, and he has not much more than one sees on a baby a fortnight old. Still, if he had been six inches taller, and had not walked with his legs so wide apart, Monsieur Dusecq would, un- doubtedly, have had an imposing presence ; and as his looking-glass was too small to re- flect more than half of his face at once, he perhaps estimated his general effect by the size of his nose, and felt majestic. He had taken extra pains with himself this A STORY OF M ALINES. 71 Sunday, and he smiled as he crossed the Grande Place, on his way to Madam Popot's. As he went over the bridge leading to the quay, Monsieur Dusecq looked troubled, stop- ped and took a pinch of snuff ; thereupon he sneezed, and blessed himself devoutly. "A good omen," he said, and his face cleared again into its usual broad inexpressive- ness. ''I was just asking myself why I, Alphonse Theophile Dusecq, should trouble myself to take a wife, only because I have been chaiTQed with the face of a fresh young girl ; but this is a good omen, and besides, I am expected. Allons, it is too late to draw back now." Madame Popot stood in the archway wait- ing for him, and there was scarcely room for the elaborate bows and cm-tsey of the round, comfortable pair. They found La mere Jacqueline sitting up in her chair, her head almost hidden from sight in one of Madame Popot's lace caps. She looked very pale and nervous at the sight of Monsieur Dusecq. Fifine came in presently, very fan* and pretty in her starched pink frock, but she 72 FIFINE: kept her eyes on the ground, and did not speak. '' Monsieur Dusecq," Madame Popot spoke slowly, and with dignity, ^^this is my niece, Josephine le Due. Josephine, I have the honour to present you to Monsieur Dusecq." She took Fifine's hand, and placed it in that of the chef. Monsieur bent solemnly over it, and touched it with his bearded lips. Almost unconsciously Fifine drew her hand away, and rubbed it against her pink skirt. ^^ Nasty old man — I hate him ! " and tears of anger came into her pretty blue eyes. At that moment the remembrance of the young fisherman was very present to Fifine. Monsieur Dusecq did not stay long : he thought it would be unwise ; and, as Fifine did not offer her hand when he went away, he contented himself with a most profound bow over the hat clasped between his hands. Fifine did not look at her mother while Madame Popot went to the entrance with the visitor. There was silence in the little room till the aunt came back. She kissed Fifine's forehead. ** Ah, my little jewel ! It is then arranged ; A STORY OF MA LINES. 73 and now we have only to see about the wed- ding clothes." Tears of satisfaction stood in the good fat woman's eyes, and she hugged the young girl closely. "Go to thy mother, little one, and let her too wish thee joy." Fifine went silently up to her mother, and knelt down before her, while La mere Jacque- line kissed her. There was a set grave look in the giii's face, but no sorrow. She seemed far more composed than the poor crippled woman, whose face twitched uneasily, while a painful flush rose on her cheeks. " I am going to the Cathedral, my mother," said Fifine : *' Monsiem- le Cure gives a ser- mon at eight o'clock;" and she went away. *'Elise," said the faint sweet voice of the cripple, *^ must this marriage be ? He is too old — we are asking too much of the child." 74 FIFINEi: IV. TT had grown dusk by the time Fifine was ready to start, for she did not put on her cloak with its black falling hood as soon as she reached her bedroom. She shared this room with her mother, so that she rarely knew the luxury of being alone in it. And till this last week Fifine had never wished to be alone ; she had shared every thought with her darling suffering mother. But that happy time was over. She fell against the bed and cried bit- terly. " What can I do ? " sobbed the poor child ; '^ when my mother said I should be happy with this man, I said ' Yes, I am wil- ling,' for I saw she wished me to say so ; but oh, he is not a man — he is an ogre, an ugly little monster whom I detest." Her slender body quivered with disgust and dread — she felt helpless — she had promised her mother, and how could she unsay her words — how could she offend Madame Popot ? Three-quarters past seven went the chimes, A STORY OF MALINES. 75 and Fifine started up ; she washed her swollen disfigured face — for even so pretty a face as Fifine's is spoiled by tears — smoothed her rich hair back into its natural waves, pulled the hood of her cloak down to her eyes, and set out for the Cathedral. Try as she would, Fifine could not help comparing Monsieur Dusecq with the young fisherman, Michel von Oorst. She had seen him again yesterday and the day before, and her cheeks flushed red under her hood as she thought over their meetings. They did not say much, but how sweet it had been to stand under the lime-trees, and feel that Michel was looking down at her, with his beautiful dark eyes. He was so tall and strong, and yet he spoke so gently. ** The world is unjust," said poor Fifine, as she hurried along ; ' ' why is Michel only a poor fisherman ? and why is that hateful old man rich ? " When she reached the Cathedral, she found it in darkness, but she knew the service was to be in the chapel of Our Lady, just behind the high altar, and she groped her way there. She found a few old women sitting 76 FIFINE : and kneeling on some chairs placed round a small pulpit. Fifine knelt on the stones be- fore the altar, almost prostrating herself in her grief and despair. She heard some clanking footsteps, but she did not look round, and when Monsieur le Cure appeared at the foot of the altar, everybody knelt down too. It was a very simple service in Flemish, with a prayer or so in Latin, and then the priest bade his listeners search out the sins of the past day w^hile he kept silence. Poor Fifine's heart beat tumultuously in the awful darkling silence, for no lamp was lighted. The priest gave absolution, some more prayers were said, and the service ended ; then the sacristan mounted into the pulpit, and lighted a solitary tallow candle. He came down again, and the priest took his place. *^My children," said the Cure, '^ am going to talk to you of happiness." A strong sob broke from Fifine : she had come to church for help in her misery, and oh, what torment to hear of happiness, which she w^as never to know any more ! In the silent vast darkness the sob echoed A STORY OF MALIXES. yj strangely ; a young man who sat near looked hard at Fifine, and the preacher came to a fall stop. *^ My children," his voice was very tender now, '* it is possible that some among you do not know in what happiness consists. I am going to instruct you. If we seek for happi- ness, as happiness only, we shall never grasp it — it will lead us on in a vain pursuit, as the butterfly leads the child ; and if, indeed, we at last grasp that which we fancied such a prize, what is it ? It is like that same butter- fly crushed in the hand — its beauty and lustre have depai-ted. But stay, my children, do not go away with the notion that happiness does not exist ; happiness will come to those who do not seek it — it will come in the paths of duty and self-sacrifice ; tread them with courage and perseverance, I beseech you, and the sharp flints of the road shall turn to roses beneath your feet. Fix your eyes on the Great Example of self-sacrifice — your dear Lord, "Who suffered that you might enjoy all the bliss of heaven. Nail eveiy selfish vrish, every proud self-pleasing thought, to the cross, and you shall find peace in its everlasting 78 FIFINE: arms. In all things seek the greater glory of God, and " But Fifine did not hear any more, her sobs ceased, she hid her face between her hands and prayed. She had come to the Cathedral for help, and it was sent to her ; if she sacri- ficed herself for the sake of her mother, then she must be happy. Ah ! but this was doing what Monsieur le Cm-e had said was not to be done. She must do her duty simply without regard to what might happen afterwards, and who knew ? She might not live long, and then Monsieur Dusecq would always be good to her mother. A sudden scraping of the chairs as they were turned round, and there was everybody kneeling for the priest's blessing. Monsieur le Cure gave it, then he blew out the candle, and the Cathedral was once more in darkness — inky black now. Fifine followed the old woman who had been sitting beside her, but, as she dipped her fingers in the holy water stoup, she felt that some one pushed forward to do it at the same moment. She was soon clear of the little group of worshippers, and then she found A STORY OF MALINES. 79 that a tall man was walking beside her, match- ing his pace to hers. She could not see his face, for there was only one lamp at the farthest comer of the street ; but she was not frightened, she knew it could only be Michel. ** Mademoiselle Fifine, " he whispered, ** what is it that troubles you ? Has any- one been vexing you ? Tell me, and they shall never vex you again." Fifine had forgotten Monsieur Dusecq ; her heart swelled with happy triumph. Michel was her true fi'iend, the brave fellow ! what was he not ready to do for her sake ? And then a sudden thrill made the swelling heart collapse with a sigh of pain. / *• Thank you," she said, tr^^ing vainly to steady her voice, '^ you are veiy kind, but you cannot help me." A deadly chill crept over her ; if she could only have died just now on her knees in the Cathedral ! *' I can, I must ! " the young man spoke firmly. '' Fifine, I came to church because my heart told me you would be there. I could not sleep last night — I felt that I 8o FIFINE could not live unless I told you I love you ! And you will love me, will you not, my angel ? " They were alone in the dark silent street, and he clasped his arms round her. Fifine drew herself away, trembling violently. *' Ah, no, you must not — I must not talk to you at all ; I am promised I shall soon be married." '^Promised — married!" they had reached the end of the street ; he caught her arm and drew her under the lamp — '' ah, Fifine, you who look so innocent, so truthful, why did you not say this yesterday ? Why did you give me hope ?" '* Oh, let me go, let me go," sobbed the poor child; **I did not know — I was not promised yesterday." But Michel would not let her go. His anger came in a tempest that hindered words. He did not believe her — he would not. This girl, with the innocent face and child- like ways — this. girl, who seemed to him so pure and guileless, that in the daylight he had shrunk from telling his love for her — had then come down to the river-side to amuse A STORY OF M ALINES, 8i herself and to lead him on, while she was promised to some richer lover. He spoke at last roughly : *' What is this ? "What treachery is this ? It is impossible! " Just now Fifine had longed to flee away, to get anywhere from the temptation of Michel's presence, but she could not leave him in anger against her. '^Michel" — she had never called him so before, and the word thrilled across the young man's sternness — ^^ won't you be calm, won't you listen a moment ? Why are you so cruel when I am so miserable " She broke down, her sobs came fast and choked her ; but they did not move Michel as they moved him in the church. He let go her arm. ^* I can listen, but. Mademoiselle, if you are promised to some one else it is not wtII that you should be seen talking to me." The blood flew up in Fifine's forehead. Was it possible that Michel could love her, and yet speak such cold, insulting words ? *' I love him too much to be angry," thought the poor child ; '* and who knows if I shall ever speak to him after to-night ? If it is a VOL. I. G 82 FIFINE: sin to love him, then it is better to die, for it is a sin I cannot conquer/' ** Michel," she said, '* I must talk to you, I will not let you go till you see I am not false." He bent down and looked at her : her hood had fallen back, the light fell on her golden head, and on her soft blue eyes swimming with tears, but they were full of earnestness too : and again the strong power of his love sent Michel almost distracted. '' Ah, Fifine, if you teach me to believe in you, it makes it harder to give you up." Poor little Fifine ! her lover's words seemed to offer her a new means of self-sacrifice — she stood thinking. '' It must always be right to tell the truth," she said, simply, '' let what will come. I did know something that first day I met you down at the river, Michel, but I did not love you then." The young man's heart gave a bound at these words : he drew nearer to Fifine. ^'I had heard my aunt whisper with her women about me and about — about Monsieur Dusecq." Michel made a slight movement. '' Then I heard nothing more — no one spoke to me except La grosse Margotin, and she is a A STORY OF MALINES. 83 chatterbox," said the poor child, with sudden petulance ; ** and then I saw you again, and I forgot everything." Michel caught her two hands and kissed them passionately; then with a sudden impulse he kissed her lips. The colour flew over Fifine's cheeks, but she looked sad. ** Ah, no, you must not do that, you make me see I am wrong in telling this to you ; but how can I know what I ought to do ? I cannot ask my mother. I dare not tell her. I have promised her that I will marry this horrible man, and yet it is only she who can tell me what is right to do." Fifine pulled her hands away and hid her face ; it seemed to her that her heart was breaking, and yet she dared not tell her miseiy to Michel. She feared to make him more violent than he was already. Love is the most rapid of all teachers. Akeady this poor little ignorant Flemish maiden knew, as by instinct, that if Michel were urged on he was capable of some desperate action. '* No, my beloved, your mother cannot tell you what is right. She must be a wicked woman to make you promise to marry a man 84 FIFINE: you dislike. You are free. Such a promise counts for nothing, Fifine." He spoke in a strange, hoarse voice, and the girl shrank away to the edge of the pave- ment. ^' Ah, you are unjust; my mother is not wicked. It seems to me now that J was wicked to promise, but I do not know. Did you not hear, Michel, what Monsieur le Cure said about self-sacrifice ? — no, no, do not speak, listen : only this afternoon my mother told me she wished me to marry. She said, * If anything happens to thy aunt Popot, thou wilt be left in this world without a friend.'" * ' And you could promise to give yourself to a man you do not love for the sake of food and clothes — fine clothes, no doubt ? Mon Dieu ! it is always so." Michel spoke savagely. She shook her head sadly. It seemed to the little girl at that moment that she was older than the tall strong man beside her : all her youth felt chilled by this dreadful doom of separation, and while she stood there looking up at Michel the warm tide of feeling came back, and she longed to be in his arms again, A STORY OF MALINES. 85 close to his throbbing heart. Just now its hard, fierce beating had frightened her — it had been such a new, strange sensation, she had panted to be set free from his clasp, but now it seemed to Fifine that if she belonged to Michel no one could dispute his right to her ; not Monsieur Dusecq, or her aunt, or — but with the thought of her mother a sharp revulsion came to the delicious tide of passion ; Michel could never have a right to her if she chose him in disobedience to her mother. The struggle which has taken minutes in telling was soon over. Her eyes drooped, and she pulled the black hood again over her little fair head. '^ You do not yet understand," she said. '^ I know now I ought not to have promised ; it was wrong — but, Michel, I thought only of my mother. If you could know my mother ! and she is crippled, helpless, and never complains. What am I in comparison that I should choose my own happiness and leave her to starve ? And stop," for he tried to interrupt her, '^ you had not said you loved me — it was very hard to promise, but I only thought it w^as hard for me. I never thought you could have so much love for a little thing like me." 86 FIFINE : **Had you ever seen this man till to-day?" Michel's voice was again hard and suspicions — Fifine shook her head. ** Well, then, I tell you, Fifine, you are deceiving yourself," he said, bitterly; *'if you had found this man young and handsome, instead of a gross little monster, you would have accepted him with joy, and if you had come to church to-night it would have been to offer up thanksgiving, not to pour out your sorrow." Fifine raised her head and looked up at her lover. The tears had dried, the blue eyes were bright and fearless now. ** My love is truer than yours, Michel ; I could not doubt you. I am very ignorant and foolish, but it seems to me I must keep my promise ; but oh, Michel, indeed I will never love M. Dusecq — I will only love you! " A wild joy shone in Michel's eyes. ** Yes, yes, I know you will be true. My child, my darling, you must not marry him ; that would lead us both into sin, Fifine. You must go home now, but first you must promise to keep yourself only for me — if your mother is like you, my angel, she will be satisfied with the poor home I can give her." A STORY OF MALINES. 87 Once more he clasped Fifine in his arms, but this time there was more of deep tender- ness in his heart. ** You promise," he whispered, so fondly that the girl trembled and sobbed in his arms, but only for an instant. ** I dare not promise," she answered; *' but, Michel, let us both pray that this marriage may not be accomplished." She slipped down on her knees, still holding his hand ; he hesitated, and then knelt beside her to the gaily-painted shrine overhead. After a few moments they rose up, gave each other one long, clinging kiss, and parted. 88 FIFINE, rrWO days passed: Fifine went about her work, flushed, and with red, swollen eyelids ; but when she came into the sitting-room to her mother she contrived to look bright and cheerful. La mere Jacqueline watched the girl silently. Monsieur Dusecq's name had not been spoken between them since his visit, for Fifine con- trived to avoid being alone with her mother, and feigned to fall asleep as soon as she was in bed. But La mere Jacqueline slept lightly, and as she lay awake thinking of this mar- riage of Fifine 's, it seemed to her that the child was restless and moaned in her sleep. The third day was a jour de fete : it was long since the crippled woman had been to hear mass, and Madame proposed that Fifine should get a chair and go with her mother to the Grande Messe at eleven o'clock. In her heart Madame Popot thought this would be a good opportunity of meeting Mon- A STORY OF M ALINES, 89 sieur Dusecq ; it seemed to the good woman that the courtship made slow progress. *^Ma foi/' she said to herself, as she went to the Cathedral — Madame was much too good a Catholic to w^ash on a festival of the Church — '* what is the man about ? Love- making is altered since my time. One would have thought a man would like to look at the woman he means to many. He is as cold- blooded as a fish." She wronged Monsieur Dusecq. He had been charmed with his pretty, blushing fiancee ; he much wished to see her; but, alas! a public dinner was to be held at the Hotel la Grue, and ever since Sunday the chefs brain had been actively at work in the preparation and arrange- ment of certain new dishes to grace the feast. The nave of the Cathedral was already full, but Madame Popot elbowed her way till she found a vacant chair within view of the high altar. Fifine and her mother had gone in by a small door opening into one of the tran- septs ; there was more space here, and they got two chairs in front of the side altar. Fifine was sorry when the service came to an end. She had never found so much hap- 90 FIFINE: piness in cliurch as she had lately found there, though her mother had trained her to be devout. She had been too much absorbed to look round her ; but La mere Jacqueline, sitting a little behind — sitting, too, when others knelt — had been observant of troubled glances cast on her daughter by a tall, dark- eyed man in the garb of a fisherman. The mass was over, and they came out into the porch : while Fifine was slowly helping her mother into the chair again, the stranger pushed out of the crowd, and offered his services. La mere Jacqueline looked quickly at her daughter, but Fifine hung down her head. Aunt Popot was out of sight. The bearers trotted on with the chair, a queer, clumsy contrivance, and Michel followed side by side with Fifine. *' Does your mother know who I am ?" he asked. *^I have not told her anything, and no more has been said about the marriage." " Bon ! " — Michel looked smiling — *'My child! I have a sure hope all will go well. I want to speak to thee of our future. Thou hast shown a true woman's A STORY OF M ALINES. 91 faith in loving me, my Fifine ; for what dost thou know of me except that I catch fish in the river ? Allons ! " — the colom- rose in his face — ^* I may as well confess at once that I am an idle fellow, a good-for-nothing." Fifine looked at him with wide, wondering eyes, and Michel smiled. ** Not as thou thinkest, little one. I worked hard enough once. I was a sailor ; but in a storm I got injured when the mast fell, and this arm " — he touched his left sleeve — **is almost useless in respect of strength. I came home to Louvain, and was nursed by some good Soeurs there — I have no mother or sisters, Fifine. It was a long, tedious illness, for my shoulder was also injured, and it seemed to make an idle fellow of me. I have been well for a year, and yet I have never troubled to work except just to earn the few sous I need by catching fish in the river. Now, Fifine, what dost thou think of me ? Wilt thou give me up for Monsieur Dusecq ? " They walked along discreetly side by side behind the chair, but Fifine gave her lover a look which satisfied him. ** I hope for myself," he said. ** I used 92 FIFINE: to be hard-working enough, but then I had my mother to help. If I had a wife, Fifine, I feel I should work again ; but I must first make a home for her. Is it not so ? " Fifine's eyes were full of love and trust as she looked up at her lover. The heavy cloud that had made all her future look so grey and dim, lifted, k warm flood of sunshine came pouring into her heart, it sparkled through her pulses. The strong hopefulness of his words and his voice buoyed her up in her impHcit faith ; and, like the child beside the river who fancies that because the water floats the weeds that star its surface, it will float him too, so it seemed to Fifine that Michel's confidence must influence her aunt and her mother also. Poor little trusting Fifine ! she had yet to learn how much love has to do with trust. "When they reached the bridge Fifine paused. '' Good-bye, now," she said, ''it is best to part here." Michel raised his cap. There w^ere people coming and going across the bridge, and he would not expose Fifine to remark by a more lover-like farewell. A STORY OF MA LINES. 93 *' Adieu, my well-beloved ! " he said. '' I have a project, but I will not speak of it till its success is certain." There was a wistful tenderness in his eyes that made Fifine sad in spite of herself. Every step she took along the quay in- creased this sadness. The familiar objects there depressed her. It is difficult to keep up hopefulness in which there is an amount of unreality, when surrounded by the associa- tions of daily life. There were the heaps of coal and the vermilion tiles, the piles of ban-els — there was the old crane, and the brown-sailed barges that had come up the canal yesterday. Her mother asked no ques- tions, and when Aunt Popot came out under the archway, and asked if they had seen Mon- sieur Dusecq at the Cathedral, a pall seemed to be flung over Fifine 's hope of deliverance, and she shuddered at the living grave which her life seemed destined to fill. La mere Jacqueline was seldom talkative, but to-day she was more silent than ever. Madame Popot rolled in and out during the afternoon, now setting a chair in its place, now pulling some yellow leaves off the fuchsias 94 FIFINE: and geraniums in the window. She was ex- pecting a visitor. The table d'hote at La Grue was at five o'clock, and when the chimes went three- quarters past four, Madame Popot gave up expecting ; she went upstairs, and came down again in cloak and hood, her spotless white cap -strings drawn into the largest of starched bows, and announced her intention of paying a visit to the sick child of La grosse Margotin. La mere Jacqueline drew a deep breath of relief. Margotin lived as far as the Porte des Capucins, and sister Popot's walking powers were of the slowest. The poor crippled woman rejoiced ; she was longing for a talk with her darling. A STORY OF M ALINES. 95 YI. T A MEEE JACQUELINE sat crouched up in her usual corner, but not in the patient, uncomplaining attitude that had gro^vn so habitual. She was rocking herself back- wards and forwards, wringing the feeble hands that lay on her lap. *^ Oh, my child! my child!" the poor woman murmured ; '^ and to think that I have asked of thee so hard a sacrifice ! " She had had a long talk with Fifine, and in the girl's artless confession the mother had seen plainly the motive of her child's consent to the marriage with Monsieur Dusecq. ^^It must not be," said La mere Jacqueline. **It would be sin to marry this old man while she loves the young one ; she must not be sacrificed for my sake ; and yet what can I do ? I cannot go against Elise ; and who is to say what kind of man this Michel van Oorst may be ? He may only be trifling with my poor Fifine." 96 FIFINE: But formidable as it seemed to the timid woman to appeal to her strong-willed, strong- voiced sister, it must be done ; and she sat waiting with a beating heart the return of Madame Popot. She came sooner than La mere Jacqueline expected. Margotin had presented her em- ployer with an immense bunch of marigolds from her little garden, and the portly laun- dress buried her pink cheeks in this, and gave a prodigious sniff, before she so much as looked at La mere Jacqueline. When she did look up, her sister saw something was amiss, and she felt more timid than ever. She must speak all the same — she must appeal to Elise, and see if she would not find some means to break off the marriage before Mon- sieur Dusecq came again to see Fifine. *^Bah!" Madame Popot unhooked her cloak and flung it on a chair, and then she flung herself into another chair, which squeaked and groaned at the sudden weight. *' I am exhausted — bah, see v/hat comes of having too good a heart. I go to see a sick child, and in return I get destroyed with fatigue and vexation." A STORY OF MA LINES. 97 '* TVhat has vexed thee, my sister?" La mere Jacqueline spoke in a soothing voice, but it seemed to irritate Madame Popot. '' Aha, Jacqueline, that is not for thee to know all at once." She spoke angrily ; she felt she had been ill-used. *^ "Where, then, is the little one ? " ** She is in her bedroom ; but stay, Elise " Madame Popot was half-way to the door ; she looked wrathfully over her shoulder. '^ Why should I stay ? I have something to question Fifine about, and the sooner the better." ** Elise." There was something so solemn and yet so beseeching in the tone, that Madame Popot faced round towards her sister — she was not mollified, but she was re- strained. '^ I want you to sit down and listen," said La mere Jacqueline. Madame Popot puffed out her pink cheeks, and sat down with her plump hands folded on the slant where her lap should have been. ^'Eh bien!" she said, with a sharpness quite at variance with the repose of her atti- VOL. I. H 98 FIFINE: tnde ; and La mere Jacqueline's heart grew heavier still. **You must not be angry, Elise ; at least, I hope you will not " — her voice was quaver- ing and timid, and fear is about the most irritating quality that can be brought to bear on the nerves of an angry woman — '* but I am afraid it will not be right that this mar- riage should go on." ^'This marriage — not go on," came out in two gasps, and then Madame Popot fell back in her chair — she was almost choked. ^'Fifine does not like Monsieur Dusecq, and he is too old ; and besides, Elise, the child loves another person." The poor woman pressed her weak hands together. She was sick and faint with fear, and hardly knew how she got the words out; the room and the flowers on the window-sill, and the great orange-coloured bouquet on the table, all seemed to be going round and round, for Jacqueline knew her sister's anger of old, and shrank from it. Madame Popot rose. She seemed to dilate as she drew herself stiffly out of her chair. ** Jacqueline, thou art an imbecile" — she A STORY OF MALLYES. 99 stopped and took breath. ^' This marriage is none of thy making ; thou hast, therefore, no power to unmake it. Listen, foohsh woman: how canst thou, feeble as thou art, watch over the goings and comings of a girl so artful as Fifine ? Aha, shake thy head, but artful is the word w^hich truly describes Fifine. She must have a husband, and that quickly ; a sober, discreet man, who will watch her goings and comings. It is much if we keep the matter from Monsieur Dusecq's ears, and so avoid the risk of his refusing to fulfil his part. Ma foi ! when I think how I have been blinded, I have not patience to speak. Fifine is a child, is she, my sister ? An in- nocent, artless child, truly, who goes do\\Ti to the river-side to beat linen there, and stands talking to her lover under the poplar-trees ! What sayest thou now. La mere Jacqueline ? Truly thou art kept in the dark." The mother's heart felt lightened. Madame Popot's words had conjured up at first dim phantoms of doubt. ^* That is the person of whom I spoke," she said, eagerly: *'she loves him; how, then, can she marry Monsieur Dusecq?" 100 FIFINE: **I say well that tliou art imbecile, Jacque- line." Madame Popot stretched out her hand to impose silence. ''This lover is a vaurien, — a man who, doubtless, meets others besides Fifine under the trees," and Madame Popot 's anger grew hot again. " Thou art willing to let this girl lose the only chance of a re- putable marriage that will ever fall to her lot, while she throws away her character with an idle vagabond who does not earn a farthing. But I also am imbecile to waste words," ex- claimed Madame, grasping a cap-string in each hand. "I tell thee, Jacqueline, Fifine shall marry Monsieur Dusecq, or she never comes inside this door again — never — ^never." She stamped her feet hard, but her sister did not look so frightened now. "I cannot live without my child," the mother said, coldly. " If thou turnest her out to starve, Elise, I go along with her." Madame's face twitched, but she was not to be conquered. " I do not want to see thee suffer, Jacque- line, but I keep to my word. Fifine must keep her promise to Monsieur Dusecq. I give her two days to decide." A STORY OF M ALINES. loi VII. T^HAT night neither mother nor daughter got any settled sleep. Her aunt had over- whelmed Fifine with reproaches, and then the girl had sat weeping silently till bed-time. It w^as so hard to know how to act, and while she pondered, the words of the preacher came back. Surely it was better to give up her ovm happiness than to risk her mother's com- fort and welfare. But then it was also the happiness of Michel ; and he loved her so : how could she sacrifice his^^happiness ? ''But perhaps men are different : he will be sorry at first, but after that he will be consoled ; he will see many girls who will make him as happy as I could," sobbed poor Fifine; but her heart seemed unwilling to consent to her words. "When Fifine rose next morning, Madame Popot was absent. The girl got doT\Ti the pewter-jug in which she fetched the milk, and took her way to the little dairy beyond the bridge. Ever^^thing looked so pitilessly full of blithe_^unshine and happiness. A woman I02 FIFINE: on a barge opposite the crane sat singing to the baby on her knees ; her husband lay a little farther off in a heap of carrots and turnips, smoking his pipe, and watching with delight the crowing movements of the infant. Farther on she came to a great heap of stones shot down on the quay for the purpose of mending it, and here was a group of rag- ged boys at play, a merry, red-capped rascal atop, defending his position against the as- saults of several younger urchins. Their peals of happy laughter made Fifine hurry on. Just as. she reached the bridge, she had to step aside out of the path ; two children in blue round pinafores and white skull-caps sat munching a huge piece of bread, uttering shrieks of delight as each made a larger hole in the slice than the bite which had gone before. ''Oh, how happy to be like them!" sighed Fifine ; ''a month ago I too was a baby." Her cheeks flushed brightly under her hood. She saw Michel crossing the bridge. He was close to her in a minute ; the look in his eyes frightened her. A STORY OF M ALINES. 103 '* Fifine," — his voice had such a strange, mournful sound that the girl grew pale at once, — '' I ought not to have spoken to you ; my hopes are at end. I thought I had got a post on the railway, but I cannot have it. I know no one here, and the applicant for this post must bring a recommendation from two respectable inhabitants. Adieu, Fifine ; try and forget all about such a worthless fellow as I am." He went on fast — he did not dare to trust himself beside her. Fifine drew a long, deep breath, and looked around her. There was no one in sight but the two little children still at work on their breakfast, and farther on she could still make out the mother and child on the barge. She felt stupefied. She pulled her hood forward; she wanted to shut out the sunshine and the short dream that had made life so intensely bright. Madame Popot breakfasted between ten and eleven. She had a cup of coffee earlier, but she took this in the wash-house. Fifine was surprised at her aunt's gracious manner when she came in. She gave the girl some money, and bade her buy eggs and a melon, and be back quickly. 104 FIFINE: Fifine was puzzled ; there was already sausage for breakfast. Why was her aunt so prodigal this morning ? She went and came back and set the table mechanicallj^, too heavy-hearted to notice anything, or she must have seen that Madame had put on a fresh cap, and that the finest of her mother's fuchsias stood in the centre of the table. She could not realise what had happened, but Michel's words had silenced every hope in the poor child's heart. ''Why should I refuse this satisfaction to my aunt?" she said. " I am nothing to Michel ; he gives me up ; he does not want my love. If I marry Monsieur Dusecq, I please her and him too, and I secure my mother's future. Am I then so selfish as to put myself alone against everyone?" The struggle was very sore; it went on all the morning. There was no washing, but there was plenty of work to be done in unsewing lace borders from caps and pocket-handker- chiefs, and tacking them neatly in little folded packets ready for. wash to-morrow. As the chimes went three-quarters past ten, Fifine set her mother's bouillon and her aunt's bottle A STORY OF M ALINES. 105 of beer on the table. To her surprise she saw that her aunt too had been busy. The fuchsia was flanked on one side by the grand green-and-gold melon, and on the other by a golden omelette. Before she could think what all this meant, there was a tap at the door, and her aunt was shaking hands with Monsieur Dusecq. It came to Fifine in a moment that her fate was decided. There was no use in struggling against the doom which consigned her to Monsieur Dusecq. All the summer of her life was ended — it would be always winter for her. Michel even willed it so. Therefore, when Monsieur Dusecq came up to her, smiHng and bowing, and holding out his hand, Fifine put hers into it without shi'inking. She even smiled while Monsieur Dusecq raised her hand to his lips. La mere Jacqueline held her breath in wonder, but Madame Popot grew flushed and radiant, She placed a flask of Macon on the table, and poured a whole glassful out for Fifine. The girl tried to listen to her enamoured io5 FIFINE: suitor, tried to smile at his jokes, but her head grew hotter and heavier, and her hands and feet were cold as ice. If her mother would only smile and seem happy too, she could bear it, but La mere Jacqueline does not speak or eat; she seems scarcely able to swallow her broth. Monsieur Dusecq breakfasts on his love, for it cannot be expected that he can eat omelette — he whose omelettes are unrivalled. But he gets through some huge slices of melon, smacks his lips over them too, and has some trouble in wiping off the golden fragments from his large, overhanging moustache. He accomplishes this at last, and then he turns to Madame Popot. '' Madame, may I have the honour of a few moments' private conversation?" ** Whatever does the man want now?" says his hostess ; ^^did we not settle this morning that everything was to be arranged without further delay ? He is as full of fuss and fidget as an old maid." But she only says this to herself. Her bland face wears its roundest smile as she leads the way into the empty wash-house. A STORY OF M ALINES. 107 Fifine went up to her mother and put her arms round her neck. *'My mother, I am willing to marry Mon- sieur Dusecq. It is all over with Michel ; he has said farewell to me. Give me your blessing, mother, and do not look so sad." She knelt down, but La mere Jacqueline was not satisfied. She questioned Fifine till she knew the story of Michel's disappointed love, and to her, too, it seemed that this mar- riage was ordained by Fate. When the others came back they found the mother and daughter sitting hand-in-hand. Monsiem* walked slowly up to Fifine with his legs very wide apart. ** Mademoiselle ! " He stopped, and fum- bled in his pocket. ^' Will Mademoiselle deign to accept a little souvenir from me?" And he held out a gold locket in which was a portrait of himself. '^ Thank you." But Fifine's hand trem- bled as she took the locket. Then Monsieur Dusecq stooped a little and kissed her on the forehead. The warm blood rushed there in a moment, and tears came in her eyes ; but this was to io8 FIFINE: be expected in a young, modest girl, and Monsieur Dusecq felt triumphant. He turned to La mere Jacqueline. *' I have reason to believe, Madame, that I may arrange for the marriage with your daughter on next Saturday." Fifine's blushes fled. She turned a deadly white. La mere Jacqueline spoke hm'riedly: '' So soon ? I had not thought it would be so soon." Monsieur glanced at Madame Popot, and in her face he read encouragement. *' Does Mademoiselle think it too soon?" he said to Fifine. The girl tried to speak, but the words only formed themselves, and then fell unspoken. At last she found voice, but it was forced, not like her own: ''I am ready. Monsieur." Monsieur Dusecq was so enraptured that he took both her hands in his and kissed her soundingly on each cheek. He would have liked to have taken her in his arms, only something in her timidity and in the manner of La mere Jacqueline restrained him. But in the discussion that immediately ensued A STORY OF MALIXES. 109 about the time io be fixed for the ceremon\ C ' no one saw the flitting colour on the girl's heart-sick face ; and when the an-angement came to an end Monsieur Dusecq departed. Madame Popot followed him to the door, but he seemed unconscious of her presence. He turned round and kissed his fingers rapturously to Fifine. Madame Popot stood under the archway and watched him out of sight. '^ He is a fool — but he will do for the child." no FIFINE: VIII. TTOU are not to suppose that Monsieur Dusecq lived altogether at the Hotel la Grue, on the Grande Place. He was to be found there from early morning till after the evening table d'hote was served, in his spot- less suit of calico and his paper cap, a costume which suited him better than any other; it gave him height, and set off his glossy dark beard. On the evening of the day which had de- cided Fifine's fate, he left the hotel in a tight blue frock-coat and still tighter salmon- coloured trousers, in which he bore a strong resemblance to a pincushion, and instead of going at once to his snug lodging near the Archiepiscopal Palace, a quiet, shady corner so retired that grass grew in among the stones of the pathway, he betook himself to one of the cafes on the Grande Place, ordered a bottle of Strasburg beer, and sat down to play dominoes with a friend under the awning in front. A STORY OF MALINES. m He played game after game, and still he won. He treated his adversary to some more beer, and went on winning as before. **It is no use, Pierre Burghaut ; luck is against thee, my friend : and luck to-day is for me absolutely in other things than do- minoes." He slapped his pockets joyfully, nodded to his friend, and then took his way home. It has been said that Monsieur Dusecq's lodging was in a shady, quiet part of the town. It overlooked a smaller canal, from which the houses rose at once without any quay ; and although this is a picturesque arrangement, still, when all is in deep shadow, and the sur- face of the water is encrusted with yellow scum, there is a sense of depression in the atmosphere. Monsieur Dusecq's heart sank, and he drew a deep involuntary sigh. *'Bah! it is only the contrast jfrom the blazing sunshine we had a little while ago." He stopped at the open door of his lodg- ing. It had been a grand house once ; the black marble staircase still remained to bear witness to its chancre of fortune. 112 FIFINE: Outside the door a curious old-fashioned chair was standing ; its bearers had seem- ingly deserted it, but in reality they were just round the angle of Monsieur Dusecq's lodging playing at marbles, for though the chair was the property of Madame Popot, the bearers were not those usually employed by the good washerwoman. But Monsieur Dusecq hardly remarked the chair, he was so troubled by his increas- ing depression. '^ Ma foi ! " and he laid his hand on his chest. ^' It is perhaps the melon." This idea having cheered him marvel- lously, he went up the flight of stone steps to the old-fashioned hooded doorway, flour- ishing his cane as he went. He started back in stupefied astonishment ; sitting on the horse-hair bench at the foot of the black marble staircase was the mother of Fifine, the woman he had looked on as an immov- able cripple ! ** Madame ! " He bowed and then he stut- tered, '' Mais — mais — qu'est ce que c'est, Madame?" There was no use in asking his future mother-in-law to walk upstairs to his A STORY OF M ALINES. 113 rooms. It was possible that she had no legs, and he might be expected to carry her. His forehead grew clammy at this, but La mere Jacqueline helped his perplexity. *' Monsieur ! " — her sweet, faint Toice thrilled through even Monsieur Dusecq — ' ' I hope you will pardon me : I want to speak to you very much, and I got myself carried to your house." *^ Then she is carried; I knew it," and the chef rubbed his hands with self-com- placency. *^ But mon Dieu ! I cannot carry her;" he made a grimace — "she must stay here." He smiled. " Madame, I am your most devoted." He had been standing hat in hand, but he waved it gracefully to and fro, as if thereby signifying his willingness to fly all over Belgium if Madame required such a service. ** Monsieur," said La mere Jacqueline, in an uncertain, fluttered voice, " my daughter cannot marry you." Monsieur Dusecq's hat paused in its gyra- tions, and then fell on the floor, describing VOL. I. I H4 FIFINE: a circle as it rolled round the widely-set feet of its owner. But Monsieur Dusecq had lived too long in the world to be daunted by a crippled woman — a woman he strongly suspected of being the dependent of her sister, Madame Popot ; and the wisdom his world had taught Monsieur Dusecq was that dependents should be sent to the wall. '' Plait-il, Madame ? " He had quite re- covered himself, and he put his head on one side, and his hands in the pockets of the salmon-coloured trousers. La mere Jacqueline flushed. This man had seemed so kind and good-natured at her sister's that she had not counted on resist- ance. She looked up in his face ; there was an expression in his puckered-up lips and drawn-down eyebrows near akin to contempt. '^My daughter Fifine cannot marry you, Monsieur," she repeated slowly; '"■ and when I have told you why, I think you will not care to marry her. She loves someone else." The change in Monsieur's face resembled the change in one of those transformation A STORY OF M ALINES. 115 pictures where a pull of the string works wonders. Down came his lips, and parted into a round ; his eyebrows got out of their slant at once, and knitted savagely. *^ Loves — some — one — else!" his words sounded as if they had come some distance and were out of breath. "Bah! Madame, what are the fancies of a young girl ? — light as a soufflee" — he made an expressive sign with his hand. "Nothing. Console yourself, Madame ; I shall marry your daughter on Saturday." La mere Jacqueline shook her head. She was no longer nervous, she was indignant, and her voice did not flutter this time. '' Monsieur, you are aware that the law requires my consent to this maniage, and you have not asked me for it." " Madame, your silence implied consent; it is too late to withdraw it." *^I know I should have spoken out sooner, but at first I was ignorant of my daughter's feelings ; though from the first, Monsieur, I have thought you too old for Fifine." ii6 FIFINE: " Too old ! *' and here the chef gave vent to a most unrestrained imprecation. ** You will excuse me, Madame, but I am in my prime of vigour. Parbleu ! that I, with a beard in which is not one white hair, should be taxed with age ! Too old ! Ciel ! " He spun round and round like a cock- chafer. He had a dim feeling that he should like to toss the poor little cripple up to the ceiling, if he could make up his mind to touch her. At last he stood still, planted his legs wider apart than ever, and looked severely at La mere Jacqueline. *^ Excuse me, Madame, but I cannot admit your interference. Madame Popot is the arbiter of my destiny, Madame Popot introduced me to your daughter, Madame Popot is her protector and guardian — I receive her as my wife at the hands of Madame Popot. Voila, Madame." This was poured out in a torrent. In the pause La mere Jacqueline had had time to rally her startled wits. Really alarmed as she was by his violence, she was determined to conquer, and Monsieur Dusecq had unwittingly shown her his weak side. A STORY OF MA LINES. 117 She forced herself to smile ; she saw that any earnest appeal must fall blunted on the man's selfishness. In her long hours of sickness she had thought much, and she had learned among other things that to appear deeply in earnest is to be incomprehensible to worldly hearts. ** "Well, Monsieur, "she said quietly, ** every- one to his taste ; only I fancied I was doing you a kindness." Her altered tone struck him with alarm. He drew his hands out of his pockets and pulled up his collar. *^ A kindness to me ! Madame is kind, but I am at a loss to understand how Madame can possess that power. Ciel ! " he murmured to himself, ^' Alphonse Theo- phile Dusecq, art thou awake or asleep, when a woman without legs proposes to do thee a kindness ?" '*Yes, Monsieur, a kindness. Fifine is my daughter, and yet I cannot let you be deceived. She has consented to this mar- riage only because you are rich ; " — Monsieur's cheeks became as red as peonies — *' she abhors you, and says you are an ugly little ii8 FIFINE: monster ; you will pardon me, Monsieur." Here La mere Jacqueline smiled. Monsieur swore and stamped with fury. But La mere Jacqueline was unmerciful; she went on in the same cheerful tone. ** Yes, a monster ; she fainted away with disgust this morning after you departed, and when she recovered she took the locket with your portrait and flung it out of window. Ah, Monsieur, I will not have you deceived ; it would be shameful not to let you know that my child says you are a little monster.*' Monsieur stood glaring. He had grown purple with indignation; for some minutes he could not speak. ** Then I am to understand that your sister, Madame Popot, is leagued in this shameful plot ; and that the little hussy her niece would be willing to marry me on Satur- day, after abusing me and flinging my por- trait out of window ! " ** Monsieur, you can believe me or not, as you choose. I only tell you that my child bade me not interfere: she said, * My mother, this marriage must go on.' There is the A STORY OF ^f ALINES. 119 photograph, Monsieur ; it is only a little bruised with the fall." She held out the locket, but Monsieur Dusecq waved it aside. ''Madame," he said, when his usual pompous calmness had returned, '^ I ask your pardon, and I believe your story, because in this world it is the business of each one to ad- vance his own interest, and it is to your interest that I should marry your daughter. Madame, it is true that I marry on Saturday, but it shall not be a shallow, unappreciating, idiotic girl; no, Madame, I do not intend to ally myself to Mademoiselle Josephine le Due. Madame," — his voice grew loud and excited again with the loftiness of his words — ''there is at the Hotel la Grue" — he pointed one fat finger as if to indicate it — " a femme de chambre whose tenderness is unremitting : that tenderness, Madame, has been slighted for an unworthy rival, but it shall be rewarded. Yes, Madame, your un- worthy daughter shall weep over the dis- appointment of her treacherous scheme. ' An ugly little monster ! ' Ah, morbleu ! " He put his hand to his side as if he wore a I20 FIFINE : sword there, and had a habit of drawing it on occasion; but encountering only the flap of his coat pocket, he recovered himself, and bowed to La mere Jacqueline. ** Madame, I have the honour of bidding you adieu ; adieu, Madame.'* He picked up his hat, set it firmly on his head, thrust both hands in the pockets of his trousers, and walked slowly and ma- jestically up the black marble staircase, whistling the Brabangoise. A STORY OF MALINES. 121 IX. A S soon as the grand breakfast was over, Madame Popot had gone into Brussels by railway. The good woman wanted to give Fifine a suitable marriage present; and dur- ing this unusual absence, La mere Jacqueline had contrived to plan and carrj^ out her secret visit to Monsieur Dusecq. It was true that Fifine had fainted, and that she had flung the locket out of window, believing herself unnoticed. La mere Jacque- line had noticed these things silently, and she resolved to save her child's happiness. When the chimes went for five o'clock, she sent Fifine out on a distant errand ; and when some boys came to play under the archway, she prevailed on them to carry her chair. Her strength failed her before she reached home, and she bade the boys leave her in her chair till Fifine 's return. Fifine was full of loving alarm and anxiety 122 FIFINE: when she found her mother pale and ex- hausted, almost lifeless. La mere Jacqueline was not in a state to answer questions. Fifine could only indulge in a sad wonder as to what had happened. But presently a letter arrived from Monsieur Dusecq, and La mere Jacqueline revived. The colour came hack to her face ; she trembled with impatience to know what was inside the letter. She longed for her sister's return. '' Ah, mon Dieu, I am tired to death! " and Madame Popot rolled in and fell exhausted into a chair ; '^ was there ever a city made ex- pressly to torture the feet and ankles like this villainous city of Brussels ! I have gone up and down, up and down, all day, till I could not walk straight if I tried. Ciel ! what one has to suffer for being benevolent ! Ouf ! and here is a letter on the table ; a letter for me, who never write to anyone. Ah ! this is too much ; read it for me then, Fifine, my eye- sight even is exhausted." A pink flush spread over Fifine 's face as she read: *' Monsieur Alphonse Theophile Dusecq has the honour to present his compliments to A STORY OF M ALINES. 123 Madame Popot, and he has also the honour of refusing the condescension of an alliance with her niece, Mademoiselle Josephine le Due. He comprehends that he has been sought, not for himself, but for what he possesses, and this idea is so repugnant to his lofty estimate of marriage that he must request Madame Popot to inform Mademoiselle le Due that she must for ever give up the hope of becoming the wife of Monsieur Dusecq. He could say much more, but Madame Popot's own reflections will fully explain anything he may have omitted." Madame hardly waited for the end. '^ Ah, Fifine, what is this ? what hast thou done ? See what thy folly has worked ; such a marriage as never again can fall to thee," and she broke into a torrent of reproaches. She held out her hand for the letter, and read it as carefully as her anger would allow, and then she burst out again. ** Married for himself, the little bloated glutton ! He expected it, did he ! Aha ! I had a suspicion of his insolence when he refused this morning to eat the omelette I had prepared with my own hands for his 124 FIFINE: greasy little stomach. Lofty notions, has he, the little stunted ape ; and he dares to insinuate that I, Elise Popot, imagined that my niece Fifine would marry him for love, — the imbecile butter-tub ! " She embraced the wondering Fifine, and then sat thinking. But the conscience of La mere Jacqueline was troubled : come what would, she must tell sister Popot the truth. *^ Go upstairs, Fifine,'' she said. Meekly and faintly at first, but with an earnestness that gave strength to her voice as she pro- ceeded, La mere Jacqueline related her in- terview with Monsieur Dusecq. Madame Popot's face grew very red ; but when her sister described the chefs anger and repeated his message, her lips parted suddenly, and she fell back in her chair in a hearty fit of laughter. She laughed so long and so loud that Fifine came down to see what could have caused the unexpected merriment. Poor Fifine was in a mood to laugh and cry all at once ; her head was in such a wiiirl that she could not yet realise what had been happening to her. " The old peacock ! Allons, Fifine, my A STORY OF M ALINES, 125 child, I tell thee what we will do : we will be even with this fine pretendu of thine. And besides, I have brought thee a wedding present — see here, a watch with a picture on the back. Aha ! it is worth being married for, is it not, little one ? But what is to be done ? It is necessary that thou shouldst be married ; and the next thing is to find a husband." Fifine knelt doT\TL by her aunt. '' My aunt, thou hast been all goodness to me, and I would do anything to show my gratitude, but, forgive me, I see now it would be a sin to marry anyone but Michel. Even Monsieur Dusecq's letter shows me that I can- not only sacrifice myself. I cannot make my husband happy unless I love him." She rose up pale, but not trembling. Come what would, she knew Madame Popot would never let her mother starve, and for herself it was better to endure any hardship than to commit wilful sin. Her aunt looked at her steadily. '' You were sent upstairs just now^, Fifine : I do not know why you came down without leave. Go up again." Her voice was as sharp as vinegar. 126 FIFINE: All this while La mere Jacqueline had sat crouched in her corner. She was still sadly exliausted, and Madame Popot's severe voice seemed to end her hopes for Fifine's happi- ness. Her eyes followed the girl as she went upstairs. To her surprise, Madame rose up as soon as Fifine was out of sight, and came across the room like a snail, holding her chair behind her. Arrived at her sister, she set the chair down beside her, and rolled into it. ** Now then, sister Jacqueline, I have a few words to say to thee ; only understand, they are not to be told to the little simple- ton upstairs. In the first place, then, thou hast acted like a heroic fool. "Was it thy part to meddle in affairs which I had arranged ? And then the risk, Ciel ! the risk. I may send thee out in a chair with bearers of my own choosing, who are re- warded for their labour, but for thee to trust thyself to gamins, who carry thee for their amusement, Ciel ! it is a mercy they did not play pitch-and-toss with thee into the canal. Why, thou art trembling from head A STORY OF MALINES. 127 to foot ; ah, ma foi ! it is a Quixotism not to be equalled." And Madame got up out of her chair, and going to a small imperceptible cup- board, produced thence two ^'petits verres" of cognac. The cognac being drunk, after a feeble remonstrance from La mere Jacqueline, Madame Popot carried away the glasses, reseated herself, and putting her lips close to her sister's ear, went on with the con- versation in whispers. At last she rose from her chair. '^ We will punish the vain little fool," and she put her finger on her lips. La mere Jacqueline obeyed her sister's injunction of secrecy. The results of the conversation were these : — Two days after, Madame Popot and her friend, the chief grocer in the quaint little town, went up to the railway station, and there solemnly became securities for the good conduct and sobriety of Michel van Oorst, who gained the post which had been refused him ; and a month afterwards, when Jacque- line had recovered from the illness that fol- lowed her brave venture for her dauo^hter's 128 FIFINE: A STORY OF M ALINES. happiness, Fifine, looking prettier than ever in white muslin, with her gold watch at her side, stood beside Michel van Oorst in the Cathedral of St. Eumbold, and, in the pre- sence of her aunt and La mere Jacqueline, promised to take him to her wedded husband till death should them part. THE JOHN HAEEIS VOL. I. THE JOHN HAEEIS. *' T'VE been thinkin', sir, you'd like to lie^.r of how we gave chase to a slaver off the east coast of Africa in the year '59." I nodded assent. I had made the acquaint- ance of my friend Jack Pembridge on the day I reached Broadstairs, and since then I had walked out several times to Kingsgate to have a chat wdth him about his life on board a man-o'-war. Jack was a splendid -looking, muscular fellow, about six feet high, with handsome blue eyes ; his tawny mane and whiskers matched his skin so nearly in colour, that he looked a perfect embodiment of tropi- cal sunshine. He had taken service in the Preventive Force at Kingsgate for a time, as his wife did not want him to go to sea again. The last time I had seen him I asked him to search his memory for a yarn against my next visit, as I meant to go up and see 132 THE JOHN HARRIS. the lifeboat, and when he saw me he greeted me with this sentence. Jack was standing by the lifeboat house when I reached him, but he seemed to think this an unfit place for story-telling. ** Come round, sir," he said, ** to the lee- side of Neptune's Tower ; there's a seat there, snug in the sunshine." So there was ; and, as he had evidently preconcerted this arrangement, he began at once without any preface, except to say in answer to my question that his ship's name at the time was Her Majesty's steamer *'We was cruising about in the Bight — we'd none on us been ashore for three year — for you see, sir, there's a deal of fever on the coast, and it wouldn't do ; general ways, ships takes it turn and turn about to go ashore at St. Helena; but somehow we hadn't done it, and our Cap'n — he was a rare good one — I suppose he guessed we felt it tightish work — tho' I don't think none of us did, for we was all comfortable among ourselves. He used to give us leave — the Cap'n did — when the country people comed down to the shore THE JOHN HARRIS. 133 — as they do at some 0' the places with eggs and cheese and such like — he used to say, * Go ashore, lads, and buy what you like,' and if we brought a cask o' brandy back he never said nothin'; he always locked it up you know," said Jack, looking as serious as his usual expression of broad good-humour permitted, '^ and served it us out in rations extra after supper, and then we used to have singin' and dancin' and jokin' ; bless your heart, sir, we were as jolly . It was par- ticular so for me, for you see there was only the Cap'n, the master, and a midshipman — both these last was boys, so — tho' I was only a petty hofficer — cox'en of the longboat — the Cap'n he looked to me for eveiy think, you know, sir — not but what he was rare and kind to all — but I had a'most all the same as quarter-deck hojBficer. '' Well, sir, one day we was at Whydar, when a missionary comes aboard and tells the Cap'n if he'll give him forty pound he'll put him in the way of a slaver — for you see, sir, the slavers is mostly taken thro' the reports of the missionaries, sir. Well, the Cap'n he sent for the hofficers and 134 THE JOHN HARRIS. they talked it over, and it was settled that the missionary — he was a black 'un — should be paid the money if the slaver was taken, and the contrairy if it wasn't. So then he told us that she was a brigantine sailing under the 'Merikin colours and calling herself the John Harris ; she had on'y lately come in, and he knew she hadn't loaded yet. Next morning v/e got orders from the Admiral's ship to go up to Lagos ; so off we goes, the risk being . that the slaver might have taken in her cargo afore we comed back, you see, sir. Well, we wasn't long at Lagos — we'd left a boat to watch her — and as soon as we comes back there she was, sure enough, with the 'Merikin flag flying. ^*Well, sir, as soon as our Cap'n see this he tells me to man a boat, and off he goes to hold a parley with the 'Merikin skipper — only the Cap'n and the midshipman goes on deck, and we stays below in the boat. Presently I looks up and I sees peeping over at me a face I know'd, a mate I'd served with on board the Britannia, '' ' Hullo, mate,' says I, 'I thinks I knows vour face.' THE JOHN HARRIS. 135 ** * I knows youm, if you don't know mine,' he says, grinning. **'Your name's Freeman, ain't it?' says I. ** * Well, it is,' says he — and then he grins at me again. '* ' What are you doin' here ? ' says I. ** * Oh, we've on'y got a small cargo,' says he, * and we've nearly got rid of it.' ** * All ready to take in the live un, eh ? ' says I. ** * That's nothing to you nor me,' says he, quite short. ** I saw I should get nothing more out of him. Presently the Cap'n comes down and tells us to pull back to the ship. '^ * I can't make nothing out of her, Pem- bridge,' he whispers ; * she's not loaded yet, anyhow.' *' Well, I was terrible oneasy, because I feels sure she was after no good ; but, as the Cap'n said, we'd no proof to warrant us in taking any proceedings again her. For you see, sir, that was before this 'Merikin war, and the 'Merikins didn't allow no right of search, so if the Cap'n had opened her hatches and she'd turned out no slaver at all. 136 THE JOHN HARRIS, why their government ud brought a haction against our'n and our Cap'n ud ha' lost his commission. ** "Well, sir, on and off we went on cruising thereabouts for some weeks, never once losing sight of the Jolm Harris. '' She dropped down to St. Thomas's after a bit and filled all her water-casks, but she seemed so quiet and take-it-easy about it, that some on us begun to feel terrible puzzled ; we'd noticed that she'd had a lot o' planks aboard of her, all ready to make a slave deck, but she'd sent these all ashore now. You know, sir, if they don't ship the darkies as soon as old King Dahomey 's got 'em ready, why he claims 'em and makes the skipper buy 'em all over again. '*Well, all on a sudden one Saturday even- ing we missed her — she was gone right clean from under our noses. Well, the Cap'n was terrible vexed, for you see, sir, we thought she'd perhaps taken her cargo in and was off safe enough to Cuba ; so he sends two crew boys ashore to inquire of the mis- sionary what gived us information. Well, sir, the crew boys didn't come back, nor the boat THE JOHN HARRIS. 137 neither — it was plain enough they'd been put in prison to stop their laying informations. ** We was precious wild to think we'd lost her after all, for you see, supposin' she hadn't loaded, we didn't know where she was agoing to take 'em in, so we didn't know where to look for her. ''Well, the next day was Sunday — it was a misty, hazy sort of weather — I was keeping watch while they wa^ at church below, and I just thought I'd get up in the cross-trees and have a look out, — and I'm blow'd if I didn't ketch sight on her some way down the coast at a place called Ambrosette. Down I goes and whispers the Cap'n — " ' Sir,' says I, ' there's the Jolin Harris.* '' ' Where ? ' says he. *' ' Down at Ambrosette; she's a gettin' 'em in. She won't be there long, sir,' says I. '' Well, the Cap'n he cuts chm'ch precious short, and up he comes to the cross-trees. '* ' That's her, sure enough,' says he, after he'd taken a squint at her thro' the glass. '' But he wouldn't have the steam got up at once, because he wanted, you see, to let her ship her cargo. Against it was dusk we was 138 THE JOHN HARRIS. all ready, and then down we steamed at a tremenjious rate. ''Well, we was all looking forrard, all on us — it had come on a bit hazy — bending our eyes in one direction and specting to ketch sight on her ivery minute, for you see, sir, we'd no suspicions that she was off — when on a sudden one of our crew who'd been ill and was setting for hair on a coil of ropes in the stern, he calls out, ' There she is — there's the John Harris ! * '* There she was behind us. Why, sir, we'd passed her in the fog, which had just lifted off now ; and if that invalid seaman hadn't happened to be looking otherways to what the rest on us was, we'd ha' lost her altogether. *' Well, the Cap'n he calls out, ' Ease her, stop her ! ' and our ship was soon swung round within hail of the slaver. The fog had cleared off now. You see, sir, in them seas it's never what you may call dark, and we'd soon got near enough to be sure of her. ''But the Cap'n wouldn't meddle with her till daylight. That came soon, and then he hails her : ' What ship's that ? ' THE JOHN HARRIS. 139 *' * What ship are you ? ' came the answer. ** * That's enough, sir/ says I, * that shows what she is ; and, lookye here, sir, the John Harris is painted out now.' '* ^ How can you be sure of that ? ' says the Doctor. *' * Sure, sir?' says I, *why I sees the fresh paint.' You see, sir, I always had a credit for sharp sight. *^ Well, the Cap'n sends the two officers and the gunner in one boat, and me and a file of marines in another ; but I was not to go on board unless Mr. Walkinshaw — that was the master's name — signalled to me to do so. However, sir, as we lay alongside in the boat, I was sure we was all right, for I could smell 'em, sir — smell 'em through the timbers, as plain . Well, after they'd had some palaver with the skipper, Mr. Walkinshaw he comes to the side and beckons me up. *' * It's all right, Pembridge,' he whis- pers. *^ * Yes, sir,' says I, * right enough, she's right full on 'em.' " * Oh, I think not,' he says, looking quite surprised : * the skipper shows his papers all I40 THE JOHN HARRIS. right and fair. I don't think there's any m '* ^Well, sir/ says I, * I've got just upon four pound in my locker, and I don't mind betting you that there four pound that she's right full on 'em. Why, sir, put your nose down here — can't you smell 'em ? ' ** * No, Pemhridge, I can't,' says he, 'no more can the others. What reason have you for suspicion ? ' '' I felt terrible mid, but you see, sir, they was hofficers and I was man, and you see they'd been havin' a cigar with the skipper, and he'd been making himself pleasant, and those young gents is easy got over. '''Well, sir,' says I, 'when we went aboard at Whydar she'd got a lot o' crew boys. Where's the crew boys now ? Then she's got all her water-casks on deck. Why's that for, but to give room below ? and most of all, sir , I smell 'em.' " Well, the man I named Freeman was the mate, and he looked black enough at me, for he saw I know'd what I was about ; and there was another mate named Thomas — a most hawful character he was, to be sure — THE JOHN HARRIS. 141 the hoaths he used when he see me and the hofficers talkin' together was tremenjious — them 'Merikins is terrible 'andy with hoaths, you know, sir. '' Well, Mr. Walkinshaw he says some- thing to the skipper about crew boys, and says Freeman, ^ Here they lies, safe enough,' and he lifts up a sail on deck, and reg'lar shows 'em to us — a heap of darkies all lying huddled together. '^ ' Here they are, sir,' says I, 'now you see 'em.' ** ' See w^hat ? ' says the gunner ; ' those are the crew boys.' '* Well, sir, it was no use : they'd done us for that time. Over we goes, and rows back to our ship, and the officers goes up to the Cap'n with their stoiy. Well, the men was rare and wild ; them as had been ^^ith me in the boat had told the rest, and they all begins a-hurging 0' me to go up to the Cap'n and tell him my suspicions. " ' Quiet,' says I, ' you let the Cap'n alone ; he'll send for me when he wants me.' '' Sure enough, there was a 'ue and cry for me presently, and up I goes to the Cap'n. 142 THE JOHN HARRIS. ** '"Well, Pembridge/ says he, * and what do you say now ? ' " ' Say, sir ? Why, she's full on 'em.' ** * Well,' says he, and he looks terrible perplexed, ' you're only a seaman, and these are hofficers. What are the reasons o' your suspicions, Pembridge ? ' *' * Well, sir,' says I, * I'm that sure, that, with the Cap'n's leave, I'll lay four pound — and that's all I've got left — against any o' these genl'm, that she's right full. Why, sir, I've got three causes of suspicions. In the first place, didn't you notice, when you and me went aboard, or rather when you went aboard and I stayed below, that she'd plenty of crew boys ? ' '**Well,' says our skipper, * I've heard about that, and these gentlemen say the crew boys was accounted for ' '' ' Cap'n,' says I, * in course I can't swear to knowin' them darkies one from another, but my belief is them weren't crew boys as we saw just now. Then, sir, she's got all her water-casks full, on deck, not below, sir. Why's that for ? Then, sir, you remember as well as I do, that she had two anchors when THE JOHN HARRIS. 143 you went aboard — now she's got but one. Why's that, sir? because she saw us a-comin' in the dark, and she slipped her anchor to get off quicker. Why did she do that for?' " The Cap'n he was terrible perplexed, but instead of going aboard himself along 0' me that same afternoon, he says he'd go down to Ambrosette. He knew there was a large Nova Scotia barque lying there, which must have seen all that had been going on, and he'd make inquiries. Now here, sir, was the folly. As it was, it was a dead calm. We could move along because of our steam, but she lay as dead as a log ; but, thinks I to myself, as we steams off, if a breeze springs up in the night, we sha'n't see no more of the John Harris. By the time we gets down to Ambrosette it had got late, and the Cap'n wouldn't let me go aboard the Nova Scotia. He said they would all be abed, and I must wait till daylight. *^It was an hawful sort 0' risk, as you know, sir, to lay alongside all night, and to feel if a breeze sprung up we hadn't the ghost of a chance left ; for I knowed fast enough, 144 THE JOHN HARRIS, if once the John E arris got a fair start the game was up. ** You may be sure I never slept a wink all night, and as soon as there was a glimmer of what might be called daylight, down I goes to the Cap'n, rouses him up, and gets his leave to go aboard. The Cap'n said perhaps they might refuse to give informations, and in that case I was to overhaul their log-book, which in course, as you knows, sir, they hadn't no right to refuse. Well, I goes aboard, sir, and there was no one up, only one seaman, I asked him if he'd seen the John Harris down at Ambrosette lately, and he said ' Yes, till the evening before yesterday ; ' but when I comes to further questions, he declines to hanswer, cos, you see, sir, the Dahomey people would have nothink to do with them, if so be as they gived in- formations. ^* ^Well,* says I, ^ can I see your log- book ? ' ^' ' See it and welcome,' says he. *' And according I looks, and finds, ^Brigan- tine, named John Harris ; had connection with twenty canoes.' THE JOHN HARRIS. 145 *^'A11 right,' thinks I, and didn't I get back quick to the Spitfire, '' 'All right, sir,' I says to the Cap'n, and tells him of the canoes, and back we steams tremenjious fast, and after some time we catches sight on her. She'd moved a little, but the calm lay deader than ever. ** The Cap'n he hails her again, and the skipper, I s'pose, he thinks as how it's all up now. *' ■ It's no good, Cap'n,' says he, ' you can come and take 'em ; I've ^got five hundred for you.' ** Now the bosun and I had had a talk as we was steaming up from Ambrosette, and he said we should miss her after all, he was positive. '' ' Not a bit of it,' says I. ' I'll lay yon a pound that we board her and take her by twelve o'clock.' " ' Done,' says the bosun. ** The Cap'n he tells us to man the pinnace and the longboat,[and all the rest of 'em, and to come with him to the ship. *' Well, as soon as we goes aboard, the skipper he turns sulky, and he says — VOL. I. L 146 THE JOHN HARRIS. *^ ' I don't know what you mean; you came aboard yesterday, and no fault found. What the doose do you mean by poking here again ? You have been a-takin' informations/ '*'Well;' says our Cap'n, 'but our sus- picions is strong agin you, and I must open your hatches.' *' Oh ! if you'd seen the way how the skipper stormed : and as to that there second mate, Thomas, he threatened to take my life if I stayed aboard. '''You stop that,' says I, for he swore terrible hard ; his hoaths were tremenjious ; I can swear, but I never hear sich hoaths ! " ' Lookye here,' says he, with a string of 'em, ' I've got somethink as'll settle you easy.' " And he pulls out a six-barrel revolver. "'Now keep quiet,' says I; 'I'm not here to be threated by you ; two can do that,' and I pulls out my revolver ; for we're allowed to carry 'em, sir, on such-like dooty, ' and perhaps I shall get first chance.' " Just then the Cap'n he beckons our carpenter up out of the boat. 'Bring up your hax,' says he, ' we'll soon have the THE JOHN HARRIS, i47 'atches open.' For they fastens 'em down, sir, as soon as they've got the darkies safe aboard. '' ' I protest agin it/ said the skipper. ** ' No need for that/ whispers Freeman to me, * jest you draw them bolts.' *' Lor' bless you, sir ! the minute Idrawed the bolts and upped with the hatches, there they was, all with their mouths hopen like so many young birds, a cravin' for hair, you know, sir. " So the skipper he gives up then, and he says — '' Well, Cap'n, didn't I tell you I'd got five hundred for you ? " '' Well, I was for hauling down the flag, but the Cap'n he says to me, ' You leave it alone. Jack; let 'em do it theirselves, we'll nab it presently.' *' Would you believe it, sir, they hauls it down on a sudden, and rolls it up with a couple o' bolts in it, and chucks it overboard, just to prevent our getting it. *' The skipper he says presently, ''What are you going to do with me, Cap'n ? ' he says. 148 THE JOHN HARRIS. ** So the Cap'n asked where he'd like to go to, and he says * Sierra Leone/ and they all says * Sierra Leone.' ** Well, we left some men in charge, and when we gets back to our shij) (I ought to tell you, sir, that the flag was hauled down a quarter before twelve, so I won my wager* fairly), I says to our skipper, ' Cap'n,' says I, * you'll excuse me speaking, but are you a-going to leave the skipper and them two big fellows o' mates along, and only three of us ? Why, sir, they'd circumwent us somehow, for they've got the doose's own cunning.' "'You wait a bit,' said the Cap'n ; so he gives me and Corporal Best our instructions, and the rest of the men who was to go with us. '* As soon as Thomas sees me a-comin' up the ship's side, he begins foamin' at the mouth with fury, swearin' the biggest of hoaths and a-goin' on terrible. *' ' We are a-goin' to Sierra Leone,' says he — *your skipper promised. What on airth are you come after ? ' and he begins at me again. *** Marines,' says I, 'jest point your THE JOHN HARRIS. 149 muskets this way. Now, Mister Thomas,' I says, * my Cap'n knowed the sort of fellow you was, and he told you that to keep you quiet ; if you're not quiet now at once, by the Lord we'll tie you neck and heels and set you adrift in one of them surf-boats.' *' He was pretty quiet then, I can tell you, and we searched him and found a revolver and some doubleoons ; the orders was to strip 'em of everythink but their clothing and one doubleoon each ; but Mr. Walkinshaw he was with us, and he says, ' Oh, give him back his money ; ' they're terrible soft, sir, those youngish young gentlemen, when they are soft. But directly w^e'd done with him — we didn't give Thomas time to think — over he goes into one of the surf boats ; and so with Freeman, and with all the rest except the skipper and the darkies. Ah ! poor creeturs, when we went dowTi among 'em it was hawful ; they was penned as close as bees ; the men on one side, the women t'other, and all as they was bom, sir, women as well as men. There was a Spanish driver among 'em, a brute of a fellow ; he'd got a great cowhide whip, and he'd been keeping of 'em ISO THE JOHN HARRIS, quiet with it while we was on deck the first time, afear they should cry out. Well, sir, I looked about and I found there was some bales of calico below. You see, sir, they strips 'em when they sends 'em aboard, 'cos their clothes is all old King Dahomy's, and they takes these bales of calico to dress 'em up in afore they lands 'em ; so I whips out my knife and I cuts off good-sized pieces of the cloth, and I chucks 'em in among the women. Bless you, the poor souls, they wraps theirselves up as quick as you could say 'knife,' and some of 'em dresses up their children in it too. The men didn't seem to care much for it, but the women fell a cryin'. I didn't know before there was so much human feelin' in them darkies. " Well, sir, we got them all safe to Sierra Leone, except three which died off; but bless you, sir, we took care of 'em ; we had tubs of water on deck, and made all on 'em take a dip every morning ; and we gave 'em plenty of fresh hair. *'Well, sir, the end of it was the John Harris was given up to the proper authorities and sold, and my share out of that there job THE JOHN HARRIS. 151 was forty-seven pound and sixpence ; but then you see, sir, she'd led us a tremenjious dance before we catched her.'* ** Thank you, Pembridge," I said ; *' that's a very interesting story." *' Well, sir, the best of it is, it happened so ; there aint a word of faction in it." THE COUETYAED OF THE OUES D'OE. THE COUETYAED OF THE OURS D'OR Part I. AN a hot August morning, in a quaint old Flemish city, the sun shone brightly into the courtyard of the Ours d'Or. Earlier in the morning the sun had vainly tried to creep in through the low-browed arch that gave entrance to the Inn from the little Place outside ; but it could not succeed in reaching farther than midway up the broad vaulted passage, which had Clemence's parlour and her father's counting-house on the left, and the kitchen on the right. The sunshine, however, had no mind to be baffled by the whim of the old grey stones, but soon climbed high enough to peep over the quaint roofs of the rambling building, and poured thence an intense glow of golden warmth into the court- yard at the end of the passage. The plash-plash of a little fountain tinkled 156 THE COURTYARD OF merrily in the sudden brilliance, gold-fish darted to the surface of the water to warm themselves, and the leaves of the tree-fuchsias round and about showed prism-dyed through the sparkling water-drops. It was only a small square court, planted like a garden, and overlooked on three sides by the inn- windows. It was bordered by rustic arbours, with vines clambering over them : in these, of afternoons, pipes were smoked, and beer and coffee drunk by round- faced Belgians. Just now all was as fresh and well ordered as if no one but the gardener had access there. Canaries hung in these arbours. They sang out loudly as the sunshine gilded their cages. But for the noisy birds and a few peacock butterflies darting their glowing colours in and out among the tall fuchsias, the courtyard basked in the sunshine in its own still fashion. The small round paving-stones grew hotter and hotter, till the spray of the fountain dried as soon as it fell on them. It seemed a scene waiting for an actor to move across it. There was a glass door between the two THE OURS D'OR. 157 arbours that faced the arched passage ; it opened, and old Madame de Vos came forward into the courtyard. "• Tiens, tiens ! it is a heat to stifle." The old woman waddled across to the shade of the passage as fast as she could, pulling the large hood of her straightly -falling black cloak over her primly quilled cap, till she left visible only the snowy muslin strings. '' Elodie, Elodie ! where, then, is Made- moiselle ? " No answer coming, Madame advanced to the kitchen-door. It stood open, and through it glowed a dull red heat, worse than the blaze of the courtyard, for this heat reflected itself again with interest from the brass pans and pots and kettles glittering in every corner. Inside this kitchen all things shone hotly except Elodie's face: a pale, thin countenance on a small erect body. She wore just the same sort of snowy cap that Madame de Vos did, tied under her peaked chin ; but here all likeness ended. The bulky dame who filled up the doorway would have made four of the slight, active cook of the Ours d'Or. *' Mais ! MonDieu ! was there ever such a 158 THE COURTYARD OF heat? pouf!" Fat-faced, pink Madame de Yos turned up her blue eyes as if they too suffered. '^Madame has no need to come into it." Elodie spoke gravely over one shoulder, and went on trussing her fowls. *' "Where is Mamselle Clemence ? I want her." *' Here I am, bonne maman ! What wilt thou ? " Opposite the kitchen were three entrances to the house : the largest, that in the centre, opened into the inn itself: on each side of it were Monsieur's counting-house and Made- moiselle's parlour. Clemence's voice came from this last doorway. ** Come to me, child ! and then Elodie can hear the news at the same time. Ah, ma foi I that all the affairs of the family should be thrust on my shoulders ! " At the word '' news " Elodie turned round sharply ; her sunken grey eyes were full of eager interest ; and as Clemence crossed over a soft flush had risen on her cheek, and a glad dancing light sparkled in the large thoughtful eyes. THE OURS D'OR, 159 A minute ago you would scarcely have called Clemence pretty : she was too pale, and her grey eyes had wanted colour till the blush on her cheek made them glow. ** The Soeur Marie, thy aunt at Bruges, is ill, and the Superior asks that one of her people should go to the Hospice with speed. It would kill me, as thou knowest, Clemence, to travel with such a heat ; besides, how could I quit the Ours d'Or when thy father is not there ? It is thou, Clemence, who must obey this summons." The liquid eyes dropped, the soft colour faded : for a moment the girl stood silent, her lips parted, her hands clasped together. '^ Well ? " This came very impatiently from Madame. *^ Grandmother ! " — the warm blood came rushing into Clemence's face, and the words were spoken quickly — ^^ I cannot go ; thou knowest why I wish to stay at home. Louis said to-day or to-morrow he may arrive at any moment, and I — I have not seen him for so long. Why cannot Eosalie go to Bruges?" '' Eosalie ! Eosalie is a child ; of what use to send her ? " i6o THE COURTYARD OF *' But we are not sent for to be useful," Clemence pleaded, her tender, wistful eyes fixed on her grandmother's stolid face. *' The good soeurs love the aunt too well to yield any care of her to a stranger ; it is only that she may see one of her own people again. •Bonne maman, I have not seen my aunt Marie for so — so long, she will not recognize me. Eosalie has not left her these five years, — she loves Eosalie, — send her, bonne maman ; how could I be absent when Louis arrives ? '' The sweet, imploring voice might have touched Madame de Yos's heart through all the pink fat which enveloped it but that she hated contradiction ; and also for the reason that Clemence had looked while she spoke more than ever like her dead mother. There was the same slender, bending figure, the same transparent skin and dark hair, and, above all, that same strange earnestness in the eyes, and resolute, fervent spirit which had in days gone by so bewildered Madame when she looked at her son's wife. For Madame de Vos came of a pure Flemish stock — physique and morale were alike solid and stolid. In her family no one had ever been slender, or poor, or dark THE OURS D'OR. i6i haired; and she had felt herself aggrieved when Auguste de Yos, her eldest son — the landlord of the flourishing Ours d'Or — had married Clemence de Trudin, the orphan daughter of a poor French gentleman. "What could he expect of such a transparent, unusual-looking creature but that wliich had come to pass ? For only a year ago the younger Madame de Yos had died of decline: a disease mainly caused, so said her mother- in-law, by a dislike to eating and drinking, and by a love of books. She died, and left her sor- rowing, idolizing husband with four children. Clemence was twenty-two, and it seemed to Auguste de Yos that she could take her mother's place in the management of her two little brothers ; but before he could rouse himself to settle anything, he got an impera- tive summons to \dsit his mother at Louvain. '' Of what canst thou be thinking then, Auguste?" she had asked. " Is not Clemence betrothed to the Lieutenant Louis Scherer ? and who shall say how soon he may purchase his discharge, and come home and marry her ? and then, ma foi, what will happen ? and the child Eosalie so beautiful and but sixteen VOL. I. M i62 THE COURTYARD OF years old ? Will it be convenable, I ask thee, my son, to bring up such a child in the Ours d'Or with no better mentor than Elodie ? Bah — that is what it is to be a man ! " When a man has loved his wife dearly — so dearly that life and everything belonging to it have lost all interest or flavour without her — he is easily managed ; and Auguste de Yos, after a few more maternal harangues, began to see that it might be well for his girls that their grandmother should come to the Ours d'Or. Naturally he did not call to mind his mother's faults ; they had met seldom since his marriage ; and his wife had rarely grieved him by repeating the petty unkindnesses she had endured during the old lady's visits. For Madame de Yos had never forgiven the dark- eyed, gentle wife her want of fortune ; and now, as she looked at Clemence, the old dis- like grew strong, — a dislike which had been intensified by her son's blind devotion to his wife. *'Just like her mother!" and then aloud and severely, *' Clemence, thou speakest fol- lies ; thou art the eldest, and thou must go." *^And why does any one go?" said THE OURS D'OR. i63 Elodie, standing erect, with her hands behind her. ** The master will be home to-night ; he will go in the morning to Bruges, and he will take Mamselle Eosalie, and she can stay with the Soeur Marie ; there, it is settled." *' Chut ! thou art not a mother, Elodie ; thou canst not comprehend the feelings of a mother. My daughter, my Marie, must not be kept waiting for the selfishness of a love- sick girl. Fi done, Clemence, when I was young, my lovers came after me ; they waited my pleasure — I did not wait for them. I am ashamed of thee." Clemence kept back a hasty answer, but her eyes flashed. The old lady walked away to the parlour. '* It is too unjust — too hard ; if my father were but at home ! " The words were said to herself, but Elodie read them in her face. She put her lean brown hand tenderly on the young girl's shoulder. **Go, my child, it is better; the grand- mother could go herself as to that ; we can do without her ; but if the Soeur Marie should be worse, thou wouldst then sorrow at not i64 THE COURTYARD OF having obeyed the summons. Go at once ; who knows but that thou mayest come back this evening ?" But the savour of the various stew-pans on the charcoal stoves within warned Elodie that she must return to her duties ; and be- sides, in her heart the cook thought her young mistress's anxiety excessive. ^^AUons," she said, cheerfully; ** Monsieur Louis will not arrive to-day, I am sure of it; the sooner thou art gone, my child, the sooner home." And she went back to the stew-pans. Plash — plash, went the jewelled drops of the fountain, the canaries sang loudly, the gold-fish seemed to be listening, for they came to the top of the water and opened their wide mouths as if to say ''Bravo!" The glass door opened again, but this time it was not Madame de Yos who came out into the sunshine. It was a fair, rounded, well-grown maiden, with golden hair wreathed in abundant plaits. A very sweet and bloom- ing creature — the bloom and sweetness of seventeen, that indescribable charm of youth which fades so quickly; which a little sun- THE OURS D'OR. 165 shine withers out of spring flowers. The tender soft blue eyes, the delicate peach-tinted cheeks, the smooth fine texture of the white throat, the firm rosy lips, all told of youth in its first freshness, and in Rosalie de Vos, of youth conscious of its own beauty, and eager to try its power. *^It is nice to be at home for good," she said, and she sat herself dow^n in one of the arbours. *' Why, I was only twelve when I went to Bruges ; home is not so dull as our convent, but oh! it might be much better than it is. Why should our rooms be shut off from the rest of the house, and wdiy does Clemence say I may never come out here after one o'clock ? It is triste to be so near life and fresh faces, and for ever to be shut up with bonne maman and Clemence." Eosalie yaw^ned. It w^as too hot to stir out of the arbour, or she would have crossed over to the passage, so as to look out into the Place. '• Ma foi, it is triste: at the convent I had my tasks, and they filled up time : it is all very w^ell for Clemence, she who has a lover, and she is twenty-three! How old she is! i66 THE COURTYARD OF I wonder what kind of a lover he is to marry so old a fiancee? he must be ugly or stupid." The salle-a-manger lay beyond the kitchen, detached from the rest of the house, and could only be entered through the courtyard. The clock struck one, and a sound of voices came up the arched passage. *'What does it matter," thought Eosalie ; '' Clemence is away, and my father too. I will amuse myself to-day; grandmamma never scolds me; the trellis screens me: I can see, and am not seen." The dinner-bell pealed loudly, and in trooped guests with hungry faces, some from the inn, others from the town, for the table d'hote of the Ours d'Or had a reputation. Alphonse, the stout head -waiter, asked the oldest of the guests to preside in the absence of his master, and then proceeded to com- pound the salad-dressing with calm solemnity. The windows of the salle looked into the court, and Alphonse stood facing them. Just as he was putting his finishing stroke, the vinegar, he started so suddenly that an extra spoonful, at least, flowed into the thick yellow cream of which he was so proud. THE OURS D'OR. 167 No wonder Alphonse started. With such a dinner on table as no other inn in the town could boast, an individual, a militaire, too, by his walk, instead of coming into the salle as fast as possible — for one course at least was served — was deliberately crossing the court- yard towards one of the arbours. It was incredible; but in the meantime the salad was ruined. Eosalie saw the stranger, too, and she blushed. It was pleasant to feel that she was more attractive than the savoury fumes issuing from the open French windows of the salle. But when the visitor came up to her he bowed and begged pardon. *^ I could not distinguish through the leaves. Mademoiselle. I mistook you for Mademoiselle de Yos." He bowed, begged pardon over again, and retreated. Rosalie was vexed. ** How comes he to know Clemence, I wonder ? How handsome he is. He has come to see our father on business, and Elodie has referred him to Clemence ; and yet" — she knitted her pretty eyebrows — i65 THE COURTYARD OF ** Elodie knows that my sister has gone to Bruges. I must go and tell grandmamma." She was not daring enough to cross the courtyard in full view of the salle, so she passed in through the glass doors, up a back staircase leading to the family sleeping-rooms, and then down another which led her to the parlour. ** Bonne maman — " here Eosalie stopped; the handsome stranger sat talking to her grandmother. ''Aha, Monsieur Louis! this is our Eosalie, the flower of our house. Eosalie, my well- beloved, this is Monsieur Scherer." And the old lady looked from the handsome soldier to the blushing maiden. "Ma foi, what a fine couple they would make,'* she said to herself. Louis Scherer thought his future sister-in- law very pretty indeed, and his looks said so. The old lady smiled approvingly, and patted Eosalie's soft pink hand as the girl stood be- side her, blushing with surprise and confusion. ''You are thinking. Monsieur, that she does not resemble Clemence, and you are right. Clemence is a De Trudin, but this is THE OURS D'OR. 169 a De Vos pur sang, or I might rather say a Van Eooms ; she takes after my family abso- lutely — we have always been fair and blue- eyed. Ah, but it is sad when a race degene- rates!" Monsieur Louis Scherer did not answer, but kept on looking at Eosalie as if he could never tire of her face. *' Bonne maman," said the girl softly, *^hast thou told Monsieur where Clemence is ?" *^Yes, yes, my angel, I have told all to Monsieur. Thy father will arrange all when he returns : and now we will eat, if dinner is served." At dinner-time. Monsieur Louis began to talk to Rosalie, while her grandmother did full justice to every dish. **And why did I not see you before?" the young man asked when dinner was over. *^I was at the convent, and when the holi- days came your regiment went away. Were you here long?" She looked up at him, but his admiring gaze made her blush again. *' Three months or so." He spoke care- lessly ; he had forgotten all about that far- off time since he had seen Eosalie. I70 THE COURTYARD OF *'Do you write to Clemence very often?" There was a saucy tone in her voice. ** Cle- mence will be home to-morrow," she thought, ** and then he will have no time to speak to me. I shall make hay while I can." '* Often? Oh, yes, I think so;" but he spoke in an indifferent manner, and pulled his fair moustache while he looked at Eosalie. The young girl glanced at her grandmother. The heat and the dinner together had been overpowering. Madame nodded in her chair. Eosalie looked frankly up into Louis' eyes, and laughed. <