She was very languid for several days. He was down at the levee, supervising some of the new work; indeed, it seemed as if he was in great demand. She would curl herself up in the big chair at the corner of the fireplace, not on account of the cold, for the door stood open, as well as the heavy shutters, and the sunshine stole in the room, dancing about on the floor like groups of sprites. Mère Lunde would nod in her chair. Chloe was out in the garden, working. It was so quiet, the very silence appealed strangely to her, and her mind wandered off to the future.
Some day Barbe would come here from the church leaning on Uncle Gaspard’s arm and looking up in his face with smiles, holding her pretty child by the hand. He would love it as he had loved her. He would carry it in his arms and hold it on his knee, listen to its chatter, just as he had done with her. And Barbe would have dozens of different graces and pretty ways to lure him continually. Where would she, Renée, be? Not pushed aside, but left to her own devices, dropped out, half forgotten.
She wiped away some tears that overflowed her eyes. When André came back, if he wanted her she would marry him. It was comforting to think some one might want her. And if he never came back, if some pretty girl in New Orleans attracted him—ah, then, she would be lonely, indeed! Perhaps this was the way her mother had felt in the old château. And her grandfather had wanted her put in a convent—perhaps it would have been better.
If youth can make pleasures of its own, it can also make bitter sorrows, and in its waywardness longs to drain the cup to the last drop. Perhaps there may be some strength in the very bitterness, a tonic to work a cure.
Gaspard Denys came in and found her there, picked her up, and, seating himself, pressed her to his broad breast and encircled her with his arms. What an exquisite shelter it was!
“What can I do for you?” he asked. “You were never ill but once before, and that was the cold. But now you do not seem to improve. I wonder if you would like to have a change? It is dull, now that André is away, and I am so busy. Madame Renaud and Madame Gardepier are coming over to-morrow. And if you would like to spend a few days with them——”
“Oh, no! I am content here,” in a quick tone.
“Then some day we could go up the river and take our dinner. Some of the young people might like to join. Sophie Pion is so gay and good-humored.”
“I like the quiet,” she returned languidly.
“But it is not good for you, unless you were really ill.”
“I shall be better soon. I walked out in the garden to-day.”
“That is right. I can’t think what could have brought this about. Come, you must cheer up and be like your olden self. It makes my heart ache to have you so dreary.”
“Oh, does it really ache for me? Then I must try. Yes, I will try,” in a more cheerful tone.
“That is my own little girl,” and he kissed her fondly. Yes, he would always love her in a way.
The guests came up the next day. Madame Renaud was always bright and cheery. Madame Gardepier brought her little girl, who ran about and prattled and was like a bit of sunshine, sitting a moment in Mère Lunde’s lap, then off again chasing the two half-grown kittens.
Barbe was very charming and gracious and had a good deal to tell about New Orleans, and thought M’sieu Valbonais would enjoy it very much, though no doubt he would long for the old friends and associations. And was he not coming back in a year?
Renée admitted without any change of color that he was. There was no half secret in her face.
“And now you must see Ma’m’selle Renée’s room,” exclaimed Madame Renaud. “It is just full of prettiness and ingenuity.”
Renée led the way, and if admiration could have lightened her heart, surely all the heaviness would have vanished. They were very cordial, and quite insisted upon having a whole day’s visit from her. Uncle Gaspard promised that she should surely come.
As they were walking down the street Barbe said: “She does look poorly. I suppose she has been fretting after M. Valbonais.”
“I really wonder that Gaspard let him go. There was no reason why they should not marry.”
“And she has some fortune of her own. Why, yes, she could have gone with him. I hope he will not forget her. There are so many attractive women there.”
Wawataysee studied her earnestly a few days afterward, when she had been sitting in silence.
“What has changed you so, Renée?” she asked with much solicitude. “There is a surmise in the air that you are grieving after André. What happened between you? For I know he loved you sincerely.”
“I grieving?” Then Renée’s face went scarlet and she could hardly refrain from tears. “It is not André. I seldom think of him. Oh, how cruel and unjust! And it is not true.”
“But something troubles you,” in a tender tone.
Renée was silent.
“And you never have been so unhappy before. Why do you not tell your uncle?”
“No, I cannot,” and Renée shivered.
“Then, dear, why not go to the good father? I should if I had any sorrows. But what can I have to pain me, with such a good husband and my lovely children, who are like angels? And Father Lemoine said last month, ‘Madame, your confession is a thanksgiving instead.’ He is so kindly, that Father Lemoine. But you must find some relief, or you will waste quite away.”
“I shall get well at once. I will not have people quoting me as a love-sick girl,” a little resentfully.
Still Wawataysee looked doubtfully at her. She tried to be more cheerful that evening, and Uncle Gaspard smiled and called her his little girl. Would he always love her? She dared not ask him now. When she had sorrowed for him in his long absence it had been a comfort to go up to the little church and pray. But would it not be monstrous to ask God to keep Uncle Denys from loving Barbe? She was lovely and kind, and merry too, for that matter, and if Uncle Denys——
Ah, there was the sting!
There crept into her heart a curious dull ache, a sense of something she did not like, that she shrank from, just as one shuts one’s eyes to some unpleasant sight. And this time it was not Barbe. Some one nearer, one that she was answerable for, and she did not like the half consciousness. She had believed the sorrow all hers. What if it was wrong to cherish it and make it another’s sorrow?
She went up to the church one afternoon. There was no one about. The confessional stood open. She thought she would pray, and then she recalled a sentence, “Clean hands and a pure heart.” Was her heart pure, not desiring what might belong to another? And if she snatched at it with over-eager hands and a selfish heart?
She went out quietly and sat on the grass. The soft wind just stirred the trees and brought wafts of perfume and the distant sound of the voices of children at play. The sun was casting long shadows and burnishing the tree-tops out on the fields. A few insects were lazily droning.
A figure came out in the rusty black cassock with the cord around the waist, and the little round cap, where a few straggling locks, much threaded with white, fell below in a half-curling fashion. He glanced her way, then came over to her and she rose with a reverent obeisance.
“It is Ma’m’selle de Longueville. You were little Renée. I remember when you used to come and pray for your uncle that he might be returned in safety. Is there nothing left to pray for?”
The tone was wonderfully sweet, and the eyes gave her such a kindly, tender glance that her heart melted within her.
“I went in the church,” she began in a low tone. “I was troubled about something. I could not find the right prayer. There may be a need before the prayer,” and her voice trembled like a quivering note of music.
“Then let us go in and find it, daughter,” and he took her hand in his and gently led her back. She knelt in silence. The kindly hands were folded on her head in blessing.
What was it she wanted to say? “If one so coveted a love that it brought unhappiness if it was shared with any one else; if one had been first for years, and found another in the place, and then—” The sorrowful voice broke. It was flooded with tears and soft sobs.
“Is it a lover that has cast longing eyes on another?”
“Oh, no, no!” And then the poor little story came out in an incoherent fashion. It was selfish, it was covetous, it was unjust. She saw that, now that she put it in words, and it sent a pang of shame and anguish through her whole being. Was this the return for all the affection he had given?
“Child,” said the low, sweet voice, “I think he will not love thee less because another comes into his heart. It is a good, generous heart. I know it well. And thou must cast out the selfish fear and give love for love. God shares His with all His creatures, and asks first a devoted heart, then the wide love for one’s neighbor. No grudging heart ever yet had peace. And the more happiness one scattereth the more returneth to thee. The more Christlike thy heart becomes, the greater will be thy desire to do for others, and in this will come the recompense. Trust thy God and then thy trust will grow in all His creatures. Narrow thy life, and when the one light fails all will be darkness. Thou hast gone but a little way forward and there are many lessons to learn before thou wilt reach the end, but the divinest of all is unselfish love.”
Could she be brave enough to put aside her own intense, selfish love? If another love made Uncle Gaspard happier——
They went out on the step of the old church porch, and he said: “You will come again, daughter?” And she replied: “I will come every day and pray for a new heart.”
Gaspard Denys was out by the gate waiting, quite at a loss to know what could keep his little girl, and wondering what had made her so quiet and indifferent of late. Had she really cared more for André than she knew? She must miss him, of course, for although he had touches of sentiment now and then, he was bright and very much given to the amusing rather than the serious side of every-day occurrences. But he was earnest enough where that quality was needed. And he had been Renée’s devoted slave.
Her hands were clasped, her shoulders drooped a little and her step was slow. Gaspard went to meet her, touched by the piteousness of her aspect.
“My little darling——”
She had not been exactly weeping, but her eyes had filled and overflowed. He would not have seen it in the gathering darkness, but he kissed amid the tears on her cheek.
“Renée, where have you been?” in a gentle tone. “You were not at the Marchands’.”
“I was up at the church with Father Lemoine.”
Had she some confidence to give the priest that she withheld from him? And he thought he knew all her simple heart.
“Renée, what is the matter? You are not happy. You are not really ill, either. Something troubles you.”
The girl was silent, but he heard her fluttering breath. He took her hand in his. It was cold and spiritless. It did not curl about his fingers in her usual caressing fashion.
“Has some one grown nearer and dearer than I? You need not be afraid——”
“Oh, no, it is not that! No one is so dear. And if I lost you—” Oh, she did not mean to say it, and stopped in her slow pacing.
“You are not likely to lose me. Who has been filling your head with nonsense?”
His tone was a little sharp.
“No one is to blame. It was all my fault. I have been selfish and grudging and”—it burst out vehemently—“jealous!”
He smiled, and was glad the purple gray of the waning light would not betray it to her wounding. It was the old story, Barbe Guion again.
“My dear little girl—” he began with infinite tenderness, clasping his strong arm around her.
“I want to tell you,” she interrupted hurriedly, “it is right, and just now I have the courage. I don’t mean ever to be so selfish again. It is wicked and ungrateful, and if anything can make you happier, I shall—try to rejoice in it.”
And he knew she swallowed over a great lump in her throat. He was deeply touched as well.
“It is very wicked and selfish, but I couldn’t bear to think of your loving any one else, and when Madame Gardepier came back so pretty and attractive, and—and you liked her so, it made me very miserable. I did not want her to come here to be mistress, to have your love, to be first everywhere, but I know now how odious and hateful it was, and I am sorry, when you have always been so good to me. And, Uncle Gaspard, if you want to marry Barbe and bring her here and be happy with her, I will be content and not envy her for your sake——”
She was sobbing softly then. He had his arm around her and led her through the open gate to the little arbor of wild grape vines and honeysuckle that was always in bloom, a nest of fragrance now that the dew had begun to fall. He drew her very close to him and let her sob out her sorrow and penitence. How simply heroic she was to give up a part of the best thing in her life, for he knew, as he had believed before, that Valbonais’s love had not found the path to her heart.
“I was so miserable,” she went on tremulously, “and I thought I would go to the church and pray as I used, when I asked God to send you back. Then I met the good father. And now I am going to begin. I shall not be unhappy any more, at least I shall strive against it. And I want you—yes,” catching her breath, “I want you to have whatever pleases you best.”
For a moment or two so deep was his emotion he could not steady his own voice. And as he held her there, felt the beating of her heart, the agitation of her slim figure, the sobs she was trying to control, a passion of tenderness swept over him and almost a desire to claim her as his and let her rest henceforth in the proud security of entire love. Yes, she would marry him if he said the word. But much as she loved him it would never be that highest of all wifely love. She was still a child, and he was more than double her age. He stood in the place of a father, and there would be a question if the legal relationship would not be a bar in the sight of the Church.
And—Barbe? He was much interested in her and had a secret sympathy with her. Her eyes had confessed to him that her marriage had not been satisfactory. If he stood quite alone, perhaps that might be the ending presently, but it was no plan of his now, no desire, even.
Ah, Renée, you did not know what an unconscious rival you were! Barbe understood the situation much better, but she had a woman’s wisdom.
It had all passed through his mind like a flash.
“My little dear,” he said, toying with the soft hair, “set your heart at rest. I had not thought of marrying Barbe. And I could never give you up.”
“But—if you were going to be happier——”
“I am quite an old fellow now. I like my own way. A smoke in the chimney corner is my delight, and a little girl who sits there weaving pictures and adventures in the blaze. I am happy enough.”
Her heart gave a great bound. How could she help delighting in the confession! But that was selfish again. She would hold this exquisite pleasure on sufferance.
“Yes, I am happy enough at present. But I should like my little girl to marry some one who could be a son to me in my old age, who would not want to take her away, and we would keep step together when we turned the summit of the hill and were going down the decline. Only I shall have to sit on the top a good while waiting for you, there are so many years between.”
There was almost a merry sound in his voice.
“And now is the unhappiness all gone?” pressing her fondly to his side.
“There is the shame and regret for naughtiness. Have I troubled you a good deal?” in a repentant tone.
“It would have been worse if you were really ill.”
“I almost made myself so. I did not think that it might cause you anxiety. You see, I was only considering myself and heaping up sorrow where there was no real sorrow.”
“But you will not do it any more?”
“No, not any more,” she answered, with exquisite tenderness.
“And now shall we go in? What do you suppose Mère Lunde will say? And see, it is quite dark. There are two stars.”
All above them was the vault of deepest blue, resting on the tree-tops or the vague, far distance where all was indistinguishable. The river lapped along, some night birds gave a shrill cry, and far off a whippoorwill was repeating his mournful lay.
“Come.” He lifted her up in his strong arms and swung her around. The door stood wide open, framing in a vivid picture of the hearth fire, the big empty chair, Mère Lunde bending over some cookery. Every year her shoulders grew more round and her head was almost hidden between them.
Renée seemed to herself like one in a dream. She would not exult in this new possessorship. She would keep meek and lowly, remembering her indulgence in sinful feelings, her doubt and distrust.
“What has kept you so?” cried Mère Lunde. “The fish has dried to a crisp. And one never knows. It may be Indians or wild animals——”
“Nothing worse than sitting in the arbor, talking.”
“And the child not at all well! When she comes down with a fever—and she looks like a ghost now.”
That was true enough. The cool air had added to her paleness and her eyes had a softness in their brown depths, a mysterious expression, as if she had not shaken off the atmosphere of some far world.
“Go to the fire and warm up, even if it is a summer night. You should have known better than to keep her sitting in the chill dew,” to M. Denys.
Then the good mère made her drink a cup of hot broth.
But she had not much appetite. Now and then she stole a shy glance at Uncle Gaspard, and if she met his eyes a faint color suffused her face. The happy, childlike trust was coming back. And though they sat together awhile afterward, the faint glow of the dying fire lighting the room, neither fell in a humor for talking. She kept half wondering if it was true that he did not care to marry Barbe, half disbelieving it; and yet it did not give her the pang she had suffered from the cruel jealousy that had rent her soul. The tranquillity was very sweet, very comforting.
She was singing the next morning as she went about her duties a gay little French chanson André had taught her, and her voice was like a bird’s.
“You are happy this morning, ma’m’selle,” said Mère Lunde, with fondness in her old eyes. “Has there been news from the boats?”
“From the boats?” What had that to do with it? Then she colored scarlet—that meant André.
“No,” she replied gravely. “Uncle Gaspard would have mentioned it if there was.”
Still the embarrassing tint ran over her face. All this time had one and another been fancying that she was grieving for André Valbonais? Ah, they would see! She would be as gay as before. She would go out with the girls berrying, and gathering strange flowers that queer old Doctor Montcrevier was glad to press and put in a great book that he had. They were very little troubled by Indians now, yet they always went in considerable parties, and Friga was her guard.
Monsieur Denys took quite a party up the river in the boat he had been building, and they spent the night at St. Charles. Just beyond was another bend in the river, and the air was so clear they could discern the windings a long distance up. Everywhere there were still some signs of the great flood. But it had not been able to destroy the frowning bluffs, though it had left caves in different places, swept some islands out of existence or added them to others. The world was a beautiful place when the elements were at rest, and it was a blessed thing to live.
Renée was growing a little graver, a little more womanly and thoughtful, but Denys wondered at the added sweetness. She was quite a devout churchgoer now, and occasionally went up for a chat with the good father, that was not confession exactly, but helped her insight in some of the greater truths, made her more ready to share happiness with others.
It had been quite a trial at first to go cordially to the Renauds’, though she did admire Barbe’s little girl. Madame Gardepier was a person of some note now, and received invitations to the Government House, and was on delightful terms with Madame Chouteau and several of the more important residents. Sometimes Uncle Gaspard and Renée walked down of an evening, and the young girl always trembled a little, Barbe was so very charming.
Denys understood that he could win her if he cared. Was he really growing so old that he had not the necessary ardor? Had that one youthful love and sorrow sufficed him? He was touched by Renée’s sweet demeanor now, though he could not see the quaking heart behind it.
Monsieur Pierre Chouteau came home to his family late in the fall, and a new Lieutenant-Governor accompanied him. There was strange and stirring news from France, from Spain, even from the colonies at the eastward which, having shaken off their old rulers, were still harrassed by Indian wars and the unwillingness of England to give up the places specified in the treaties.
They did not mind these disputes in the old town. Life ran on smoothly. They were like one big family; had their joys and few sorrows and took little heed for to-morrow. There was the winter pleasure and new marriages; there were young men who cast longing eyes at Renée de Longueville, who would have no real lovers. And now she was seventeen.
They were very happy together, Renée and her uncle.
“She will marry some time,” thought the woman who longed for the place by his fireside when it should be vacant. Renée’s demeanor puzzled her. She was no longer a third person. She often left them quite alone, and when occasion offered invited Barbe and her little girl to tea. Gaspard Denys was very friendly. He had the gift of being friendly with women.
The boats began to come up. There was some word about André. Pierre Chouteau came over and told Denys.
“I hope you will not be too much disappointed,” he said, “but there is some important business on hand and he really cannot be spared. We made it an object for him to remain. Indeed, we should like him to take one of the head positions there. He is a fine, trusty fellow. He asked me to come and explain to you, lest you should think he had grown indifferent about old friends. But you need not fear that.”
“We had counted on seeing him, but duty is duty, and one ought not to run away from it for pleasure,” replied Denys, approvingly.
Renée was not going to give any one an opportunity to consider her a lovelorn maiden this time. She was gay and bright, joining the pleasure parties and dancing, ready for canoeing or rowing about on the old mill-pond in the races. She never summoned the young men to her side and bade them fetch and carry, as she used to André; she sent her admirers to this girl and that one, but somehow they always found their way back and gathered as bees about the sweetest flower. They would spend whole evenings with Denys for the sake of watching her as she sat so demurely beside the fire, now and then raising her soft brown eyes that the flame seemed to burnish with gold, or smiling vaguely at some conceit of her own instead of what the visitor said.
When they were alone on rare occasions she would bring Uncle Gaspard his flute and often sing dainty little songs in the sweetest voice imaginable. Then he would listen and dream of her mother, and it seemed as if she came and sat beside them. He could see her shadowy form, he believed he could touch her with his hand. There was no sin in loving her now, since she was free from the Count de Longueville.
Then came winter again. Should they go to the king’s ball?
“I’m too old,” said Uncle Gaspard. “I found a white hair in my beard this morning.”
“Oh, think of the fathers and grandfathers! And they dance, too. Old, indeed!”
She shook her slim finger at him.
“I’ve grown lazy. M. Marchand is such an excellent partner that I have very little to do.”
“Oh, and you were out skating a few days ago and distanced many of the younger men! I shall not go unless you do,” resolutely.
“And you have never been a queen in your own right,” he remarked with a gleam of amusement. “You ought to try your luck.”
“Before I get old and have to wear a coif,” shaking her head in mock despair. “Oh, let us both go!”
She had to coax a good deal and insist stoutly that she would not stir a step without him. And, of course, he had to yield.
She listened to the songs and the solicitations, and sent Mère Lunde out with a generous contribution.
This time she did not care so much about her gown. It was pretty enough. She had a beautiful necklace that Mattawissa had given her, made of blue and white shells that came from the southerly Atlantic coast and were held in high esteem among the Indians and considered of great value in the way of trade, as they were used in wampums. They were ground in a peculiar fashion, with a small hole drilled in them and strung on a chain. In dancing, as they touched each other the jingle had a peculiar musical sound.
Madame Gardepier and one of her nieces cut the cake when the midnight bell sounded.
“You must have a piece, Renée,” said Madame Elise Borrie, who was plump and smiling and the mother of three children. “But,” in a mischievous whisper, “they will fight to be chosen king. We shall learn who is your favorite.”
“I’ve never had any luck,” returned Renée in a tone of mock disappointment.
“And I’ve never cut the cake before! Oh, you must take a piece from me! There will be luck in it.”
Renée took the piece laughingly, spread out her handkerchief, and broke it in two or three fragments. Out fell the ring.
“Oh! oh! oh!” and there was a crowd about her. She slipped it on her finger and was handed her nose-gay.
Whom would she choose? There were eager eyes and indrawn breaths, smiles that asked in wordless language, young men crowding nearer.
She went over to Denys. “You always were my king,” she said in a low, sweet tone that touched him immeasurably. “I am glad to give you the royal signet, a rose.”
Gaspard Denys bowed like a young courtier.
“You know I must have done it besides my own desire,” she whispered. “There would have been quarrels and heart burnings.”
“Yes,” nodding that he understood.
“Ma’m’selle Renée, that is hardly fair,” declared an aggrieved one. “There are so many young men——”
“And other queens, and a room full of pretty girls. I will give you one dance.”
His face lighted up with joy.
“It will end by a marriage, mark my words,” said the mother of three daughters.
“No, it cannot,” returned Madame Gardepier, with secret exultation. “He was appointed her uncle and guardian by the Church. It would be unlawful.”
“True enough. But if she would settle upon some one in earnest the rest would stand a chance. I don’t know what there is about her. And she’s past eighteen. It won’t do for her to waste many more years.”
Renée and her uncle danced twice. Then she said, with the persuasive touch in her voice that he never could resist:
“Now you must dance with Madame Gardepier and some of the young girls, while I comfort the disconsolate. And we will go home early.”
But there was such an outcry she could not get away so easily. They were all as eager as if there had never been balls before and would never be one again.
Renée would not attend the next one. Gaspard grumbled at having to go by himself and meet the storm of reproaches.
“See, I will tie up my head—you can say you left me that way,” and she passed a folded handkerchief about it, that made her look more coquettish than ever. “Now—I might rub a bit of garlic over my eyes and they would look red enough.”
Gaspard laughed in spite of a little ill humor.
Renée settled herself in his big chair and wrapped her feet in the fur robe. How the wind blew without, though the moonless sky was brilliant with stars. The trees writhed and groaned, and she fancied she could hear the lashing of the river. Occasionally a gust blew down the chimney, driving long tongues of flame out into the room and scattering ashes about. But the house of split logs, plastered on the outside and within, was solid enough. She only laughed when the wind banged up against it and had to depart with sullen grumbling.
She loved to sit this way and live over the past. What had changed her so? Did wilfulness belong naturally to childhood? Or was it the lessons she had learned in the little old church from the good father? Life was finer and broader, and duties, real duties, were oftentimes a delight—not always, she admitted, with a little twinge of conscience—and there were sacrifices of inclination to be made.
What a curious, varied life hers had been! And now it flowed on tranquilly. Would it always be this way? Uncle Gaspard wanted her to marry, but who was there to suit them both? The pretty mystery, not quite a smile, but that always made her face enchanting, passed over it now. This one and that one had been mentioned, and she had scouted them with a dainty insistence that always amused him, though he would argue about their best points as if he was in sober earnest.
“Sometimes I think you really want to get rid of me, Uncle Gaspard,” she would retort, with an air of being provoked. “And what if I should never like anybody? I wonder if, after all, when I am old, say thirty, perhaps, I would have to go to Quebec and enter a convent, like Marie Guion?”
“Thirty! Well, you are a good way from that! And I am a good way past it, and you won’t hear to my being old.”
Then she would laugh and put loving arms about his neck, and he would think he did not mind the waiting. If it was God’s will, the thing he wanted would come about; but if it was not, one could not go against the great All-Father, whose right it was to give or to deny.
But he remarked that she had grown to like talking over the times when André Valbonais had come to her rescue and that of Wawataysee.
“And I would get hungry and tired and cold, and feel afraid of wild animals in the forest. I was so little, you know, and not wise and patient like Wawataysee. And I used to cry for you. André was very good not to get cross and scold, now was he not?”
“Oh, my little one, I never forget that I owe him a great deal. And I am glad he is prospering so well.”
“But suppose he should want to stay in New Orleans? It is so much gayer and finer than this little St. Louis. Our Place d’Arms is nothing compared to that handsome plaza, Barbe says. And the women dress so much, and there is the beautiful church, and the school for girls, and a theatre, and music everywhere on the balconies. Perhaps he will never come back.”
Did she sigh a little over her own prediction?
“We can go there some day——”
“If you think I am going to run after him,” with a charming show of indignation that made her cheeks bloom like the rose, “you are far out of the way. That would be on every one’s tongue. Renée de Longueville has gone to New Orleans after M’sieu Valbonais, because she cannot get a lover here. Why, he might stay there a hundred years before I would go!”
“There seems to be no lack of lovers here. Whether they come for me, or the good fire, or——”
“They like you, and they like to smoke and ask your advice. And don’t you notice that sometimes I go to bed, slip away softly, and they never miss me?”
At that Uncle Gaspard would nod, with an expression of incredulity in his eyes.
And on nights like these, when she happened to be alone, or in that long space of winter twilight when she curled herself up in the fur rugs like a kitten, she used to wander off in reveries about that almost dream-like episode, with its terrors, that made her shudder even now, because she realized their dangers so much more keenly. Oh, what if André had not found them? How could they have taken all that long journey with no care, no kindly treatment? And that tall, fierce Black Feather! He might have minded about Wawataysee, who was of some value to him, but she, a little child! And if André had said, “Oh, we cannot be bothered with her, we shall have to go so much slower,” and they had stolen away! Some tears always came in her eyes at this point. And there was that last night, when he had carried her and she had slept in his arms. Yes, she ought to be very grateful. And sometimes she had been wilful and treated him very badly. Of course, he had half-forgotten about her. Was the girl beautiful that he cared the most for? Did she dance with the grace of a fairy, and was her voice sweet and seductive, just as Barbe Gardepier’s was at times, a sound that both fascinated and vexed her, the liquid tone that made a man bend his head lest he should lose a note of its sweetness? And her parents would be very gracious to him; she knew how charming mothers could be.
After they had been married a long, long while she would go with Uncle Gaspard to visit them. She and Uncle Gaspard would grow old together, and she would have a stoop in the shoulders like Mère Lunde.
All the world was abloom and fragrant with later spring. The children were ranging out on the great mound, learning lessons of the sky, with all its variations; of the woods, with their many kinds of trees; of the flowers that were budding and blossoming; of the river winding about, guessing at other rivers and other countries and great lakes and frozen regions up at the far north where the white bear lived and the beautiful white and silver fox, whose fur was rare and held in high esteem. They peopled it with strange, fierce Indians, and sometimes the boys divided in two parties and fought. The girls made circles for wigwams, collected dried grass and sticks and built fires in the centre; and if there were but few books and no real schools, they were skilful in many things. They could shoot smaller game, they could manage a canoe, they could fish, and they acquired much useful knowledge by the time they were men and women.
Even to-day youth is attracted by the wild, free life, and the spirit of adventure still runs in the blood.
The line of boats were coming up north again. There had been much floating ice in the river this spring, which had delayed travelling. Flags were flying, so all was well. Down on the levee bells were ringing and horns blew out a welcome. Everything had a natural look again, only the new places were built higher up, and even some of these had been damaged by the crushing of ice cakes.
The men collected who had this sort of interest at heart. Many others and the slaves were out on the King’s Highway and beyond, tilling and planting fields. Women sauntered down the Rue Royale and chatted. The old market was full of eagerness and activity, and the air had a fragrance of cooked viands to tempt the palates of the sailors. Women in coifs and little shoulder shawls that gave them a picturesque look, men in close caps or a kerchief tied over their heads, their blue blouses with red belts and wide collars exposing brawny or sinewy throats, tanned already by sun and wind.
The leader, the most pretentious boat generally, carried some passengers; the others had loads of bales and bundles covered with coarse canvas or deers’ hide. They looked not unlike a funeral procession, the sails a dull gray, but the shouts and songs dispelled so sombre a thought. Some of the men remembered when the sad news of Pierre Laclede had reached them, when all had been silence.
The first boat unloaded the few passengers, valuable papers, and the slaves began with the cargo. One tall, fine-aspected young fellow sprang ashore and was warmly welcomed by the Chouteaus and several of the more prominent men, and then Gaspard Denys seized his hand, but neither of them spoke except with the eyes.
And now all was a brisk, seeming confusion. Rude barrows and a kind of hand-carts were loaded and run to the storehouses. Slaves, Indians and the lower class of French, many of them hunters as well, worked with a hearty will. Then there were groups of Indian traders who had been watching for days for the arrival of the boats, and were eager with their packs for trade. Others had already disposed of their pelts and taken notes with the signature of the Chouteaus, quite as good as gold or silver, and making trade easier, giving them more time to devote to their own selection. Squaws eager for blankets, calicoes, coarse, crash-like stuffs, beads and gewgaws, chaffering in their guttural tones, and shrill French voices raised to the point of anger, it would seem, from the eagerness, but good-humored for all that.
Several men went into the counting house where the old sign still obtained, “Maxent Laclede & Company,” just as it still remained in New Orleans. It would look queer enough to-day, the small one-story log house with its rough inside wall built up to the ceiling with shelves, its great iron-bound boxes that served for seats as well as receptacles.
Andre Valbonais had a big buckskin bag full of papers and invoices, and he had much to say to his employers. Pierre Chouteau went in and out; he could hear the particulars afterward, and he was needed every few moments to tell where this and that should go.
There was a great commotion, to be sure. Millions of dollars in transactions could pass now without a tithe of excitement. But, then, when a town has been shut in all winter it is natural the outburst should stir like wine in the blood. The shops farther up in the town were deserted.
As for Renée de Longueville, she kept very tranquil.
“I suppose M’sieu André came up on this voyage?” Mère Lunde said as she was preparing dinner.
Renée had been working among her flowers; then she had kept in her room, busying herself with sewing.
“Perhaps so. There will be fleets in all the time now. And Indians and voyageurs and piles of pelts and evil smells, and such a confusion in the streets it will hardly be safe to go out unless one is willing to be jostled and pushed hither and yon.”
“And M’sieu Denys does not come home to dinner. It is all ready.”
“Let us have ours, then,” with cordial assent.
“Perhaps he may bring home M’sieu Valbonais.”
“Well, there may be something left. I am hungry, but I cannot eat all this bountiful meal,” with a gay laugh.
“It will be spoiled, ma’m’selle,” complainingly.
“The more need that we eat ours while it is just right,” she answered, with smiling emphasis. “Will it make them any happier to have ours less inviting?”
So she took her seat at the table with a merry audacity, and praised the cookery so heartily that Mère Lunde was good humored in a moment or two. Still there was no step on the path.
“They will not come,” in a tone of disappointment.
“But, you know, there is enough to get at the market in such times as these,” returned Renée, with a lightsome air. “Trust them for not starving.”
“Pah! It may do for sailors and voyageurs and Indians, but never for gentlemen, mademoiselle.”
When Mère Lunde was a little affronted she gave Renée the full length of the syllables.
Renée went out and looked at the flowers again, and up and down the street. “If there was any news,” she said to herself, “Uncle Denys would come and tell me.”
“Mère Lunde, I am going over to Madame Marchand’s with my work,” she exclaimed. “I do hope they have brought in no end of beads and spangles. What do you suppose the Indian women did before the French came here?”
That was beyond the simple mère’s comprehension.
M. Marchand was returning from his dinner.
“I just ran down to hear the luck, ma’m’selle; they had a splendid voyage and no mishap. And André Valbonais—you would not know him!”
She nodded indifferently, but would ask no questions. Wawataysee sat out under a pretty rose arbor that was heavy with pink buds. There were four babies now, sturdy Gaspard and Denys tumbling about on the grass, Renée, with her fair hair and her father’s deep blue eyes, much more French than Indian, and baby François. Wawataysee was more lovely than ever, Renée thought, but she did not understand that it was the largeness and sweetness of life so intimately connected with others.
“Did M’sieu Denys come home?” Wawataysee asked.
“No. I suppose it is all a hurly-burly down there. It is good to have something to stir up the town now and then,” Renée returned brightly.
“Yes. The trappers were growing very impatient. And I think there will be a good trade, an excellent thing for you and me,” with a grateful expression in her beautiful eyes. “Renée, I wonder if M. Denys ever realizes all that he has done for François, and good Mère Lunde nursed him through all his long illness. Men’s regard for each other has such a strong, true quality in it. And, then, M’sieu André—oh, Renée, what would we have done without him? I hope he came up on this voyage.”
“Yes,” returned Renée. “M. Marchand just told me so.”
“I am all impatience to see him. Almost two years! François declares sometimes that he is jealous, but that is for amusement. I wonder if he is much changed? He was very boyish, you know.”
“Was he?” commented Renée absently.
“You would not remark it so much. You were a child yourself. And how you used to order him about.”
“It was a habit of mine. Uncle Gaspard spoiled me. And now I have only to raise my finger and he does my bidding; but he knows there is no one I love so well.”
Would she always love him the best of any one?
“And I suppose we shall be glad to have a new store of beads and those lovely spangles that make the work glitter so, and the soft silk threads. Merci! What would we do but for the work?” laughing.
No books or papers to read, no letters to write, no large questions to discuss, not much of fashion, since garments were handed down through generations, no journeys about. It was no wonder they were so largely given to the gayety and pleasures of every-day life. There were loves and disputes and jealousies, yet they seldom reached the desperate point, and all, both men and women, looked forward to marriage, which was made happy by unfailing good humor and a clear sense of duty. It was, indeed, Arcadian simplicity.
They chatted and worked, then they took the children and went up on the mound, where they had a view of the busy hive below, and the conglomerate of nations, it seemed to their limited sense. Renée was in a most merry mood. She sang snatches of songs, she played with the children, she told the older ones Indian legends that were like fairy stories. Wawataysee studied her in a sort of amazement.
Renée had half a mind to go home to supper with her. That would look inhospitable. Gay as she had been, there was a curious unrest in her heart, a longing to have the first meeting over. Would André expect her to be very glad? Well, she would put on her finest dignity. She was quite grown up now.
The table was set for two.
“M’sieu Denys has sent word—they are to go to the Chouteaus’ for supper. Oh, I forgot! M. Valbonais has come,” glancing up to see if it pleasured her young lady.
“Yes, yes!” Renée nodded impatiently, and took her seat. “Of course, there is business. He is clerk of the great house, you know, and brings news not only of New Orleans, but France, and perhaps of the new colonies. I think I have heard there is some trade with them. You see, Mère Lunde, New Orleans is a wonderful place.”
But after all her exercise and apparent good spirits, she scarcely ate any supper. There was a hurt feeling lying heavily at her heart that she could not banish, with all her pride. If he had cared, would he not have found a few moments to announce his safe return? Perhaps he had left a wife behind. Then, of course, he had no right to think of any other woman.
She went out and paced up and down in the garden, trying to think what she would do to-morrow. She would go down to the mill-pond; there were always parties out boating. Then Sophie Borrie would be glad to see her. And the day after, the day after that—how long and lonely the procession looked!
There was a bright twinkling star emerging from a drift of white into a patch of almost blue-black sky. The night was serene, balmy, and there were but few sounds. It was not yet time for insects to begin their choruses. Steps sounded of people chatting gayly, but they were not the voices she knew. Something brushed against her forehead—she reached up and pulled a rose, sweet with the first greeting of its brief life. And then——
She hurried swiftly to the house. Mère Lunde was scolding Chloe, but through the rasping sound she heard the steps, the cordial greeting. It was quite dark within, and she was lighting the pine torch when the two entered and her uncle said:
“We have reached home at last. What a day! Renée, here is a guest,” and Uncle Gaspard gave his hearty, cheerful laugh.
“We were in the dark.” She rose in some confusion, the short curls drooping almost into her eyes, her face quite flushed, and turned, drawing a long, startled breath.
“The saints only know how glad I am to get home again!” and the strong voice was full of rapture.
“And you don’t know yourself?” she interrupted quickly.
“Ah, you must not take me up like that!” laughing. “I doubt if even the saints could understand my delight. No one but myself truly knows. Is that better?”
The torch began to flame, and its red light threw him out boldly. He seemed to have grown taller—no, it was not that, for Uncle Gaspard still towered above him, but he was stouter, and the way he carried himself had in it a new character and power. And the indescribable something in his face that no girl could read at a glance, the shaping and tone experience gives when one has been learning to rule his fellow-men and to depend upon himself.
She was silent and a warm color played about her face. He took both hands, drew her nearer to him, and suddenly she was afraid of the intense personality. Her rosy lips quivered, her eyes drooped, her breath came rapidly.
“Haven’t you a word of welcome for André?” asked Uncle Gaspard, surprised.
“I was confused by the light, and—you are quite sure it is Monsieur Valbonais?” turning to her uncle. “For he seems to have changed mysteriously.”
“And you have not changed at all. Nothing has changed. M. Denys, light your pipe and sit in the corner, and I will take this one. Ma’m’selle Renée, sit here in the middle.” He pushed the chair and placed her gently in it. “Now we can almost believe that I have not been away at all, only there is the great gladness of coming back.”
“Has the time passed so quickly, monsieur?”
There was the faintest suggestion of mischief in her tone.
“Mademoiselle, you have not outgrown all your naughtiness, I perceive. You find a second meaning in my simple words. No, there have been days that seemed like months—last summer, when I hoped to return, when I was homesick and heartsick. But what are you to do when the kindest employer in the world begs you to stay and there is no one to take your place, unless matters go at a great loss?”
“But New Orleans is gay and bright. And Madame Gardepier says the women are lovely, and there is music and light-heartedness everywhere.”
“When you are in a close and dark office or out on the muddy, crowded, vile-smelling levees with men of every nation shouting and hustling and swearing all about you, and you have almost to fight to get your bidding done, you have no thought for pretty women. But a man cannot always choose. And my greatest grief is that I must go back or disappoint my very good friends.”
“Oh!” with a toss of the head and a curve of the swelling lip that he longed to kiss.
“Ma’m’selle, let us not talk about that now. There are pleasanter subjects—all our old friends—for through the day it has been business, business, until my head seemed in a whirl with it. M. Denys will tell you. And we had to go to supper to finish, as if there would not be another day. But it is so lovely here. And the pretty Madame Marchand is well, and the Renaud girls, and the Aubrys with their husbands, and Madame Gardepier with her little one! Ah, I shall have a fine time presently, when I get a little leisure!”
What a new sound his voice had! A strength and resolution that swayed one curiously, a definite manner of stating opinions that somehow impressed one not only with a sense of security, but a sense of power that she was minded to rebel against.
They talked late. Why could she not slyly disappear, as she often did, and leave him with Uncle Denys, since he would remain all night?
But she shook off the mysterious chain with an effort and rose and wished them good-night in a timid sort of way, though she stood up very straight.
He caught her hand. “I am tempted to wish there could be no nights for a long while,” he said. “They are not good nights.”
“Think how sleepy we should get. And mine are always good,” laughing lightly. But she did not go across and kiss Uncle Denys.
There were several busy days, and friends that proffered André a warm welcome. The Valbonais cousins were wedded long ago, but they claimed him quite as cordially, and the old people were proud enough of him. The Marchands offered him their home, and were delighted to have him drop in. Then he was being asked to dine or sup with the Chouteaus, and he was at the Government House, for his intelligent understanding of other subjects besides commercial matters made him a desirable guest.
Renée experienced a curious sensation, as if she was being neglected. She had lost her old power over him, which was mortifying. He teased her a little, then he let her trifle with him and say saucy things. But it was like a bird with a chain; he brought her back, he let her see it was only playing. Then she grew indignant and flounced away, met him coldly the next time, or was proud and silent.
Uncle Gaspard never raised a finger in the matter.
“I do not like him. I almost hate him!” she cried vehemently one day. “Of course, I know he saved me in that dreadful peril, but he has been thanked a hundred times over. And we do not owe him anything.”
“Oh, yes,” Uncle Gaspard said tenderly, as he pressed her to his heart. “I owe him a great deal. For if I had lost you——”
“And you could never give me to any one else?”
“Well, whoever wanted one would have to take both.”
Presently the trafficking was about over. The Indians had gone to their respective lodges, the voyageurs sailed up the river, and now only occasional boats and canoes came in. André was not so busy. He joined the parties on their rambles when he was certain Renée would be among them. He did not hesitate to make himself agreeable to other demoiselles. She could not help drawing contrasts. He had certain ways of the better class, though social lines were not strongly marked and few people knew what culture meant. He talked Spanish fluently; he was quite an adept in English, though he had acquired a little of that before. But the difference was largely one of manner, the small, delicate attentions that went to her heart and understanding. Uncle Gaspard always had some of them, M. Marchand also, and a few of the others. The rather rough good nature had much honesty, but it was not so flattering to a girl of Renée’s cast.
There were times when she was quite as jealous as she had ever been of Uncle Gaspard. Yet it was strange to be so shaken by his coming when she told herself she did not care for him, to have the touch of his hand thrill through every nerve, to have the steady glance of his eye conquer the spirit of rebellion until there was nothing left except the thin outside crust, that would surely fall at the next assault if she did not run away. This was cowardly, too, and she despised herself for it, but she was not the first who had escaped in this fashion.
He was amused. In the earlier days he had experienced a great terror at the thought of losing her. It might be the elder man’s wisdom had helped open his eyes. He liked her piquant independence, and he learned, too, there was a mood of most fascinating dependence as well. But she never wholly gave up.
“Is it true you are going back to New Orleans?” Renée asked one day in her charming, but imperious fashion.
“Yes, ma’m’selle. And I must start in another month.”
He looked so brave and dignified, his clear eyes shining, his shoulders thrown back, his head securely poised, as if he could lead an army. There was not his match in all St. Louis. Oh, yes, Uncle Gaspard and M. Marchand, and Madame Chouteau’s splendid sons, who had risked various dangers! And M. Marchand had carried off the pretty Wawataysee when he knew if they should be captured he would be put to cruel tortures and death. Well, had not André escaped with them both when a like fate would have awaited him in being taken?
“You care nothing for us now, André,” in her most plaintive tone, a hundred times more dangerous than her pride tinctured with sweetness. And the sorrow that flooded her beautiful brown eyes almost swept him from his standing-ground.
“Yes, ma’m’selle, I care a great deal. I love M. Denys as an elder brother. And you—” hesitatingly.
She blushed scarlet and her eyes drooped.
“No, you want the gayety and the excitement and the crowds of pretty women and the theatres. We are dull and simple here, yet I think we are good and happy and honest and true. And, then, you are all absorbed in money-making. Uncle Gaspard said you would be a rich man before you died. But they do dreadful things in New Orleans, and drink and carouse. You may be murdered some day, and then what will all the money be worth?”
She looked so aggrieved, so bewitching in her regret that, after all, was half assumed, though she would not confess it to herself even, that he had much ado to keep tranquil.
“Ma’m’selle, I go because I see it is quite necessary. A man who hopes for advancement must study the interest of those who have his welfare at heart and can favor him in many ways. Then I hold the key to much of the business at that end of the line, and I do not see who there is to put in my place. It is true the life here is simple and delightful. There one has a good deal of sharp dealing to fight against, since he must meet men of all governments and all sorts of schemes. If M’sieu Chouteau could go—but he cannot. Do not for a moment think it is the gayety and the pretty women.”
“Then you will go. There is no use in arguing.”
She turned away. How distractingly pretty she was this morning in the old garden, herself a part of its bloom! Over the gate she had given him a rose, and renewed friendship after a dispute.
“I must go. I have passed my word. Renée—” in a beseeching tone.
She half turned, like a bird who wonders whether he will fly or not, but her lowered eyes had a laugh in them.
“Renée, you know I love you——”
“No, I do not.” He could see the swelling of her bosom that sent a throb up to her throat. “You do nothing for me now. You are off with the men. You are—oh, so very charming to the girls!” with a cutting little emphasis. “And you are always talking to Uncle Gaspard about business——”
“And last night you ran away to bed without even a good-night!” with upbraiding in his voice.
“Oh, did you miss me? I never supposed you would. I was tired sitting there, thinking my own thoughts.”
“Now we have plenty of time; tell them to me,” and his persuasive tone penetrated her inmost being. What foolish things could she repeat? Her face was scarlet.
“You know now I love you. I have told you so in words. I have told it in many other ways. I confessed it to M. Denys before I went away and he bade me wait patiently. For two years I have carried you in my heart, yes, longer than that. You had your fling about other women; no one has ever moved me. Every night I said, ‘One more day has gone, and at the last I shall go back to the little girl in old St. Louis that I carried in my arms all one night when she was worn out with fatigue and hunger and cold. Renée——”
“I cannot leave Uncle Denys. I have said hundreds of times I never would,” and her voice was sweet with pathos that penetrated his inmost soul.
“But you need not. We have planned that. I will be a son to him in all his declining years. No, you need never be separated.”
“Then you will stay!” exultingly. If she could once conquer she would be generous and consent afterward. Did not love yield everything?
“I must go. We three will go.” His breath came in a gasp, his eyes deepened with fervor, he caught both her hands; he could have clasped her in his arms in a transport of rapture. Only—she stood up so straight and resolute.
“So you have planned all this!” she cried in a passion that had a pang for her as well as him. “And I am not anywhere. It makes no difference what I want. I am like any bale of merchandise tossed from one to the other. That is all a woman is worth! But you will find I am not to be bandied about.”
She had lashed her emotion into tears, and pulled away her hands with an impatient gesture.
“Heaven above knows what you are worth to both of us. No one will ever love you more truly, more devotedly.”
Renée de Longueville fled swiftly away.
“What ails the child?” inquired Mère Lunde. “She has not been like herself the last fortnight. And now she is in there, crying as if her heart would break. It is all that André Valbonais, I know. Why does he not marry her and be done with it?”
“But if she will not?” Gaspard Denys shrugged his shoulders and drew his brow into a frown.
“In my time a man knew how to make a woman say yes. And a woman knew when she was going to get a good husband, which is of the Lord. Gaspard Denys, you have spoiled her!”
Yes, he had spoiled her. A man did not know how to bring up a girl. But she was so sweet in all her wilfulness, so loving in spite of little tempers and authoritative ways, so dear to him, that if she had wanted to walk over his body with her dainty feet he could hardly have refused her. He went into her room and took her in his arms.
“You are too good to me!” she cried presently. “And I am a miserable, hateful, quarrelsome, selfish little thing, wanting my own way and then not happy or satisfied with it. Oh, how will you endure me years and years, getting queerer as I grow old! For now we will have to live here together always. I have sent André away. Oh, will you care?”
There was no use arguing. She had cried herself into an unreasonable passion. She had had her way. How much of it was regret? None of it was satisfaction.
“Well, dear, then we must get along,” and his tone had a tranquillizing cheerfulness in it. “There is no one I would like as well for a son——”
“But you do not want to go to that wretched New Orleans?” in a tone of incredulity.
She raised her head from his shoulder. Her swollen eyes and tear-stained face melted his heart.
“You know we were going some time. It is well worth seeing. But we do not need to take André.”
“Yet you like him so,” with her old waywardness.
“Yes. And I am sorry you do not.”
She hid her face again. She did like him. She felt it in the hot color that stained her cheek.
“He will be gone a year—that is not long,” she said in a rather hopeful tone.
“Or, he might decide to stay longer. If he has nothing to call him back——”
They would be lonely without him. She would be lonely. After all, there were few young men to compare with him. And some time—if he was quite sure she did not care for him, he might marry. She never could marry any one else, but, then—men were different. Oh, here was one who had never put a woman in his first love’s place! And André was all alone in the world. Yes, he would need a wife——
“Oh, Uncle Gaspard, I am not worth all this love!” she cried remorsefully.
“You will always be worth it to two men,” he said in so gentle a tone that it pierced her heart. “I am much older than you, dear, and some day I shall be called upon to take the journey from which one never returns. Then you will be left quite alone.”
What made her think of the little girl in the old château to whom the days were so long and lonesome? Yet, it would be very sad to be left alone. And—after all——
There are so many “after alls” in life. And so many things seem insurmountable when looked at in a moment of passion. Uncle Denys could never give her wholly away, had never planned to do that. Fathers and mothers were happy to have their children married, and here she would not do this for the best friend she had, nor for the man who loved her sincerely—that she loved—a little.
“You ought to shut me up in the loft and keep me on—on pemican, which you know I hate, and declare you would never let me out until—until——”
“A woman’s love must always be a free gift, Renée, darling. And if you do not love André it would be sinning against him to marry him.”
She knew down deep in her heart that she did love him, that she had waited these two years because there was no one like him to her. Of course, she had not really meant that he should throw up his fine prospects, but be willing to for her sake. And she knew now it was all very foolish and wicked, and that she deserved to be left alone for years and years and have them all full of sorrowful regret.
“I am going to turn over a new leaf, indeed I am,” and she slipped out of Uncle Gaspard’s arms. “See what a fright I have made of myself with red eyes and swollen face, and my hair frousled. Dinner must be nearly ready. Oh, what a long morning! And I have made you unhappy, when I love you so much,” in accents of tenderest regret.
He kissed her and went away.
They were very silent at dinner. Mère Lunde grumbled because they ate so little. Then Uncle Gaspard went out. The boats were loading up with lead, as well as other materials, and he was interested in that, and needed as well.
No one came during the evening. She heard the violins and singing up the street, the fiddles and dancing down below. The fire was all out; no one wanted it after the cooking was done. There were some black charred ends and piles of ashes. It had a melancholy appearance. And then she fancied herself as old as Mère Lunde, sitting by the chimney corner, only Mère Lunde had married the man of her choice—it seemed now to Renée that every one must have done so—and though her two sons were dead, she had had them once; and everybody must die some time. But to die without having been very happy, that made her shudder. And, then, to know that one had cast it away rather than give up a whim of will.
So the next day passed and the next. Sunday she and Uncle Gaspard went to church. There would only be one Sunday more for André—ten days. For her—how many?
Coming down the path they glanced at each other. What wonderful languages live in the depths of the eyes! André came to her side, and then she colored and the hand he took trembled, but she did not withdraw it. They walked on homeward. She never knew whether any one spoke or not. Uncle Gaspard was lingering behind, giving thanks that he was likely to get his heart’s desire.
They paused at the garden gate. He opened it for her to pass. There was midsummer richness and bloom in it, the homely every-day herbs giving out a sweetness in their plain flowering that was reviving. He followed her, but she made a little pause at the vine-clad arbor.
“I am wilful and delight in my own way,” she began, and the words trembled on the fragrant air. “I am like a briar that pricks you when you would gather the rose——”
“But the rose is sweet for all that. And—I will take the rose.”
Then he kissed her throbbing red lips, her fluttering eyelids, just as he had dreamed of doing many a time. And the bliss was sweeter than any dream.
There was not much time to waste. Mère Lunde protested at first at being left alone, but there would be Chloe, and the Marchands to look after her, and neighbors were kindly.
Not much fuss was made in those days over wedding trousseaus. Often one dress went through families, was even borrowed. But Renée had no need of that.
So they went to church on Sunday and heard the banns called, and every one nodded to his next neighbor with the confident air of having known it all along. The next day Gaspard Denys gave his darling away, and the priest joined their hands and blessed them. Madame Chouteau gave them the wedding feast, which was a mid-day dinner in the grand old house, much the finest residence in St. Louis. It had not the boisterousness of most weddings, for only the better part of the community were invited. Madame Chouteau could do that.
They drank the bride’s health and gave her all good wishes. The men considered André very lucky and he thought himself so, but Renée’s fortune scarcely counted, since he would make one for himself. Everything seemed sweet and solemn to Renée, and she was awed in a sacred sort of way as this new life unfolded before her.
They walked in quite a procession afterward. Gaspard Denys had Madame Gardepier. They talked a little about the bridegroom, then she said:
“Monsieur Denys, you have done a faithful duty toward the child. You will miss her much. One can never be quite the same again. Is it true you are going to New Orleans also?”
“Yes, madame. I have not been there for years.”
She had hoped it was not so. If he were lonely, he might turn to others for consolation. And if the child went out of his life——
“But will her husband agree to share her love? Husbands are jealous sometimes,” she commented rather gayly.
“He is like a son to me, and he knows it. You see, I am old enough to be his father also.”
“Ah, M’sieu Denys, you should have had children of your very own, and a woman to love in your home. You have such a noble and tender heart you could have made some one so happy.”
Her heart beat as she said it. Why could he not be roused to the hope even now?
“I think you know that I loved the child’s mother, and that we were unfairly separated. If she had lived—but she died. And when I heard the little one was sent across the sea by her father, who had small regard for her, it was as if her mother, leaning over the wall of heaven, called to me, and I did what I knew would set her heart at rest.”