The Golden Lion of Granpere

  CHAPTER IV.

  Adrian Urmand had been three days gone from Granpere before MichelVoss found a fitting opportunity for talking to his niece. It wasnot a matter, as he thought, in which there was need for any greathurry, but there was need for much consideration. Once again hespoke on the subject to his wife.

  'If she's thinking about George, she has kept it very much toherself,' he remarked.

  'Girls do keep it to themselves,' said Madame Voss.

  'I'm not so sure of that. They generally show it somehow. Marienever looks lovelorn. I don't believe a bit of it; and as for him,all the time he has been away he has never so much as sent a word ofa message to one of us.'

  'He sent his love to you, when I saw him, quite dutifully,' saidMadame Voss.

  'Why don't he come and see us if he cares for us? It isn't of himthat Marie is thinking.'

  'It isn't of anybody else then,' said Madame Voss. 'I never see herspeak a word to any of the young men, nor one of them ever speakinga word to her.'

  Pondering over all this, Michel Voss resolved that he would have itall out with his niece on the following Sunday.

  On the Sunday he engaged Marie to start with him after dinner to theplace on the hillside where they were cutting wood. It was abeautiful autumn afternoon, in that pleasantest of all months in theyear, when the sun is not too hot, and the air is fresh and balmy,and one is still able to linger abroad, loitering either in or outof the shade, when the midges cease to bite, and the sun no longerscorches and glares; but the sweet vestiges of summer remain, andeverything without doors is pleasant and friendly, and there is thegentle unrecognised regret for the departing year, the unconsciousfeeling that its glory is going from us, to add the inner charm of asoft melancholy to the outer luxury of the atmosphere. I doubtwhether Michel Voss had ever realised the fact that September is thekindliest of all the months, but he felt it, and enjoyed the leisureof his Sunday afternoon when he could get his niece to take astretch with him on the mountain-side. On these occasions MadameVoss was left at home with M. le Cure, who liked to linger over hislittle cup of coffee. Madame Voss, indeed, seldom cared to walkvery far from the door of her own house; and on Sundays to go to thechurch and back again was certainly sufficient exercise.

  Michel Voss said no word about Adrian Urmand as they were ascendingthe hill. He was too wise for that. He could not have given effectto his experience with sufficient eloquence had he attempted thetask while the burden of the rising ground was upon his lungs andchest. They turned into a saw-mill as they went up, and counted thescantlings of timber that had been cut; and Michel looked at thecradle to see that it worked well, and to the wheels to see thatthey were in good order, and observed that the channel for the waterrequired repairs, and said a word as to the injury that had come tohim because George had left him. 'Perhaps he may come back soon,'said Marie. To this he made no answer, but continued his path upthe mountain-side. 'There will be plenty of feed for the cows thisautumn,' said Marie Bromar. 'That is a great comfort.'

  'Plenty,' said Michel; 'plenty.' But Marie knew from the tone ofhis voice that he was not thinking about the grass, and so she heldher peace. But the want or plenty of the pasture was generally asubject of the greatest interest to the people of Granpere at thatspecial time of the year, and one on which Michel Voss was everready to speak. Marie therefore knew that there was something onher uncle's mind. Nevertheless he inspected the timber that wascut, and made some remarks about the work of the men. They were notso careful in barking the logs as they used to be, and upon thewhole he thought that the wood itself was of a worse quality. Whatis there that we do not find to be deteriorating around us when weconsider the things in detail, though we are willing enough to admita general improvement? 'Yes,' said he, in answer to some remarksfrom Marie, 'we must take it, no doubt, as God gives it to us, butwe need not spoil it in the handling. Sit down, my dear; I want tospeak to you for a few minutes.' Then they sat down together on alarge prostrate pine, which was being prepared to be sent down tothe saw-mill. 'My dear,' said he, 'I want to speak to you aboutAdrian Urmand.' She blushed and trembled as she placed herselfbeside him; but he hardly noticed it. He was not quite at his easehimself, and was a little afraid of the task he had undertaken.'Adrian tells me that he asked you to take him as your lover, andthat you refused.'

  'Yes, Uncle Michel.'

  'But why, my dear? How are you to do better? Perhaps I, or youraunt, should have spoken to you first, and told you that we thoughtwell of the match.'

  'It wasn't that, uncle. I knew you thought well of it; or, atleast, I believed that you did.'

  'And what is your objection, Marie?'

  'I don't object to M. Urmand, uncle;--at least, not particularly.'

  'But he says you do object. You would not accept him when heoffered himself.'

  'No; I did not accept him.'

  'But you will, my dear,--if he comes again?'

  'No, uncle.'

  'And why not? Is he not a good young man?'

  'O, yes,--that is, I daresay.'

  'And he has a good business. I do not know what more you couldexpect.'

  'I expect nothing, uncle,--except not to go away from you.'

  'Ah,--but you must go away from me. I should be very wrong, and sowould your aunt, to let you remain here till you lose your goodlooks, and become an old woman on our hands. You are a pretty girl,Marie, and fit to be any man's wife, and you ought to take ahusband. I am quite in earnest now, my dear; and I speak altogetherfor your own welfare.'

  'I know you are in earnest, and I know that you speak for mywelfare.'

  'Well;--well;--what then? Of course, it is only reasonable that youshould be married some day. Here is a young man in a better way ofbusiness than any man, old or young, that comes into Granpere. Hehas a house in Basle, and money to put in it whatever you want. Andfor the matter of that, Marie, my niece shall not go away from meempty-handed.'

  She drew herself closer to him and took hold of his arm and pressedit, and looked up into his face.

  'I brought nothing with me,' she said, 'and I want to take nothingaway.'

  'Is that it?' he said, speaking rapidly. 'Let me tell you then, mygirl, that you shall have nothing but your earnings,--your fairearnings. Don't you take trouble about that. Urmand and I willsettle that between us, and I will go bail there shall be nounpleasant words. As I said before, my girl sha'n't leave my houseempty-handed; but, Lord bless you, he would only be too happy totake you in your petticoat, just as you are. I never saw a fellowmore in love with a girl. Come, Marie, you need not mind saying theword to me, though you could not bring yourself to say it to him.'

  'I can't say that word, uncle, either to you or to him.'

  'And why the devil not?' said Michel Voss, who was beginning to betired of being eloquent.

  'I would rather stay at home with you and my aunt.'

  'O, bother!'

  'Some girls stay at home always. All girls do not get married. Idon't want to be taken to Basle.'

  'This is all nonsense,' said Michel, getting up. 'If you're a goodgirl, you will do as you are told.'

  'It would not be good to be married to a man if I do not love him.'

  'But why shouldn't you love him? He's just the man that all thegirls always love. Why don't you love him?'

  As Michel Voss asked this last question, there was a tone of angerin his voice. He had allowed his niece considerable liberty, andnow she was unreasonable. Marie, who, in spite of her devotion toher uncle, was beginning to think that she was ill-used by thistone, made no reply. 'I hope you haven't been falling in love withany one else,' continued Michel.

  'No,' said Marie, in a low whisper.

  'I do hope you're not still thinking of George, who has left uswithout casting a thought upon you. I do hope that you are not sucha fool as that.' Marie sat perfectly silent, not moving; but therewas a frown on her brow and a look of sorrow mixed with anger on herface. But Michel Voss d
id not see her face. He looked straightbefore him as he spoke, and was flinging chips of wood to a distancein his energy. 'If it's that, Marie, I tell you you had better getquit of it at once. It can come to no good. Here is an excellenthusband for you. Be a good girl, and say that you will accept him.'

  'I should not be a good girl to accept a man whom I do not love.'

  'Is it any thought about George that makes you say so, child?'Michel paused a moment for an answer. 'Tell me,' he continued, withalmost angry energy, 'is it because of George that you refuseyourself to this young man?'

  Marie paused again for a moment, and then she replied, 'No, it isnot.'

  'It is not?'

  'No, uncle.'

  'Then why will you not marry Adrian Urmand?'

  'Because I do not care for him. Why won't you let me remain withyou, uncle?'

  She was very close to him now, and leaning against him; and herthroat was half choked with sobs, and her eyes were full of tears.Michel Voss was a soft-hearted man, and inclined to be very soft ofheart where Marie Bromar was concerned. On the other hand he wasthoroughly convinced that it would be for his niece's benefit thatshe should marry this young trader; and he thought also that it washis duty as her uncle and guardian to be round with her, and makeher understand, that as her friends wished it, and as the youngtrader himself wished it, it was her duty to do as she was desired.Another uncle and guardian in his place would hardly have consultedthe girl at all. Between his desire to have his own way and reduceher to obedience, and the temptation to put his arm round her waistand kiss away her tears, he was uneasy and vacillating. She gentlyput her hand within his arm, and pressed it very close.

  'Won't you let me remain with you, uncle? I love you and AuntJosey' (Madame Voss was named Josephine, and was generally calledAunt Josey) 'and the children. I could not go away from thechildren. And I like the house. I am sure I am of use in thehouse.'

  'Of course you are of use in the house. It is not that.'

  'Why, then, should you want to send me away?'

  'What nonsense you talk, Marie! Don't you know that a young womanlike you ought to be married some day--that is if she can get afitting man to take her? What would the neighbours say of me if wekept you at home to drudge for us, instead of settling you out inthe world properly? You forget, Marie, that I have a duty toperform, and you should not make it so difficult.'

  'But if I don't want to be settled?' said Marie. 'Who cares for theneighbours? If you and I understand each other, is not thatenough?'

  'I care for the neighbours,' said Michel Voss with energy.

  'And must I marry a man I don't care a bit for, because of theneighbours, Uncle Michel?' asked Marie, with something approachingto indignation in her voice.

  Michel Voss perceived that it was of no use for him to carry on theargument. He entertained a half-formed idea that he did not quiteunderstand the objections so strongly urged by his niece; that therewas something on her mind that she would not tell him, and thatthere might be cruelty in urging the matter upon her; but, inopposition to this, there was his assured conviction that it was hisduty to provide well and comfortably for his niece, and that it washer duty to obey him in acceding to such provision as he might make.And then this marriage was undoubtedly a good marriage--a match thatwould make all the world declare how well Michel Voss had done forthe girl whom he had taken under his protection. It was a marriagethat he could not bear to see go out of the family. It was notprobable that the young linen-merchant, who was so well to do in theworld, and who, no doubt, might have his choice in larger placesthan Granpere--it was not probable, Michel thought, that he wouldput up with many refusals. The girl would lose her chance, unlesshe, by his firmness, could drive this folly out of her. And yet howcould he be firm, when he was tempted to throw his great arms abouther, and swear that she should eat of his bread and drink of hiscup, and be unto him as a daughter, till the last day of their jointexistence. When she crept so close to him and pressed his arm, hewas almost overcome by the sweetness of her love and by thetenderness of his own heart.

  'It seems to me that you don't understand,' he said at last. 'Ididn't think that such a girl as you would be so silly.'

  To this she made no reply; and then they began to walk down the hilltogether.

  They had walked half way home, he stepping a little inadvance,--because he was still angry with her, or angry rather withhimself in that he could not bring himself to scold her properly,--andshe following close behind his shoulder, when he stopped suddenly andasked her a question which came from the direction his thoughts weretaking at the moment. 'You are sure,' he said, 'that you are notdoing this because you expect George to come back to you?'

  'Quite sure,' she said, bearing forward a moment, and answering himin a whisper when she spoke.

  'By my word, then, I can't understand it. I can't indeed. HasUrmand done anything to offend you?'

  'Nothing, uncle.'

  'Nor said anything?'

  'Not a word; uncle. I am not offended. Of course I am much obligedto him. Only I don't love him.'

  'By my faith I don't understand it. I don't indeed. It is sheernonsense, and you must get over it. I shouldn't be doing my duty ifI didn't tell you that you must get over it. He will be here againin another ten days, and you must have thought better of it by thattime. You must indeed, Marie.'

  Then they walked down the hill in silence together, each thinkingintently on the purpose of the other, but each altogethermisunderstanding the other. Michel Voss was assured--as she hadtwice implied as much--that she was altogether indifferent to hisson George. What he might have said or done had she declared heraffection for her absent lover, he did not himself know. He had notquestioned himself on that point. Though his wife had told him thatMarie was ever thinking of George, he had not believed that it wasso. He had no reason for disliking a marriage between his son andhis wife's niece. When he had first thought that they were going tobe lovers, under his nose, without his permission,--going tocommence a new kind of life between themselves without so much as aword spoken to him or by him,--he had found himself compelled tointerfere, compelled as a father and an uncle. That kind of thingcould never be allowed to take place in a well-ordered house withoutthe expressed sanction of the head of the household. He hadinterfered,--rather roughly; and his son had taken him at his word.He was sore now at his son's coldness to him, and was disposed tobelieve that his son cared not at all for any one at Granpere. Hisniece was almost as dear to him as his son, and much more dutiful.Therefore he would do the best he could for his niece. Marie'sdeclaration that George was nothing to her,--that she did not thinkof him,--was in accordance with his own ideas. His wife had beenwrong. His wife was usually wrong when any headwork was required.There could be no good reason why Marie Bromar should not marryAdrian Urmand.

  But Marie, as she knew very well, had never declared that GeorgeVoss was nothing to her,--that he was forgotten, or that her heartwas free. He had gone from her and had forgotten her. She was quitesure of that. And should she ever hear that he was married to someone else,--as it was probable that she would hear some day,--thenshe would be free again. Then she might take this man or that,if her friends wished it--and if she could bring herself to endurethe proposed marriage. But at present her troth was plighted toGeorge Voss; and where her troth was given, there was her heartalso. She could understand that such a circumstance, affecting oneof so little importance as herself, should be nothing to a man likeher uncle; but it was everything to her. George had forgotten her,and she had wept sorely over his want of constancy. But thoughtelling herself that this certainly was so, she had declared toherself that she would never be untrue till her want of truth hadbeen put beyond the reach of doubt. Who does not know how hoperemains, when reason has declared that there is no longer ground forhoping?

  Such had been the state of her mind hitherto; but what would be thegood of entertaining hope, even if there were ground for hoping,
when, as was so evident, her uncle would never permit George and herto be man and wife? And did she not owe everything to her uncle?And was it not the duty of a girl to obey her guardian? Would notall the world be against her if she refused this man? Her mind wastormented by a thousand doubts, when her uncle said another word toher, just as they were entering the village.

  'You will try and think better of it;--will you not, my dear?' Shewas silent. 'Come, Marie, you can say that you will try. Will younot try?'

  'Yes, uncle,--I will try.'

  Michel Voss went home in a good humour, for he felt that he hadtriumphed; and poor Marie returned broken-hearted, for she was awarethat she had half-yielded. She knew that her uncle was triumphant.