CHAPTER VI.
THE APPLE-TREE OF STEFANOS.
"And age recounts the feats of youth."
THOMSON.
"I was the only daughter among nine children," began old Marie, when thegirls and Ralph had made her sit down in their own parlour, and they hadall drunk her "good health and many happy returns" in raspberry vinegarand water, and then teased her till she consented to tell them her story."That is to say, my little young ladies and young Monsieur, I had eightbrothers. Not all my own brothers: my father had married twice, you see.And always when the babies came they wanted a little girl, for in thefamily of my grandfather too, there were but three boys, my father andhis two brothers, and never a sister. And so one can imagine how I wasfeted when I came, and of all none was so pleased as the old 'bon papa,'my father's father. He was already very old: in our family we have beenprudent and not married boy and girl, as so many do now, and wish oftenthey could undo it again. Before he had married he had saved and laid by,and for his sons there was something for each when they too started inlife. For my father there was the cottage and the little farm atStefanos."
"Where is Stefanos, Marie?" interrupted Ralph.
"Not so far, my little Monsieur; nine kilometers perhaps from Chalet."
"Nine kilometres; between five and six miles? We must have passed it whenwe were driving," said Ralph.
"Without doubt," replied Marie. "Well, as I was saying, my father had thepaternal house at Stefanos for his when he married, and my uncles went tothe towns and did for themselves with their portions. And the bon papacame, of course, to live with us. He was a kind old man--I remember himwell--and he must have had need of patience in a household of eight noisyboys. They were the talk of the country, such fine men, and I, when Icame, was such a tiny little thing, you would hardly believe there couldbe a child so small! And yet there was great joy. 'We have a girl atlast,' they all cried, and as for the bon papa he knew not what to do forpleasure.
"I shall have a little grand-daughter to lead me about when my sight isgone, I shall live the longer for this gift of thine,' he said to mymother, whom he was very fond of. She was a good daughter-in-law to him.She shall be called 'Marie, shall she not? The first girl, and so longlooked for. And, Eulalie,' he told my mother, 'this day, the day of herbirth, I shall plant an apple-tree, a seedling of the best stock, a'reinette,' in the best corner of the orchard, and it shall be her tree.They shall grow together, and to both we will give the best care, andas the one prospers the other will prosper, and when trouble comes to theone, the other will droop and fade till again the storms have passedaway. The tree shall be called 'le pommier de la petite.'"
"My mother smiled; she thought it the fancy of the old man, but she waspleased he should so occupy himself with the little baby girl. And he didas he said: that very day he planted the apple-tree in the sunniestcorner of the orchard. And he gave it the best of his care; it waswatered in dry weather, the earth about its roots was kept loose, andenriched with careful manuring; no grass or weeds were allowed to clingabout it, never was an apple-tree better tended."
Marie paused. "It is not always those that get the most care that do thebest in this world," she said, with a sigh. "There was my Louis, oureldest, I thought nothing of the others compared with him! and he ranaway to sea and nearly broke my heart."
"Did he ever come back again?" asked the children. Old Marie shook herhead.
"Never," she said. "But I got a letter that he had got the cure somewherein the Amerique du sud--I know not where, I have not learnt all about thegeography like these little young ladies--to write for him, before hedied of the yellow fever. And he asked me to forgive him all the sorrowshe had caused me: it was a good letter, and it consoled me much. That wasa long time ago; my Louis would have been in the fifties by now, and myother children were obedient. The good God sends us comfort."
"And about the apple-tree, tell us more, Marie," said Molly. "Did it dowell?"
"Indeed yes. Mademoiselle can judge, are not the apples good? Ah, yes, itdid well, it grew and it grew, and the first walk I could take with thehand of the bon papa was to the apple-tree. And the first words I couldsay were 'Mi pommier a Malie.' Before many years there were apples, notso fine at the first, of course, but every year they grew finer andfiner, and always they were for me. What we did not eat were sold, andthe money given to me to keep for the Carnival, when the bon papa wouldtake me to the town to see the sights."
"And did you grow finer and finer too, Marie?" said Sylvia.
Marie smiled.
"I grew strong and tall, Mademoiselle," she said. "As for more than thatit is not for me to say. But _they_ all thought so, the father and motherand the eight brothers, and the bon papa, of course, most of all. And soyou see, Mademoiselle, the end was I got spoilt."
"But the apple-tree didn't?"
"No, the apple-tree did its work well. Only I was forgetting to tell youthere came a bad year. Everything was bad--the cows died, the harvest waspoor, the fruit failed. To the last, the bon papa hoped that 'le pommierde la petite' would do well, though nothing else did, but it was not so.There was a good show of blossom, but when it came to the apples, _everyone_ was blighted. And the strange thing was, my little young ladies andlittle Monsieur, that that was the year the small-pox came--ah, it was adreadful year!--and we all caught it."
"_All?_" exclaimed Sylvia.
"Yes, indeed, Mademoiselle--all the seven, that is to say, that were athome. I cannot remember it well--I was myself too ill, but we all had it.I was the worst, and they thought I would die. It was not the diseaseitself, but the weakness after that nearly killed me. And the poor bonpapa would shake his head and say he might have known what was coming,by the apple-tree. And my mother would console him--she, poor thing, whoso much needed consoling herself--by saying, 'Come, now, bon papa, theapple-tree lives still, and doubtless by next year it will again becovered with beautiful fruit. Let us hope well that our little one willalso recover.' And little by little I began to mend--the mother's wordscame true--by the spring time I was as well as ever again, and the sixbrothers too. All of us recovered; we were strong, you see, very strong.And after that I grew so fast--soon I seemed quite a young woman."
"And did the small-pox not spoil your beauty, Marie?" inquired Sylviawith some little hesitation. It was impossible to tell from the oldwoman's face now whether the terrible visitor had left its traces or not;she was so brown and weather worn--her skin so dried and wrinkled--onlythe eyes were still fine, dark, bright and keen, yet with the softfar-away look too, so beautiful in an old face.
"No, Mademoiselle," Marie replied naively, "that was the curious part ofit. There were some, my neighbour Didier for one, the son of the farmerLarreya----"
"Why, Marie, that's _your_ name," interrupted Molly. "'Marie Larreya,'--Iwrote it down the other day because I thought it such a funny name whengrandmother told it me."
"Well, well, Molly," said Sylvia, "there are often many people of thesame name in a neighbourhood. Do let Marie tell her own story."
"As I was saying," continued Marie, "many people said I had got prettierwith being ill. I can't tell if it was true, but I was thankful not to bemarked: you see the illness itself was not so bad with me as the weaknessafter. But I got quite well again, and that was the summer I was sixteen.My eldest brother was married that summer,--he was one of the two sons ofmy father's first marriage and he had been away for already some timefrom the paternal house. He married a young girl from Chalet; and ah, butwe danced well at the marriage! I danced most of all the girls--there wasmy old friend Didier who wanted every dance, and glad enough I would havebeen to dance with him--so tall and straight he was--but for some newfriends I made that day. They were the cousins of my brother's youngwife--two of them from Chalet, one a maid in a family from Paris, andwith them there came a young man who was a servant in the same family.They were pleasant, good-natured girls, and for the young man, there wasno harm in him; but their talk quite turned my silly head. Th
ey talked ofChalet and how grandly the ladies there were dressed, and still more ofParis--the two who knew it--till I felt quite ashamed of being only acountry girl, and the fete-day costume I had put on in the morning soproudly, I wished I could tear off and dress like my new friends. Andwhen Didier came again to ask me to dance, I pushed him away and told himhe tired me asking me so often. Poor Didier! I remember so well how helooked--as if he could not understand me--like our great sheep-dog, thatwould stare up with his soft sad eyes if ever I spoke roughly to him!
"That day was the beginning of much trouble for me. I got in the way ofgoing to Chalet whenever I could get leave, to see my new friends, whowere always full of some plan to amuse themselves and me, and my homewhere I had been so happy I seemed no longer to care for. I must havegrieved them all, but I thought not of it--my head was quite turned.
"One day I was setting off for Chalet to spend the afternoon, when, justas I was leaving, the bon papa stopped me.
"'Here, my child,' he said, holding out to me an apple; 'this is thefirst of this season's on thy pommier. I gathered it this morning--see,it is quite ripe--it was on the sunny side. Take it; thou mayest,perhaps, feel tired on the way.'
"I took it carelessly.
"'Thanks, bon papa,' I said, as I put it in my pocket. Bon papa looked atme sadly.
"'It is never now as it used to be,' he said. 'My little girl has nevera moment now to spare for the poor old man. And she would even wish toleave him for ever; for thou knowest well, my child, I could not livewith the thought of thee so far away. When my little girl returned shewould find no old grandfather, he would be lying in the cold church-yard.'
"The poor old man held out his arms to me, but I turned away. I saw thathis eyes were filled with tears--he was growing so feeble now--and I saw,too, that my mother, who was ironing at the table--work in which I couldhave helped her--stooped to wipe away a tear with the corner of herapron. But I did not care--my heart was hard, my little young ladies andyoung Monsieur--my heart was hard, and I would not listen to the voicesthat were speaking in my conscience.
"'It is too bad,' I said, 'that the chances of one's life should bespoilt for such fancies;' and I went quickly out of the cottage and shutthe door. But as I went I saw my poor bon papa lift his head, which hehad bent down on his hands, and say to my mother,
"'There will be no more apples this year on the pommier de la petite.Thou wilt see, my daughter, the fortune of the tree will leave it.'
"I heard my mother say something meant to comfort him, but I only hurriedaway the faster.
"What my grandfather meant about my wishing to leave him was this,--mynew friends had put it in my head to ask my parents to consent to mygoing to Paris with the family in which the two that I told you of weremaid and valet. They had spoken of me to their lady; she knew I had notmuch experience, and had never left home. She did not care for that, shesaid. She wanted a nice pretty girl to amuse her little boy, and walk outwith him. And of course the young man, the valet, told me he knew shecould not find a girl so pretty as I anywhere! I would find when I got toParis, he said, how I would be admired, and then I would rejoice that Ihad not stayed in my stupid little village, where it mattered not if onehad a pretty face or not. I had come home quite full of the idea--quiteconfident that, as I had always done exactly what I wished, I would meetwith no difficulty. But to my astonishment, at the paternal house, onewould not hear of such a thing!
"'To leave us--thou, our only girl--to go away to that great Paris, whereone is so wicked--where none would guard thee or care for thee? No, it isnot to be thought of,' said my father with decision; and though he was aquiet man who seldom interfered in the affairs of the house, I knew wellthat once that he had said a thing with decision, it was done with--itwould be so.
"And my mother said gently,
"'How could'st thou ask such a thing, Marie?'
"And the bon papa looked at me with sad reproach; that was worse thanall.
"So this day--the day that bon papa had given me the first apple of theseason--I was to go to Chalet to tell my friends it could not be, I feltvery cross and angry all the way there.
"'What have I done,' I said to myself, 'to be looked at as if I werewicked and ungrateful? Why should my life be given up to the fancies ofa foolish old man like bon papa?'
"And when I got to Chalet and told my friends it was not to be, theirregret and their disappointment made me still more displeased.
"'It is too much,' they all said, 'that you should be treated still likea bebe--you so tall and womanly that one might think you twenty.'
"'And if I were thee, Marie,' said one, 'I would go all the same. Theywould soon forgive thee when they found how well things would go withthee at Paris. How much money thou wouldst gain!'
"'But how could I go?' I asked.
"Then they all talked together and made a plan. The family was to leaveChalet the beginning of the week following, sooner than they hadexpected. I should ask leave from my mother to come again to say good-byethe same morning that they were to start, and instead of returning toStefanos I should start with them for Paris. I had already seen the lady,a young creature who, pleased with my appearance, concerned herselflittle about anything else, and my friends would tell her I had acceptedher offer. And for my clothes, I was to pack them up the evening before,and carry the parcel to a point on the road where the young man wouldmeet me. They would not be many, for my pretty fete costumes, the dressof the country, which were my best possessions, would be of no use inParis.
"'And once there,' said my friend, 'we will dress thee as thou should'stbe dressed. For the journey I can lend thee a hat. Thou could'st nottravel with that ridiculous foulard on thy head, hiding all thy prettyhair.'
"I remember there was a looking-glass in the room, and as Odette--thatwas the girl's name--said this, I glanced at myself. My poor foulard, Ihad thought it so pretty. It had been the 'nouvel an' of the bon papa!But I would not listen to the voice of my heart. I set out on my returnhome quite determined to carry out my own way.
"It was such a hot walk that day. How well I remember it! my little youngladies and little Monsieur, you would hardly believe how one can rememberthings of fifty years ago and more, as if they were yesterday when one isold as I am! The weather had been very hot, and now the clouds lookedblack and threatening.
"'We shall have thunder,' I said to myself, and I tried to walk faster,but I was tired, and oh, so hot and thirsty. I put my hand in my pocketand drew out the apple, which I had forgotten. How refreshing it was!
"'Poor bon papa,' I said to myself. 'I wish he would not be so exacting.I do not wish to make him unhappy, but what can I do? One cannot be allone's life a little child.'
"Still, softer thoughts were coming into my mind, I began to wish I hadnot given my decision, that I had said I would think it over. Paris wasso far away; at home they might all be dead before I could hear, the poorbon papa above all; it was true he was getting very old.
"Just then, at a turn in the road, I found myself in face of Didier,Didier Larreya. He was walking fast, his face looked stern and troubled.He stopped suddenly on seeing me; it was not often of late that we hadspoken to each other. He had not looked with favour on my new friends,who on their side had made fun of him (though I had noticed the day ofthe wedding that Odette had been very ready to dance with him whenever hehad asked her), and I had said to my silly self that he was jealous. Sojust now I would have passed him, but he stopped me.
"'It is going to thunder, Marie,' he said. 'We shall have a terriblestorm. I came to meet thee, to tell thee to shelter at our house; I toldthy mother I would do so. I have just been to thy house.'
"I felt angry for no reason. I did not like his watching me, and going tothe house to be told of all my doings. I resented his saying 'thou' tome.
"'I thank you, Monsieur Didier,' I said stiffly. 'I can take care ofmyself. I have no wish to rest at your house. I prefer to go home,' and Iturned to walk on.
"Didier looked at me, a
nd the look in his eyes was very sad.
"'Then it is true,' he said.
"'What is true?'
"'That you are so changed'--he did not say 'thou'--'that you wish to goaway and leave us all. The poor bon papa is right.'
"'What has bon papa been saying?' I cried, more and more angry, 'What isit to you what I do? Attend to your own affairs, I beg you, MonsieurDidier Larreya, and leave me mine.'
"Didier stopped, and before I knew what he was doing, took both my handsin his.
"'Listen, Marie,' he said. 'You _must_. You are scarcely more than achild, and I was glad for you to be so. It would not be me that wouldwish to see you all wise, all settled down like an old woman at your age.But you force me to say what I had not wished to say yet for a long time.I am older than you, eight years older, and I know my own mind. Marie,you know how I care for you, how I have always cared for you, you knowwhat I hope may be some day? Has my voice no weight with you? I do notask you now to say you care for me, you are too young, but I thought youwould perhaps learn, but to think of you going away to Paris? Oh, mylittle Marie, you would never return to us the same!"
"He stopped, and for a moment I stood still without speaking. In spite ofmyself he made me listen. He seemed to have guessed that though myparents had forbidden it, I had not yet given up the thoughts of goingaway, and in spite of my silly pride and my temper I was much touched bywhat he said, and the thought that if I went away he would leave offcaring for me came to me like a great shock. I had never thought of itlike that; I had always fancied that whatever I did I could keep Didierdevoted to me; I had amused myself with picturing my return from Parisquite a grand lady, and how I would pretend to be changed to Didier, justto tease him. But now something in his manner showed me this would notdo; if I defied him and my friends now, he would no longer care for me.Yet--would you believe it, my little young ladies and young Monsieur?--mynaughty pride still kept me back. I turned from Didier in a rage, andpulled away my hands.
"'I wish none of your advice or interference,' I said. 'I shall pleasemyself in my affairs.'
"I hurried away; he did not attempt to stop me, but stood there for amoment watching me.
"'Good-bye, Marie,' he said, and then he called after me, 'Beware of thestorm.'
"I had still two miles to go. I hurried on, passing the Larreyas' farm,and just a minute or two after that the storm began. I heard it comegrumbling up, as if out of the heart of the mountains at first, and thenit seemed to rise higher and higher. I was not frightened, but yet I sawit was going to be a great storm--you do not know, my young ladies, whatstorms we have here sometimes--and I was so hot and so tired, and whenthe anger began to pass away I felt so miserable. I could not bear to gohome and see them all with the knowledge in my heart of what I intendedto do. When I got near to the orchard, which was about a quarter of amile from the house, I felt, with all my feelings together, as if I couldgo no farther. The storm seemed to be passing over--for some minutesthere had been no lightning or thunder.
"'Perhaps after all it will only skirt round about us,' I said. And as Ithought this I entered the orchard and sat down on my own seat, a littlebench that--now many years ago--the bon papa had placed for me with hisown hands beside my pommier.
"I was so tired and so hot and so unhappy, I sat and cried.
"'I wish I had not said I would go,' I thought. 'Now if I change one willmock so at me.'
"I leaned my head against the trunk of my tree. I had forgotten about thestorm. Suddenly, more suddenly than I can tell, there came a fearfulflash of lightning--all about me seemed for a moment on fire--then thedreadful boom of the thunder as if it would shake the earth itself topieces, and a tearing crashing sound like none I had ever heard before.I screamed and threw myself on the ground, covering my eyes. For a momentI thought I was killed--that a punishment had come to me for mydisobedience. 'Oh! I will not go away. I will do what you all wish,' Icalled out, as if my parents could hear me. 'Bon papa, forgive me. Thylittle girl wishes no longer to leave thee;' but no one answered, and Ilay there in terror. Gradually I grew calmer--after that fearful crashthe thunder claps seemed to grow less violent. I looked up at last. Whatdid I see? The tree next to my pommier--the one but a yard or two from mybench--stood black and charred as if the burning hand of a great gianthad grasped it; already some of its branches strewed the ground. And mypommier had not altogether escaped; one branch had been struck--the verybranch on the sunny side from which bon papa had picked the apple, as heafterwards showed me! That my life had been spared was little less than amiracle." Marie paused....
UNDER THE APPLE-TREE.]
"I left the orchard, my little young ladies and young Monsieur," she wenton after a moment or two, "a very different girl from the one that hadentered it. I went straight to the house, and confessed all--my naughtyintention of leaving them all, my discontent and pride, and all my badfeelings. And they forgave me--the good people--they forgave me all, andbon papa took me in his arms and blessed me, and I promised him not toleave him while he lived. Nor did I--it was not so long--he died the nextyear, the dear old man! What would my feelings have been had I been awayin Paris?"
Old as she was, Marie stopped to wipe away a tear. "It is nearly sixtyyears ago, yet still the tears come when I think of it," she said. "Hewould not know me now if he saw me, the dear bon papa," she added. "I amas old as he was then! How it will be in heaven I wonder often--forfriends so changed to meet again? But that we must leave to the good God;without doubt He will arrange it all."
"And Didier, Marie?" said Sylvia, after a little pause. "Did you alsomake friends with him?"
Marie smiled, and underneath her funny old brown wrinkled skin I almostthink she blushed a little.
"Ah yes, Mademoiselle," she said. "That goes without saying. Ahyes--Didier was not slow to make friends again--and though we saidnothing about it for a long time, not till I was in the twenties, itcame all as he wished in the end. And a good husband he made me."
"Oh!" cried Molly, "I see--then _that's_ how your name is 'Larreya' too,Marie."
They all laughed at her.
"But grandmother said you had many more troubles, Marie," said Sylvia."Long after, when first she knew you. She said you would tell us."
"Ah yes, that is because the dear lady wishes not herself to tell howgood she was to me!" said Marie. "I had many troubles after my husbanddied. I told you my son Louis was a great grief, and we were poor--verypoor--I had a little fruit-stall at the market--"
"Like my old woman in Paris," said Molly, nodding her head.
"And there it was the dear lady first saw me," said Marie. "It was allthrough the apples--bon papa did well for me the day he planted thattree! They were so fine--Madame bought them for the poor gentleman whowas ill--and then I came to tell her my history; and when she took thishouse she asked me to be her concierge. Since then I have no troubles--mydaughter married, long ago of course, but she died, and her husband died,and the friends were not good for her children, and it was these I had toprovide for--my grand-daughters. But now they are very well off--eachsettled, and so good to me! The married one comes with her bebe everySunday, and the other, in a good place, sends me always a part of herwages. And my son too--he that went to Paris--he writes often. Ah yes, Iam well satisfied! And always my great-nephews send me the apples--everyyear--their father and their grandfather made the promise, and it hasnever been broken. And still, my little young ladies and littleMonsieur--still, the old apple-tree at the paternal house at Stefanos, iscalled 'le pommier de la petite.'"
"How nice!" said the children all together. "Thank you, Marie, thank youso much for telling us the story."