CHAPTER II.
BIDIANE GOES TO CALL ON ROSE A CHARLITTE.
"Love duty, ease your neighbor's load, Learn life is but an episode, And grateful peace will fill your mind."
AMINTA. ARCHBISHOP O'BRIEN.
Mirabelle Marie and her husband seated themselves in the parlor withBidiane close beside them.
"You're only a mite of a thing yet," shrieked Mrs. Watercrow, "thoughyou've growed up; but _sakerje_! how fine, how fine,--and what a shinycloth in your coat! How much did that cost?"
"Do not scream at me," said Bidiane, good-humoredly. "I still hearwell."
Claude a Sucre roared in a stentorian voice, and clapped his knee. "Shecomes home Eenglish,--quite Eenglish."
"And the Englishman,--he is still rich," said Mirabelle Marie, greedily,and feeling not at all snubbed. "Does he wear all the time a collar withwhite wings and a split coat?"
"But you took much money from him," said Bidiane, reproachfully.
"Oh, that Boston,--that divil's hole!" vociferated Mirabelle Marie. "Wedid not come back some first-class Yankees _whitewashes_. No, no, we areFrench now,--you bet! When I was a young one my old mother used to ketchflies between her thumb and finger. She'd say, '_Je te squeezerai_'" (Iwill squeeze you). "Well, we were the flies, Boston was my old mother.But you've been in cities, Biddy Ann; you know 'em."
"Ah! but I was not poor. We lived in a beautiful quarter in Paris,--anddo not call me Biddy Ann; my name is Bidiane."
"Lord help us,--ain't she stylish!" squealed her delighted aunt. "Go on,Biddy, tell us about the fine ladies, and the elegant frocks, and thedimens; everythin' shines, ain't that so? Did the Englishman shove adollar bill in yer hand every day?"
"No, he did not," said Bidiane, with dignity. "I was only a little girlto him. He gave me scarcely any money to spend."
"Is he goin' to marry yer,--say now, Biddy, ain't that so?"
Bidiane's quick temper asserted itself. "If you don't stop being sovulgar, I sha'n't say another word to you."
"Aw, shut up, now," said Claude, remonstratingly, to his wife.
Mrs. Watercrow was slightly abashed. "I don't go for to make yeh mad,"she said, humbly.
"No, no, of course you did not," said the girl, in quick compunction,and she laid one of her slim white hands on Mirabelle Marie's fat brownones. "I should not have spoken so hastily."
"Look at that,--she's as meek as a cat," said the woman, in surprise,while her husband softly caressed Bidiane's shoulder.
"The Englishman, as you call him, does not care much for women," Bidianewent on, gently. "Now that he has money he is much occupied, and healways has men coming to see him. He often went out with his mother, butrarely with me or with any ladies. He travels, too, and takes Narcissewith him; and now, tell me, do you like being down the Bay?"
Her aunt shrugged her shoulders. "A long sight more'n Boston."
"Why did you give up the farm?" said the girl to Claude; "the old farmthat belonged to your grandfather."
"I be a fool, an' I don' know it teel long after," said Claude, slowly.
"And you speak French here,--the boys, have they learned it?"
"You bet,--they learned in Boston from _Acajens_. Biddy, what makes yehcome back? Yer a big goose not to stay with the Englishman."
Bidiane surveyed her aunt disapprovingly. "Could I live always dependingon him? No, I wish to work hard, to earn some money,--and you, are younot going to pay him for this fine house?"
"God knows, he has money enough."
"But we mus' pay back," said Claude, smiting the table with his fist. "Iain't got much larnin', but I've got a leetle idee, an' I tell you,maw,--don' you spen' the money in that stockin'."
His wife's fat shoulders shook in a hearty laugh.
His face darkened. "You give that to Biddy."
"Yes," said his niece, "give it to me. Come now, and get it, and show methe house."
Mrs. Watercrow rose resignedly, and preceded the girl to the kitchen."Let's find Claudine. She's a boss cook, mos' as good as Rose aCharlitte. Biddy, be you goin' to stay along of us?"
"I don't know," said the girl, gaily. "Will you have me?"
"You bet! Biddy,"--and she lowered her voice,--"you know 'bout Isidore?"
The girl shuddered. "Yes."
"It was drink, drink, drink, like a fool. One day, when he works back inthe woods with some of those Frenchmen out of France, he go for to dolike them, an' roast a frog on the biler in the mill ingine. His brainoverswelled, overfoamed, an' he fell agin the biler. Then he was dead."
"Hush,--don't talk about him; Claudine may hear you."
"How,--you know her?"
"I know everybody. Mr. Nimmo and his mother talked so often of the Bay.They do not wish Narcisse to forget."
"That's good. Does the Englishman's maw like the little one?"
"Yes, she does."
"Claudine ain't here," and Mirabelle Marie waddled through the kitchen,and directed her sneaks to the back stairway. "We'll skip up to herroom."
Bidiane followed her, but when Mrs. Watercrow would have pushed open thedoor confronting them, she caught her hand.
"The divil," said her surprised relative, "do you want to scare the lifeout of me?"
"Knock," said Bidiane, "always, always at the door of a bedroom or aprivate room, but not at that of a public one such as a parlor."
"Am I English?" exclaimed Mirabelle Marie, drawing back and regardingher in profound astonishment.
"No, but you are going to be,--or rather you are going to be a politeFrenchwoman," said Bidiane, firmly.
Mirabelle Marie laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks. She had justhad presented to her, in the person of Bidiane, a delicious andfirst-class joke.
Claudine came out of her room, and silently stared at them until Bidianetook her hand, when her handsome, rather sullen face brightenedperceptibly.
Bidiane liked her, and some swift and keen perception told her that inthe young widow she would find a more apt pupil and a more congenialassociate than in her aunt. She went into the room, and, sitting down bythe window, talked at length to her of Narcisse and the Englishman.
At last she said, "Can you see Madame de Foret's house from here?"
Mirabelle Marie, who had squatted comfortably on the bed, like anenormous toad, got up and toddled to the window. "It's there ag'in thosepines back of the river. There's no other sim'lar."
Bidiane glanced at the cool white cottage against its green background."Why, it is like a tiny Grand Trianon!"
"An' what's that?"
"It is a villa near Paris, a very fine one, built in the form of ahorseshoe."
"Yes,--that's what we call it," interrupted her aunt. "We ain't blind.We say the horseshoe cottage."
"One of the kings of France had the Grand Trianon built for a woman heloved," said Bidiane, reverently. "I think Mr. Nimmo must have sent theplan for this from Paris,--but he never spoke to me about it."
"He is not a man who tells all," said Claudine, in French.
Bidiane and Mirabelle Marie had been speaking English, but they nowreverted to their own language.
"When do you have lunch?" asked Bidiane.
"Lunch,--what's that?" asked her aunt. "We have dinner soon."
"And I must descend," said Claudine, hurrying down-stairs. "I smellsomething burning."
Bidiane was about to follow her, when there was a clattering heard onthe stairway.
"It's the young ones," cried Mirabelle Marie, joyfully. "Some fool hastold 'em. They'll wring your neck like the blowpipe of a chicken."
The next minute two noisy, rough, yet slightly shy boys had takenpossession of their returned cousin and were leading her about the innin triumph.
Mirabelle Marie tried to keep up with them, but could not succeed indoing so. She was too excited to keep still, too happy to work, so shekept on waddling from one room to an
other, to the stable, the garden,and even to the corner,--to every spot where she could catch a glimpseof the tail of Bidiane's gown, or the heels of her twinkling shoes. Thegirl was indefatigable; she wished to see everything at once. She wouldwear herself out.
Two hours after lunch she announced her determination to call on Rose.
"I'll skip along, too," said her aunt, promptly.
"I wish to be quite alone when I first see this wonderful woman," saidBidiane.
"But why is she wonderful?" asked Mirabelle Marie.
Bidiane did not hear her. She had flitted out to the veranda, wrapping ascarf around her shoulders as she went. While her aunt stood gazinglongingly after her, she tripped up the village street, enjoyingimmensely the impression she created among the women and children, whoran to the doorways and windows to see her pass.
There were no houses along the cutting in the hill through which theroad led to the sullen stream of Sleeping Water. Rose's house stoodquite alone, and at some distance from the street, its gleaming, freshlypainted front towards the river, its curved back against a row ofpine-trees.
It was very quiet. There was not a creature stirring, and the warm Julysunshine lay languidly on some deserted chairs about a table on thelawn.
Bidiane went slowly up to the hall door and rang the bell.
Rosy-cheeked Celina soon stood before her; and smiling a welcome, forshe knew very well who the visitor was, she gently opened the door of along, narrow blue and white room on the right side of the hall.
Bidiane paused on the threshold. This dainty, exquisite apartment,furnished so simply, and yet so elegantly, had not been planned by anarchitect or furnished by a decorator of the Bay. This bric-a-brac, too,was not Acadien, but Parisian. Ah, how much Mr. Nimmo loved Rose aCharlitte! and she drew a long breath and gazed with girlish andfascinated awe at the tall, beautiful woman who rose from a low seat,and slowly approached her.
Rose was about to address her, but Bidiane put up a protesting hand."Don't speak to me for a minute," she said, breathlessly. "I want tolook at you."
Rose smiled indulgently, and Bidiane gazed on. She felt herself to be adove, a messenger sent from a faithful lover to the woman he worshipped.What a high and holy mission was hers! She trembled blissfully, then,one by one, she examined the features of this Acadien beauty, whosequiet life had kept her from fading or withering in the slightestdegree. She was, indeed, "a rose of dawn."
These were the words written below the large painting of her that hungin Mr. Nimmo's room. She must tell Rose about it, although of coursethe picture and the inscription must be perfectly familiar to her,through Mr. Nimmo's descriptions.
"Madame de Foret," she said at last, "it is really you. Oh, how I havelonged to see you! I could scarcely wait."
"Won't you sit down?" said her hostess, just a trifle shyly.
Bidiane dropped into a chair. "I have teased Mrs. Nimmo with questions.I have said again and again, 'What is she like?'--but I never could tellfrom what she said. I had only the picture to go by."
"The picture?" said Rose, slightly raising her eyebrows.
"Your painting, you know, that is over Mr. Nimmo's writing-table."
"Does he have one of me?" asked Rose, quietly.
"Yes, yes,--an immense one. As broad as that,"--and she stretched outher arms. "It was enlarged from a photograph."
"Ah! when he was here I missed a photograph one day from my album, but Idid not know that he had taken it. However, I suspected."
"But does he not write you everything?"
"You only are my kind little correspondent,--with, of course, Narcisse."
"Really, I thought that he wrote everything to you. Dear Madame deForet, may I speak freely to you?"
"As freely as you wish, my dear child."
Bidiane burst into a flood of conversation. "I think it is soromantic,--his devotion to you. He does not talk of it, but I can't helpknowing, because Mrs. Nimmo talks to me about it when she gets tooworked up to keep still. She really loves you, Madame de Foret. Shewishes that you would allow her son to marry you. If you only knew howmuch she admires you, I am sure you would put aside your objection toher son."
Rose for a few minutes seemed lost in thought, then she said, "Does Mrs.Nimmo think that I do not care for her son?"
"No, she says she thinks you care for him, but there is some objectionin your mind that you cannot get over, and she cannot imagine what itis."
"Dear little mademoiselle, I will also speak freely to you, for it iswell for you to understand, and I feel that you are a good friend,because I have received so many letters from you. It is impossible thatI should marry Mr. Nimmo, therefore we will not speak of it, if youplease. There is an obstacle,--he knows and agrees to it. Years ago, Ithought some day this obstacle might be taken away. Now, I think it isthe will of our Lord that it remain, and I am content."
"Oh, oh!" said Bidiane, wrinkling her face as if she were about to cry,"I cannot bear to hear you say this."
Rose smiled gently. "When you are older, as old as I am, you willunderstand that marriage is not the chief thing in life. It is good, yetone can be happy without. One can be pushed quietly further and furtherapart from another soul. At first, one cries out, one thinks that theparting will kill, but it is often the best thing for the two souls. Itell you this because I love you, and because I know Mr. Nimmo has takenmuch care in your training, and wishes me to be an elder sister. Do notseek sorrow, little one, but do not try to run from it. This dear, dearman that you speak of, was a divine being, a saint to me. I did wrong toworship him. To separate from me was a good thing for him. He is nowmore what I then thought him, than he was at the time. Do youunderstand?"
"Yes, yes," said Bidiane, breaking into tears, and impulsively throwingherself on her knees beside her, "but you dash my pet scheme to pieces.I wish to see you two united. I thought perhaps if I told you that,although no one knows it but his mother, he just wor--wor--ships you--"
Rose stroked her head. "Warm-hearted child,--and also loyal. Our Lordrewards such devotion. Nothing is lost. Your precious tears remind me ofthose I once shed."
Bidiane did not recover herself. She was tired, excited, profoundlytouched by Rose's beauty and "sweet gravity of soul," and her perfectresignation to her lot. "But you are not happy," she exclaimed at last,dashing away her tears; "you cannot be. It is not right. I love to readin novels, when Mr. Nimmo allows me, of the divine right of passion. Iasked him one day what it meant, and he explained. I did not know thatit gave him pain,--that his heart must be aching. He is so quiet,--noone would dream that he is unhappy; yet his mother knows that he is, andwhen she gets too worried, she talks to me, although she is not one-halfas fond of me as she is of Narcisse."
A great wave of color came over Rose's face at the mention of her child.She would like to speak of him at once, yet she restrained herself.
"Dear little girl," she said, in her low, soothing voice, "you are soyoung, so delightfully young. See, I have just been explaining to you,yet you do not listen. You will have to learn for yourself. Theexperience of one woman does not help another. Yet let me read to you,who think it so painful a thing to be denied anything that one wants, afew sentences from our good archbishop."
Bidiane sprang lightly to her feet, and Rose went to a bookcase, and,taking out a small volume bound in green and gold, read to her:"'Marriage is a high and holy state, and intended for the vast majorityof mankind, but those who expand and merge human love in the divine,espousing their souls to God in a life of celibacy, tread a higher andholier path, and are better fitted to do nobler service for God in thecause of suffering humanity.'"
"Those are good words," said Bidiane, with twitching lips.
"It is of course a Catholic view," said Rose; "you are a Protestant, andyou may not agree perfectly with it, yet I wish only to convince youthat if one is denied the companionship of one that is beloved, it isnot well to say, 'Everything is at an end. I am of no use in theworld.'"
"I think you are
the best and the sweetest woman that I ever saw," saidBidiane, impulsively.
"No, no; not the best," said Rose, in accents of painful humility. "Donot say it,--I feel myself the greatest of sinners. I read my books ofdevotion, I feel myself guilty of all,--even the blackest of crimes. Itseems that there is nothing I have not sinned in my thoughts. I havebeen blameless in nothing, except that I have not neglected the baptismof children in infancy."
"You--a sinner!" said Bidiane, in profound scepticism. "I do not believeit."
"None are pure in the sight of our spotless Lord," said Rose, inagitation; "none, none. We can only try to be so. Let me repeat to youone more line from our archbishop. It is a poem telling of the struggleof souls, of the search for happiness that is not to be found in theworld. This short line is always with me. I cannot reach up to it, I canonly admire it. Listen, dear child, and remember it is this only that isimportant, and both Protestant and Catholic can accept it--'Walking onearth, but living with God.'"
Bidiane flung her arms about her neck. "Teach me to be good like you andMr. Nimmo. I assure you I am very bad and impatient."
"My dear girl, my sister," murmured Rose, tenderly, "you are a gift andI accept you. Now will you not tell me something of your life in Paris?Many things were not related in your letters."