“My little daughter repays me every day.”
The mother was well contented with Annette’s pleasure for all the pains
she had taken.
“And, sister Annette, see, I gave you the fan.”
“And oh, sister, look at the pretty mouchoir; that is from me.”
And the happy Annette kissed and thanked, and they were all so pleased
that breakfast was quite forgotten and would have grown cold if black
Mimi had not put her head in at the door to remind them of it.
When Annette had put on the new birthday dress, laced the slippers
around her slender ankles, and held the fan and kerchief, she ran into
her mother’s room to show her the effect.
“See, mamma, it just fits me”; and she gave the small skirts a toss and
a pat, while her mother turned from the table where she had been
standing with a small casket in her hand.
“Dearest Annette,” said she, in quite a solemn voice, “I shall let you
wear to-day what my father gave to me, saying that one day it was to be
thine. When you are grown to be a big girl, it shall be yours to have
always, but to-day you shall wear it because you are my good child, and
I love you fondly.”
As Madame Valvier spoke, she clasped about Annette’s neck the pearl
necklace, the only remnant of the packet of jewels which had come from
France, and which had been drawn on when crops failed, or for the
purchase of slaves, or for some of the many needs in a new country where
money is scarce.
“Oh, mamma!” and Annette’s voice was low with pleasure as she gently
touched the rows of shining pearls which seemed far too costly a jewel
for the neck of a little girl, and quite out of place over the modest
frock.
“Are these really for me some day? Did grandpère say it should be so?”
and Annette listened while her mother told her of her grandfather’s
injunction, and how old Marie had hidden them in Annette’s own clothes
and saved them from the highwaymen.
The time passed quickly before the little guests began to arrive, for it
was to be an afternoon party, and some were brought by boat on the
Bayou, while others rode on pillions behind black Philippe or Jean, as
the case might be, sitting very still so that the best frocks would not
be rumpled.
Many games they played in the long, cool galleries, or on the grass
before the house. Ball was one of them, and when they were tired of this
they played at hide-and-seek, finding many good and secret nooks among
the trees and wax-myrtle shrubs, which were so bushy and so green.
“What shall we play next?” asked Annette, anxious that her guests should
have a good time, and some one suggested “Hugh, Sweet Hugh,” that game
of many verses which has been played by high and low through so many
centuries and in all countries.
The children made a pretty sight as, circling in a ring, they sang
merrily,—
“Come up, sweet Hugh, come up, dear Hugh,
Come up and get the ball.”
“I will not come, I may not come,
Without my bonny boys all.”
Even after the tragic death of Sweet Hugh their voices rang out clearly
till the last verse,—
“And all the bells of merry France
Without men’s hands were rung;
And all the books of merry France
Were read without men’s tongue.
Never was such a burial
Since Adam’s days begun.”
Then, half frightened at their own game, they scampered into the house,
where Madame Valvier was awaiting them, and where, spread on
trestle-boards, were all the dainties so loved of children,—fresh figs
with cream, sweet chocolate, little cakes made of nuts and honey, and
right in the centre a great round birthday cake with a dove on the very
top.
At this last touch Annette was as much surprised as the other children,
and in answer to her wondering look her mother said,—
“Your father brought it from New Orleans; it is his gift to you.”
After it had been admired, Annette cut the first piece, and the merry
meal seemed over all too quickly for the children who had to take their
way homewards, reluctant to have an end put to such unusual festivities,
and not half aware of the necessity of being safe in their own homes
before nightfall.
When the last one had gone, Annette took off her unaccustomed finery,
and, holding in her hands the splendid necklace, looked with wonder on
the round globes of pearls, which showed on their satiny faces the
shifting tones of rose, blue, pale green, and yellow.
“Ah, mother,” she sighed, “to think that so beautiful a thing should be
mine!”
“Remember always, little daughter, that it was first my mother’s
portion, then mine, and shall be yours, never to part with.”
“Of a truth, dear mother, I should wish to keep it always. But,” and
here she hesitated, “you know the other jewels which grandpère gave have
all gone.”
“Those were my own, but this is different, and should be kept always,
except in case of gravest need.”
“Gravest need—what is that, mamma?” and Annette’s blue eyes looked up
solemnly into her mother’s face.
“Does it mean to save a life, mamma?”
Madame Valvier, hardly appreciating the earnest little soul which was
listening to her words, answered,—
“Yes, to save life or honour. Now, put it in its box, and come with me
till I show you where it is hidden.”
In a small room where the children kept their few playthings, some rude
toys and some bright shells and beans, Madame Valvier paused, and,
stooping, took from beneath the window a small board, which disclosed a
box-like cupboard lined with lead.
“Here it is kept with the rest of our treasures, Annette, the papers
which belong to your father and the grants of our land. I show this
place to you because you have a wisdom beyond your years, and are indeed
my little comfort.”
Annette’s face grew rosy with pleasure at these words, and holding her
mother’s hand, she whispered,—
“I love you truly, dearest mamma, and I am the happiest girl in the
world.”
When the little ones were in bed, Annette crept up on her father’s lap
and had the crowning joy of the day, a long story of his childhood’s
days in France; and she listened entranced, as she had hundreds of times
before, to his descriptions of the old grey chateau at Étaples, the rose
garden with its sun-dial, and, best of all, to the tales of how he and
her mother used to scull down the broad shallow Canache, and then at the
river’s mouth search among the rocks and seaweed for shrimps, while out
at sea the big ships went sailing past, with their white or brown sails
swelling with the fresh wind.
Even with the interest she felt in the story, poor Annette, tired with
so much pleasure, nestled lower and lower in her father’s arms, and
finally her head fell on his shoulder.
“She sleeps,” he said, “poor little girl, fairly tired out with too much
happiness”; and taking her in his strong arms, he carried her off to her
room, where she was soon settled in her bed, the process of undressing
hardly waking her.