AT SAINT EUPHRASE.
Saint Euphrase is a village of the usual Lower Canada type, with its
big high-shouldered stone church, made stately in front by square
towers capped with tin belfries, on which the light twinkles as the
bell tinkles to call the people to mass. The village, like a brood of
chickens, nestles around, a cluster of little low-browed wooden
houses, with pillared porches and verandahs, the poorer ones roofed
with weather-stained shingles, the prosperous with red plates or tin;
pierced here and there with little casements, shining yellow in the
afternoon sun, like inquisitive eyes prying into their neighbours'
enclosures. A few tall poplars--sign of a French-speaking
settlement--rise here and there above the roofs, and around are fields
divided by picturesquely ill-kept fences, in whose corners the wild
plum or the slippery elm entwined with brambles form belts of growth
which might be hedges, grateful to the eye after the trim bald farming
of the West. A broad river runs by at about a stone-cast's distance,
but the place used to be too small to have traffic by water; and save
to the boatman who got his living by ferrying people across the river,
was but a desert barrier to the villagers, cutting them off from the
West, whither Transatlantic prosperity ever tends--lonely waters down
which a few rafts of timber passed in the Spring, and peopled only by
the duck and teal frequenting the reedy shores of an island down
stream, a bank raised by opposing currents and gathered out of the
flood by a thicket of ash and willow. The fields sloping upwards on
the other three sides, end in bush, which would cover the general
level of the country but for the farms, with their houses set by the
roadsides and their narrow strips of land running for a mile or more
back into the distance. Of late a good many country houses have been
built by Montrealers desiring something less suburban than their own
island affords. There is a railway, and a few modern shops; and
gaily-dressed townspeople may be seen driving fast horses or playing
lawn tennis in the cool of the afternoon; but these are recent
innovations on the old time when M. le Curé in his long skirts walked
down the street alone among the bowing _habitants_, smiling as he went
and bestowing his blessing.
"General" Stanley was the earliest outsider to build himself a home in
the sequestered neighbourhood, and not many as yet had followed his
example, at the time we speak of. If it had been dull in his lifetime,
his daughters found it doubly so after his death, and but for the
horrors of moving they would have migrated back to the city. As we
grow older it becomes ever more painful to root up formed habits,
while new ones are less and less able to take their place; and Miss
Stanley, at least, acknowledged that she had reached the age when
change grows irksome. Therefore, while they amused themselves by
talking of removal, and each Spring promised themselves the comforts
of town life for the succeeding Winter, the years slid by and they
found themselves still where they were. The years too made havoc among
their circle of friends, and made the city seem a less desirable
residence, just as the week works changes in our gardens, scarce
noticeable from day to day, but so complete before the month is out.
People die and marry and move away, and the ladies' shopping
expeditions to Montreal grew briefer and less frequent as time went
on, till from lasting over weeks and ending in tender partings from
regretful friends, they dwindled into excursions accomplished between
a morning and an afternoon. Soon, too, there came into the
neighbourhood a sprinkling of English-speaking settlers, which,
productive in the end of life and spirit, was like yeast turbid and
disturbing at first, when dropped into that sweet but stagnant
reservoir of old-world manners; and soon there was on the outskirts of
the village a Protestant mission, a meek little clap-boarded
structure, without spire or bell, but sufficient for the needs of its
few worshippers, and enough to rouse the watchfulnesss of the curé and
the jealous wrath of his flock. However, the parson proved to be a
peace-loving man, and the zeal which at first threatened to become
flagrant, simmered down for want of provocation, into armed
neutrality, if not into more neighbourly feelings. These changes
brought the ladies at least the feeling of a less complete isolation
than they had experienced at first, and eventually, as the grade of
new-comers improved, a little society; while the earlier polemical
excitement passed them by, they being persons content to say their own
prayers in their own fashion, and to leave their neighbours to do
likewise.
"Oh, Tookey!" said Miss Matilda, when the sisters met at breakfast on
the morning after the arrival of the baby, "the little darling is
simply delightful! When I took her upstairs Smithers most obligingly
offered to keep her through the night; but it looked so pretty lying
fast asleep in my bed with nothing on but a large pocket handkerchief,
that I really had not the heart to disturb it. We bathed it, you
know, and you cannot think what a dear, soft, plump little morsel it
looked in its bath; and it crowed--positively crowed and smiled to me
myself, for I do not think it minded Smithers much, though it was she
who did the bathing. I daresay her hands felt rough, you know, on
its tender little skin. We laid it in my bed and covered it with a
pocket-handkerchief--dear little morsel--while I went to look for
something small enough to dress it in. I thought of the clothes for my
immense wax doll I was so proud of once, and kept so long after I grew
up; but alas! I gave that to my godchild, and apparently every rag of
its wardrobe; I thought I might find a little shirt or a wrapper--I am
certain they would have been quite large enough for this one--but
Tilly Martindale seems to have got them every one. Is it not a pity?
But, as I was saying, we laid baby in the bed while I was looking for
the things, and she just dropped asleep the moment Smithers laid her
down. So I just sent Smithers off to bed, and lay down beside the dear
little duck, and it has nestled in my arms all night, as soft as a
ball of silk; and oh, Tookey! I don't think I ever slept as pleasantly
before; and in the morning it woke me by stroking my cheeks with its
soft little hands. Did you notice its hands? I never saw anything so
lovely, with a crease round the wrist, a dimple at each knuckle, and
pink little finger-tips like rosebuds."
"But what are we to do with the infant?" asked the practical Penelope.
"Do? The first thing to do is to give it some bread and milk! But I
daresay Smither's has done that already. I should have liked to do it
myself but was afraid to try. I remember so well how I hurt my
kitten's mouth, trying to feed it with a teaspoon, and I would'nt make
this little beauty cry for all the world. But I know what I will do. I
have some cambric for pocket-handkerchiefs upstairs, I shall make
it a chemise! Smithers will know how big to make it, or rather how
little--the dear wee love!"
"Matilda, dearest, let us be sensible. The child must have a _parent_,
and if _we_ can become attached to it so warmly in a few hours what
must the feelings of that parent be to be deprived of her? Ought we
not to endeavour to return the child?"
"If the parents valued it so highly why did they leave it here,
without asking leave or saying a word? No! They forsook it! I shall
always say so. Besides, how can we give it back, even if we would try?
How find the discreditable parents? And if we could, what a life we
might be giving up the little lamb to!"
"It does not seem right, our keeping it."
"And whom, pray, would you give it up to? Would you give it to the
village priest?--to be carried to some convent and brought up for a
nun?--fasting, and scrubbing all her life long for the sisterhood?
Just look at the tiny hands, like little flowers, and the plump little
person. Work and fasting, indeed! Not if _I_ can help it."
"But there is the parson. Naturally we would give it in charge to our
own church."
"And how much better would that be? What could an old bachelor do, but
make his housekeeper wrap it in a shawl, and carry it to the
Protestant Orphan Home? A very good place you know--I have been
through it--quite proper for children such as it is meant for--rough
little squalling things, quite tough and hardy. They are cared for,
and taught and brought up to service. A most useful institution and I
shall double my subscription, but it would be no home for _our_ little
fairy. Why, it is a blossom! It would wither away in that rough place
within a week. And better so, than the desecration of rearing it
there! No, no! I shall keep it for my own, if it is not claimed. Of
course if we knew its parents, and they were proper people, it would
be wrong not to let them know; but even then I would pay them money to
let me adopt it. And if they wanted to keep the child, why did they
bring it here? It seems nonsense to think about the parents at all."
"I do not like the idea of keeping a stray baby whom nobody knows
anything about, Tilly! We should ask advice, at any rate. I think I
had better go over to Montreal and ask Mr. Jordan what we should do."
"And have yourself laughed at for a fussy old maid, saddled with a
baby! You will make us a laughing stock to all our friends. Just think
how ridiculous it sounds! Besides, what can he advise? I know quite
well what he will say, and can save you your consultation fee. He will
ask you to 'be seated' in his clients' chair--_I_ know, for I visited
him several times about my steamboat shares, and it was always the
same performance--then he lies back in his own chair and takes his
foot upon his knee. After that he takes off his spectacles, wipes them
with his handkerchief and puts them on again, rests his elbows on the
chair arms, clears his voice and begins, ticking off the items of
advice with the fingers of one hand upon those of the other. He makes
it very clear, and it sounds most wise; but when you go away and think
it over, you will find he has told you just what you might have told
yourself, if you had only thought calmly and sensibly about it. There
is no witchcraft in Mr. Jordan's advice. Perhaps that is why people
say he is a sound lawyer. Remember, too, he is apt to divulge the
secrets of her dear friends to his wife. She spoke to _me_ about my
steamboat shares, I remember; and congratulated me upon selling at the
right time. You know how dearly she loves a good story, and if your
dilemma should strike her in an absurd light, she will soon have it
known all over the town. Our dear Amelia has a very long tongue."
"I only want to do what is right," said Penelope, a little dismayed at
the suggestion, "right to ourselves, and right to this baby. I feel
for the little waif, Tilly, though I do not become rapturous like
you."
"As to the baby, then, just think. It seems unlikely that it would
have been laid on our verandah if its friends had wanted to keep it at
home. Even if we could return it to them we could not make them keep
it, or use it kindly; and there seem to be only three other ways of
disposing of it--the Protestant Orphans' Home, the Grey Nunnery, or to
adopt it ourselves. Now, suppose we were to do the last--I do not
propose it, mind; but, after there seems no more likelihood of its
being claimed, if we should--would it be nice to have our _protegée_
spoken of as a foundling, and nobody's child? Would it not tell
against her when she grew up, and we took her into society with us, as
of course we should if we reared her ourselves?"
"But, my dear, the child has not been twelve hours in the house yet,
and to hear you, one would say you are already dreaming of bringing it
up! I have known you all your life, Tilly, and I never heard you
discuss at such length before; but what you say seems reasonable
enough. It would _not_ be nice to have Amelia making fun of our
perplexities, and yet there is no one else we can go to, whose advice
we could trust in like Mr. Jordan's. For yourself, now, what do you
think we should do?"
"I think we should do nothing! Nobody can blame us for doing that. It
is no affair of ours, and if only we are kind to the little one till a
claimant appears, or till we see more plainly what we should do, we
can get nothing but praise and thanks for our charity."
To do nothing is always an inviting course, in times of perplexity,
especially when it is the interest of another rather than our own
which is most deeply involved; we cannot then be blamed for doing the
wrong thing, even if we have failed to do the right one. Time, too,
has a way of winding up affairs left open, which is often more
satisfactory than the half-wise efforts of meddlesome mortals. Miss
Stanley accepted the invitation to inaction and let things take their
course.
That day was a royal one for Miss Matilda. Instead of loitering
between her flowers and her sofa, fanning herself and dropping asleep,
a new interest had come into her life; and such a pretty one! It crept
and rolled and tumbled about on the matting at her feet; while she sat
at her worktable in the bay window with scissors and cambric, sewing
strange garments, and pricking her fingers a good deal, for the needle
was an unfamiliar implement in her hands; but she went bravely on with
unflagging industry, stopping only to get fresh bread and milk, when
she imagined the little one must be hungry, or to find a pillow when
it wanted to sleep.
The newspapers came in the afternoon as usual, but she had no leisure
to waste on them; the plaything at her feet was far too engrossing.
Even Penelope only glanced over the column of "Born," "Died" and
"Married"--there is no "Divorced" in a Canadian paper, as in American
ones--in search of any known name, and then sat down to wonder at
Matilda's new-born energy and admire the baby.
These ladies were not very thorough-going newspaper readers, although
they lived in the country and saw few visitors. The two city
newspapers they received each day were always torn open, the marriages
and deaths glanced at, and sometimes the fashions, if it was their
time for getting new bonnets; but politics bewildered them, and the
local gossip had ceased to be interesting, it was so long since they
had lived in town. Their bookseller sent them magazines and boxes of
books, their home was comfortable, and life moved on smoothly, like a
door on well-oiled hinges. They forgot to crave for outside interests
and excitements, and the energies which in town life might have found
scope in arranging or disarranging their neighbours' concerns, took
gentler exercise over roses, geraniums, chickens, bees, or a rheumatic
habitant, especially if he spoke prettily and was respectful.
It was only as might be expected, then, that nothing in the newspapers
relating to their little waif ever met their eyes. The parson--their
only visiting neighbour at that time--was away for his summer
vacation; the friends who sometimes came to them from Montreal were at
the seaside, so there was no one to talk with, and they heard nothing;
which indeed was as they liked it best. All through the remainder
of that Summer and Golden Fall, these two women, not very young,
revelled in a new-found joy--the sudden awakening within them of the
holy instinct of motherhood--the double living, living in another
life besides their own, the joyous wondering progressive life of
childhood--re-entering anew a world still dew-bright in the morning
freshness which it loses as life wears on; and their hearts grew purer
and their thoughts simpler, in this unlooked for return to the Eden of
long ago.
Before two months had passed they had come to recognize their little
visitor as a member of the household and one of the family--"of our
own family, sister," Matilda said one day. "Let us make her a Stanley
and call her our niece--Muriel Stanley. What do you say?"
"But how can we, with neither brother nor sister, call her that?" said
Penelope the business-minded and literal. "Think of the stories we
should have to make up; and if anybody asked questions we should have
to make some more, and there would be discrepancies, and the most
dreadful things might be said."
"And pray," cried Matilda the impetuous, "who will presume to ask
questions when we look them in the eye and calmly state the--the fact
that she is our brother's child, and he is dead? Some people are not
very polite, but I never met any one who would dare to disbelieve a
lady to her face; and if we give no particulars and change the subject
at once, there will be no opportunity to ask questions, If we call it
a niece there will be no more to say, and as soon as it is generally
known it will interest nobody. They are all too full of their own
affairs."
"But, Tilly, we never had a brother."
"But, Tookey dear, who knows that? Papa married in this country, and
you were born here, but you know he was sent to Bermuda soon after,
and we remained there till you and I were grown. Nobody in Montreal
knows even that mamma was Canadian. Nobody asks anything about the
connections of the military or commissariat. There they are. The
Service is a voucher for their respectability. It is taken for granted
that they are English with no relations in this country, so nobody
troubles to inquire."
"But our mother's relations, Tilly, in Upper Canada; what are we to
say to _them?_"
"We have been thirteen years in Canada without meeting them. Mamma had
only a sister--Aunt Bunce--who died before we left Bermuda; if her
family live in Upper Canada still, they cannot know much about us. It
is so long since poor mamma died--before Aunt Bunce, even--so very
long that I do not care to count the years; it makes me feel so old."
"Don't talk of being old, child! You have not aged one bit. Think of
me! But why need we bother with telling fibs about the child? Fibs
always end in bother; I have been taught that all my life."
"Do you want us to be laughed at? Are you willing to confess yourself
an old maid--a Protestant grey nun--adopting babies left on your
doorstep? I am not, if you are; though I suppose I _am_ older to-day
than I was five years ago," and she shook out her ringlets with a
defiant toss. "Just let it become generally known that we keep an
upper-class foundling asylum, and we shall soon get plenty of pupils!
They will bring them from Vermont, I daresay, or up from Quebec."
"Tush! Tilly."
"It is true. Only how should we dispose of them after they were
brought up? Other institutions train them for service; now I do not
think we could do that, so what would become of them? And what will
become of our own little pet if we let her be looked on as a stray,
and different from other children? Think of the slights she will be
exposed to; and the unkind remarks, especially as she is sure to be
pretty. It would be cruelty to bring her up with ourselves, and yet
deprive her of the chance of marrying. Think of her struggles as a
lonely woman to support herself after we are gone. Our gentle nurture
would prove a curse to her and not a blessing."
"But we could not let a gentleman marry a nameless girl under a false
impression."
"Certainly not. We would explain all to any gentleman who had a right
to know; and if he _was_ a gentleman, I do not think it would prevent
the marriage; but that is quite different from proclaiming a poor
girl's misfortune."
"Think the matter over, Penelope, and I am sure you will come to see
it as I do. Meanwhile there is no hurry. We need not converse to
visitors about our _protégée_, she is too little yet to be shown to
company, and as the weather is growing cold, I propose we arrange that
room at the top of the house as a nursery, and establish her there
with Smithers. She will be out of the way both of draughts and idle
curiosity."