ANNETTE.
"Poor Pierre!" was the natural burden of the conversation round the
Misses Stanley's supper table that night.
"Did not think it was in him," said Considine. "A quiet, fat,
soft-eyed, soft-spoken boy--just like some of my mulatto
table-niggers at home, in the old time. Never struck me there was man
in him at all."
"He struck out splendidly," cried Gerald. "Straight from the
shoulder--just one almighty drive, and the rowdy fell in his
tracks--felled like an ox--without a struggle. Hope, for Pierre's
sake, he has not killed him. He had not moved up to the time we left
the ground. There could not have been a prettier stroke. We must not
let him get into trouble about it. It would have gone roughly with me
if he had not run in just then. One on either side, and I dared not
hit out at the one, for laying myself open to the other."
"You did very well, Gerald. Your own man was not at all badly floored,
though he recovered more quickly than the other. 'Pon honour, I felt
my old blood warming at sight of the fray. I should have been at your
side in another instant, when I saw that ruffian get on his feet
again, with musket clubbed--walking stick, I should say--a rather
ridiculous object, I fear; but the old war-horse, you know"--and he
turned to Matilda as if he had made a happy quotation from the poets,
and she responded with an approving smile as in duty bound--"pricks up
his ears at the noise of battle. However, the policeman appeared, and
saved me from making a show of myself. That is one of the troubles of
getting old. A man is more likely to get laughed at for showing his
mettle than admired."
"Nobody would have laughed, Mr. Considine," said Matilda. "It was kind
of you to mean it. But about Pierre. I can think of nothing but poor
Pierre being taken up for trying to protect Muriel from a gang of
ruffians. How came he to be there? He might have dropped from the
clouds, I was so surprised."
"There were some beef cattle at the farm," said Miss Penelope. "Pierre
drove them into town. He was here in the afternoon. I gave him money
to stay in town overnight and go home by the cars to-morrow. So that
is explained."
"Mr. Considine, may we commission you to engage the very best advice
for Pierre?" said Matilda. "Being our servant we should feel bound to
help him out of a difficulty in any case; but when he was assisting to
protect Muriel, we must do more still. Spare no expense. See Mr.
Jordan, or whomever you think the best. We would have sent word to Mr.
Jordan by Randolph to act for us, but Randolph has not come back here.
He will have walked home with Miss Rouget, I dare say. They seemed to
enjoy each other's company immensely, which rather surprised me.
Adèline is a nice girl, but rather inanimate, and Randolph is a lazy
fellow, who prefers to sit still and let a lady amuse him. So they
struck me, when they went off together, as being not a well-assorted
pair, and yet they seemed to hit it off together uncommonly well. In
fact, I have quite come to the conclusion that in such cases one never
knows."
"Jean Bruneau will be anxious about his boy if he does not get home by
to-morrow evening," said Penelope; "but how to send him word? I need
not write, for he never goes to the post-office, and a letter to him
would lie there till the postmaster happened to see him in the
village. Telegraphing is the same; the message might lie a week at the
post-office."
"We are going home to-morrow, Betsey and I," said Mrs. Bunce. "Can we
assist you, Miss Stanley?"
"Indeed you can, Mrs. Bunce; if it is not too much trouble. If you
would walk out to Bruneau's cottage and explain to them the detention
of their boy. Tell them how well he has behaved, how indebted we feel
to him, and how willingly we will go to every expense to send him home
as soon as possible. You will indeed do us a favour. We will write you
to-morrow, after Mr. Considine has spoken to the magistrate, so as to
give the very latest news."
The Rev. Dionysius had eaten his morning rasher, and was consuming his
second plateful of buckwheat cakes and maple syrup--there is nothing
like a copious breakfast for enabling one to resist the cold--and was
basking in his regained domesticity. He had been dwelling alone for
three or four weeks, and though at first he had plunged with
enthusiasm into his books, secure of freedom from interruption, he
soon found the unbroken stillness grow oppressive. He wanted to speak,
but there was no one to listen. He had felt himself, like the
psalmist's solitary sparrow on the housetop, desolate and forlorn, and
now he enjoyed even his wife's wordy narrations with a zest which
surprised himself as much as it gratified her.
She was pouring forth a continuous stream of ecclesiastical tittle
tattle, about curates, choirs, congregations and preferments, which
would have been idle talk and a sinful waste of time in her serious
eyes if it had related to politics or the public offices, but seeing
it was not the State which it remotely touched on, but the Church, she
believed it both important and improving; for with her, Church, like
charity, covered anything, and transmuted even back-biting into
holiness.
Dionysius listened and ate his cakes. Human speech of any sort was
much, after three whole weeks of silence, broken only by the heavy
foot of his domestic, or the clatter of delf-breaking in the kitchen.
Judith, again, was a good woman, he knew, and it was his duty to bear
with her infirmities--and bear up under them, too, at times, which was
a heavier task. Perhaps she was not in all respects as much to be
admired and respected as he had persuaded himself when he married her,
but at least he knew that she admired and respected _him_, which was
much more important, and very soothing.
Miss Betsey had breakfasted, and being in haste to divulge her
experiences of travel, gaiety, and _beaux_, had walked along the
village street to the post-office in hopes of meeting a gossip. She
now returned with the family letters.
"Here you are, uncle! Four letters for you, and one of them
registered--that means money. And here is one for you, auntie;
everybody is in luck but me."
"Did you expect a letter, my dear?"
"Well--yes, I kind of thought I should have heard;" and her colour
deepened. Two nights before she had striven so hard to impress her
address on the memory of her cavalier of the tobogganing. They had
parted such good friends--on her side at least--that she had been
promising herself a letter from him all the day before. It would come,
however, sooner or later, she told herself, and thereby found strength
to possess her soul in patience.
"My letter is from Penelope Stanley," said Mrs. Bunce. "Dionysius, can
you drive me out to the Miss Stanley's place, in the cutter[1] to-day?
She asked me to deliver a message to their man, and he should get it
to-day."
"I was not going in that direction to-day, but it does not matter. I
will take you; but you must arrange either to stay a few minutes only,
or else to wait a few hours, as I have an appointment elsewhere."
"Here is Bruneau's wife coming down the hill, auntie; carrying a fat
goose and a pair of ducks. Be sure you make a trade with her for the
ducks; I believe in roast duck."
"A _brace_ of ducks, my dear,"
"A pair of ducks, uncle. They're farmyard ducks. Think I went to
Ellora Female College for nothing?"
"Call her in, Betsey, and let us take your erudition for granted."
"She won't come, auntie. Remember we're heretics. She wouldn't let
herself be seen coming into a Protestant parson's house."
"Oh, yes, she will, if you ask her the price of her ducks. Money can
do anything."
Annette Bruneau was called in as she passed; and came, looking
distrustfully to light and left. The parson beat a retreat, which
augmented her confidence somewhat, but still she seemed not much at
her ease. A question as to the price of ducks, however, reassured her.
Ducks were food for Christians, and it was the souls of men and the
flesh of little children on which the nameless person she dreaded to
see was believed to subsist. What price for the ducks? Oh, yes, she
was herself at once, and did a very fair stroke of business, too,
extracting some twelve or twenty cents more from the misbelievers than
she would have had the assurance to ask from the storekeeper for whom
they had been destined.
"I have a letter from Miss Stanley this morning," said Mrs. Bunce.
"_Ah oui, madame?_ I hope she goes well."
"She is so pleased with your boy Pierre. Feels really indebted to him,
and says he has behaved so well."
"But yes, madame? And is it upon the affairs of Mees Stanlee zat he is
not of the return?"
"He was taken up by the police. He behaved--oh! remarkably well. Miss
Stanley feels under the greatest obligations to him, and will do her
very utmost to have him well defended and brought off."
"Police, madame? My Pierre _chez_ ze police!--_à la prison?_ But vy?
Is it as he have _cassé la tête de personne?_ Ah! _le pauvre garcon_,"
and she wiped her eyes.
"I feel deeply indebted to him myself--under the very greatest
obligations--which will console you, I hope. Mr. Bunce has many
friends in town, and I shall make him use his influence with them; so
calm yourself, my poor woman. I owe it to your boy and also to myself
to console you. Take comfort. Your son has behaved extremely well.
Indeed, he has shown himself a fine manly youth; you may be proud of
him, you may indeed, Mrs. Bruneau; and who knows but his arrest--the
man he knocked down was still unconscious when Miss Stanley wrote. The
inquiry was adjourned yesterday in case it should involve a charge of
manslaughter. He must have struck a fearful blow!"
"Manslaughter? Meurtre, _assassinat?_ In_croyable!_--_My_ Pierre?" The
tears ran down her quivering face, and she clasped her hands. "But
perhaps I do not _comprend_, ze English is _dificille_. Say it again."
"Be comforted, my poor woman?" and Judith wiped her own eyes--she was
sympathetic and even kind, after a sort, notwithstanding her
absurdity. "We must submit, you know, to the dispensations of
Providence; and who knows but, after all, your son's confinement may
prove a precious blessing in disguise. He may have opportunities of
coming in contact with the truth there. The jail chaplain is an
admirable man, and I am sure will do his utmost to bring him to an
appreciation of doctrinal truth, especially if Mr. Bunce were to write
to him, as I shall see that he does. With a blessing that might induce
the sweetest uses of adversity, as the hymn says--though, to be sure,
you cannot be expected to understand that just yet--and when I come to
think of it, the lad will be confined in the police cells at present,
not the jail. However, I shall always feel bound to say a good word
for your son, after his manly assistance to my nephew; and Gerald's
father--Mr. Herkimer, you know--is bound to exert himself, and he has
a great deal of influence. No; there can nothing happen to your son
worse than a short detention. Keep up your heart, my friend," and she
patted her gingerly on the shoulder.
"But I do not _comprend_, madame; you say Mistaire Herkimaire and M.
Gerald--I know him--vat say you of dem?"
"Why, you know--but, to be sure, you don't know, I have not had time
to tell you anything yet. These interruptions make it so difficult for
me to tell my story. You must know that two nights ago Mr. Gerald, my
nephew, was attacked by a number of ruffians, and your son came
gallantly to his assistance, and helped him to beat them off."
"Ah! mon brave. Ze good Pierre!"
"And one of the roughs seems to have been hurt; he was taken to the
hospital, and is still unconscious. The police interfered, and I
suppose it was necessary to make arrests. The roughs made their
escape; it was proper to take some one into custody, so they took your
son to found a prosecution upon, as I am told the proceedings they
mean to institute are called. They will found their prosecution, and
then the truth will be found out--you see? Ingenious, is it not? and I
have no hesitation in saying your son will he honourably acquitted;
acquitted and, perhaps, even complimented by the bench. Think of that.
What an honour!"
"Ze bench? I do not know him. He vill not know my poor Pierre. But M.
Gerald? Is he also arrest?"
"He gave his card, and he promised to appear."
"All! and my poor Pierre have not ze carte. But he give ze promesse,
and he keep it."
"It could not be taken, unfortunately. You see the others had run
away, and the law must be vindicated. What else are the police for?"
"Ah!--_La loi!_ She take ze poor vich have not ze carte, ze riches
_echappent_. It is not but ze good God who have pity on ze poor," and
she sat down rocking herself in hopeless woe.
"You must bear up, my good woman. There is really no ground for
despondency. Miss Stanley has engaged the very best lawyers in
Montreal to see that the young man is brought safely through his
difficulty. She feels most grateful to him."
"Mees Stanley is ver good. I have say so always. But it was to M.
Gerald Pierre bring ze _secours_. Does he notting? Go all his money to
buy _la carte?_"--with a shrug which rather outraged Mrs. Bunce, who
claimed much deference from the lower orders.
"My nephew will see your son comes to no harm," she said. Just a
little loftily. "Set your mind at rest as to that; but Miss Stanley
insists on bearing all the expense. She looks on your son as having
got into difficulty through defending her niece; and indeed the young
man himself, as he was being led away, said he would have done far
more than that for the sake of Miss Muriel. We talked about him all
through supper, when they got home--I did not go to the tobogganing
myself--and we all said it was so nice of him. Depend on it, he will
be no loser in the end----"
"For Mees Muriel? Always Mees Muriel! My Pierre shut up for _her!_
Sainte Vierge! Have pity on a wife and mother _malheureuse!_--ah!--And
was it me who brought her there! _Serpenteau! Que tu m'as broui les
yeux par ta vue! Que tu as niaisé le c[oe]ur de ton frère légitime!_"
"Speak English, my good woman. What is it you say? You seem to have
some ground of complaint against Miss Stanley's niece."
"She is not niece of Mees Stanley. She is _enfante trouvée_."
"What sort of an infant? But why do you say she is not Miss Stanley's
niece? She is the daughter of Miss Stanley's brother. Surely a lady
like Miss Stanley must know who are members of her own family. Why!
Mr. Bunce is her first cousin."
"_Vous vous trompez, madame. Vous vous l'imaginez la niece_----"
"Speak English, please."
"You imagine yourself the niece----"
"I do nothing of the kind. Betsey! I think this poor soul is losing
her wits with grief for her boy. What shall we do?--Call your uncle."
"Not a bit of it, auntie. She is as peart as you or I; but she knows
something about Muriel, and we'd better hear it. Designing little
monkey! It is just scandalous the way that girl goes on with Gerald
and all the young fellows who will mind her. I have long suspected
there was something, and Uncle Dionysius always said he never knew
that the Stanleys had had a brother at all, till he was shown this
daughter."
"Surely that was sufficient."
"I don't know. Let's hear her, any way," and she drew her chair
forward, smirking and nodding her head by way of introduction to the
French woman.
"_Vous avez raison, Mademoiselle_."
"I told you so, auntie. She says I have reason. That means sense, of
course, and I believe her; though some people"--and she sighed--"don't
seem to see it. She is evidently a person of penetration and sagacity,
this--a superior person. We'd better hear what she has to say. Wee,
wee, ma bong fam," turning to the stranger; "but speak English. Parley
Onglay, you know, we haven't much French here."
Annette knitted her dark brows and coughed determinedly; and then she
stopped, and as another thought seemed to strike her, the frown
cleared itself away before the propitiatory smile which she turned
on her interviewers, as the night police cast the gleam of their
bull's-eye on those who accost them.
"Since madame and mademoiselle are of ze parents of Mees Stanley, it
is of their right, it is able to be of their advantage to know."
"Parents? Betsey. Penelope must be every day as old as I am. I told
you the poor creature's wits were unsettled."
"Tush! auntie. Be quiet. Wee, wee; but speak English, Mrs. Bruneau. To
be sure we wish to hear something to our advantage. Go on."
"But madame and mademoiselle must promesse not never to say zat the
_connaissance_ have come from me. My man vould lose his _emploi chez_
Mees Stanley for sure."
"We'll promise you," cried Betsey, in eager curiosity. "Go ahead."
"_Cela étant_----"
"No French now, please. Take your time, but put it all into English."
Annette settled herself in her chair, clasping her hands in her lap
with a long breath; while her eyes rolled abstractedly in her head in
search, no doubt, of the English words to convey her meaning. "Madame
is _mariée_ as me. She will know _la jalousie_, which carries ze good
vife for _son époux_."
"Auntie!" cried Betsey in uncontrollable hilarity. "Were you ever so
jealous of Uncle Dionysius that you had to carry him about with you?
It would be more likely to be the other way. It is you, I should say,
would want watching. He! he!"
"Betsey," said Aunt Judy austerely, for in truth her sense of
propriety was outraged, "you surprise me. No! Mrs. Bruneau, I am not
jealous. I have no occasion."
"Madame ees _heureuse_; but me--_l'épouse_ who loves as me, vill have
_des doutes_ from time in time. Zere arrive von night--it was a hot
night of summer, ven ze vindow ver leff open, and I do not sleep well,
and zen sound _au dessous de la fenêtre_--"
"Say window, and go on."
"I hear ze cry of a _bébé_, I raise myself and go down, and behold! on
ze stoop it were laid. And _la jalousie_ she demand of me '_pour-quoi_
at ze door of my Jean Bruneau?' And I _réponds qu'oui_, it is too
evident. And I say in myself that no! It shall not be that the
_enfante d'autrui_ shall eat the _croûte_ of _mes enfants_; and for
Jean Bruneau, he shall of it never know. And then I carry to the
_porte_ of Mees Stanley, and I sound, and hide myself till I shall see
it carried in ze house. And now, behold, the reward of my
_bienfaisance!_ Pierre, _à la prison!_ And he has loffe her since long
time. _Peut-être sa s[oe]ur!_ Oh! My boy so innocent, in sin so
mortal, and not to know! But how to hinder?"
"And the child is no relation to them at all? Well--I call it
_ou_dacious. Auntie, did you ever hear anything like it? A brat like
Muriel, not a drop's blood to them in the world, to be pampered up
there in sealskin and velvet, while I, their own cousin, am glad to
dress myself in a suit of homespun."
"Yes, my dear, it seems wrong. I wonder at a correct person like
Penelope Stanley compromising herself in a thing so contrary to all
rule. But then, Matilda is flighty; I always thought her flighty.
Beware of flightiness, Betsey, and yielding to the momentary impulses
of an ill-regulated mind. It never answers. In the touching language
of--of--the Psalmist, I suppose--and be sure your impulses will find
you out! No, that isn't just it, but it might be; that is the
intention of it. But, Mrs. Bruneau, I feel for you"--she rose as she
said so, to intimate that the interview was ended--"I feel for you
deeply. Be sure of my kindest consideration. When we hear further
about your son, we will let you know, and all my influence I promise
you to exert on his behalf. Good morning. You may rely on our not
making an improper use of what you have told us."
"Madame have give her promesse to be silent. I confide;" and she
curtsied herself out, with a confidence which was fast wearing into a
misgiving that she would have done more wisely to hold her tongue. A
secret shared with two others, who have no interest in maintaining it,
has ceased almost to be a secret at all.