NARCISSE GOES IN SEARCH OF THE ENGLISHMAN.
"L'homme s'agite, Dieu le mène."
Mrs. Nimmo was a very unhappy woman. She had never before had a trouble
equal to this trouble, and, as she sat at the long window in the bedroom
of her absent son, she drearily felt that it was eating the heart and
spirit out of her.
Vesper was away, and she had refused to share his unhappy wanderings,
for she knew that he did not wish her to do so. Very calmly and coldly
he had told her that his engagement to Rose à Charlitte was over. He
assigned no cause for it, and Mrs. Nimmo, in her desperation, earnestly
wished that he had never heard of the Acadiens, that Rose à Charlitte
had never been born, and that the little peninsula of Nova Scotia had
never been traced on the surface of the globe.
It was a lovely evening of late summer. The square in which she lived
was cool and quiet, for very few of its inhabitants had come back from
their summer excursions. Away in the distance, beyond the leafy common,
she could hear the subdued roar of the city, but on the brick pavements
about her there was scarcely a footfall.
The window at which she sat faced the south. In winter her son's room
was flooded with sunlight, but in summer the branching elm outside put
forth a kindly screen of leaves to shield it from the too oppressive
heat. Her glance wandered between the delicate lace curtains, swaying to
and fro, to this old elm that seemed a member of her family. How much
her son loved it,--and with an indulgent thought of Vesper's passion for
the natives of the outdoor world, a disagreeable recollection of the
Acadien woman's child leaped into her mind.
How absurdly fond of trees and flowers he had been, and what a fanciful,
unnatural child he was, altogether. She had never liked him, and he had
never liked her, and she wrinkled her brows at the distasteful
remembrance of him.
A knock at the half-open door distracted her attention, and, languidly
turning her head, she said, "What is it, Henry?"
"It's a young woman, Mis' Nimmo," replied that ever alert and demure
colored boy, "what sometimes brings you photographs. She come in a hack
with a girl."
"Let her come up. She may leave the girl below."
"I guess that girl ain't a girl, Mis' Nimmo,--she looks mighty like a
boy. She's the symbol of the little feller in the French place I took
you to."
Mrs. Nimmo gave him a rebuking glance. "Let the girl remain
down-stairs."
"Madame," said a sudden voice, "this is now Boston,--where is the
Englishman?"
Mrs. Nimmo started from her chair. Here was the French child himself,
standing calmly before her in the twilight, his small body habited in
ridiculous and disfiguring girl's clothes, his cropped curly head and
white face appearing above an absurd kind of grayish yellow cloak.
"Narcisse!" she ejaculated.
"Madame," said the faint yet determined little voice, "is the Englishman
in his house?"
Mrs. Nimmo's glance fell upon Henry, who was standing open-mouthed and
grotesque, and with a gesture she sent him from the room.
Narcisse, exhausted yet eager, had started on a tour of investigation
about the room, holding up with one hand the girl's trappings, which
considerably hampered his movements, and clutching something to his
breast with the other. He had found the house of the Englishman and his
mother, and by sure tokens he recognized his recent presence in this
very room. Here were his books, his gloves, his cap, and, best of all,
another picture of him; and, with a cry of delight, he dropped on a
footstool before a full-length portrait of the man he adored. Here he
would rest: his search was ended; and meekly surveying Mrs. Nimmo, he
murmured, "Could Narcisse have a glass of milk?"
Mrs. Nimmo's emotions at present all seemed to belong to the order of
the intense. She had never before been so troubled; she had never before
been so bewildered. What did the presence of this child under her roof
mean? Was his mother anywhere near? Surely not,--Rose would never clothe
her comely child in those shabby garments of the other sex.
She turned her puzzled face to the doorway, and found an answer to her
questions in the presence of an anxious-faced young woman there, who
said, apologetically, "He got away from me; he's been like a wild thing
to get here. Do you know him?"
"Know him? Yes, I have seen him before."
The anxious-faced young woman breathed a sigh of relief. "I thought,
maybe, I'd been taken in. I was just closing up the studio, an hour ago,
when two men came up the stairs with this little fellow wrapped in an
old coat. They said they were from a schooner called the _Nancy Jane_,
down at one of the wharves, and they picked up this boy in a drifting
boat on the Bay Saint-Mary two days ago. They said he was frightened
half out of his senses, and was holding on to that photo in his
hand,--show the lady, dear."
Narcisse, whose tired head was nodding sleepily on his breast, paid no
attention to her request, so she gently withdrew one of his hands from
under his cloak and exhibited in it a torn and stained photograph of
Vesper.
Mrs. Nimmo caught her breath, and attempted to take it from him, but he
quickly roused himself, and, placing it beneath him, rolled over on the
floor, and, with a farewell glance at the portrait above, fell sound
asleep.
"He's beat out," said the anxious-faced young woman. "I'm glad I've got
him to friends. The sailors were awful glad to get rid of him. They kind
of thought he was a French child from Nova Scotia, but they hadn't time
to run back with him, for they had to hurry here with their cargo, and
then he held on to the photo and said he wanted to be taken to that
young man. The sailors saw our address on it, but they sort of
misdoubted we wouldn't keep him. However, I thought I'd take him off
their hands, for he was frightened to death they would carry him back to
their vessel, though I guess they was kind enough to him. I gave them
back their coat, and borrowed some things from the woman who takes care
of our studio. I forgot to say the boy had only a night-dress on when
they found him."
Mrs. Nimmo mechanically felt in her pocket for her purse. "They didn't
say anything about a woman being with him?"
"No, ma'am; he wouldn't talk to them much, but they said it was likely a
child's trick of getting in a boat and setting himself loose."
"Would you--would you care to keep him until he is sent for?" faltered
Mrs. Nimmo.
"I--oh, no, I couldn't. I've only a room in a lodging-house. I'd be
afraid of something happening to him, for I'm out all day. I offered him
something to eat, but he wouldn't take it--oh, thank you, ma'am, I
didn't spend all that. I guess I'll have to go. Does he come from down
East?"
"Yes, he is French. My son visited his house this summer, and used to
pet him a good deal."
The young woman cast a glance of veiled admiration at the portrait. "And
the little one ran away to find him. Quite a story. He's cute, too,"
and, airily patting Narcisse's curly head, she took her leave of Mrs.
Nimmo, and made her way down-stairs. A good many strange happenings came
into her daily life in this large city, and this was not one of the
strangest.
Mrs. Nimmo sat still and stared at Narcisse. Rose had probably not been
in the boat with him,--had probably not been drowned. He had apparently
run away from home, and the first thing to do was to communicate with
his mother, who would be frantic with anxiety about him. She therefore
wrote out a telegram to Rose, "Your boy is with me, and safe and well,"
and ringing for Henry, she bade him send it as quickly as possible.
Then she sank again into profound meditation. The child had come to see
Vesper. Had she better not let him know about it? If she applied the
principles of sound reasoning to the case, she certainly should do so.
It might also be politic. Perhaps it would bring him home to her, and,
sighing heavily, she wrote another telegram.
In the meantime Narcisse did not awake. He lay still, enjoying the heavy
slumber of exhaustion and content. He was in the house of his beloved
Englishman; all would now be well.
He did not know that, after a time, his trustful confidence awoke the
mother spirit in the woman watching him. The child for a time was wholly
in her care. No other person in this vast city was interested in him. No
one cared for him. A strange, long-unknown feeling fluttered about her
breast, and memories of her past youth awoke. She had also once been a
child. She had been lonely and terrified, and suffered childish agonies
not to be revealed until years of maturity. They were mostly agonies
about trifles,--still, she had suffered. She pictured to herself the
despair and anger of the boy upon finding that Vesper did not return to
Sleeping Water as he had promised to do. With his little white face in a
snarl, he would enter the boat and set himself adrift, to face
sufferings of fright and loneliness of which in his petted childhood he
could have had no conception. And yet what courage. She could see that
he was exhausted, yet there had been no whining, no complaining; he had
attained his object and he was satisfied. He was really like her own
boy, and, with a proud, motherly smile, she gazed alternately from the
curly head on the carpet to the curly one in the portrait.
The external resemblance, too, was indeed remarkable, and now the
thought did not displease her, although it had invariably done so in
Sleeping Water, when she had heard it frequently and naïvely commented
on by the Acadiens.
Well, the child had thrown himself on her protection,--he should not
repent it; and, summoning a housemaid, she sent her in search of some of
Vesper's long-unused clothing, and then together they slipped the
disfiguring girl's dress from Narcisse's shapely body, and put on him a
long white nightrobe.
He drowsily opened his eyes as they were lifting him into Vesper's bed,
saw that the photograph was still in his possession, and that a familiar
face was bending over him, then, sweetly murmuring "_Bon soir_" (good
night), he again slipped into the land of dreams.
Several times during the night Mrs. Nimmo stole into her son's room, and
drew the white sheet from the black head half buried in the pillow. Once
she kissed him, and this time she went back to her bed with a lighter
heart, and was soon asleep herself.
She was having a prolonged nap the next morning when something caused
her suddenly to open her eyes. Just for an instant she fancied herself a
happy young wife again, her husband by her side, their adored child
paying them an early morning call. Then the dream was over. This was the
little foreign boy who was sitting curled up on the foot of her bed,
nibbling hungrily at a handful of biscuits.
"I came, madame, because those others I do not know," and he pointed
towards the floor, to indicate her servants. "Has your son, the
Englishman, yet arrived?"
"No," she said, gently.
"Your skin is white," said Narcisse, approvingly; "that is good; I do
not like that man."
"But you have seen colored people on the Bay,--you must not dislike
Henry. My husband brought him here as a boy to wait on my son. I can
never give him up."
"He is amiable," said Narcisse, diplomatically. "He gave me these," and
he extended his biscuits.
They were carrying on their conversation in French, for only with Vesper
did Narcisse care to speak English. Perfectly aware, in his acute
childish intelligence, that he was, for a time, entirely dependent on
"madame," whom, up to this, he had been jealous of, and had positively
disliked, he was keeping on her a watchful and roguish eye. Mrs. Nimmo,
meanwhile, was interested and amused, but would make no overtures to
him.
"Is your bed as soft as mine, madame?" he said, politely.
"I do not know; I never slept in that one."
Narcisse drew a corner of her silk coverlet over his feet. "Narcisse was
very sick yesterday."
"I do not wonder," said his hostess.
"Your son said that he would return, but he did not."
"My son has other things to think of, little boy."
Mrs. Nimmo's manner was one that would have checked confidences in an
ordinary child. It made Narcisse more eager to justify himself. "Why
does my mother cry every night?" he asked, suddenly.
"How can I tell?" answered Mrs. Nimmo, peevishly.
"I hear a noise in the night, like trees in a storm," said Narcisse,
tragically, and, drawing himself up, he fetched a tremendous sigh from
the pit of his little stomach; "then I put up my hand so,"--and leaning
over, he placed three fingers on Mrs. Nimmo's eyelids,--"and my mother's
face is quite wet, like leaves in the rain."
Mrs. Nimmo did not reply, and he went on with alarming abruptness. "She
cries for the Englishman. I also cried, and one night I got out of bed.
It was very fine; there was the night sun in the sky,--you know, madame,
there is a night sun and a day sun--"
"Yes, I know."
"I went creeping, creeping to the wharf like a fly on a tree. I was not
afraid, for I carried your son in my hand, and he says only babies cry
when they are alone."
"And then,--" said Mrs. Nimmo.
"Oh, the beautiful stone!" cried Narcisse, his volatile fancy attracted
by a sparkling ring on Mrs. Nimmo's finger.
She sighed, and allowed him to handle it for a moment. "I have just put
it on again, little boy. I have been in mourning for the last two years.
Tell me about your going to the boat."
"There is nothing to tell," said Narcisse; "it was a very little boat."
"Whose boat was it?"
"The blacksmith's."
"How did you get it off from the wharf?"
"Like this," and bending over, he began to fumble with the strings of
her nightcap, tying and untying until he tickled her throat and made her
laugh irresistibly and push him away. "There was no knife," he said, "or
I would have cut it."
"But you did wrong to take the blacksmith's boat."
Narcisse's face flushed, yet he was too happy to become annoyed with
her. "When the Englishman is there, I am good, and my mother does not
cry. Let him go back with me."
"And what shall I do?"
Narcisse was plainly embarrassed. At last he said, earnestly, "Remain,
madame, with the black man, who will take care of you. When does the
Englishman arrive?"
"I do not know; run away now, I want to dress."
"You have here a fine bathroom," said Narcisse, sauntering across the
room to an open door. "When am I to have my bath?"
"Does your mother give you one every day?"
"Yes, madame, at night, before I go to bed. Do you not know the screen
in our room, and the little tub, and the dish with the soap that smells
so nice? I must scour myself hard in order to be clean."
"I am glad to hear that. I will send a tub to your room."
"But I like this, madame."
"Come, come," she said, peremptorily, "run away. No one bathes in my tub
but myself."
Narcisse had a passion for dabbling in water, and he found this dainty
bathroom irresistible. "I hate you, madame," he said, flushing angrily,
and stamping his foot at her. "I hate you."
Mrs. Nimmo looked admiringly past the child at his reflection in her
cheval glass. What a beauty he was, as he stood furiously regarding her,
his sweet, proud face convulsed, his little body trembling inside his
white gown! In his recklessness he had forgotten to be polite to her,
and she liked him the better for it.
"You are a naughty boy," she said, indulgently. "I cannot have you in my
room if you talk like that."
Without a word Narcisse went to her dressing-table, picked up his
precious photograph that he had left propped against a silver-backed
brush, and turned to leave her, when she said, curiously, "Why did you
tear that picture if you think so much of it?"
Narcisse immediately fell into a state of pitiable confusion, and,
hanging his head, remained speechless.
"If you will say you are sorry for being rude, I will give you another
one," she said, and in a luxury of delight at playing with this little
soul, she raised herself on her arm and held out a hand to him.
Narcisse drew back his lips at her as if he had been a small dog.
"Madame," he faltered, tapping his teeth, "these did it, but I stopped
them."
"What do you mean?" said Mrs. Nimmo, and a horrible suspicion entered
her mind.
"Narcisse was hungry--in the boat--" stammered the boy. "He nibbled but
a little of the picture. He could not bite the Englishman long."
Mrs. Nimmo shuddered. She had never been hungry in her life. "Come here,
you poor child. You shall have a bath in my room as soon as I finish.
Give me a kiss."
Narcisse's sensitive spirit immediately became bathed with light. "Shall
I kiss you as your son the Englishman kissed my mother?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Nimmo, bravely, and she held out her arms.
"But you must not do so," said Narcisse, drawing back. "You must now
cry, and hide your face like this,"--and his slender, supple fingers
guided her head into a distressed position,--"and when I approach, you
must wave your hands."
"Did your mother do that?" asked Mrs. Nimmo, eagerly.
"Yes,--and your son lifted her hand like this," and Narcisse bent a
graceful knee before her.
"Did she not throw her arms around his neck and cling to him?" inquired
the lady, in an excess of jealous curiosity.
"No, she ran from us up the bank."
"Your mother is a wicked woman to cause my son pain," said Mrs. Nimmo,
in indignant and rapid French.
"My mother is not wicked," said Narcisse, vehemently. "I wish to see
her. I do not like you."
They were on the verge of another disagreement, and Mrs. Nimmo, with a
soothing caress, hurried him from the room. What a curious boy he was!
And as she dressed herself she sometimes smiled and sometimes frowned at
her reflection in the glass, but the light in her eyes was always a
happy one, and there was an unusual color in her cheeks.