ON THE BANKS OF THE RANCE.
Punctually at the appointed hour Mr. Harland stood before the dark
little house in the Rue St. Joseph; but he had hardly touched the bell
before the door opened, and Annette confronted him.
"I am quite ready," she said, hurriedly: "I have been looking out for
you for some time, because I did not wish to keep you waiting. Is it
your pleasure to come in and wait a little, monsieur, or shall we take
our walk now?"
"Well, it is a pity to waste even a quarter of an hour in-doors this
lovely evening," returned Mr. Harland, in his quick, cheery manner;
"so, if you are ready, Miss Ramsay, we will begin our stroll at once."
He looked at her rather keenly as he spoke, at the slim, girlish
figure in the black dress. The hat shaded her face; but even at the
first glance he could see she was very pale, and that her eyes were
swollen, as though she had been crying. How young and pathetic she
looked, standing there in the afternoon light, with the little silk
kerchief knotted loosely round her shapely throat, and a tiny rosebud
fastened in her dress! He was just a little silent as they turned down
the street, for he feared to question her too closely; and he was much
relieved when Annette began to talk to him in her frank, naïve way.
"I fear I am a dull companion," she said, gently; "but I am a little
sad at the thought that there will be no one but Clotilde to visit
my mother's grave. I have been saying good-bye to it. That is why my
eyes are so red. Look, monsieur; this rosebud is the first that has
blossomed; was it selfish of me to gather it? The dear mother loved
roses more than any other flowers; they were the offerings she liked
best on her fête day; this little white bud will be a souvenir when I
am far away. Monsieur, perhaps I am foolish; but I feel I shall miss my
mother more when I can not kneel beside her grave."
"Oh, you will get over that feeling," replied Mr. Harland, hastily;
"that is just how my wife feels about Mysie. Mysie was our youngest
but one, and she died when she was six years old. My wife half broke
her heart about her; and when we moved from Norbiton to Chislehurst,
it was her one regret that we were leaving Mysie behind; but I used to
tell her"--and here Mr. Harland's voice had a suspicion of huskiness in
it--"that it was just fancy, that Mysie was as near as ever, and that
it was better to think of her growing up in heaven among all the other
children than to think of the poor perishing little body that lies in
that Norbiton church-yard."
"You are right, monsieur; it is the truth you are telling me," returned
Annette, humbly, and she looked up at him very sweetly; "but I can
understand so well the regret of madame, your wife. That is the worst
of us. We do forget so often that it is not our beloved who lie in the
grave. At one moment we smile to think they are so safe in Paradise,
and the next we are weeping over the grass mound that covers them.
It is we who are inconsistent, faithless; too well do I know this,
monsieur."
"Oh, it is natural; one does not learn everything at once," returned
Mr. Harland, cheerily. Sorry as he was for her, he had not a notion
how he was to talk to her; if only Louie or his wife were here--women
always know what to do in such cases. "No one can blame you for
fretting about your mother; a good mother is not to be replaced; but
you are young, and after a time you will find yourself consoled. Why,
your cousin Averil--no one but Mrs. Harland and myself know how that
girl misses her father. He made an idol of her. I do not believe he
ever crossed a wish of hers, except in his marriage, and she held her
tongue about that, and he never found out the difference it made in her
life. Yes, and she misses him still, though she says so little about
it; only my wife finds her crying sometimes; but Averil is just the
bravest-hearted little woman in the world; she is not one to inflict
her feelings on other people."
Mr. Harland talked on all the faster as he saw Annette wipe away a
furtive tear or two; he wanted to give her time to recover herself.
"It is all so true," she observed, in a broken voice, as he finished.
"No, it is not wrong to weep for the best of mothers; our dear Lord has
taught us that. Still, one must not sorrow too much. Monsieur, you have
interested me greatly about my cousin; if I did not fear to fatigue
you, I should like to hear more. Oh, we have come to the quay; now let
us cross that little bridge lower down, and there we can walk quite
close to the river. It is so green and quiet further on; nothing but
wooded banks, and the blue river flowing on so peacefully."
"It is charming. Look at that young fellow in his boat, Miss Annette;
he is going to take his little sister for a row. I bet you anything he
is English before he opens his mouth. Yes, I thought so," as the lad
shouted out, "Mind what you are about, Minnie. Now, then, look sharp
and jump!"
"There are so many English," remarked Annette, softly. "I think Dinan
is full of them. This boy--I have seen him before. There is no mother;
but he is so good to that little pale sister. Often I have watched
them. His name is Arthur; he is one of my friends; for, do you know,"
with a dreamy smile, "though there are only Clotilde and Gaston's wife,
and the Old Manon Duclos, to whom I can talk, I have many friends,
people whom I meet, and about whom I make up stories, and to whom I say
good-evening under my breath when I meet them; for, when one is young,
one longs for friends. As for this Arthur, I have spoken with him; for
once, when he dropped his hat, I picked it up; and another time, when
he was in some difficulty with his oar, I helped him, and so his little
sister gives me a nod when we meet."
Mr. Harland felt no inclination to smile at this childish recital;
on the contrary, his genial face was rather grave as he realized how
lonely this girl had been. What would Averil say when he told her that?
To think of bidding good-evening under her breath to strangers, and
making up stories about them; he could not have laughed for worlds, in
spite of the quaintness of the notion.
"Now I shall have my cousin," she went on. "Monsieur, there is
something you said which I do not at all understand--something about my
cousin Leonard marrying. Does not my cousin Averil live alone? No?" as
Mr. Harland shook his head in an amused way. "With whom, then, does she
live?"
"Why, with her step-mother, of course. Look here, Miss Annette, I see
I must coach you up in the family history, or you will take all sorts
of notions into your little head. Not that there is much to tell," with
a sudden remembrance that Averil had begged him to say as little as
possible about her affairs; "but you may as well know people's names."
"Are there so many people?" asked Annette, looking a little bewildered.
"Where is it that my cousin lives?"
"At Kensington. It is rather an old house, but it is a very comfortable
one, and there is actually a garden. Gardens do not abound in the
fashionable parts of London; that is why I live at Chislehurst, because
my wife and the girls, Louie especially, wanted a garden. It is
Averil's house. She has her mother's fortune, beside what her father
left her; and her step-mother and her family live with her."
"Step-mother? Ah, I see--the wife that my cousin Leonard married, and
they had children. Yes, of course. That must be so nice for Averil."
"No; nonsense," returned Mr. Harland, still more amused. "You have got
wrong notions altogether. Mr. Willmot never had any other child but
Averil, and a boy who died. His second wife had a grown-up family; her
name was Mrs. Seymour."
"And he married her? But that seems strange," observed Annette, for she
was not without shrewdness.
"Oh, men do strange things sometimes. Mrs. Seymour was a very handsome
woman, and she could make herself fascinating."
"And she was rich?"
"Rich? Oh, no; tolerably well to do; that was all."
"And the grown-up children--how many are there who live with my cousin
Averil?"
"Three, without counting Lottie Jones. There is Maud; she is the
eldest, and a fine, handsome girl she is, too; and Georgina, and
Rodney. Rodney is his mother's darling; a good-looking, idle young
scamp of a fellow."
"And Lottie Jones--and who may that be?"
"Well, Lottie is a sort of hanger-on--a niece of Mrs. Seymour; and it
seems she has no one belonging to her but this aunt. She is a nice
little girl, and Averil is very fond of her."
"Does she like her better than this Maud and Georgina?"
Mr. Harland laughed outright. "Come, come, Miss Annette, you are too
sharp; you ask too many questions. Wait until you get to Redfern House,
and then you will find out things for yourself."
A sensitive flush crossed Annette's face.
"You must pardon me if I seem too inquisitive," she said, timidly.
"I did not know I was asking what was wrong; it was difficult to
understand my cousin's household; but I will remember to wait, and
not to tease you with any more questions. Indeed, you are so good,
monsieur, that I do not wish to tease you at all."
"My dear little girl," returned Mr. Harland, kindly, "you do not tease
me in the least; it is only that silly child Averil who has made me
hold my tongue. 'Do not talk about me much to my cousin; let her find
things out for herself'--that is what she said to me, and that is why I
checked you just now."
"And you were perfectly right, monsieur. I will ask no more questions
about my cousin. Look, there is a kingfisher--_martin-pêcheur_ they
call him here. Is he not pretty? And did you see that water-rat? We
have been sitting so still on this bank that they have forgotten to
mind us."
"That reminds me that it is growing late, and that you and I must be
hungry, and that our dinner at the Trois Frères will be waiting."
"Well, she was a little hungry," Annette confessed. The long walk
had tired her also; she was not used to walking, much as she loved
it. "For, you see, monsieur," she added seriously, "when one has to
feed and clothe one's self, there is no time to be idle. One puts
in another sprig into the lace-work, and then another, and then the
light goes, and it is dreary to walk in the dusk; besides, there are
_les convenances_--what you would call the propriety--one would not
willingly offend against that."
"To be sure; how thoughtless I have been!" ejaculated Mr. Harland; but
when he offered his arm, Annette shook her head with a smile. "She did
not need help; she would do very well, and there was the bridge in
sight, and Monsieur Arthur had returned from his row."
"She is Averil's sort," he said to himself, as he watched her graceful
walk, and saw how bravely she was keeping up, in spite of her fatigue;
and as soon as possible he hailed a fiacre.
"But that is extravagant," she protested, with a little pout. "And it
is for me, I see that well, for you are not a bit tired, monsieur." But
monsieur was not listening to her. He was wondering how long this girl
would have borne her life, and if she could possibly have grown paler
as the time went on.
"She is like a plant that has grown up in a dark cellar," he thought;
and he almost shuddered as he remembered that room in the Rue St.
Joseph; but by and by, as they sat together at the _table d'hôte_,
Annette forgot her fatigue in her astonishment at the magnificence of
the feast.
"How many more courses?" she whispered to her neighbor, who was
enjoying some excellent _ragoût_. "One goes on eating, and still there
is more. At the Rue St. Joseph the dear mother and I were satisfied
with coffee and eggs, and perhaps a salad. Sometimes Clotilde would
bring us a dish of fried potatoes, or some stewed pears; then we
feasted like gourmand. Is it possible, monsieur, that people dine like
this every day?"
Mr. Harland was not too much engrossed with his _déjeûner_ to enjoy the
girl's naïveté; on the contrary, he took a great deal of interest in
the fact that the food, and most likely the pleasant excitement, had
brought a tinge of color to her face. He insisted on her partaking of
some delicious-looking pastry. "All young people like sweets," he said;
and when he had finished, and they had their coffee at the window, he
showed her the photographs that he had bought that morning, and talked,
and asked questions about the places he had seen; and they were very
happy indeed.
"She is a nice little thing, and I am sure Averil will like her," was
his parting thought that night.
As for Annette, she scarcely slept at all, with mingled fatigue and
excitement. Her thoughts traveled back to every event of the past day.
Now she was sitting with old Manon Duclos, and the feeble old creature
was weeping over her. "Must I lose thee, _chérie_? Oh, what news! What
an unhappy fate! Who will read to me when thou art gone, _ma petite_?
Who will be good to old Manon?" And then there had been that good-bye
in the cemetery. How her tears had flowed over that little white
rosebud! Nay, it was true what monsieur had said--it was not the dear
mother who lay there; she must try to remember that. And then there
had been the long walk. How lovely the river had looked in the evening
sunshine. How kind and benignant monsieur had been!
"I hope I shall see him often," she thought. "Perhaps I was wrong to
question him so closely about my cousin's household. But it was all
so confusing; even now I do not seem to understand. How can my cousin
Averil be mistress while her step-mother lives? She is only a girl like
myself. I wonder if she be handsome? I think all English people are
handsome. What a nice face monsieur has--so clear and honest. I think I
love gray hair. But I remember he said she was little. Somehow, I can
not picture her. And this Lottie Jones. Ah, it is all bewildering! How
strange I shall feel among all those people." And Annette sighed, for
she was tired, and her poor little heart was aching for her mother; and
when at last she fell asleep, it was to dream that they were sitting
together in the little room down-stairs.
Annette slept so soundly after all her fatigues, that it was quite late
when she woke, and she had only just time to dress herself, and swallow
the coffee Clotilde brought her, before Mr. Harland drove up to fetch
her.
Perhaps it was just as well that she had only those few moments in
which to take leave of her old life. She bade adieu very quietly to
Clotilde. "I shall never forget thee, my best friend," she said,
gently. "One day, if my cousin permit, I will come and see thee and
Gaston and Toinette."
As for Clotilde, she wept volubly. "_Le bon Dieu_ would watch over
their dear mademoiselle. _Hélas!_ the place would be empty without her.
No; she must not forget them; she would have their prayers," and so on.
A thousand blessings followed her in that shrill voice. The girl smiled
rather sadly as she listened to them.
"Poor old house!" she said, softly, as they drove away. "In spite of
hard work, one had happy hours. Always it is so in life--the good and
the bad mingled, and some have more of God's sunshine than others." And
then she was silent, and Mr. Harland did not disturb her, for he knew
by a certain kindly instinct that the girlish heart was stirred to its
depths.