This eBook was produced by Joel Erickson <joel@oneporpoise.com>,
Charles Franks <charlz@lvcablemodem.com>, and Juliet Sutherland
PAULA
THE WALDENSIAN
by Eva Lecomte
_Adapted and translated from the Spanish Version by W. M. Strong_
PREFACE
I Hope and trust that the young people who read this book will have as much
joy in the reading of it as I have had in its writing.
Paula's Saviour wishes to be your Saviour too. Paula was by no means
perfect, but she did love God with all her heart and her neighbor as
herself.
This simple country girl, young and strong, yet so tender-hearted and
forgetful of self, appears to me sometimes like one of the clear brooks of
my beloved land, pure and fresh, slipping noiselessly between flowered
banks of forget-me-nots. It was by love that she "conquered"--as we shall
see!
If some day you should come to my country, do not forget that I would have
great joy in seeing any of those who have read this book. I live in the
little town of Villar at the bottom of the valley, where on every side
there are hills and mountains as far as the eye can reach. To me it is the
loveliest country in the world and I am sure that Paula thought so too.
And so good-bye, dear young reader! I must not keep you any longer, for I
am sure you have a great desire to know about Paula; and anyway, I suppose
you will have done what I would have done at your age, namely, read the
story first, and left my poor preface to the last--for which I have already
pardoned you!
And now, may God bless you, Paula dear, as you walk among these my young
friends who read about you! My prayer is that you may shed over them the
same sweet ray of celestial light that you have already shed over others.
EVA LECOMTE.
Villar-Pellice, France.
Translator's note:
"Paula" was originally written in French and translated from thence into
Spanish; and the present translator having discovered this literary and
spiritual jewel, felt that it should be given also to the young people of
the English-speaking world, not only that they might know Paula herself,
but that, through her, they might become more intimately acquainted with
Paula's Saviour and accept Him as their own Redeemer and Lord.
W. M. STRONG.
Coihueco, Chile, South America, 1940.
CONTENTS
PART ONE
1. AN UNEXPECTED LETTER
2. MEMORIES
3. PAULA ARRIVES
4. PAULA'S TREASURES
5. LOUIS' WATCH
6. IN THE MIDST OF DARKNESS
7. CATALINA'S ILLNESS
8. THE FIVE-FRANC PIECE
9. A LITTLE GLIMPSE OF HEAVEN
10. IN THE COUNTRY
11. THE CAT MOTHER
12. A TREASURE RESTORED
13. THE SCHOOL-TEACHER AND HER BROTHER
PART TWO
1. SOME YEARS LATER
2. THE BRETON
3. SAVED!
4. THE YOUNG SCHOOL-MISTRESS
5. THE NIGHT-SCHOOL
6. THE HOUSE OF GOD
7. IN HIS PRESENCE
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
AN UNEXPECTED LETTER
Clearly engraved on the walls of my memory there still remains a picture of
the great gray house where I spent my childhood. It was originally used for
more than a hundred years as the convent of the "White Ladies", with its
four long galleries, one above the other, looking proudly down upon the
humbler dwellings of the village. On the side of the house, where ran the
broad road from Rouen to Darnetal, a high rugged wall surrounded a wide
yard, guarded at the entrance by two massive doors, studded with enormous
spikes. The naked barrenness of this yard was, to say the least, forbidding
in the extreme; but the fertile fields on the other side of the house
spread themselves like a vast and beautiful green carpet, dotted here and
there with little villages, crowned with church spires and their
corresponding belfries, from which on a Sunday morning pealed out the
cheerful call to prayer and worship. The ancient convent long before our
story begins had been transformed into a lovely dwelling with an immense
garden on one side, edged by a dozen little brick houses that seemed so
small that they made us children think of certain doll-houses that we used
to see in the Paris magazines. They were known locally as the "Red
Cottages." A long avenue of ancient elms separated us from these houses of
our neighbors, and in front of the cottages stretched a line of stone
benches, where, in the shade of the great trees, the old men of the village
used to sit and recount to us tales of the days when the Convent
flourished. Some of these stories made us shiver. (Indeed, they had a habit
of straying into our dreams at night.)
The rest of the land around the Convent had, with the passing of the years,
fallen into the hands of the villagers themselves. Each one had a small
space for flowers in front and a vegetable garden behind.
Of course, our own garden covering the whole space in front of the Red
Cottages, was a much more pretentious affair with its deep well, its
many-colored kiosks, and its noisy bee-hives. In fact, it was in our eyes,
the most enchanting corner of the earth.
I don't remember all the details about the special thing that happened one
day, but I know that I shall never forget it to the end of my life.
We were at tea in the garden. Teresa, our old servant, was walking up and
down in her kitchen. She never seemed to have time to sit down to eat Dear
old Teresa! She always seemed like a mother to me, for we had lost our own
dear mother when I was still in the cradle.
My brother and I had quarrelled over a mere nothing, when we were called in
to tea by our father. Of course, we did not dare continue our dispute
openly in front of him, but we continued our war-like activities by kicking
each other under the table.
Louis was ten years old and I was nine. As he was older and a boy, he of
course, considered that he had the right to the last word. Now kicks had
replaced words; but as we were seated at quite a distance from one another,
we did not succeed in causing very great damage to each other's shins.
Notwithstanding this, I began to lose patience, and in order to end the
matter, knowing that Louis was not very courageous, I leaned my chair as
far inside as I could and let him have one terrific kick. At this, his face
changed color and my father now disturbed by the extra noise of my kick,
finally began to realize what was happening. I do not know how matters
would have terminated, if Teresa had not at this moment come into the
garden with a black-bordered letter in her hand which she delivered to our
father. He took it silently and opened it as Teresa carried away the
tea-pot.
I saw immediately by my father's expression that the letter carried serious
news, and I am sure Louis noticed it also for he completely forgot to
return my kick.
"Teresa!" called my father.
"All right, I'm coming," said that good lady.
"Read this, and tell me what you think of it," and my father handed the
letter to the old servant.
Teresa seated herself at the end of the table between Louis and me, and
with her head in her hand commenced to read--Teresa was not very
well-educated and she read the letter very slowly and half-aloud. "Who
wrote this?" was her first question.
"The Pastor of the village," replied my father.
"A minister!" exclaimed Teresa. "He's a mighty poor writer for a minister,
and no doubt his mother paid mighty well for his 'education.'"
My father smiled a bit sadly.
"You don't understand it, Teresa?"
"Yes, yes; I understand half of it, and I think I can guess at the other
half."
"Do you want me to help you?" offered Louis.
Teresa looked scornfully at Louis--
"You! I should say not! You don't care to help me in the kitchen or run
errands for me, and the only thing the matter with you now is curiosity!"
That settled Louis, and Teresa went on with her reading. Bending her great
fat form more and more closely over the letter, she became more serious as
she neared the bottom of the fourth page where the writing became so close
and so fine that it was hardly possible to decipher it. When, at last, she
lifted her head, her eyes were full of tears. "Poor, poor little thing!"
she repeated softly.
"Well, what do you think?" said my father.
"What do I think? Why we must send at once and have her come here as soon
as possible, because--"
"Who?" my father interrupted her without ceremony.
"Yes; who? who?" questioned Louis.
"Tell us, father, please," added my sister Rosa, a tall, serious girl of
fifteen.
And as he did not answer us quickly our questions multiplied.
"Patience! Patience!" cried my father; "your turn will come."
"Teresa, you are getting old, and another girl in the house simply means
more work for you and a lot more problems for me. If 'she' (my father had
never been able to reconcile himself to pronounce the name of my mother
since her untimely death)--if 'she' were here I would not hesitate, but to
bring another orphan into a family already half-orphaned doesn't seem right
to me."
"Don't worry, sir, a little more work doesn't worry Teresa Rouland. She
will have to get up a little earlier and go to bed a little later, and that
will be all."
"Well, Teresa, I'll think about it, and it needs to be 'thought about' a
good deal."
"And why do you say that, sir? One doesn't have to reflect long about doing
good."
"Well, I'll tell you why I hesitate. I'm sure that someone else could much
better replace the parents of this orphaned girl. I must confess that for
my part I don't feel equal to the task."
"Sir, would you like to know what I think? You have said to yourself, 'From
the time that my wife died life has become a burden, and if it wasn't for
the children I would have died of grief, but for love of them I must work
and live. Therefore, with my heart torn and desolated as it is, I don't
feel called upon to take any responsibility upon myself other than that of
my own children!'"
"There is a good deal of truth in what you say, Teresa."
"Yes, sir, but it is very bad, very bad, if you will let me say so! I know
I ought not to talk so, as I'm only a poor old servant; but remember, I was
the one that brought up the lovely woman that we all mourn for, and I knew
her before you did, sir, and I loved her as if she were my own child. When
I put her in the coffin it was as if they had taken out a piece of my own
heart. She was so young to die, so sweet, so good, and besides so
marvelously beautiful! But I dried my tears as best I could, for I knew
there was much to be done; and I said to myself that I would honor the
memory of my mistress by doing always that which I knew she would have
approved of. And now, sir, take this little orphan as you know your good
wife would have done, as the daughter of her beloved sister...." She
stopped suddenly, slightly abashed, as she realized that perhaps she had
said a little too much for one in her station in life.
But more than her mere words, her voice vibrant with emotion had moved us
all to the depths of our souls.
"You are a valiant woman with a great heart," my father said, as he took
her hand. "I will write this very night and ask them to send the girl to us
as soon as possible."
Then turning to us he added, "You no doubt know by this time of whom we
have been speaking. Your cousin Paula has just lost her father. You will
remember, her mother died some years ago, and we are her nearest relatives.
Your uncle's friends have written me as to whether I will consent to
receive Paula in our home, and in a few days, more or less, she will be
among us."
We opened our mouths to ask a thousand questions, but father stopped us.
"No, no! That is enough for now! Later I will tell you the details;
besides, I must go out immediately. Go now to your various tasks and don't
be thinking too much about this coming of your cousin."
CHAPTER TWO
MEMORIES
That night I could not study my lessons. In fact, I could do nothing but
think about Paula! I was not a student and was always at the bottom of the
class. Louis, in the matter of study, was no better than I; but in the
school, thanks to his brilliancy of mind, he always seemed to skin through
somehow. Rosa was not a bit like her brother and sister; being a model of
patience, application and obedience. I was very proud of my sister Rosa,
and I loved and admired her, but I never had the slightest desire to
imitate her.
After my father had gone, nothing was talked of except our cousin Paula.
When would she come? What would she be like? Would she be content to be
here among us? All these were questions which we could not answer as we
knew very little about her. They had told me that Paula lived in the
Waldensian Valley--a country where the inhabitants fed on black bread and
lived in homes that were like stables. I had no idea just exactly where the
mountains of Piedmont were. I had searched the map without being able to
find the region, but I supposed it must be somewhere between France, Italy
and Switzerland.
There was another thing I had found out; namely, that Paula was about my
own age. What happiness! This fact I repeated over and over until Louis
told me to keep quiet. This attitude on his part I put down as discontent
because Paula wasn't a boy, so I kept repeating, "Paula's the same as me!"
"For mercy's sake, will you keep quiet, Lisita? Besides you have your
grammar twisted as usual. It doesn't surprise me in the least that you're
always at the foot of the class, if that's the way you study."
"You can talk to me as you like," I answered, "but when Paula gets here
I'll never speak to you again, and I'll tell her not to say a word to you
either. I am mighty glad that Paula's a girl and not a disagreeable boy
like you."
"Oh, keep your Paula, much do I care!" replied Louis.
"Come, come," exclaimed Rosa, "what's the good of fighting over this poor
girl Paula whom neither of you have ever seen!"
"It's Louis' fault!"
"No, it's Lisita's!"
"It's the two of you! If Paula could see the way you quarrel I'm sure she
would not want to come. I hope she will love us all and we must all of us
love her also, because she's not only an orphan, but she's a niece of our
poor dear, dead mother."
Rosa knew well how to bring about peace. One word about our mother was
enough.
"See here, Lisita," and Rosa drew me toward her, "I see that you haven't
the slightest desire to study tonight, so close your book, and if you get
up early tomorrow morning I'll help you. Do you know what I would do now if
I were you."
"What?"
"I'd go and see Catalina, You know that she does not like to be alone all
of the afternoon, and I think Teresa has gone out If I didn't have so much
to do I'd see her myself. Now, look out you don't make too much noise.
Catalina has a terrible headache today."
"All right. I'm off!" I said.
The idea of visiting my oldest sister never made me very happy in those
days. In fart, I hardly ever entered her room because it bored me terribly
to be in the company of such a disagreeable invalid.
I remembered the time when Catalina was the liveliest and happiest person
in the whole house, but unfortunately all this had changed in an instant.
One day three years before, Catalina had fallen from the top of a high
cherry-tree which she had climbed against the advice of Teresa. She was
unconscious when we picked her up, and it seemed at first as if she would
die as a result of the fall. After six months of cruel suffering, however,
her youth had triumphed over death; but the big sister who had always been
as happy and as lively as a bird was gone from us, and in her place
remained a forlorn, unhappy girl with a poor twisted body, who at rare
intervals sallied from her room a few steps with the aid of her crutches.
Unfortunately her character had also suffered severely, for in spite of the
tenderness and solicitude of my father who sought to satisfy her slightest
desire, and in spite of the untiring care of Teresa and the patience and
sweetness of Rosa, Catalina's life was one long complaint. Her room, with
its white bed adorned with blue curtains and its magnificent view of the
fields and mountains, was the most beautiful in the whole house. A pair of
canaries sang for her in their respective corners; the finest fruits were
always for her; and as she was a great reader, new books were continually
brought in; but nothing seemed to have power to put a smile of satisfaction
on her thin, wasted face.
Poor Catalina! It was certainly true--I didn't love her very much. I was so
accustomed to see my sister in her invalid state that her pitiful condition
didn't seem to move me, and she was always in such a bad humor that I only
went to see her on rare occasions.
However, on this particular afternoon, I had, of course, a great desire to
carry her the news of our cousin's coming, and so I gladly went to visit
her; but forgetting all the warnings of Rosa I burst open the door like a
gust of wind.
Catalina was lying with her face toward the wall with the curtains of the
bed partly drawn, and a green shade had been placed over the cages of the
two birds in order to stop their singing. Under other circumstances I would
have prudently retired, thinking that Catalina, more irritated or sicker
than usual, was endeavoring to sleep. Doubtless our old servant had come in
to speak to her regarding Paula, and finding her apparently asleep had
arranged things as I found them. She turned her head on hearing me come in
and in a sharp tone exclaimed, "What a noise, Lisita! Can't you give me a
single quiet moment!"
"You know I haven't been here all day!" I answered impatiently. "In fact, I
haven't been here since yesterday morning, and besides, I forgot that Rosa
told me that you had a headache."
"Well, you know it now!"
"So you wouldn't care to have me tell you the big news!"
"No!"
"Well, I am going to tell you anyhow, because I can't keep it to myself any
longer! Uncle John is dead!"
"Uncle John! Dead?"
"Yes, and I'm happy!"
"What do you mean, you're happy!"
"Well, I am happy!--not because Uncle John is dead, but because his little
girl, Paula, who is just my age, is coming to live with us, so, of course,
why shouldn't I be happy?"
"Well, you can just forget your 'happiness,' because Paula is _not_ going
to live with us. I can tell you that right now!"
"And why not? Father said she was coming! You can ask Teresa, or Rosa, or
Louis!"
"I am not going to ask anyone, but I tell you that Paula is _not_ coming
here! No! and indeed, NO! I've got enough to put up with, with Louis and
you! It seems as if you tear my head apart, for you quarrel from morning
till night; and when you play it seems as if the house is coming down; and
now suppose another bad-mannered little girl should come among us! But I
tell you it _never_ shall happen!"
"You're not the one who orders things here!"
"Neither do you, you impertinent little thing."
"Now, don't get mad, Catalina!" I cried, as I burst into tears.
"You don't know what you are talking about. You do not realize that Paula
has no one in the world to care for her. Teresa read us the letter out
loud. I know I'm not a good girl and I'm almost as disagreeable as you are,
but I am going to be good when Paula comes. You shall see. She will be my
dearly beloved sister and she is almost exactly my age. Oh, I certainly
shall love her so, and we shall always be together and we, we...."
"Keep quiet, Lisita. Your tongue runs like a mill-wheel. Besides, where did
you get all these details?"
"It was this afternoon, just as we finished tea. They wrote to father, and
father gave the letter to Teresa, and Teresa said that a little extra work
didn't bother her, and so father said, 'All right, let her come!'"
"And I? Father said nothing about me?"
"Not that I remember."
"Oh," sobbed Catalina, "everything is done without me now! Because I am
nothing more than an invalid, everything is arranged without consulting me!
What difference does it make to you--who are able to laugh and run and
play--if I suffer here without having a thing to say about what goes on in
the house! How would you like to be in my place? Father never came to say
one single word to me about the matter, and now without consulting me as to
whether it would disturb me, they wish to bring another trouble to torment
me more! But it shall not be, and the day that she comes I shall go to a
hospital, because they do not want me here any more!"
Poor Catalina! She had passed a very bad day, and always on such days she
would weep on the slightest pretext. I didn't care for her very much, but
that day I pitied her with all my heart and I did what I could to calm her;
for once her nerves were excited, nothing could console the poor unhappy
girl. Besides, I was very much afraid that she would be able to change my
father's purpose in regard to Paula. He, generally so severe, so cold, and
insensible in his attitude toward us, obeyed the slightest wish of his
eldest daughter. And if--if!--she succeeded in preventing Paula's coming I
felt that I would never, never pardon Catalina! But now I tried to embrace
her.
"Listen," I said; "father had to go out, but when he returns he will tell
you the same thing that I have told you!"
But Catalina would not hear me. With her head hidden in the pillows, she
continued crying.
I was desperate! As a rule it took a lot less than this to make Catalina
worse. Catalina worse! And all my fault! What would my father say! And yet
I had had no bad intentions. How could I have known that she would have
received my good news in this way? Suddenly I had a brilliant idea. Leaving
Catalina I ran to the kitchen where Teresa was preparing the vegetables for
supper. "Teresa, come quickly," I cried with my eyes full of tears;
"Catalina is making herself sick with crying."
"And why? I left her sleeping only a short time ago."
"Oh, yes, I know; but please come at once, Teresa! It's all my fault! I
told her that Paula was coming and she is beside herself! But really and
truly I had no idea that she would take it that way!"
Teresa jumped up quickly, saying under her breath, "What next?" and then to
me, "You certainly are a troublesome youngster, my poor Lisita!"
"But Teresa, I vow to you...."
"Be quiet, and go back to Catalina's room! I'll be there as soon as I can!"
I left the kitchen well content. Teresa was not full of pretty phrases but
she had a heart of gold, and I knew that somehow or other she would be able
to fix things with Catalina. I found Rosa already in Catalina's room on my
return, trying in vain to calm her. She turned to me.
"What on earth has happened? I heard Catalina sobbing, clear at the other
end of the house. Are you responsible for this?"
"No, no, it wasn't I; it was Paula."
"Paula!"
I tried to explain, but at this minute Teresa entered, bringing with her a
plateful of delicious apples.
"Come, come, Catalina!" and her deep, sonorous voice seemed like soothing
balm, as her presence appeared to fill the room. "What on earth are you
crying about? It is but a short moment ago that I secured permission from
your papa to read you a letter which he has just received from Italy, and I
went out to pick up some of your favorite apples, the first of the season,
and here I come to find you crying!"
Catalina became a little calmer hearing the word "letter," for, to the poor
confined invalid, a letter from abroad was a great event. Nevertheless,
between her sobs she remarked, "Is it a letter about this terrible 'Paula'
that they are talking about?"
"Yes," answered Teresa, with that soothing voice of hers. "It's a letter
that tells us a bit about a niece of your poor mother."
Catalina calmed down completely. If the memory of our mother still lived in
the heart of her other daughters it had first place above all else with
Catalina.
"Now, read it to me, Catalina," said Teresa. "You can do so much better
than I can in the reading line, and it will sound so much better from your
lips than from my poor stumbling ones. Wait till I fix up the pillows, and
don't cry any more. And now your headache is better, isn't it?"
"It still pains terribly, Teresa. Let Rosa read it."
Rosa took the letter, and read in her clear, sweet voice the lines that had
so stirred us all.
There were but few details. Our Uncle John had died; so wrote the pastor of
the little church in that far-off Waldensian Valley. He had died as he had
lived--a real Christian. He had no near relatives, it appeared; and the
rest of the family had gone to America two years before. Paula, therefore,
was alone. Just before breathing his last, my uncle had expressed the
desire to leave his daughter in the care of our father whom he had never
known, but of whom he had heard nothing but good. Beside all this he had
left his daughter in the hands of God, the loving Father of all orphans,
praying Him to guide and direct in the whole affair. His last prayer had
been for us; asking God to bless our family that we might all be guided
into the straight and narrow Way that leadeth unto life eternal. Then
followed certain details relative to a small inheritance that Paula
possessed, and the prayer of the Pastor himself that the temporal and
spiritual happiness of the little orphan might be maintained.
"Is that all?" asked Catalina.
"Yes," said Rosa; "that is the end of the letter."
"Poor little thing!"
There was a long silence. I think Catalina was thinking of her mother, for
her face had softened for once.
Teresa sat with her large agile fingers flying--those strong fingers that
were never idle;--the metallic sound of her needles alternating with the
happy song of the canaries, from whose cages the curtains had again been
removed.
Never in my life had I lingered very long to observe Catalina, but this
afternoon I could not help but notice how pale and delicate she really was.
Propped up on her pillows with her golden hair falling around her
shoulders, one would not have guessed her to be more than fourteen years
old, instead of eighteen. Seeing her thus after her day of sufferings, I
pardoned all her bad humor and hardness of heart toward Paula; and I had a
great desire to take her in my arms but I did not dare do such a
thing--fearing she would refuse my caresses.
"Teresa," she said suddenly, closing her eyes to keep back the tears, "do
you think that it hurts very much when one dies?"
"Why do you ask that?" and Teresa looked at her quite surprised.
"I was thinking of Uncle John."
"That depends, Catalina, that depends. There are some persons who die
tranquilly in their sleep with no pain at all, but in the case of others it
is quite the contrary."
"But afterward, Teresa! How about afterward? What happens to us after
death?"
"Afterward?" Teresa looked puzzled. "Nobody knows what happens to us
afterward. When I was a little girl, my mother who was a very pious woman,
told us that if we were very good we would go to heaven, but if we were bad
we went to hell. I believe she was right, poor woman, but it is sometime
since I have thought of religious things, and your father does not like to
have us talk about it."
"I know _that_, Teresa, but I can't help thinking about it often and often.
Was our mother a 'pious woman?'"
"Not exactly--at least, not before she became ill. Her relatives in
Villar--your Aunt and your Uncle John used to write lovely letters to her,
that spoke of God and heaven and prayer. Your mother used to sigh after
reading them, and sometimes she would read me a page or two from those
letters, and would say to me, 'My good Teresa, we both ought to think about
these things! My sister is far more happy in her hut on the mountain-side
in Waldensia than we are here in the midst of abundance. It must be
wonderful not to fear death and to love God with all our heart' When she
spoke thus to your father he laughed at her and said. 'Now, don't you worry
about that, darling, you couldn't be any better than you are now; and I am
glad that you are not like these pious ladies who try to tell you what will
happen to you after death. You'll have plenty of time to think about those
things when you come to your last days; but now with your good health and
robust constitution you can count on a good old age.'"
"But father was mistaken, Teresa!"
"Yes, he certainly was mistaken, poor man. Nobody could have believed that
when on that Monday afternoon she complained of a little pain in her
throat, she would die on the following Thursday."
"Was it diphtheria, Teresa?"
All that poor Teresa could say amid her tears was, "Poor, poor little
beloved one! Never shall I forget her last moments or the desperation of
your father. From his very first visit the doctor said that there was no
hope. I thought I would go insane when he said that! How I remember her the
day before she was taken ill, in all her youth and beauty--singing as she
worked, and then suddenly came that terrible pressure in her throat."
"Then, Teresa, you remember, she could not kiss us goodbye."
"No, poor lady, that was her greatest pain when they told her that her
sickness was very contagious. But--there! there! Catalina, I did not mean
to make you cry, and I have told you this story so many times, and now here
I am telling it over again like the foolish woman I am!"
"No, no, Teresa, go on," answered Catalina between her sobs. "I am always
happy when I hear you speak of our beloved Mamma."
And now, I too could not keep back my tears as I kneeled beside the old
servant, who left her work to pass her hand over my head.
"Thou didst not know her, dear Lisita. How many times during her sickness
she told me especially to take care of thee, and love thee as if I were
thine own mother. Yes, and correct thee also.... At times I ask myself
whether I have obeyed her."
"Oh, Teresa," exclaimed Rosa, interrupting her and closing, with a bang the
book which she had not read. "Indeed, you have done your duty. What would
we have done without you? Of course, I can't say," and Rosa smiled, "that
your punishments have been very numerous, but father has taken care of
that. Father corrects us and you do the loving part"
"Now, see here, your father loves you also, and it's only the pain of
having lost your mother that makes him appear more severe than he really
is. Open the window, Rosa, I can hardly see, and I must finish this
stocking before I quit tonight."
Rosa obeyed, and a soft breeze entered, laden with the perfume of the
garden, and Teresa resumed; "After the doctor had gone that afternoon your
mother called me and said, Teresa, tell me the truth. The doctor believes I
am going to die; does he not?' I didn't know what to answer her. Your
father hoped in spite of the doctor's opinion that she'd pull through, and
did not wish me to let your poor mother know that there was any danger. But
here she lay praying me with her joined hands that I should tell her the
truth. She spoke with great difficulty and I feared that soon she would not
be able to speak at all, and therefore weeping, told her the whole truth."
"And then?
"Then she said to me, 'Teresa, I'm certainly afraid to die! I'm afraid! I'm
afraid!"
"'But,' said I, 'Madame, why should you be afraid? You have always been so
good to everybody. The good God will take you to heaven.' But she could not
be calm.
"'According to the world's standard perhaps yes, Teresa--but before God! To
think that in a few hours I shall be face to face with the Lord Jesus and I
am not prepared!--No, no, let me speak, Teresa! I have done my duty by my
husband and by my children, but I have forgotten God. I have not loved Him,
neither have I prayed to Him and therefore I'm afraid to meet Him. Oh,
Teresa, I'm afraid to die."
"I could only repeat, 'The good God will pardon you, Madame. He is so good
and kind. He will have pity on you, for you have never done any harm to
anybody.'
"'Ah.' she answered, if I had but listened to my sister and brother-in-law!
How many times they urged me in their letters to surrender to the Lord
Jesus, but I always put it off ... and now I'm dying! Oh, Teresa, Teresa,
can you not help me?'"
"But I thought Mamma died in peace?" suddenly questioned Rosa. "I remember
toward the end that she was anxious to go, and at last said that she was
going to heaven."
"Yes, my beloved madame did indeed die in peace. Sometime after she had
asked me whether I could help her she said, 'Teresa, read again that last
letter from my sister. I have it here under my pillow.' I read it to her as
best I could, and as I finished she said to me, 'Read it again, Teresa. Oh,
if only my dear sister were here this minute!" Twice again I read the
letter, but still she was not satisfied. 'Those last words, Teresa, Read
them again to me, please.' And again I read them."
"Do you remember those last words, Teresa?" Catalina asked as she listened
with rapt attention to the story she had heard so often from the lips of
our old servant.
"I don't remember all. I would have liked to have kept the letter. It was
such a letter that would help any one to die, for it was certainly a
treasure. But my poor madame wished to carry it to the tomb with her, and
no doubt it is there yet in her hands, poor little angel. As I remember it,
the letter concluded thus: 'He that believeth on Me hath everlasting life,
and him that cometh to Me I will in no wise cast out!'"
"I read these, the last words of the letter, a dozen times over to her and
she seemed to take hold of them as a drowning man would grasp a board that
floated by him--then without movement, with her eyes shut, she seemed to be
sleeping, but every once in a while she appeared to be talking with
someone."
"Do you think she was praying, Teresa?" I asked in a trembling voice.
"Yes, Lisita, she was praying. And I am sure that the good God heard her,
for she said to me after a long silence, Teresa, I believe my Saviour has
taken me for His own--I am a poor, guilty, and ungrateful sinner--I have
waited until the last moment, and I know my sins are great, but my
Saviour's love is greater. But oh, my husband!--and my children! I have
done nothing to attract them to God. Oh, Teresa, take care of them! Take
care of them! I have put them in the hands of the Lord that He may save
them also. I can do nothing and--it is too late!'
"She asked me to call your father who was resting in the next room for he
had watched all the previous night and had worked as usual all day. She
could hardly speak, but as best she could she prayed him to be reconciled
to God and to teach their children to know the way of salvation."
"The strange thing to me, Teresa," said Rosa thoughtfully, "is that our
father who loved our mother so much, has not taught us this Christian
religion according to our dear mother's last wish."
"That is the terrible part," Teresa answered. "An awful change came on him
at the death of your mother. He loved her desperately and when she died it
seemed as if his heart turned to stone, and when I tried to console him he
cried out bitterly, 'Don't speak to me of God and don't try to tell me He
is a God of love. He took away my most precious treasure and tore my heart
and my very life to pieces.'
"About a week after the death of my poor madame he called me to him and
said, 'Teresa, you are a good woman. You've brought up my dear Maria,
carried her in your arms when she was small, and in your arms she drew her
last breath. She commended her poor children into your hands, and I want
you to remain forever at their side, but on one condition, remember--that
you never speak to them again on the subject of religion, neither of
prayer, nor of church, nor anything of the kind. Hear me well, Teresa! Hear
me! I have prayed very little in my life, but on that last night when my
dear wife passed away, if anyone prayed with all his heart and all his
strength, I did so. Kneeling beside her bed I promised God to serve Him; to
bring up my children for Him if He would only leave me my treasure. But He
didn't do it Then why should I serve Him?'
"When I saw that it was useless to argue with him I promised what he asked.
Just think, if I had been obliged to abandon you to a strange servant!" and
Teresa viewed the three of us with those great blue eyes of hers full of
affection for us.
"Oh," I cried, trying to take her great fat body in my arms, "What would we
have done without you!"
But Teresa, wanting very much to cry and yet trying hard not to show it,
put me gently aside, saying, "There, there! You are making me lose a lot of
time. Stand up, stand up! You have been on the floor at my feet for over
half-an-hour like a little purring kitten and wearing out your stockings
besides."
And then continuing without awaiting my reply:
"Well, I am only a poor ignorant servant. If I can read, it is because my
poor madame taught me. Nevertheless it has nearly broken my heart to see
all three of you, and Louis besides, growing up like a bunch of heathen.
And, what happiness prayer does bring one!"
"Do you pray, Teresa?" asked the wondering Rosa.
"Oh, at times. But see now, servants must do what they see their masters
do. After the death of my poor madame I prayed often, but little by little
I seemed to lose the habit. Your father hardly ever spoke to me, and
excepting Catalina, you were all too small to understand important things,
and the neighbors!--Oh, you know among our neighbors one never hears any
prayers at their houses either. I would be so happy before I die to see the
day when my poor madame's prayers be heard regarding us."
"It's a shame," said Rosa, "that Paula is so small. If she were only a few
years older perhaps she could"--"I'll tell you what's a shame, and that is
that she is coming at all," interrupted Catalina with the return of her bad
humor.
"Oh," sighed Teresa, "poor little thing! What could she do at her age! A
child of ten years will never be able to change your father's ideas. The
more you speak to him the worse he is. No, the one who has to change will
be the child _herself_! She must learn to do as we do. I do hope she may
not have to suffer too much. Of course, at her age she will adapt herself
quickly to her surroundings, and after all, your father is a good-hearted
man. There! At last the sock is done! It was time, for I cannot see any
more. What a lovely day it has been! The fruit ought to ripen quickly with
a few more days like this."
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine ... it was the great
clock of Darnetal that recalled us to the present.
"Nine o'clock!" exclaimed Teresa, "how the time has passed! Lisita! Off to
bed!"
"Please, Teresa, let me stay a few minutes more; it's lovely here by the
open window."
"Yes, it won't be so lovely tomorrow morning when you must rise early to be
in class on time. Isn't that so? Now go, Lisita! No more nonsense!"
"Here, take this," said Catalina, handing me a lovely orange that she had
received; "You can have it if you go to bed immediately!"
"Oh," I exclaimed beamingly; "I do love you so, dear Catalina."
"Is it me or the orange that you love?"
"It's you, and the orange, and Teresa, and Papa, and Rosa, and Louis, and
Paula."
"There! there! Go to bed," said Catalina, disentangling herself from my
arms. "If you don't go to bed at once I will take away your orange."
Laughing, I embraced her again, and Rosa too, and then rushed off to my
room, but not without slamming Catalina's door with a noise that shook the
whole house.
CHAPTER THREE
PAULA ARRIVES
For nearly a week I couldn't think of another thing but the coming of
Paula.
My father had gone to Paris. He would be there some days to arrange certain
important matters of business in connection with his factory, and also to
wait for the little orphan to be placed in his care by a lady who was
journeying from Villar to Paris. In school I talked of nothing else. In
fact, I talked about her all day and every day. I learned nothing, nor
could I seem to do anything around the house.
One night, while dreaming, I jumped from the bed, crying, "Paula! Paula!"
This awakened Teresa, and she made me take some nasty medicine thinking I
had fever. I made promises of reform. I wanted to be good, studious and
patient, in order to be an example to Paula who would see my good qualities
and would thus endeavor to imitate me. Nevertheless I became absolutely
insufferable! My older sisters without being quite so enthusiastic as I
was, nevertheless spoke often of Paula. Catalina began to worry that Paula
might suffer in our house, but she soon consoled herself by remembering
that my father had promised to put her out to board, if it turned out that
she could not get along amicably with us. As to Louis, he soon showed us
that he was not at all interested in the arrival of his young cousin. If it
had been a boy, it would have been different--but a girl!
Teresa spoke very little as to Paula, but I am persuaded that long before
the arrival of our little orphan cousin, she had been given a large place
in our old servant's heart. She found a little white bed up in the attic
which was placed in my room beside my own cot.
At last the great day arrived. It was a Wednesday, and of course I had to
go to school as usual. We did not know at what hour my father would come
from Paris with Paula, and so every moment I said to myself, "Perhaps they
have arrived!" Result--my lessons went from bad to worse, but at last at
five in the afternoon, I reached the house breathless only to find that
Paula had not yet come. "They are not coming!" I cried impatiently, "I knew
they wouldn't be here!"
"Then why did you run so fast?" Teresa asked.
I said nothing, but soon Rosa also arrived, and after tea I put all my
books in order, redressed my dolls, got rid of the ink on my hands with
pumice-stone, and in between each task, took a turn in the garden on the
passing of any coach-but always with the same result! Would they _ever_
arrive? Then came supper-time. Catalina had been up and dressed all day and
would not hear of going to bed until Paula came. Our summer days are very
long, but night had arrived, the lamps had been lighted, and we had
resigned ourselves to wait without the consolation of seeing the road from
the window. Then suddenly--Oh, joy! We heard a faint sound of wheels in the
distance; then clearer and clearer as they rattled over the pavement of the
deserted street. Teresa had already arisen from her chair. I had a wild
desire to run out in the dark to receive my young cousin for whom I had
waited all these weeks, but something seemed to detain me. Then while I
waited questioning myself as to what I would say to Paula, trying to
remember all the many counsels of Teresa, our old servant staggered in from
the yard with a great bag in each hand. Then our father entered with a
young girl at his side dressed in black. Paula had come!
In anticipation I had fancied Paula as a pale, sad little girl with blue
eyes full of tears. She would have golden hair, very smooth, cut off at the
base of her ears, and would be dressed in black muslin, and wear a straw
hat with a black ribbon tied under her chin. But here was a different
Paula. She was large for her age and appeared quite strong. Her frank open
face, bronzed with the sun and air, showed health and intelligence. A black
silk cap with a wide ribbon of the same color, failed to entirely hide a
magnificent head of brown hair, gathered beneath her cap after the manner
of the Waldensians. Her simple dress of black and gray stripes reached
almost to her ankles, while an apron of fine cretonne came to her knees. A
black shawl whose points passed under her arms and were knotted behind,
protected her shoulders, while a pair of great thick shoes completed her
attire. In spite of what to our mind was a certain quaint oddness in her
dress, it could not hide Paula's beauty. Her forehead was broad and
intelligent, her large brown eyes were full of a certain sweetness, and a
lovely smile played on her half-opened lips.
"Come," said our father in an almost kindly voice for him; "Embrace your
young cousin, and give her a hearty welcome."
Rosa came forward, and I timidly did the same; but Paula dropping father's
hand, rushed toward Rosa and then to me, kissing us both and laughing and
crying at the same time. She seemed to forget her long voyage and her
weariness as she repeated to each one of us in her melodious voice, "I know
I shall love you all, and my Uncle Charles here. I already love him, and he
has told me all your names. Let me see, this is Rosa," and then turning to
me, "You are Lisita. Oh, if you only knew how much I love you all!"
"Now go and greet your cousin Catalina," said my father. "She is the sick
one," he added softly.
Paula drew near the big chair where the sick girl re-clined. Catalina was
smiling sadly at the young stranger. "Do you also love me a little?" asked
my eldest sister.
With tenderness and infinite care Paula enveloped her in her strong arms.
"I already love you with all my heart!" she said, laying her head against
Catalina's shoulder.
"Have you ever been sick, Paula?" she questioned her.
"No, but Papa was," she said in a trembling tone.
At this moment Teresa arrived carrying in the final bag. "At last," she
said, embracing Paula. "Do you know who I am?" Then, seeing that Paula
viewed her a bit strangely, she added, "I am only old Teresa. It was I who
brought up your dear mother, and I thought I would have to do the same with
you; but it looks to me as if you wouldn't need very much of my care. You
are so large and healthy, much bigger than Lisita here, and yet you
probably are no older. How old are you, pray?"
"I am ten years old, madame."
"Oh, don't call me 'madame.' Call me Teresa, just as your mother did many
years ago."
And Teresa took the lamp and brought it close to Paula. "No, you hardly
have any similiarity in your face, but your voice is like hers. Now, let me
hug you once more, my treasure." And Teresa pressed to her heart the
motherless child.
"In my country they say I am like Papa. In fact, I have his portrait in the
trunk and I will show it to you."
"Show it to us now!" I shouted.
But Teresa interrupted me. "What a child you are, when poor Paula is so
tired! Tomorrow will be time enough."
The meal for the young traveler had been prepared on the end of the great
table, where Teresa had placed buttered toast and jam, and soon she sallied
from the kitchen with the rest of the food.
"There you are, Paula," Teresa said, drawing her to the table; "Sit down
and eat!"
"And the others?" said Paula, looking at us.
"Oh, we ate long ago," said Rosa.
"I think we might eat a little bread and jam to accompany her," I said.
Then everybody laughed.
"I think Lisita is right for once," said Teresa, always happy when she was
able to give us a bit of pleasure; "and I think Paula will be a little more
comfortable that way."
"Now then, Paula, are you not hungry?" asked Teresa with her hand on the
lock of the kitchen door.
"Yes, madame ... that is--yes, Teresa."
"Begin then! Lisita doesn't need any urging. Do as she does, and I trust
you will eat with a good appetite."
Paula looked at us, one after the other, and then looked at Teresa as if
she would say something. As Teresa remained, looking on in an astonished
manner, Paula got down from her chair and stood in front of her now cooling
cup of hot milk. She placed her hands together, closing her eyes and
bending her head a little, she said slowly and deliberately in a low voice,
"The food which we receive, O Lord, may it be blessed, in the name of the
Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, Amen!"
CHAPTER FOUR
PAULA'S TREASURES
Naturally, on awakening the next morning, after Paula's arrival, it was
"Paula, Paula, Paula," that occupied my every thought. I found she was
still sleeping. How I did wish to wake her up! But Teresa had cautioned me
to let her sleep as long as she wished on account of her long journey of
the day before. So I simply half-opened the curtains of her bed and closed
the window to warm up the room.
I had no idea what hour it was. Teresa had the watch under her pillow, and
I could never tell the time by the sun, like Louis and Rosa, but I could
tell it was very early, for almost every door and window of the red houses
across the street, were still closed. Once in a while, I saw a factory hand
passing with his lunch under his arm, on his way to work. Among these, I
noticed one whom we called the "Breton," a terrific drunkard of whom I was
greatly afraid; but, strange to say, this morning he went on his way with a
firm, straight step, behaving himself quite like an ordinary person.
The sky was clear and very, very blue, without a single cloud. It had
rained the night before, for on all the trees and bushes thousands of
water-drops glistened like diamonds in the light of the newly risen sun.