THE WAY OF A MAID
It is the blessing of the humble that they have simplicity of
mental processes. Not that Hector himself perhaps would thus have
described himself. The curve of the black crow's wing on his
somewhat retreating forehead, the tilt of his little hat, the swing
of his body above the hips as he walked, all bespoke Hector's
opinion of himself to be a good one. Valiant among men,
irresistible among the women of St. Genevieve, he was not the one
to mitigate his confidence in himself now that he found himself
free from competition and in the presence of a fair one whom in
sudden resolve he established in his affections as quite without
compare. In short, Hector had not tarried a second week at
Tallwoods before offering his hand and his cooper shop to Jeanne.
To the eyes of Jeanne herself, confined as they had been to the
offerings of a somewhat hopeless class of serving persons here or
there, this swaggering young man, with his broad shoulders, his
bulky body, his air of bravado, his easy speech, his ready arm,
offered a personality with which she was not too familiar, and
which did not lack its appeal. With Gallic caution she made
delicate inquiry of Hector's father as to the yearly returns and
probable future of the cooperage business at St. Genevieve, as to
the desirability of the surrounding country upon which the
cooperage business must base its own fortunes. All these matters
met her approval. Wherefore, the air of Jeanne became tinged with
a certain lofty condescension. In her own heart she trembled now,
not so much as to her own wisdom or her own future, but as to the
meeting which must be had between herself and her mistress.
This meeting at last did take place, not by the original motion of
Jeanne herself. The eye of her mistress had not been wholly blind
all these days.
"Jeanne," she demanded one day, "why are you away so much when I
desire you? I have often seen you and that young man yonder in
very close conversation. Since I stand with you as your guardian
and protector, I feel it my duty to inquire, although it is not in
the least my pleasure. You must have a care."
"Madame," expostulated Jeanne, "it is nothing, I assure you. _Rien
du tout--jamais de la vie_, Madame."
"Perhaps, but it is of such nothings that troubles sometimes come.
Tell, me, what has this young man said to you?"
"But, Madame!--"
"Tell me. It is quite my right to demand it."
"But he has said many things, Madame."
"As, for instance, that you please him, that you are beautiful,
that you have a voice and hand, a turn of the arm--that you have
the manner Parisienne--Jeanne, is it not so?"
"But, yes, Madame, and indeed more. I find that young man of
excellent judgment, of most discriminating taste."
"And also of sufficient boldness to express the same to you, is it
not so, Jeanne?"
"Madame, the strong are brave. I do not deny. Also he is of an
excellent cooperage business in St. Genevieve yonder. Moreover, I
find the produce of the grape in this country to increase yearly,
so that the business seems to be of a certain future, Madame. His
community is well founded, the oldest in this portion of the
valley. He is young, he has no entanglements--at least, so far as
I discover. He has an excellent home with his old mother. Ah,
well! Madame, one might do worse."
"So, then, a cooperage business so promising as that, Jeanne, seems
more desirable than my own poor employment? You have no regard for
your duty to one who has cared for you, I suppose? You desert me
precisely at the time my own affairs require my presence in
Washington."
"But, Madame, why Washington? Is that our home? What actual home
has madame on the face of the earth? Ah, Heaven!--were only it
possible that this man were to be considered. This place so large,
so beautiful, so in need of a mistress to control it. Madame says
she was carried away against her will. _Mon Dieu_! All my life
have I dreamed--have I hoped--that some time a man should steal me,
to carry me away to some place such as this! And to make love of
such a warmness! Ah, _Mon Dieu_!
"Behold, Madame," she went on, "France itself is not more beautiful
than this country. There is richness here, large lands. That
young man Hector, he says that none in the country is so rich as
Mr. Dunwodee--he does not know how rich he is himself. And such
romance!"
"Jeanne, I forbid you to continue!" The eyes of her mistress had a
dangerous sparkle.
"I obey, Madame, I am silent. But listen! I have followed the
fortunes of madame quite across the sea. As madame knows, I do not
lack intelligence. I have read--many romances, my heart not
lacking interest. Always I have read, I have dreamed, of some man
who should carry me away, who should oblige me--Ah, Madame! what
girl has not in her soul some hero? Almost I was about to say it
was the sight, the words, of the boldness, the audacity of this
assassin, this brute, who has brought us here by force--the words
of his love so passionate to madame, which stirred in my own heart
the passion! That I might be stolen! It was the dream of my
youth! And now comes this Hector, far more bold and determined
than this Mr. Dunwodee. That assassin, that brute _began_, but
hesitated. Ah, Hector has not hesitated! Seeing that he would in
any case possess myself, would carry me away, I yielded, but with
honor and grace, Madame. As between Monsieur Dunwodee and
Hector--_il y a une difference_, Madame!"
"_Je crois qu' oui_, Jeanne--_Je le crois_! But it comes to the
same thing, eh? You forsake me?"
"Madame, I confess sometimes in my heart there comes a desire for a
home, for a place where one may abide, where one may cease to
wander."
Josephine sat silent for a moment. In what direction might she
herself now turn for even the humblest friendship? And where was
any home now for her? The recreant maid saw something of this upon
her face.
"Madame," she exclaimed, falling upon her knees in consternation.
"To think I would desert you! In my heart resides nothing but
loyalty for you. How could you doubt?"
But Josephine was wise in her own way. That night Jeanne kissed
her hand dutifully, yet the very next morning she had changed her
mind. With sobs, tears, she admitted that she had decided to leave
service, no longer to be Jeanne, but Madame Hector Fournier. Thus,
at the very time when she most would have needed aid and
attendance, Josephine saw herself about to be left alone.
"But, Madame," said Jeanne, still tearful, returning after brief
absence from the room, "although I leave now for St. Genevieve to
stand before the priest, I shall not see madame left without
attendance. See, I have asked of this Lily person,--_la voici_,
Madame--if she could take service with madame. Madame plans soon
to return to the East. Perhaps this Lily, then--"
"Ma'am, I want to work for you!" broke out Lily suddenly,
stretching out her hands. "I don't want to go back home. I want
to go with you. I cain't go back home--I'd only run away--again.
They'd have to kill me."
Some swift arithmetic was passing through Josephine's mind at the
time. Here, then, was concrete opportunity to set in practice some
of her theories.
"Lily, would you like to come with me as my maid?" she demanded.
"Could you learn, do you think, in case I should need you?"
"Of co'se I could learn, Ma'am. I'd do my very best."
It was thus that it was agreed, with small preliminary, that on the
next morning Tallwoods should lose three of its late tenants.
Josephine ventured to inquire of Dunwody regarding Lily. "Take her
if you like," said he bruskly. "I will arrange the papers for it
with Clayton himself. There will be no expense to you. If he
wants to sell the girl I'll pay him. No, not a cent from you. Go
on, Lily, if you want to. This time you'll get shut of us, I
reckon, and we'll get shut of you. I hope you'll never come back,
this time. You've made trouble enough already."
Thus, then, on the day of departure, Josephine St. Auban found
herself standing before her mirror. It was not an unlovely image
which she saw there. In some woman's fashion, assisted by Jeanne's
last tearful services and the clumsy art of Lily, she had managed a
garbing different from that of her first arrival at this place.
The lines of her excellent figure now were wholly shown in this
costume of golden brown which she had reserved to the last. Her
hair was even glossier than when she first came here to Tallwoods,
her cheek of better color. She was almost disconcerted that the
trials of the winter had wrought no greater ravages; but after all,
a smile was not absent from her lips. Not abolitionist here in the
mirror, but a beautiful young woman. Certainly, whichever or
whoever she was, she made a picture fit wholly to fill the eyes of
the master of Tallwoods when he came to tell her the coach was
ready for the journey to St. Genevieve. But he made no comment,
not daring.
"See," she said, almost gaily, "I can put on both my gloves." She
held out to him her hands.
"They are very small," he replied studiously. He was calm now.
She saw he had himself well in hand. His face was pale and grave.
"Well," said she finally, as the great coach drove around to the
door, "I suppose I am to say good-by."
"I'll just walk with you down the road," he answered. "We walked
up it, once, together."
They followed on, after the coach had passed down the driveway,
Dunwody now moody and silent, his head dropped, his hands behind
him, until the carriage pulled up and waited at the end of the
shut-in at the lower end of the valley. Josephine herself remained
silent as well, but as the turn of the road approached which would
cut off the view of Tallwoods, she turned impulsively and waved a
hand in farewell at the great mansion house which lay back, silent
and strong, among the hills.
[Illustration: She waved a hand in farewell.]
He caught the gesture and looked at her quickly. "That's nice of
you," said he, "mighty nice."
In some new sort of half-abashment she found no immediate reply.
He left her then, and walked steadily back up the driveway, saying
nothing in farewell, and not once looking back. For a time she
followed him with her gaze, a strange sinking at her heart of which
she was ashamed, which gave her alike surprise and sudden fear.
It was a much abashed and still tearful though not a repentant
Jeanne who embraced her mistress, after the simple little wedding
of Jeanne and Hector, when they had repaired to the wedding feast
at the _maison_ Fournier.
"But come, Madame," said Jeanne. "Behold my new home. Is it not
delightful? This is the mother of Hector, Madame, and this--ah,
this is the home of Hector and myself. To-night also it is yours.
I am rejoiced. Madame," she added, in an aside, while Lily, stupid
and awkward, was for the time out of the way, "I can not bear to
think of your going away with but that impossible niggaire there to
care for you. Almost--were it not for Hector and for this
home--could you take Hector also--I should forget all and go with
you even yet. To-morrow I shall go with you to the boat."
But alas! in the morning Jeanne had again forgotten.
When at last the busy little steamer swung inshore, presently to
churn her way out again into the current, Josephine went aboard
with only the colored girl for her company. Her heart sank
strangely, and she felt more lonely than ever in her life before.
She leaned against the rail for a time, looking at the banks slip
back across the turbid stream. The truth was coming into her heart
that it was not with exultation she now was turning back to the
East to take up her life again. Something was different now--was
it the loss of Jeanne? Again surprise, terror, shame, withal
wonder.