"D'ARTHENAY, TENEZ FOI!"
There had been De Arthenays in the village ever since it became a
village: never many of them, one or two at most in a generation; not a
prolific stock, but a hardy and persistent one. No one knew when the
name had dropped its soft French sound, and taken the harsh Anglo-Saxon
accent. It had been so with all the old French names, the
L'Homme-Dieus and Des Isles and Beaulieus; the air, or the granite, or
one knows not what, caused an ossification of the consonants, a drying
up of the vowels, till these names, once soft and melodious, became
more angular, more rasping in utterance, than ever Smith or Jones could
be.
They were Huguenots, the d'Arthenays. A friend from childhood of St.
Castin, Jacques d'Arthenay had followed his old companion to America at
the time when the revocation of the Edict of Nantes rendered France no
safe dwelling-place for those who had no hinges to their knees. A
stern, silent man, this d'Arthenay, like most of his race: holding in
scorn the things of earthly life, brooding over grievances, given to
dwelling much on heaven and hell, as became his time and class.
Leaving castle and lands and all earthly ties behind them, he and his
wife came out of Sodom, as they expressed it, and turned not their
faces, looking steadfastly forward to the wilderness where they were to
worship God in His own temple, the virgin forest. It had been a
terrible shock to find the Baron de St. Castin fallen away from
religion and civilisation, living in savage pomp with his savage wives,
the daughters of the great chief Modocawando. There could be no such
companionship as this for the Sieur d'Arthenay and his noble wife; the
friendship of half a lifetime was sternly repudiated, and d'Arthenay
cast in his lot with the little band of Huguenot settlers who were
striving to win their livelihood from the rugged soil of eastern Maine.
It was bitter bread that they ate, those French settlers. We read the
story again and again, each time with a fresh pang of pity and regret;
but it is not of them that this tale is told. Jacques d'Arthenay died
in his wilderness, and his wife followed him quickly, leaving a son to
carry on the name. The gravestone of these first d'Arthenays was still
to be seen in the old burying-ground: they had been the first to be
buried there. The old stone was sunk half-way in the earth, and was
gray with moss and lichens; but the inscription was still legible, if
one looked close, and had patience to decipher the crabbed text.
"Jacques St. George, Sieur d'Arthenay et de Vivonne.
Mort en foi et en esperance, 28me Decembre, 1694."
Then a pair of mailed hands, clasped as in sign of friendship or
loyalty, and beneath them again, the words,
"D'Arthenay, tenez foi!"
The story was that the son of this first Sieur d'Arthenay had been
exposed to some dire temptation, whether of love or of ambition was not
clearly known, and had been in danger of turning from the faith of his
people and embracing that of Rome. He came one day to meditate beside
his father's grave, hoping perhaps to draw some strength, some
inspiration, from the memories of that stern and righteous Huguenot;
and as he sat beside the stone, lo! a mailed hand appeared, holding a
sword, and graved with the point of the sword on the stone, the old
motto of his father's house,--
"D'Arthenay, tenez foi!"
And he had been strengthened, and lived and died in the faith of his
father. Many people in the village scouted this story, and called it
child's foolishness, but there were some who liked to believe it, and
who pointed out that these words were not carved deeply and regularly,
like the rest of the inscription, but roughly scratched, as if with a
sharp point. And that although merely so scratched, they had never
been effaced, but were even more easily read than the carven script.
Among those who held it for foolishness was the present Jacques De
Arthenay. He was perhaps the fifth in descent from the old Huguenot,
but he might have been his own son or brother. The Huguenot doctrines
had only grown a little colder, a little harder, turned into New
England Orthodoxy as it was understood fifty years ago. He thought
little of his French descent or his noble blood. He pronounced his
name Jakes, as all his neighbors did; he lived on his farm, as they
lived on theirs. If it was a better farm, the land in better
condition, the buildings and fences trimmer and better cared for, that
was in the man, not in his circumstances. He was easily leader among
the few men whose scattered dwellings made up the village of Sea
Meadows (commonly pronounced Semedders.) His house did not lie on the
little "street," as that part of the road was called where some
half-dozen houses were clustered together, with their farms spreading
out behind them, and the post-office for the king-pin; yet no important
step would be taken by the villagers without the advice and approval of
Jacques De Arthenay. Briefly, he was a born leader; a masterful man,
with a habit of thinking before he spoke; and when he said a thing must
be done, people were apt to do it. He was now thirty years old,
without kith or kin that any one knew of; living by himself in a good
house, and keeping it clean and decent, almost as a woman might; not
likely ever to change his condition, it was supposed.
This was the man who happened to come into the street on some errand,
that soft summer evening, at the very moment when Marie was feeling
lifted up by the light of joy in the children's faces, and was telling
herself how good it was that she had come this way. Hearing the sound
of the fiddle, De Arthenay stopped for a moment, and his face grew dark
as night. He was a religious man, as sternly so as his Huguenot
ancestor, but wearing his religion with a difference. He knew all
music, except psalm-tunes, to be directly from the devil. Even as to
the psalm-tunes themselves, it seemed to him a dreadful thing that
worship could not be conducted without this compromise with evil, this
snare to catch the ear; and he harboured in the depth of his soul
thoughts about the probable frivolity of David, which he hardly voiced
even to himself. The fiddle, in particular, he held to be positively
devilish, both in its origin and influence; those who played this
unholy instrument were bound to no good place, and were sure to gain
their port, in his opinion. Being thus minded, it was with a shock of
horror that he heard the sound of a fiddle in the street of his own
village, not fifty yards from the meeting-house itself. After a
moment's pause, he came wrathfully down the street; his height raised
him a head and shoulders above the people who were ringed around the
little musician, and he looked over their heads, with his arm raised to
command, and his lips opened to forbid the shameful thing. Then--he
saw Marie's face; and straightway his arm dropped to his side, and he
stood without speaking. The children looked up at him, and moved away,
for they were always afraid of him, and at this moment his face was
dreadful to see.
Yet it was nothing dreadful that he looked upon. Marie was standing
with her head bent down over her violin, in a pretty way she had. A
light, slight figure, not short, yet with a look that spoke all of
youth and morning grace. She wore a little blue gown, patched and
faded, and dusty enough after her day's walk; her feet were dusty too,
but slender and delicately shaped. Her face was like nothing that had
been seen in those parts before, and the beauty of it seemed to strike
cold to the man's heart, as he stood and gazed with unwilling eyes,
hating the feeling that constrained him, yet unable for the moment to
restrain it or to turn his eyes away. She had that clear, bright
whiteness of skin that is seen only in Frenchwomen, and only here and
there among these; whiteness as of fire behind alabaster. Her hair was
black and soft, and the lashes lay like jet on her cheek, as she stood
looking down, smiling a little, feeling so happy, so pleased that she
was pleasing others. And now, when she raised her eyes, they were seen
to be dark and soft, too; but with what fire in their depths, what
sunny light of joy,--the joy of a child among children! De Arthenay
started, and his hands clenched themselves unconsciously. Marie
started, too, as she met the stern gaze fixed upon her, and the joyous
light faded from her eyes. Rudely it broke in upon her pleasant
thoughts,--this vision of a set, bearded face, with cold blue eyes that
yet had a flame in them, like a spark struck from steel. The little
song died on her lips, and unconsciously she lowered her bow, and stood
silent, returning helplessly the look bent so sternly upon her.
When Jacques de Arthenay found himself able to speak at last, he
started at the sound of his own voice.
"Who are you?" he asked. "How did you come here, young woman?"
Marie held out her fiddle with a pretty, appealing gesture. "I
come--from away!" she said, in her broken English, that sounded soft
and strange to his ears. "I do no harm. I play, to make happy the
children, to get bread for me."
"Who came with you?" De Arthenay continued. "Who are your folks?"
Marie shook her head, and a light crept into her eyes as she thought of
Le Boss. "I have nobodies'" she said. "I am with myself, _sauf le
violon_; I mean, wiz my fiddle. Monsieur likes not music, no?"
She looked wistfully at him, and something seemed to rise up in the
man's throat and choke him. He made a violent motion, as if to free
himself from something. What had happened to him,--was he suddenly
possessed, or was he losing his wits? He tried to force his voice back
into its usual tone, tried even to speak gently, though his heart was
beating so wildly at the way she looked, at the sweet notes of her
voice, like a flute in its lower notes, that he could hardly hear his
own words. "No, no music!" he said. "There must be no music here,
among Christian folks. Put away that thing, young woman. It is an
evil thing, bringing sin, and death, which is the wages of sin, with
it. How came you here, if you have no one belonging to you?"
Falteringly, her sweet eyes dropped on the ground, with only now and
then a timid, appealing glance at this terrible person, this awful
judge who had suddenly dropped from the skies, Marie told her little
story, or as much of it as she thought needful. She had been with bad
people, playing for them, a long time, she did not know how long. And
then they would take away her violin, and she would not stay, and she
ran away from them, and had walked all day, and--and that was all. A
little sob shook her voice at the last words; she had not realised
before how utterly alone she was. The delight of freedom, of getting
away from her tyrants, had been enough at first, and she had been as it
were on wings all day, like a bird let loose from its cage; now the
little bird was weary, and the wings drooped, and there was no nest,
not even a friendly cage where one would find food and drink,
A sudden passion of pity--he supposed it was pity--shook the strong
man. He felt a wild impulse to catch the little shrinking creature in
his arms and bear her away to his own home, to warm and cheer and
comfort her. Was there ever before anything in the world so sweet, so
helpless, so forlorn? He looked around. The children were all gone;
he stood alone in the street with the foreign woman, and night was
falling. It was at this moment that Abby Rock, who had been watching
from her window for the past few minutes, opened her door and came out,
stepping quietly toward them, as if they were just the people she had
expected to see. De Arthenay hailed her as an angel from Heaven; and
yet Abby did not look like an angel.
"Abby!" he cried. "Come here a minute, will you?"
"Good evening, Jacques!" said Abby, in her quiet voice. "Good evening
to you!" she added, speaking kindly to the little stranger. "I was
coming to see if you wouldn't like to step into my house and rest you a
spell. Why, my heart!" she cried, as Marie raised her head at the
sound of the friendly voice, "you're nothing but a child. Come right
along with me, my dear. Alone, are ye, and night coming on!"
"That's right, Abby!" cried De Arthenay, with feverish eagerness.
"Yes, yes, take her home with you and make her comfortable. She is a
stranger, and has no friends, so she says. I--I'll see you in the
morning about her. Take her! take her in where she will be
comfortable, and I'll--"
"I'll pay you well for it," was what he was going to say, but Abby's
quiet look stopped the words on his lips. Why should he pay her for
taking care of a stranger, of whom he knew no more than she did; whom
he had never seen till this moment?--why, indeed! and she was as well
able to pay for the young woman's keep as he was to say the least. All
this De Arthenay saw, or fancied he saw, in Abby Rock's glance. He
turned away, muttering something about seeing them in the morning;
then, with an abrupt bow, which yet was not without grace, he strode
swiftly down the street and took his way home.