WEDLOCK.
They were married that very day. Abby begged piteously for a little
delay, that she might make clothes, and give her pretty pet a "good
send-off;" but De Arthenay would not hear of it. Mary was his wife in
the sight of God; let her become so in the sight of man! So a white
gown was found and put on the little passive creature, and good Abby,
crying with excitement, twined some flowers in the soft dark hair, and
thought that even Sister Lizzie, in her blue silk dress and chip
bonnet, had not made so lovely a bride as this stranger, this wandering
child from no one knew where. The wedding took place in Abby's parlor,
with only Abby herself and a single neighbour for witnesses. A little
crowd gathered round the door, however, to see how Jacques De Arthenay
looked when he'd made a fool of himself, as they expressed it. They
were in a merry mood, the friendly neighbours, and had sundry jests
ready to crack upon the bridegroom when he should appear; but when he
finally stood in the doorway, with the little pale bride on his arm, it
became apparent that jests were not in order. People calc'lated that
Jacques was in one of his moods, and was best not to be spoke with just
that moment; besides, 't was no time for them to be l'iterin' round
staring, with all there was to be done. So the crowd melted away, and
only Abby followed the new-married couple to their own home. She,
walking behind in much perturbation of spirit, noticed that on the
threshold Marie stumbled, and seemed about to fall, and that Jacques
lifted her in his arms as if she were a baby, and carried her into the
room. He had not seemed to notice till that moment that the child was
carrying her violin-case, though to be sure it was plain enough to see,
but as he lifted her, it struck against the door-jamb, and he glanced
down and saw it. When Abby came in (for this was to be her good-by to
them, as she was to leave that afternoon for her sister's home), De
Arthenay had the case in his hand, and was speaking in low, earnest
tones.
"You cannot have this thing, Mary! It is a thing of evil, and may not
be in a Christian household. You are going to leave all those things
behind you now, and there must be nothing to recall that life with
those bad people. I will burn the evil thing now, and it shall be a
sweet savour to the Lord, even a marriage sacrifice." As he spoke he
opened the case, and taking out the violin, laid it across his knee,
intending to break it into pieces; but at this Marie broke out into a
cry, so wild, so piercing, that he paused, and Abby ran to her and took
her in, her arms, and pressed her to her kind breast, and comforted her
as one comforts a little child. Then she turned to the stern-eyed
bridegroom.
"Jacques," she pleaded, "don't do it! don't do such a thing on your
wedding-day, if you have a heart in you. Don't you see how she feels
it? Put the fiddle away, if you don't want it round; put it up garret,
and let it lay there, till she's wonted a little to doing without it.
Take it now out of her sight and your own, Jacques De Arthenay, or
you'll be sorry for it when you have done a mischief you can't undo."
Abby wondered afterward what power had spoken in her voice; it must
have had some unusual force, for De Arthenay, after a moment's
hesitation, did as she bade him,--turned slowly and left the room, and
the next moment was heard mounting the garret stairs. While he was
gone, she still held Marie in her arms, and begged her not to tremble
so, and told her that her husband was a good man, a kind man, that he
had never hurt any one in his life except evil-doers, and had been a
good son and a good brother to his own people while they lived. Then
she bade the child look around at her new home, and see how neat and
good everything was, and how tastefully Jacques had arranged it all for
her. "Why, he vallies the ground you step on, child!" she cried. "You
don't want to be afraid of him, dear. You can do anything you're a
mind to with him, I tell you. See them flowers there, in the chaney
bowl! Now he never looked at a flower in his life, Jacques didn't; but
knowing you set by them, he went out and picked them pretty ones o'
purpose. Now I call that real thoughtful, don't you, Maree?"
So the good soul talked on, soothing the girl, who said no word, only
trembled, and gazed at her with wide, frightened eyes; but Abby's heart
was heavy within her, and she hardly heard her own cheery words. What
kind of union was this likely to be, with such a beginning! Why had
she not realised, before it was too late, how set Jacques was in his
ways, and how he never would give in to the heathen notions and
fiddling ways of the foreign child?
Sadly the good woman bade farewell to the bridal couple, and left them
alone in their new home. On the threshold she turned back for a
moment, and had a moment's comfort; for Jacques had taken Marie's hands
in his own, and was gazing at her with such love in his eyes that it
must have melted a stone, Abby thought; and perhaps Marie thought so
too, for she forgot to make the horns, and smiled back, a little faint
piteous smile, into her husband's face.
So Abby went away to the West, to tend her sister, and Jacques and
Marie De Arthenay began their life together.
It was not so very terrible, Marie found after a while. Of course a
person could not always help it, to have the evil eye; it had happened
that even the best of persons had it, and sometimes without knowing it.
The Catholic girls at home in the village had a saint who always
carried her eyes about in a plate because they were evil, and she was
afraid of hurting some one with them. (Poor Saint Lucia! this is a new
rendering of thy martyrdom!) Yes, indeed! Marie was no Catholic, but
she had seen the picture, and knew that it was so. And oh, he did mean
to be kind, her husband! that saw itself more and more plainly every
day.
Then, there was great pleasure in the housekeeping. Marie was a born
housewife, with delicate French hands, and an inborn skill in cookery,
the discovery of which gave her great delight. Everything in the
kitchen was fresh and clean and sweet, and in the garden were fruits,
currants and blackberries and raspberries, and every kind of vegetable
that grew in the village at home, with many more that were strange to
her. She found never-ending pleasure in concocting new dishes, little
triumphs of taste and daintiness, and trying them on her silent
husband. Sometimes he did not notice them at all, but ate straight on,
not knowing a delicate fricassee from a junk of salt beef; that was
very trying. But again he would take notice, and smile at her with the
rare sweet smile for which she was beginning to watch, and praise the
prettiness and the flavor of what was set before him. But sometimes,
too, dreadful things happened. One day Marie had tried her very best,
and had produced a dish for supper of which she was justly proud,--a
little _friture_ of lamb, delicate golden-brown, with crimson beets and
golden carrots, cut in flower-shapes, neatly ranged around. Such a
pretty dish was never seen, she thought; and she had put it on the best
platter, the blue platter with the cow and the strawberries on it; and
when she set it before her husband, her dark eyes were actually shining
with pleasure, and she was thinking that if he were very pleased, but
very, very, she might possibly have courage to call him "Mon ami,"
which she had thought several times of doing. It had such a friendly
sound, "Mon ami!"
But alas! when De Arthenay came to the table he was in one of his dark
moods; and when his eyes fell on the festal dish, he started up, crying
out that the devil was tempting him, and that he and his house should
be lost through the wiles of the flesh; and so caught up the dish and
flung it on the fire, and bade his trembling wife bring him a crust of
dry bread. Poor Marie! she was too frightened to cry, though all her
woman's soul was in arms at the destruction of good food, to say
nothing of the wound to her house-wifely pride. She sat silent, eating
nothing, only making believe, when her husband looked her way, to
crumble a bit of bread. And when that wretched meal was over, Jacques
called her to his side, and took out the great black Bible, and read
three chapters of denunciation from Jeremiah, that made Marie's blood
chill in her veins, and sent her shivering to her bed. The next day he
would eat nothing but Indian meal porridge, and the next; and it was a
week before Marie ventured to try any more experiments in cookery.
Marie had a great dread of the black Bible. She was sure it was a
different Bible from the one which Mere Jeanne used to read at home,
for that was full of lovely things, while this was terrible. Sometimes
Jacques would call her to him and question her, and that was really too
frightful for anything. Perhaps he had been reading aloud, as he was
fond of doing in the evenings, some denunciatory passage from the
psalms or the prophets. "Mary," he would say, turning to her, as she
sat with her knitting in the corner, "what do you think of that
passage?"
"I think him horreebl'," Marie would answer. "Why do you read of such
things, Jacques! Why you not have the good Bible, as we have him in
France, why?"
"There is but one Bible, Mary, but one in the world; and it is all good
and beautiful, only our sinful eyes cannot always see the glory of it."
"Ah, but no!" Marie would persist, shaking her head gravely. "Mere
Jeanne's Bible was all ozer, so I tell you. Not black and horreebl',
no! but red, all red, wiz gold on him, and in his side pictures, all
bright and preetty, and good words, good ones, what make the good feel
in my side. Yes, that is the Bible I have liked."
"Mary, I tell you it was no Bible, unless it was this very one. They
bind it in any colour they like, don't you see, child? It isn't the
cover that makes the book. I fear you weren't brought up a Christian,
Mary. It is a terrible thing to think of, my poor little wife. You
must let me teach you; you must talk with Elder Beach on Sunday
afternoons. Assuredly he will help you, if I am found unworthy."
But Marie would have none of this. She was a Christian, she maintained
as stoutly as her great fear of her husband would permit. She had been
baptized, and taught all that one should be taught. But it was all
different. Her Bible told that we must love people, but love
everybody, always, all times; and this black book said that we must
kill them with swords, and dash them against stones, and pray bad
things to happen to them. It stood to reason that it was not the same
Bible, _hein_? At this Jacques De Arthenay started, and took himself
by the hair with both hands, as he did when something moved him
strongly. "Those were bad people, Mary!" he cried. "Don't you see?
they withstood the Elect, and they were slain. And we must think about
these things, and think of our sins, and the sins of others as a
warning to ourselves. Sin is awful, black, horrible! and its wages is
death,--death, do you hear?"
When he cried out in this way, like a wild creature, Marie did not dare
to speak again; but she would murmur under her breath in French, as she
bent lower over her knitting, "Nevertheless, Mere Jeanne's good Lord
was good, and yours--"; and then she would quietly turn a hairpin
upside down in her hair, for it was quite certain that if she caught
Jacques's eye when he was in this mood, her hand would wither, or her
hair fall out, or at the very least the cream all sour in the pans; and
when one's hands were righteously busy, as with knitting, one might
make the horns with other things, and a hairpin was very useful. She
wished she had a little coral hand, such as she had once seen at a
fair, with the fingers making the horns in the proper manner; it would
be a great convenience, she thought with a sigh.
But he was always sorry after these dark times; and when he sat and
held her hand, as he did sometimes, silent for the most part, but
gazing at her with eyes of absolute, unspeakable love, Marie was
pleased, almost content: as nearly content as one could be with the
half of one's life taken away.