LOOKING BACK.
The half of a life! for so Marie counted the loss of her violin. She
never spoke of this--to whom should she speak? In her husband's eyes
it was a thing accursed, she knew. She almost hoped he had forgotten
about the precious treasure that lay so quietly in some dark nook in
the lonely garret; for as long as he did not think of it, it was safe
there, and she should not feel that terrible anguish that had seemed to
rend body and soul when she saw him lay the violin across his knee to
break it. And Abby came not, and gave no sign; and there was no one
else.
She saw little of the neighbours at first. The women looked rather
askance at her, and thought her little better than a fool, even if she
had contrived to make one of Jacques De Arthenay. She never seemed to
understand their talk, and had a way of looking past them, as if
unaware of their presence, that was disconcerting, when one thought
well of oneself. But Marie was not a fool, only a child; and she did
not look at the women simply because she was not thinking of them.
With the children, however, it was different Marie felt that she would
have a great deal to say to the children, if only she had the half of
her that could talk to them. Ah, how she would speak, with Madame on
her arm! What wonders she could tell them, of fairies and witches, of
flowers that sang and birds that danced! But this other part of her
was shy, and she did not feel that she had anything worth saying to the
little ones, who looked at her with half-frightened, half-inviting eyes
when they passed her door. By-and-by, however, she mustered up
courage, and called one or two of them to her, and gave them flowers
from her little garden. Also a pot of jam with a spoon in it proved an
eloquent argument in favour of friendship; and after a while the
children fell into a way of sauntering past with backward glances, and
were always glad to come in when Marie knocked on the window, or came
smiling to the door, with her handkerchief tied under her chin and her
knitting in her hand. It was only when her husband was away that this
happened; Marie would not for worlds have called a child to meet her
husband's eyes, those blue eyes of which, she stood in such terror,
even when she grew to love them.
One little boy in particular came often, when the first shyness had
worn away. He was an orphan, like Marie herself: a pretty, dark-eyed
little fellow, who looked, she fancied, like the children at home in
France. He did not expect her to talk and answer questions, but was
content to sit, as she loved to do, gazing at the trees or the clouds
that went sailing by, only now and then uttering a few quiet words that
seemed in harmony with the stillness all around. I have said that
Jacques De Arthenay's house lay somewhat apart from the village street.
It was a pleasant house, long and low, painted white, with vines
trained over the lower part. Directly opposite was a pine grove, and
here Marie and her little friend loved to sit, listening to the murmur
of the wind in the dark feathery branches. It was the sound of the
sea, Marie told little Petie. As to how it got there, that was another
matter; but it was undoubtedly the sound of the sea, for she had been
at sea, and recognised it at once.
"What does it say?" asked the child one day.
"Of words," said Marie, "I hear not any, Petie. But it wants always
somesing, do you hear? It is hongry always, and makes moans for the
sorry thinks it has in its heart."
"I am hungry in my stomach, not in my heart," objected Petie.
But Marie nodded her head sagely. "Yes," she said. "It is that you
know not the deeference, Petie, bit-ween those. To be hongry at the
stomach, that is made better when you eat cakes, do you see, or
_pot_atoes. But when the heart is hongry, then--ah, yes, that is ozer
thing." And she nodded again, and glanced up at the attic window, and
sighed.
It was a long time before she spoke of her past life; but when she
found that Petie had no sharp-eyed mother at home, only a deaf
great-aunt who asked no questions, she began to give him little
glimpses of the circus world, which filled him with awe and rapture.
It was hardly a real circus, only a little strolling _troupe_, with
some performing dogs, and a few trained horses and ponies, and two
tight-rope dancers; then there were two other musicians, and Marie
herself, besides Le Boss and his family, and Old Billy, who took care
of the horses and did the dirty work. It was about the dogs that Petie
liked best to hear; of the wonderful feats of Monsieur George, the
great brindled greyhound, and the astonishing sagacity of Coquelicot,
the poodle.
"Monsieur George, he could jump over anything, yes! He was always
jump, jump, all day long, to practise himself. Over our heads all,
that was nothing, yet he did it always when we come in the tent, _pour
saluer_, to say the how you do. But one day come in a man to see Le
Boss, very tall, oh, like mountains, and on him a tall hat. And
Monsieur George, he not stopped to measure with his eye, for fear he be
too late with the _politesse_, and he jump, and carry away the man's
hat, and knock him down and come plomp, down on him. Yes, very funny!
The man got a bottle in his hat, and that break, and run all over him,
and he say, oh, he say all things what you think of. But Monsieur
George was so 'shamed, he go away and hide, and not for a week we see
him again. Le Boss think that man poison him, and he goes to beat him;
but that same day Monsieur George come back, and stop outside the tent
and call us all to come out. And when we come, he run back, and say,
'Look here, what I do!' and he jump, and go clean over the tent, and
not touch him wiz his foot. Yes, I saw it: very fine dog, Monsieur
George! But Coquelicot, he have more thinking than Monsieur George.
He very claiver, Coquelicot! Some of zem think him a witch, but I
think not that. He have minds, that was all. But his legs so short,
and that make him hate Monsieur George."
"My legs are short," objected Petie, stretching out a pair of plump
calves, "but that doesn't make me hate people."
"Ah, but if you see a little boy what can walk over the roof of the
house, you want the same to do it, _n'est-ce-pas_?" cried Marie. "You
try, and try, and when you cannot jump, you think that not a so nize
little boy as when his legs were short. So boy, so dog. Coquelicot,
all his life he want to jump like Monsieur George, and all his life he
cannot jump at all. You say to him, 'Coquelicot, are you foolishness?
you can do feefty things and George not one of zem: you can read the
letters, and find the things in the pocket, and play the ins_tru_ment,
and sing the tune to make die people of laughing, yet you are not
_con_tent. Let him have in peace his legs, Monsieur George, then!'
But no! and every time Monsieur George come down from the great jump,
Coquelicot is ready, and bite his legs so hard what he can."
Petie laughed outright. "I think that's awful funny!" he said. "I
say, Mis' De Arthenay, I'd like to seen him bite his legs. Did he
holler?"
"Monsieur George? He cry, and go to his bed. All the dogs, they
afraid of Coquelicot, because he have the minds. And he, Coquelicot,
he fear nossing, except Madame when she is angry."
"Who was she?" asked Petie,--"a big dog?"
"Ah, dog, no!" cried Marie, her face flushing. "Madame my violon, my
life, my pleasure, my friend. Ah, _mon Dieu_, what friend have I?"
Her breast heaved, and she broke into a wild fit of crying, forgetting
the child by her side, forgetting everything in the world save the
hunger at her heart for the one creature to whom she could speak, and
who could speak in turn to her.
Petie sat silent, frightened at the sudden storm of sobs and tears.
What had he done, he wondered? At length he mustered courage to touch
his friend's arm softly with his little hand.
"I didn't go to do it!" he said. "Don't ye cry, Mis' De Arthenay! I
don't know what I did, but I didn't go to do it, nohow."
Marie turned and looked at him, and smiled through her tears. "Dear
little Petie!" she said, stroking the curly head, "you done nossing,
little Petie. It was the honger, no more! Oh, no more!" she caught
her breath, but choked the sob back bravely, and smiled again.
Something woke in her child heart, and bade her not sadden the heart of
the younger child with a grief which was not his. It is one of the
lessons of life, and it was well with Marie that she learned it early.
"Madame, my violon," she resumed after a pause, speaking cheerfully,
and wiping her eyes with her apron, "she have many voices, Petie;
tousand voices, like all birds, all winds, all song in the world; and
she have an angry voice, too, deep down, what make you tr-remble in
your heart, if you are bad. _Bien_! Sometime Coquelicot, he been bad,
very bad. He know so much, that make him able for the bad, see, like
for the good. Yes! Sometime, he steal the sugar; sometime he come in
when we make music, and make wiz us yells, and spoil the music;
sometime he make the horreebl' faces at the poppies and make scream
them with fear."
"Kin poppies scream?" asked Petie, opening great eyes of wonder. "My!
ourn can't. We've got big red ones, biggest ever you see, but I never
heerd a sound out of 'em."
Explanations ensued, and a digression in favour of the six puppies,
whose noses were softer and whose tails were funnier than anything else
in the known, world; and then--
"So Coquelicot, he come and he sit down before the poppies, and he open
his mouth, so!" here Marie opened her pretty mouth, and tried to look
like a malicious poodle,--with singular lack of success; but Petie was
delighted, and clapped his hands and laughed.
"And then," Marie went on, "Lisette, she is the poppies' mother, and
she hear them, and she come wiz yells, too, and try to drive
Coquelicot, but he take her wiz his teeth and shake her, and throw her
away, and go on to make faces, and all is horreebl' noise, to wake
deads. So Old Billy call me, and I come, and I go softly behind
Coquelicot, and down I put me, and Madame speak in her angry voice
justly in Coquelicot's ear. 'La la! tra la li la!' deep down like so,
full wiz angryness, terreebl', yes! And Coquelicot he jump, oh my! oh
my! never he could jump so of all his life. And the tail bit-ween his
legs, and there that he run, run, as if all devils run after him. Yes,
funny, Petie, vairy funny!" She laughed, and Petie laughed in violent,
noisy peals, as children love to do, each gust of merriment fanning the
fire for another, till all control is lost, and the little one drops
into an irrepressible fit of the "giggles." So they sat under the
pine-trees, the two children, and laughed, and Marie forgot the hunger
at her heart; till suddenly she looked and saw her husband standing
near, leaning on his rake and gazing at her with grave, uncomprehending
eyes. Then the laugh froze on her lips, and she rose hastily, with the
little timid smile which was all she had for Jacques (yet he was hungry
too, so hungry! and knew not what ailed him!) and went to meet him;
while Petie ran away through the grove, as fast as his little legs
would carry him.