TONE BEAUBIEN'S DAUGHTER.
JUST at the corner of the McGregor farm a narrow green road branched
off from the main track and led upward among the hills. It was so
little used that the short grass nearly covered it, and the melting
snows and rains had so gullied and washed the track that any wheeled
carriage less strong than a lumber-wagon would have been in great
danger of being wrecked. At first the road was bordered by stone walls
showing their age by the mosses and lichens which spotted them. Higher
up the boundary vanished altogether on one side, and on the other
turned into an ancient fence of pine and hemlock stumps, such as one
often sees in New England, the worn and bleached but imperishable roots
rising above the blackberry and clematis vines which covered the lower
part like the bones of antediluvean monsters.
On that side was a stony pasture the sight of which would have
made Western-bred cows give up life in despair, but from which,
nevertheless, came many a sturdy cheese and roll of fragrant butter. On
the other side was first a tripping, chattering brook, then a narrow
strip of wood largely made up of black spruce, and behind this a high
rocky wall, steep as the side of a house most of the way, though here
and there a gap and a narrow, hard-beaten path showed that the sheep
had found a way to climb the barrier.
Into this road Therese Beaubien turned and walked rapidly along,
singing as she went till the steepness of the ascent and the weight of
her basket made it necessary to economize her breath.
It was a lonely place enough; but Therese had no fears. She had
travelled it ever since she could remember, and oftener alone than in
company. She did start and look round rather fearfully once at a sudden
and unaccountable rustle in the bushes near the road, but laughed at
her own fears, as nothing appeared to justify them.
"If a bear should come out upon me, I would appease him with the
chicken pie, as Fifine appeased the lions with the mutton in the
fairy-tale," said she to herself; "but, after all, it is a lonesome
place, especially in winter, when the wind howls through the spruces
and hemlocks and among the rocks. I do wish mother would move down to
the village."
As she spoke, she came in sight of a little red house, very small in
itself and looking smaller by contrast with the enormous mass of stone
under the shelter of which it was built. Tiny as it was, it looked in
good repair and comfortable. There was even some cultivation about it
in the shape of a small garden and a very little field of potatoes and
corn. Two or three apple trees grew about the house, but they were
old and neglected. The little house was such as one often sees in
remote situations in Vermont and New Hampshire, where one is tempted
to think the first settlers sought out the most dreary and unpromising
situations. There was nothing at all remarkable about it, except that
all the lower windows were provided with strong wooden shutters.
Even in the June evening both doors and windows were closed. It was
not a cheerful-looking home, but Therese seemed to feel her spirits
revive at the sight of it, and she quickened her steps. She opened
the door softly, intending to surprise her mother. If she succeeded,
the surprise did not seem to be an agreeable one. There was nobody in
the front room, nor in the little bedroom which opened from it, but
as Therese went forward to the door which opened into the little back
kitchen she was met by her mother with the words, spoken in a tone of
evident consternation,—
"You unlucky child! What has brought you home to-day?"
Therese was certainly very much taken aback, but she was familiar with
her mother's moods; and besides, she thought she understood at once the
cause of Mrs. Beaubien's evident discomposure:
"Don't be alarmed, mother. I know what you are thinking of, but I have
not lost my place. On the contrary, they want me to stay all summer.
But Mrs. Tremaine said I must consult you about the matter, and so she
let me come for a little visit, and I am to stay till Monday."
By this time Mrs. Beaubien seemed to have recovered her presence of
mind.
"She is very good, I am sure. I hope she has not put herself to
inconvenience in the matter?" said she, trying to speak in her usual
tone.
"Oh no; she said she did not mind. See what she has sent you. And only
think, mamma! She has paid me seventy-five cents a week instead of
fifty for all the time I have been there. So I have half as much again
as I expected, and I have brought it home to you."
"You should not have done that," said her mother. "Better leave it in
madame's hands. She is a good lady, and will advise you how to lay it
out to the best advantage."
"I thought you would take it and buy yourself a new dress for Sunday,"
said Therese, evidently disappointed.
"No, no, child! What have I to do with Sunday? Well, there! Never mind.
You are a good girl to think of me; but you need clothes more than I.
Run up-stairs and see the new kittens."
Therese did as she was bid. She certainly did brush away a tear or two
from her long black lashes as she bent over the kittens' basket and
fondled the old cat.
She had been looking forward to her visit all the week long and making
her little preparations for it, but she could not help seeing that her
coming was unwelcome and ill-timed from some reason that she could
not understand—that her mother was not glad to see her and wished her
away. But she did not feel it as another girl would have done. She had
been used to humouring her mother's dark moods ever since she could
remember, and to seeing them come and go without any apparent cause. A
cloud had overhung the little red house ever since she could recollect.
She had learned not to be surprised when it lowered even deeper than
usual, and to be thankful when it lifted ever so little.
There was in Holford a colony of French Canadians who had emigrated
from the neighbourhood of Quebec and settled in that place, forming a
suburb of the little village, called Frenchtown. They were a harmless
set, not given to the hard work and close economy of their neighbours,
but rather favourites than otherwise, from their good-nature and kindly
ways. The women kept house and were called on to wash or cook when
extra help was needed; some of the girls went to service or worked in
the woollen mills or the cheese factories. The men helped in harvest
and planting-time, practiced various little handicrafts, and hunted
in the great woods of the Callum estate. The elders among them were
nominal Roman Catholics, but the younger people had been got into
Sunday schools and Bible classes, and not a few were church members.
Among these people the Beaubien family decidedly took the lead in
respectability and thrift. One daughter had married a well-to-do
farmer, another had a milliner's shop, in which she succeeded so well
as to bring much custom from the neighbouring towns. One of the boys
had cleared a farm for himself on the mountain side, and was doing well
upon it, and the others were all recognized as respectable if not very
industrious citizens.
But there was one black sheep in the flock. Antoine—or, as he was
usually called, Tone—Beaubien was one of those boys who seem to love
evil for its own sake, and at twenty-one he was a thorough outlaw. He
had been in jail for various small robberies more than once, and was
very strongly suspected of the graver offences of sheep stealing and
passing counterfeit money. At twenty-five he was doing somewhat better.
He worked with his father at his trade of harness and saddle making, in
which the old man excelled, and was tolerably sober and steady, with
the exception of an occasional spree, and now and then an absence of
two or three months, when nobody knew of his whereabouts.
The prettiest and one of the steadiest girls in the settlement was Rose
Duval, old Gabriel Duval's only child. Great was the amazement when it
was discovered that she was being courted by Tone Beaubien, and that
she was determined to marry him. In vain was every obstacle thrown in
her way. In vain did Gabriel Duval forbid him the house. In vain did
the Beaubiens themselves, who loved Rose dearly, tell her of Tone's
character and warn her of the risk she ran. The wilful girl would have
her way.
On one of Tone's periodical disappearances, Rose disappeared also, and
came back with him at the end of three months just in time to see her
father buried. Old Gabriel willed his daughter the little house and the
land belonging to it as her portion, and there Tone and his young wife
took up their abode. For a while things seemed to go well with them.
They had the necessaries and a good many of the luxuries of life. Tone
was often absent for weeks at a time, and his wife said he went as a
sailor on the lake; but as these absences came quite as often in winter
as in summer, very few people believed the story.
At last matters came to a climax. An old gentleman who had drawn a
large sum of money from the Holford bank was shot down and robbed on
his way home by three men. He lived long enough to give an account of
the matter, and named Tone Beaubien as one of his assailants. Tone
tried to prove an alibi but unluckily Alick McGregor swore to seeing
him twice on the very day of the murder in the neighbourhood of his
own house. Tone was committed for trial, but in some way or other he
escaped, and was never seen in Holford again.
Nobody even suspected Rose of any share in her husband's misdeeds, and
the people of Holford were as kind as she would allow them to be. Both
her mother and her father-in-law would have taken her home, but she
refused their offers, and lived alone with Therese in the old house
under Blue Hill, having as little as possible to do with any one. She
went out to work for the two or three farmers who lived within walking
distance, and cultivated her potato-patch and garden ground with her
own hands.
One of the hereditary arts of the French settlers was the making of a
peculiar kind of fine basket-work. Rose took up this trade and made
improvements on it. She sent her wares to a neighbouring city, where
she got good prices for them, and in these ways she supported herself
and her little girl.
Such was the cloud which overshadowed Therese Beaubien's entrance
into life, and certainly it was a heavy one. Nevertheless, Therese
managed to find a good deal of sunshine. Her health was perfect;
her mother was sometimes affectionate, and never positively unkind.
Though Rose herself never entered the door of either her mother or
her father-in-law, she allowed Therese to visit both. The little girl
stayed weeks and months with kind, cheerful old Grandfather Beaubien
and her grandmother Duval.
Her aunts Lenore and Fanchette taught her to sew and knit, to make
lace with the needle—another hereditary employment of the Beaubien
family—and made much of her in all sorts of ways. Grandmother Duval
taught her to read the Bible both in French and English—for she was a
Protestant and well educated—and gave her many lessons in morals and
manners.
The village children were usually kind when she encountered them
though, now and then, when any quarrel arose, she met with the spiteful
taunt, "I don't want to play with Tone Beaubien's girl! What can you
expect of Tone Beaubien's daughter?"
Therese loved her mother with overflowing affection, but it was not
strange that she liked to escape from the shadow of poor Rose's moody
sorrow and the loneliness of the old house to the bright kitchen and
cheerful ways of Grandfather Beaubien's household. As she grew up, she
could not avoid coming to the conviction that her mother preferred
living alone. It was hard to think so, but there was no escape from
it; and therefore Therese was not surprised when her mother one day
informed her that she was to go and live with Mrs. Tremaine in the
village:
"Miss Tilly is lame, and the lady wishes some one to wait on her and to
help in the work. She is an excellent lady and will be kind to you."
"I am afraid that grandfather will not be pleased," said Therese,
rather doubtfully. "He said he wished me to live with him and be his
girl when you did not want me."
"I do not choose that you shall live upon your grandfather's bounty,"
answered Mrs. Beaubien, with the stern anger she always showed whenever
Therese manifested any will of her own. "Do you mean to set up for
yourself against me so soon?"
"No, mother," answered Therese, humbly; "I am sure I shall like living
with Mrs. Tremaine."
"Like it or not, you go there to-morrow."
"But, mamma, why cannot I stay with you? I would much rather. I can
help you with the baskets and keep the house and read to you sometimes.
Why should I leave you here alone all winter in this dreary place?
Please let me stay with you, and I will be as contented as a little
mouse."
With one of her sudden changes of mood, poor Rose caught the child in
her arms and covered her with kisses and tears:
"You are my own darling and the light of my eyes, but, dear child, I
must send you away. You must learn many things which I cannot teach
you, and there are other reasons which I cannot explain. You will often
come to see me, and no doubt madame will let you go to grandfather's,
for she has been a good friend to the family at all times. Be a good
girl, obey the lady in all things, learn all you can, and doubtless you
will always have friends."
Therese said no more in opposition, for she saw there was no use in it,
and with her usual cheerfulness, she at once turned her eyes to the
bright side of the picture: "I dare say I can go to church and Sunday
school every Sunday."
"No doubt. Madame has always taught in the school ever since she came
to the place, and she is very religious."
"And I can draw books from the Sunday school, and the school library if
I live in the district. Aunt Lenore does so; and I know Miss Kitty has
plenty of story-books. Oh yes, I shall be very happy."
And very happy Therese undoubtedly was. She had lived at Mrs.
Tremaine's all winter, and Mrs. Tremaine had no mind to part with her.
But Therese often felt her heart go out with a great yearning toward
her solitary mother, and as the spring came on, she felt drawn toward
the woods and the rocky pasture she knew so well. She had come home to
consult her mother as to her staying with half a hope that she might
remain. That hope had vanished already, and she could not help shedding
a few tears over its disappearance; but she soon wiped them away and
prepared to make the most of her visit.
Mrs. Beaubien, too, seemed to wish to make up for her cool welcome. She
exerted herself to talk more than usual, asked the news in the village,
and was interested to hear that Aunt Madeline had a new baby girl,
and Uncle Claude insisted on calling it Michelle, after Grandfather
Beaubien. Still, she seemed somewhat absent, and Therese once or twice
thought she seemed to be listening.
"What are you listening to, mother?" she asked at last. "I don't hear
anything."
Mrs. Beaubien started: "I thought I heard a noise among the hens. The
foxes have carried off two or three lately. Come, daughter, you had
better go to bed; you have had a long walk, and must be tired."
Therese was not unwilling to go to bed, for she was really very tired.
"Are you not coming too?" she asked.
"Not just yet; I have a bit of work to finish. But I will not have you
sit up. Go to bed and to sleep."
Therese hesitated a minute, and then took courage:
"Miss Kitty has given me a French Testament, and I promised her I would
read a little every night. May I read to you?"
"Yes, child, if you like."
Therese read the parable of the sower, and then prepared for bed.
"I will come before long," said her mother. "Sleep sound, and don't
mind if you hear me moving about."
Therese did sleep sound, but some time in the night she thought or
dreamed that she heard people talking in subdued tones, and that some
one said rather roughly,—
"Nonsense! I must have the money, and she can get more. You can make
excuses enough."
Presently she was waked by some sound like the closing of a door, and
by her mother coming to bed.
"Are you not very late?" she asked, rubbing her eyes.
"Rather; my work took more time than I thought. There! Go to sleep
again."
All day Saturday Mrs. Beaubien found excuses for keeping Therese close
by her side, and Therese, though a little disappointed at losing her
run in the pasture, yet rejoiced too much in her mother's unwonted mood
of softness not to make the most of her opportunities.
"Does your grandfather ever say anything about your father?" asked Mrs.
Beaubien at last.
Therese was astonished. She had never heard her mother mention her
father before. She hesitated.
"Yes, I see," said her mother. "They have all tried to set you against
him."
"No, indeed, mother," answered Therese, eagerly. "Grandfather told me
to say a prayer for father whenever I said my prayers, and I always do."
"And was that all?"
"He said father was led away by bad company and by drink, and he made
me promise never to touch a drop of drink."
"Keep that promise, whatever you do," said her mother, earnestly. "If
grandfather had always been of that mind, things might have been very
different with us."
"Grandfather said that too," observed Therese. "Mother, do you think I
shall ever see my father?"
"No, child, never," answered Mrs. Beaubien; "and, Therese, you must
never mention his name. Try to make a good name for yourself, so that
every one may forget whose daughter you are. That is the best you can
do for your poor father."
"I can pray for him, mamma," said Therese, softly. "Grandmother Duval
said once that wherever he had wandered, he could not go out of God's
sight, and therefore he could not go out of the reach of his children's
prayers. Oh, mother, I wish you would go to see her sometimes. Why
don't you?"
"She does not want to see me, child."
"Indeed, dear mother, she does," said Therese, eagerly. "She always
asks so many questions about you when I go to see her, and she always
prays for you morning and evening. Oh, if you would only go, you would
see."
Mrs. Beaubien shook her head:
"No, no, Therese; I shall never set foot in Holford village again;
but when you go to see my mother, tell her I wish I had been a better
daughter to her, and ask her to give me her blessing and her prayers;
and be you a kind and dutiful child to her, for she was always the best
of mothers to me."
"Yes, dear mother," said Therese, inwardly rejoiced at even this
symptom of relenting, and at once beginning to build various castles
in the air as to the possibility of bringing her grandmother and her
mother together once more.
"And then mother and grandmother will live together in the village, and
mother will go to church. Oh, it will be lovely."
Sunday morning came, and with it an end of Therese's visit.
"I think you had better set out for the village as soon as you have
done your breakfast," said Mrs. Beaubien. "I don't like to have you
miss your Sunday school; and besides, if you stay till afternoon, you
may not be able to go at all, for I think we shall have a storm. And,
Therese, if you don't mind—if you can leave me part of that money—"
"I will leave you all of it, dear mother. Perhaps you are right about
the storm," said Therese, peering out of the window. "I can see every
tree and bush on old Haystack."
"Let me comb and braid your hair for you," said Rose as Therese began
her preparations. "See, I will curl it for once as I used to wear mine
when I was a little girl."
Much pleased, Therese submitted to the curling.
When she had finished, Mrs. Beaubien cut out a thick black curl from
the beautiful mass.
"There! I will keep that for myself and give you a keepsake in
return," said she. She put her hand into her pocket and drew out an
old-fashioned gold miniature setting containing on one side a pretty
picture of a young lady in the dress of Louis XIV.'s time, and on the
other a place for hair. The picture was attached to a hair chain, which
she threw over Therese's neck.
"That has been in our family for centuries, and has always belonged to
the oldest daughter," said she. "It shall be yours now. I have braided
a chain of my own hair for it. Show it to mother and she will tell you
its history. Now I am going to walk down with you as far as the stone
step."
The stone step was a kind of stile leading over the wall into Hector
McGregor's pasture.
"I must go no farther," said Mrs. Beaubien, when they had reached this
place. "When shall you come home again?"
"Next Saturday, perhaps. Good-bye, mother."
Rose Beaubien caught her child in her arms and silently kissed her over
and over again. Then, hastily withdrawing herself, she walked quickly
back without once turning round.
When Therese went to bed that night, she missed her little French
Testament. "It is very odd; I am sure I put it in my pocket when I
finished reading. I must go up and get it some day this week."
There was a thunder-storm in the evening, as Rose Beaubien predicted.
Just as it rolled away, a man and woman came down the Blue Hill road.
"Wait for me here a few minutes," said the man to his companion as they
came to the stile. "I have forgotten something it won't do to leave
behind me."
"Be sure you leave all safe," said the woman. "Had I not better go back
with you?"
"No, stay where you are; you will have walking enough, and more than
enough," replied her companion, not unkindly. "I will not be gone long,
and I will leave all safe, never fear."
He went back to the house, entered it, and seemed to be busy for some
minutes striking a match and lighting a lamp. Then he came out, closed
the door, and rejoined his companion.
"Have you left all safe?"
"Yes, safe enough, never fear. Come on; we must be far from this by
morning."