THAT WOMAN.
Mrs. Hardy was afraid that Eugene was going to be ill. Several times
while giving her an account of his visit to the Mannings he relapsed
into long, troubled silences.
As soon as he had finished his recital she sent him to bed, and shortly
afterwards she came and stood over him with a medicine bottle in her
hand.
He asked no questions; and after quickly taking what she gave him, he
kissed her hand, and closing his eyes, fell into a troubled sleep.
In the morning he seemed more cheerful, but he still acted like a boy
in a dream; and the sergeant muttered, “That lad doesn’t hear more than
half of what is said to him. He’s in a dead worry about this business
of going away. Now I must have a few last words with the priest. Come
out into the garden, mussoo, it’s a fine morning;” and he took his
guest out-of-doors.
“Now, look here, sir,” he said firmly, and he seized a button on the
priest’s cassock, “this is your last day in Boston; and I want to
tell you before you take that boy to France, that you’re to consider
yourself as free as air to send him back at any time it suits you and
him, for I guess his grand-uncle isn’t going to interfere much with
him.”
The curé hardly understood a word of what the sergeant said, and the
worthy man did not expect that he would. The sergeant had formulated
a system about conversing with the curé. The first time he uttered
sentences he rattled them off in any way just to accustom the foreigner
to the sound of the words. The next time he repeated them slowly, the
third time more slowly, and with a liberal illustration of gestures in
order to make his meaning entirely plain.
Therefore, when the curé had heard a trio of these sentences,
accompanied by a far-away fling of his host’s hand to denote France,
a nearer one for Boston, and a comprehensive sweep through the air to
indicate freedom of action, he understood perfectly, and nodded his
acquiescence and approval of the plan.
“But I think he weel not return,” he said.
“You don’t know anything about it,” said the sergeant. “He is a
queer lad; and like most young fellows, and some old ones, he does what
you don’t think he will do, and what you think he will do, he won’t.”
“Pardon,” said the curé.
“I can’t make you see that,” said the sergeant decidedly, “because
there isn’t any scope for gestures, so we’ll let it pass. Now, I want
to tell you that I have a nest-egg, and my wife has expectations, or
rather a surety from a rich aunt, so the boy wouldn’t suffer if he came
back. We could educate him like a gentleman.”
“Eggs,” exclaimed the curé in delight as a familiar word broke upon
his ear in the first utterance of a sentence. “Hens lay eggs.”
“Yes,” said the sergeant, “hens and eggs go together; but good
gracious, you’ve got me off the track, and if I go to explain my
meaning to you, you’ll get all tangled up in a chicken-coop. Forget it,
mussoo.”
“Forget eggs; no, I remembare,” said the curé reproachfully.
“I guess I’ll have to dispose of that,” said the sergeant
desperately. “What did I want to use the old expression for? Hens are
useful creatures;” and to expedite matters he began to flap his arms
and cluck, and then brought his hands near the ground to measure off
the dimensions of a hen of respectable appearance.
“Eggs are good for eating,” said the curé amiably.
“Yes, fine,” said the sergeant; and he drew a handful of silver from
his pocket. “Do you see that?”
“Yes, yes.”
“Money—good stuff to have—well, I’ve a lot of it—heaps;” and
he began to build an airy pyramid on the ground. “Savings, you
know, and a little I had left me by my parents—enough to educate
a boy.”
“Yes, I comprehend,” said the curé, delighted beyond measure at his
own keenness; “you sell eggs, you make money. One does it in France.
One sells all things.”
“All right,” said the sergeant philosophically. “Have me sell eggs or
anything you like, the money is there, anyway, and the boy is welcome
to it. Hello, here he is. Come here, lad, and dash this off to your
protector. You are now in America, you start for France in a few hours;
you may stay there six weeks, or six months, or six years, or all your
life; but unless you hear from us that we have forgotten you or changed
our minds, you’re at liberty to come here and live with us at any time.
Do you understand that?”
“I do,” said Eugene; “and I thank you.”
While he was talking to the curé, the sergeant sighed heavily, and went
sauntering down the walk to the gate, and out through it to the park.
He was not as sanguine as his wife about Eugene’s reluctance to leave
them, and he could not bear to remain at home on this the last day of
his stay with them.
When he returned for dinner in the middle of the day he exerted himself
to be cheerful; but he disappeared immediately afterward, and did not
come back until late in the afternoon, in time to take Eugene and the
priest to the train.
All day long Eugene had followed Mrs. Hardy about the house, waiting on
her in a quiet and unobtrusive way, but saying very little. He did not
understand her; but she understood him perfectly, and she saw that as
yet there was no flagging in his resolve to go to France.
He wondered that this woman, who professed to love him so much and
who cried so easily, had not yet, as far as he had known, shed a tear
over his departure. She did not even break down when they reached the
station, and saw before them the long line of cars on which he was to
be whirled away from her.
Eugene shuddered at the sight, and clung convulsively to her hand. “Do
you feel that you ought not to go?” she asked quietly.
“No, no,” said the boy in a tortured voice. “I only feel it horrible
to go; yet it is for the best, and it is duty. I shall come back some
day.”
“Wife,” said the sergeant inexorably, “it is time for them to get on
board the train. Good-by, son.”
“Good-by,” said Eugene, shaking hands with him; “you have been good
to me. I thank you”—and here his voice failed him, and he groped
blindly for Mrs. Hardy.
When he felt her arms around him, he whispered three words in her
ear—the words she had longed to hear, and that he had never given her
until now.
“I love you,” he breathed with his eager lips against her cheek; and
then he added with a heartbroken sigh, “if I were not a beggar I should
have stayed with you; but I am proud”—here he broke off, and without
looking at her again, rushed into the car and took his seat.
The curé followed him slowly and cautiously, put in one of his
capacious pockets the checks and tickets that the sergeant handed to
him; then the conductor shouted, the crowd of people stepped back, and
the train moved off.
Eugene remained motionless and silent in his corner of the seat. He
did not speak until they reached the Fall River station, and there he
contented himself with monosyllabic replies to the curé’s remarks.
Upon arriving on the steamer the curé sauntered wonderingly about,
taking in the details of the life on board this floating palace. He
would want to describe it accurately upon reaching home, for he knew
that the peasants of Châtillon-sur-Loir were capable of taking in
accounts of greater wonders than these.
Eugene had gone immediately to bed. After an hour or two the curé
followed him. Before turning into his berth for the night, he looked at
the one above him. The boy lay with his arm over his face. Probably he
had been asleep for some time.
Being tired, and having a mind at peace with himself and the world,
the priest slept soundly and happily until shortly after daybreak. Then
he got up; and after gazing through his small window at the red ball of
the sun, he raised his eyes to the upper berth where he supposed Eugene
was still sleeping.
To his surprise and distress the lad was crouched in a corner, his
limbs convulsed, his face rigid, and his hands tightly clasped in the
bedclothes.
“How now, little one—art thou having a fit?” exclaimed the priest in
his own language. “Let me dash some water in thy face. Oh, this is
pitiful!”
Eugene stretched out his hand in a forbidding way, but did not reply to
him.
“Thou art having a spasm,” said the priest. “I am sure of it. Let me
seek a doctor. Oh! what is the matter with thee?”
“It is that woman,” gasped Eugene. “Oh! I cannot endure it.”
“A woman!” repeated the priest, inspecting the narrow dimensions of
their room in great amazement; “there is no woman here.”
“It is that woman yonder, monsieur le curé,” said Eugene respectfully,
and yet with restrained anger; “there is but one woman that I
consider—the one who has been so peerless for me. Oh! I wish to see
her. I wish to see her;” and he flung himself about his berth in a
paroxysm of regret and passion.
“Poor little one,” said the priest, “hast thou been suffering all
through the long night?”
“I have not slept,” said Eugene miserably. “I have sat up and thought
of many things. I wish to go back. I cannot endure this.”
“I will be a mother to thee,” said the priest soothingly; “and thou
canst write to that good woman.”
“She will not care for letters,” exclaimed Eugene. “She wishes me,
and I wish her. When I lie down at night she wishes me happy dreams. I
did not know that I cared for it until last night when she was not here.
I must go back to her. I _shall_ go back;” and he surveyed his companion
in open defiance.
The priest was puzzled. “Dost thou desire to remain always in this
country?” he said.
“Yes,” Eugene returned with sudden coolness. “If that woman should
die, possibly I might return to France. While she lives I will stay
with her.”
“Thou art an obstinate child,” muttered the curé to himself, “and I
believe thee. Neither the church nor the world restrains the de Vargas.
They are unruly, like the wild boars.” Then he said aloud,—“What dost
thou propose to do?”
“To return now,” cried Eugene, flinging up his head, “now, monsieur
le curé. With your permission I will go back—I will say to her I am
sorry for the disturbances I have made you. In future I shall try to
be more peaceful.”
“My life will be less lively without thee,” observed the curé
thoughtfully; “and were I alone concerned thou wouldst freely have my
consent to remain, but thy grand-uncle”—
“Tell him,” said Eugene with bent brows and flashing eyes, “tell him
that he has no authority over me. That I refuse the meagre sum that
he would dole out to me. In this country I will learn how to support
myself; yet also tell him that since I love that woman I hate him less.”
“Thou art a fiery lad,” murmured the curé with resignation. “If thy
grand-uncle were a de Vargas I would need to soften that message.”
“Have I your permission to return?” asked Eugene urgently.
“Thou hast. Of what use would it be to withhold it?” said the curé
frankly.
“Of no use,” replied the boy with a relieved gesture; “for this
morning I find myself capable of running away. As soon as we arrive
in New York I will leave you;” and a bright smile stole over his
face.
The curé seized his black hat, and went for a stroll on the deck, where
he was a few minutes later joined by a new Eugene,—a happy, contented
boy, who seized his hand, and begged forgiveness for the determined
manner in which he had just addressed him.
“Droll little lad,” said the priest, “I wonder what thy life will
be? I say to thee as that good man said yesterday, thou hast a friend
in me away in France. My cottage door will always be open to thee.”
Eugene pressed one of the curé’s hands in both of his, while tears
stood in his eyes. Then they went below to have breakfast; and while
the boy was eating and drinking in a dainty, half-famished way, the
curé cast frequent and curious glances at him. A transformation had
certainly been effected in the lad. He was no longer buried in unhappy
reserve. His face was glowing; and he looked often and fearlessly at
his companion, and smiled, as if some of the affection that he felt for
his adopted mother was shed upon every one that had come within the
circle of her influence.
When they steamed into New York Harbor, the curé gazed about him in
wonder and admiration. Eugene, plunged in a delicious revery, took no
notice of the lofty buildings, the crowded wharves, and the maze of
shipping, but stood close to the curé, and stared directly in front of
him in intense abstraction of mind.
[Illustration: THE CURÉ SLOWLY PRONOUNCED A BLESSING.]
After they landed, they had several hours of tiresome quest,—first
in search of the steamer that was to take the curé to Havre, then to
find a railway station from which Eugene could be sent back to Boston.
The dreamy boy and the foreign man were directed and informed, and
redirected and reinformed; and some hours elapsed before the curé had
deposited his bag on the steamer, and had finally and repeatedly been
assured that the trains from the station in which he was then standing
certainly did run to Boston, and certainly would carry the boy there as
speedily as steam could take him.
“Go in, little one—into the carriage and take thy seat,” said the
curé in an agony of excitement. “Oh! never did I see such a place as
this city. My head spins; it is worse than Paris!”
“I will go in,” said Eugene; “but first your blessing, monsieur le
curé; for I no longer hate the priesthood, and say if you will that you
do not blame me.”
The curé suddenly became calm. An angelic smile overspread his face;
and as Eugene drew his cap from his head, the man laid his hands on
his smooth dark hair, and slowly pronounced a blessing.
“_Au nom de Dieu_,” Eugene murmured after him; then he flung himself in
the curé’s arms, and embraced him heartily.
“We shall meet again, little one,” said the curé, “we shall meet
again;” and the last object that the boy’s eyes rested on as his train
pulled slowly out of the station was the tall black figure of the
priest standing a little back from the crowd, his black hat in his
hand, his finger pointing solemnly upward from the noise and babel of
the city.
Eugene sat very quiet and still in his seat. His heart was sore at
the parting from the curé, which was like the snapping of the last
link that bound him to his native land; and yet it was singing like a
bird at the prospect of his speedy reunion with his foster-parents. He
closed his happy eyes; and in a very few minutes he had fallen sound
asleep, with a smile on his face that made every passer-by look at him
in amusement.
The curé knew that Eugene, who had at different times in his life spent
many months in Paris, would be quite able to look out for himself on
reaching the city that had been his home for so many months. He would
have been more convinced of this had he seen the adroit way in which
the boy slipped between the throng of people when he reached Boston. He
took a short cut to the street corner where he would find a car, and
in a very short time his eye singled out the desired one from a number
that were approaching. He sprang on it, and was borne swiftly away from
the streets toward the large park which had become the dearest spot on
earth to him.
Soon he saw against the western sky the tall straight poplars of the
Boylston-street entrance; and springing from the car as it stopped on a
corner, he ran, for he was too much agitated to walk, in the direction
of the cottage.
“Ah, that woman, that woman,” he kept repeating to himself; “but she
will be glad to see me.”
Though it was quite dark, there were no lights in the windows.
“She is absent,” he said; “but I will not grieve, for she will
return.”
He hurried up the garden-path, and tried to turn the handle of the
front door. “Ah, it is locked—the back one also, I suppose;” and he
trotted cheerfully to the rear of the house.
“They are away,” he said, when he found he could not gain entrance
there; “and some boys would be afraid. I shall not be;” and he lifted
his face up proudly to the overcast sky, “not even if they stay all
night. I will look into my charming room;” and he shaded his eyes with
his hands, and peered into one of the back rooms on the ground floor.
Then he tried to raise the window with his hand. “Why, it is open,” he
said delightedly; “I can get in. Why did that woman leave open this
window?”
Eugene crawled in, and walked through the house seeking matches, and
lighting the gas everywhere he went to make the rooms cheerful for the
return of the sergeant and his wife. However, they did not appear,
though seven o’clock came, then eight, and finally nine. Only the two
cats came home, springing in through the open window, and greeting him
with demure expressions of pleasure.
The boy fed and caressed them; and then, followed by the pair who were
in a state of silent satisfaction, he sat down by his window, and
resting his elbows on the window-sill, looked out across the garden
into the street. It was very quiet. The Hardys had no near neighbors,
and only at rare intervals did anyone pass, yet Eugene was not afraid.
“I am happy—happy,” he murmured, pressing his face against the
tortoiseshell fur of one of the cats. “I cannot be lonely unless she
stays a long, long time. Probably they are to remain all night. It must
be a visit to the aunt. Come in, pussy. I must close the window, for it
is cold.”
The cat, however, did not wish him to close it. With symptoms of great
excitement she rubbed herself back and forth against his arms, and
acted as if she were trying to attract his attention to the other cat,
who had sprung boldly out on one of the flower-beds.
Eugene placed one hand on the window-sill, and jumped out after her.
“What is the matter, Dodo?” he said.
The night was very dark, and it had begun to rain. The electric light,
however, shone on this part of the garden, and he could see a small
dark creature moving slowly along the fence.
“That must be one of the park cats,” said Eugene—“not the king, for
there is no white on it. Why, it is his chum. What are you doing here,
Squirrel, and why do you move so slowly?”
With a sharp almost human cry of pain, the little dark animal dropped
from the fence to the ground.
“What is wrong with you?” said Eugene as he walked along beside him.
The cat paused an instant to give him a look of recognition, then, with
a piteous mew, continued his journey to the house. On reaching Eugene’s
window the animal lifted his head beseechingly.
“Thou wishest to go in, small park cat,” said Eugene, dropping into
French; “well, spring for it. I permit thee, though it is late for a
call.”
The cat gathered his limbs together, and, with something between a mew
of gratitude and a wail of pain, managed to attain to the window-ledge.
“Why, thou art bleeding,” said Eugene in dismay, as he noticed red
drops on the light wood. “Unfortunate animal, have the dogs been at
thee?” and he hurried in after the cat, and bent over him as he lay on
the floor exhausted by his journey to the house.
The cat did not resent the touch of his gentle fingers; and Eugene
soon discovered the extent of his injuries, and made a bandage to
hold together the torn skin. Immediately, however, on being released,
Squirrel signified his wish to leave the room. Eugene opened the door,
and followed him out through the hall to Mrs. Hardy’s room.
“Is not this devotion!” exclaimed the boy, throwing out his hands with
a gesture of admiration. “Sick and wounded, and apparently about to
die, the faithful creature would be in the home of his mistress. Poor
pussy, I compassionate thee;” and slipping off his jacket the boy laid
it on the bed, and lifted the cat on it.
“Thy mistress is away. I do not know when she will return,” he said,
leaning over the suffering creature, and speaking in exquisitely soft
and sympathetic tones; “but if she were here she would stroke thy
mangled fur, and say kindly, ‘Courage, little cat, thy sufferings will
soon be over;’ and for her sake I put my hand on thy head, and I will
sit by thee till thou art no more. Perhaps, though, thou wouldst like
some milk;” and he ran quickly to the kitchen, and brought back some
cream in a saucer.
The dying cat refused to take it; so the boy smeared some on his lips,
and then continued his compassionate sentences. Occasionally, in
response to his remarks to the effect that death overtakes all, that
there is but one lot for king, pauper, or dumb beast, the animal would
return a plaintive mew. At last the unfortunate Squirrel’s sufferings
were over. He gave one gasp, like a dying child, then lay quite still.
“I cannot cry, little cat,” said Eugene softly, wrapping the
coat around him, and tiptoeing his way back to his room; “but I,
nevertheless, grieve for thee. Now what is to be done? That dear woman
evidently does not return to-night;” and he shivered, and glanced over
his shoulder. “I am not afraid, and yet the house is desolate.”
For some time he stood with his head on his breast, then he raised it
with a sudden air of decision. “I will go to see the king. He, too,
will be sorrowing on account of the absence of his friend.”
He buttoned round him a warm overcoat, put out the light in his room,
and shut in it the two old cats who had been mewing dismally about him
ever since their suffering comrade had arrived. Then, carrying the body
of the unlucky Squirrel in his arms, he wended his way to the park.
King Boozy was watching, and not sleeping. All through the evening he
had been wandering to and fro under the trees, awaiting the arrival
of the absent Squirrel before he could go to sleep. On account of
the darkness and rain of the night not many persons passed through
the park; and of those who took the walk under the poplars not one
suspected the eager scrutiny of the pair of eyes belonging to the
little animal crouching beneath the leaves—not one but Eugene. He knew
that the cat was there, and whistled softly to him.
The king was at his side in an instant, and there was no need for
Eugene to tell him what had happened. He knew at once, and in dumb
sorrow trotted beside the boy to his home in the underbrush.
“There he is, Boozy,” said Eugene, laying the cat carefully on the
ground, and spreading open the coat. “I thought it better for thee to
know. Thou wilt not cry? No, that is a good, sensible cat.”
The king crept close to his dead friend, and examined him closely and
affectionately, pausing every few minutes to look up at Eugene as if
to say, “Will he not revive?”
The boy bent over him in the darkness. “No, Boozy,” he said, “thou
canst not bring him back. Poor little cat, he has lived his day, and
dogs or cruel boys have killed him. And now I must return to the house,
for it is chilly here, but first I must tell thee something;” and he
caught the creature to him in a tumult of affection. “Listen, till I
tell thee that I have been away, and that I have come back a new boy.
I do not know what has caused the change in me; but my heart feels no
longer hard and cold, but soft, quite soft, like thy fur. I do not
believe all that these grown people tell me; but I believe many things,
and I think that having lived longer they may know a little more than I
do. I must be patient and learn; and that woman, that woman—I love her,
and she shall be my mother! Ah, Boozy,” and the boy sprang to his feet,
and lifted his cap reverently from his head, “I shall be a son to her.
I shall stay in this new, free country as long as she lives. She says
that I must not hate England, and I will not hate it. She says that I
must endure the republic in France, and I will do that. If she will
guide me I will follow her, now that I know that women are good and do
not deceive. My beloved grandfather did not understand. He did not know
the sergeant’s wife. _Au revoir_, little cat: I must go back to the
house lest she possibly arrive and find me absent. Wilt thou come with
me?”
No, the cat did not wish to accompany him. Upon being released from
Eugene’s arms he crept to the coat, and the last glimpse that the boy
had of him as he reluctantly went away was of the king sitting in
dignified sorrow beside the body of his friend.