RIVALS
Gaspard Denys had wondered more than once about Barbe’s married life,
and at Gardepier’s second visit to St. Louis he was quite convinced that
he was not the kind of man to make a tender, clinging heart happy. Women
throve and blossomed in an atmosphere of love; grew cold, pale and
listless when this was denied. It was their natural sustenance. Had this
hastened Renée Freneau’s death?
And when he saw Marchand’s devotion and Wawataysee’s delicious joy in
it, he could not tell why, but he wished such a marriage had been
Barbe’s good fortune.
He never asked himself what might have happened if he had not gone to
Canada for Renée de Longueville. He had started adventuring first in a
desperate frame of mind, and then grown to like it exceedingly. He had
purchased the old house to assist a family in distress who had lost
husband and father. On his way home with his little Renée he had
resolved to set up a household, to keep the child under his
guardianship, for he knew well Freneau would not want her. She was so
clinging, so sweet. She was a part of the adorable girl he had loved. If
he had been certain of her happiness he might have let her fade from his
mind, but a fear had always rankled with a thorn-prick.
Did she know, would she know that he meant to lavish the love that
should have been hers on the child? What was that country like? Surely
the soul could not linger in the grave, and if it was given to one to
have glimpses of those left behind, she must rejoice.
With his heart so engrossed he could not think, indeed, was not tempted
to a strong feeling for any other woman. Barbe was pretty and
sweet—young men were attracted to her—and he felt quite old compared
with her. Then there was so much business to occupy him, and presently
Barbe was married without a sigh of regret on his part.
The little jealous feeling Renée displayed rather amused him. He hardly
understood the child’s passionate fondness, but was not her exclusive
love something she inherited from her mother? He liked to think so.
Now she was half woman and still kept the child’s eager fondness. She
had no real lovers, even if she had been asked in marriage. And he did
not want to give her up. When he sat in the fascinating blaze of the log
fire and steeped his brain in the haze of his pipe, visions stole softly
about him. He saw Renée a happy wife, the mother of sweet, enchanting
children who would climb his knees, half strangle him with baby arms and
press soft faces against his, prattle of their love in turn. No, she
must never go away. And who would he like as well as André!
And she liked him, too, in spite of her wilful manner of flouting him.
She was ready enough to put him in the face of any imaginary danger. He
was a fine, generous, wholesome young fellow, with a good business. And
he, Denys, could wait. He was not in so great a hurry to share Renée,
but he felt there was no life, no joy to a woman comparable with
wifehood and motherhood. And he wanted his darling to have the best of
everything.
She was very quiet the next morning and stole furtive glances at him,
too proud to make any inquiry as to whether he had passed a pleasant
evening. After breakfast André came with a face of eager light, and yet
perplexity.
“What is it now?” asked Denys.
“Matter enough. I am divided in two. I have just had an offer—command, I
might say. And whether I am to take it—” looking up with uncertainty.
“Beating about a bush doesn’t always thresh off nuts. There is the right
season,” and a glint of humor crossed the elder’s face. “Is there a
pretty girl in it?”
Was the world running after pretty girls? Renée frowned.
“You would not like me to go away, ma’m’selle?”
A sudden hope had rendered him incautious.
“It makes no difference to me,” she replied coldly.
“What is it all about?” inquired Denys. “Where were you last night, that
you are so incoherent this morning?”
“In the counting house with M’sieu Pierre Chouteau. In about ten days he
starts for New Orleans, and must take some one with him. He proposes the
post to me.”
Denys gave a side glance at Renée. Her face was cold, impenetrable.
Clearly she was not in love, much as she liked André.
“Come in the shop!” exclaimed Denys.
They seated themselves on bales of furs, done up ready to be transferred
to the boats.
“It is a high compliment, André. And it may not be a bad thing for a
young fellow to see a little of the world and learn how to make money in
different ways. It’s a much gayer place than this. And you will be in
good hands.”
“But—M. Denys, I do not want to go.”
The young fellow’s face was scarlet, and his eyes were full of unspoken
hope mingled with fear.
“And why not, André Valbonais?”
“Oh, you must know, you must have guessed that I love Ma’m’selle Renée.
Ever since last winter I have known that all my heart was hers, that I
would not be satisfied until I had won her for a wife. And I do not
think—you are averse——”
He looked so frank and sincere and honorable under the elder’s scrutiny,
though his face was flushed and the lines about his mouth were
quivering.
Denys took his arm. There was something better than a smile on the face,
a tender approval.
“No,” Denys replied in a tone that went to the young man’s heart. “I
have had a little dream of the future. There is no one in St. Louis I
would so soon take as a son. For look you, André, I do not want to give
her up. The man who weds her must come here, must put up with me as I
grow old and full of whims. I cannot be shut out of her happiness. I
will tell you that I had a brief few months’ love with her mother, and a
dream like this. Her father parted us. The child is as dear to me as if
my blood ran in her veins, and her happiness is my whole study. If you
can win her I shall be content. But women have to wait for a time to
love. And it is not her time.”
“But if I should go away—” The young fellow drew a long, sorrowing
breath.
“It might be best, so that you come back.”
“I must stay all winter. And if some one else wins her?” he questioned
anxiously.
“That would be a grief to me. I shall try not to have it happen. Oh, you
can trust me; only I shall not force her inclination. But there is some
comfort to take with you in my full consent.”
“You think, then, I had better go?” reluctantly.
“It is not every day a friend like M. Chouteau is given to a young man.
And,” with a vague smile, “you may even advance your suit by going. If
she should miss you, so much the better. You have given her a great deal
of devotion, perhaps too much. There are some gifts that are not
appreciated if they come too easily.”
André Valbonais felt as if his dream had been dashed to fragments like a
bit of glass. He had resolved he would not go away; he _would_ marry
Renée. Yet down in his heart he knew she did not love him with the
fervor of a sweetheart. But that might come when she understood how much
in earnest he was, and that her guardian really wished for the marriage.
Yet, much as he wished for it, he would not spoil his darling’s life by
any over-persuasion.
“Yes, it is a fine chance. You will be the envy of the town. And—I trust
you to come back as honorable as you go. A year soon passes.”
“It will be hard to go without speaking.”
“It will do no good.” Denys shook his head. “Trust me. I have seen more
of womankind.”
“Then I must be off. I asked to consult you, and I have your answer.”
“Yes, yes! Go, by all means.”
Renée was in her room, moving articles about in an aimless fashion,
wondering how Barbe had looked and what she had said. She need not have
worried. There were a dozen other neighbors, ready to talk of the narrow
escape and compare their own town with the larger one.
Now and then she had exchanged a word with Denys, but it seemed as if
every one talked at once. He had in his mind the picture she made in the
morning, but she did not look like that now. There were lines of care in
her face, and the prettiness had deepened into womanly beauty.
Not a question about her did Renée ask. After dinner she took some
sewing and went to Madame Marchand’s, as she often did. François had
been to the wharf, hurriedly constructed again, to see when the boats
were likely to go down the river, since it was now considered safe.
André Valbonais had told him he was going.
“He came to see uncle this morning. I suppose that was what they talked
about,” said Renée.
The voice had the languor of indifference, and the little face, rather
pale now, betrayed no emotion.
It was always a busy time when a fleet of boats went down. Now, there
was more talk than usual. Some of the stock had been quite spoiled by
the overflow; indeed, not a little of it had been swept out of the
storehouses and it had been impossible to save it. But men took their
losses philosophically; they would recoup themselves another year. And
they now thought it wisdom to build higher up, and leave the muddy bank
to itself.
André was very busy, and truth to tell, rather downhearted. He had been
buoyant; it was his nature. But as he faced the actual now, and the
careless demeanor of Renée, he felt like one roused from a dream and
swung to the opposite verge. No, she did not care for him. Yet she had
been so sweet at times! He was in and out. Mère Lunde was full of
regrets. She was old and might never see him again. Renée said
carelessly, “We shall all miss you. I don’t know what uncle would do if
he did not have M’sieu Marchand.”
She and Madame Marchand had gone to the Renauds’, as was proper.
Wawataysee was charmed with the little Angelique, and they found Madame
Gardepier quite different from the women of the town, except some of the
higher ladies in the government circles, though she was very sweet and
gracious.
Renée’s heart swelled with a great jealousy. Barbe was beautiful and
grand, she could not deny it. Her voice had a lingering cadence, like a
rivulet in some forest depth, as if she might coax the heart out of one.
Renée steeled hers in a sort of desperation. Surely she was distanced.
She could not contend against these charms, any more than she could deny
them. All her life was suddenly set in the shade.
So she could not feel much sorrow for André’s going away; her own filled
all her heart. He might have thought her quiet a sign of it, but his
eyes seemed to have been curiously opened.
“You will give me good wishes?” he said the last evening he came.
“And—will you not say that you shall miss me?”
“Of course, I shall miss you,” but the dreariness in the tone was not
for him. “I shall be so much alone.”
“M. Denys will be here—” He was a little puzzled.
“Oh, yes! But, then——”
“Renée,” impetuously, “you have some sorrow. You are not like yourself.
What has happened?”
“Yes, I have some sorrow in my heart. I cannot tell any one,” and the
red lips quivered.
“And you were so gay a little while ago. Oh, my darling—” His full heart
overflowed in his face.
She held up her hand in entreaty. “Don’t,” she said in a half-irritated
way. “I shall never be any one’s darling again. And,” in something of
her old imperious tone, “if I cannot have the love I want I will not
have any!”
He looked at her in amaze. Did she love some one else, then? He was
suddenly stunned. That had never entered his thoughts.
“Oh,” she exclaimed with a burst of feeling, “you have been very good to
me, André. You rescued me in that dreadful peril, and I shall always be
grateful. And I wish you prosperity and happiness.”
Then she vanished from the garden and shut herself in her room. When
Uncle Gaspard begged her to come out, as this was André’s last evening,
she said her head ached and she could not bear the sound of voices.
They went down to see the boats off, and the air was almost rent with
good wishes. This was always a great occasion. There in the foremost one
was M. Pierre Chouteau and André beside him, both waving their hands in
response to the “_Bon voyage!_” from a hundred throats. The Colonel
stood beside his mother, who was a proud and happy woman, and who
chatted in a charming fashion with her friends and had singled out
Barbe, it seemed, who had come with her niece Sophie.
The line rounded the curve and began to take in the turn, and the
sailors’ shouts were mere echoes. To-day the water was tranquil enough,
and the heavens so blue that all the atmosphere had an extraordinary
brilliance.
Madame Chouteau invited some of the friends to come and dine with her.
“I do not want to,” Renée said, shrinking back. “But you go, Uncle
Gaspard, and take my excuse. I am not well. I shall go to bed and make
Mère Lunde doctor me, and be right by to-morrow.”
What was the matter with the child? She had grown pale and heavy-eyed.
He had been much engrossed with the boats and André’s perplexity, and
the impression that she desired to evade him, so he had made it easy for
her to do so. But if she were going to be ill!
She threaded her way homeward and sat for awhile under her favorite
tree, looking at the vision of Barbe smiling and Uncle Gaspard listening
to her attractive manner of talking and smiling back. For all the summer
sunshine she was cold, and her temples throbbed with a dull pain. She
did not want to cry outwardly, but within her heart seemed weeping
bitter tears, and its beating was like the dull thud of pounding on
lead.
She startled Mère Lunde when she came in so wan and spiritless. The good
woman steeped some herbs, and she did really go to bed. Uncle Gaspard
did not get home until almost supper-time, and some trappers were in the
shop dickering about pelts.
He came and sat on the side of the bed presently and held her hands,
wondering if it was a cold, and recalling the fact that he had heard
there were some cases of fever about.
She was very languid for several days. He was down at the levee,
supervising some of the new work; indeed, it seemed as if he was in
great demand. She would curl herself up in the big chair at the corner
of the fireplace, not on account of the cold, for the door stood open,
as well as the heavy shutters, and the sunshine stole in the room,
dancing about on the floor like groups of sprites. Mère Lunde would nod
in her chair. Chloe was out in the garden, working. It was so quiet, the
very silence appealed strangely to her, and her mind wandered off to the
future.
Some day Barbe would come here from the church leaning on Uncle
Gaspard’s arm and looking up in his face with smiles, holding her pretty
child by the hand. He would love it as he had loved her. He would carry
it in his arms and hold it on his knee, listen to its chatter, just as
he had done with her. And Barbe would have dozens of different graces
and pretty ways to lure him continually. Where would she, Renée, be? Not
pushed aside, but left to her own devices, dropped out, half forgotten.
She wiped away some tears that overflowed her eyes. When André came
back, if he wanted her she would marry him. It was comforting to think
some one might want her. And if he never came back, if some pretty girl
in New Orleans attracted him—ah, then, she would be lonely, indeed!
Perhaps this was the way her mother had felt in the old château. And her
grandfather had wanted _her_ put in a convent—perhaps it would have been
better.
If youth can make pleasures of its own, it can also make bitter sorrows,
and in its waywardness longs to drain the cup to the last drop. Perhaps
there may be some strength in the very bitterness, a tonic to work a
cure.
Gaspard Denys came in and found her there, picked her up, and, seating
himself, pressed her to his broad breast and encircled her with his
arms. What an exquisite shelter it was!
“What can I do for you?” he asked. “You were never ill but once before,
and that was the cold. But now you do not seem to improve. I wonder if
you would like to have a change? It is dull, now that André is away, and
I am so busy. Madame Renaud and Madame Gardepier are coming over
to-morrow. And if you would like to spend a few days with them——”
“Oh, no! I am content here,” in a quick tone.
“Then some day we could go up the river and take our dinner. Some of the
young people might like to join. Sophie Pion is so gay and
good-humored.”
“I like the quiet,” she returned languidly.
“But it is not good for you, unless you were really ill.”
“I shall be better soon. I walked out in the garden to-day.”
“That is right. I can’t think what could have brought this about. Come,
you must cheer up and be like your olden self. It makes my heart ache to
have you so dreary.”
“Oh, does it really ache for me? Then I must try. Yes, I will try,” in a
more cheerful tone.
“That is my own little girl,” and he kissed her fondly. Yes, he would
always love her in a way.
The guests came up the next day. Madame Renaud was always bright and
cheery. Madame Gardepier brought her little girl, who ran about and
prattled and was like a bit of sunshine, sitting a moment in Mère
Lunde’s lap, then off again chasing the two half-grown kittens.
Barbe was very charming and gracious and had a good deal to tell about
New Orleans, and thought M’sieu Valbonais would enjoy it very much,
though no doubt he would long for the old friends and associations. And
was he not coming back in a year?
Renée admitted without any change of color that he was. There was no
half secret in her face.
“And now you must see Ma’m’selle Renée’s room,” exclaimed Madame Renaud.
“It is just full of prettiness and ingenuity.”
Renée led the way, and if admiration could have lightened her heart,
surely all the heaviness would have vanished. They were very cordial,
and quite insisted upon having a whole day’s visit from her. Uncle
Gaspard promised that she should surely come.
As they were walking down the street Barbe said: “She does look poorly.
I suppose she has been fretting after M. Valbonais.”
“I really wonder that Gaspard let him go. There was no reason why they
should not marry.”
“And she has some fortune of her own. Why, yes, she could have gone with
him. I hope he will not forget her. There are so many attractive women
there.”
Wawataysee studied her earnestly a few days afterward, when she had been
sitting in silence.
“What has changed you so, Renée?” she asked with much solicitude. “There
is a surmise in the air that you are grieving after André. What happened
between you? For I know he loved you sincerely.”
“I grieving?” Then Renée’s face went scarlet and she could hardly
refrain from tears. “It is not André. I seldom think of him. Oh, how
cruel and unjust! And it is not true.”
“But something troubles you,” in a tender tone.
Renée was silent.
“And you never have been so unhappy before. Why do you not tell your
uncle?”
“No, I cannot,” and Renée shivered.
“Then, dear, why not go to the good father? I should if I had any
sorrows. But what can I have to pain me, with such a good husband and my
lovely children, who are like angels? And Father Lemoine said last
month, ‘Madame, your confession is a thanksgiving instead.’ He is so
kindly, that Father Lemoine. But you must find some relief, or you will
waste quite away.”
“I shall get well at once. I will not have people quoting me as a
love-sick girl,” a little resentfully.
Still Wawataysee looked doubtfully at her. She tried to be more cheerful
that evening, and Uncle Gaspard smiled and called her his little girl.
Would he always love her? She dared not ask him now. When she had
sorrowed for him in his long absence it had been a comfort to go up to
the little church and pray. But would it not be monstrous to ask God to
keep Uncle Denys from loving Barbe? She was lovely and kind, and merry
too, for that matter, and if Uncle Denys——
Ah, there was the sting!
There crept into her heart a curious dull ache, a sense of something she
did not like, that she shrank from, just as one shuts one’s eyes to some
unpleasant sight. And this time it was not Barbe. Some one nearer,
one that she was answerable for, and she did not like the half
consciousness. She had believed the sorrow all hers. What if it was
wrong to cherish it and make it another’s sorrow?
She went up to the church one afternoon. There was no one about. The
confessional stood open. She thought she would pray, and then she
recalled a sentence, “Clean hands and a pure heart.” Was her heart pure,
not desiring what might belong to another? And if she snatched at it
with over-eager hands and a selfish heart?
She went out quietly and sat on the grass. The soft wind just stirred
the trees and brought wafts of perfume and the distant sound of the
voices of children at play. The sun was casting long shadows and
burnishing the tree-tops out on the fields. A few insects were lazily
droning.
A figure came out in the rusty black cassock with the cord around the
waist, and the little round cap, where a few straggling locks, much
threaded with white, fell below in a half-curling fashion. He glanced
her way, then came over to her and she rose with a reverent obeisance.
“It is Ma’m’selle de Longueville. You were little Renée. I remember when
you used to come and pray for your uncle that he might be returned in
safety. Is there nothing left to pray for?”
The tone was wonderfully sweet, and the eyes gave her such a kindly,
tender glance that her heart melted within her.
“I went in the church,” she began in a low tone. “I was troubled about
something. I could not find the right prayer. There may be a need before
the prayer,” and her voice trembled like a quivering note of music.
“Then let us go in and find it, daughter,” and he took her hand in his
and gently led her back. She knelt in silence. The kindly hands were
folded on her head in blessing.
What was it she wanted to say? “If one so coveted a love that it brought
unhappiness if it was shared with any one else; if one had been first
for years, and found another in the place, and then—” The sorrowful
voice broke. It was flooded with tears and soft sobs.
“Is it a lover that has cast longing eyes on another?”
“Oh, no, no!” And then the poor little story came out in an incoherent
fashion. It was selfish, it was covetous, it was unjust. She saw that,
now that she put it in words, and it sent a pang of shame and anguish
through her whole being. Was this the return for all the affection he
had given?
“Child,” said the low, sweet voice, “I think he will not love thee less
because another comes into his heart. It is a good, generous heart. I
know it well. And thou must cast out the selfish fear and give love for
love. God shares His with all His creatures, and asks first a devoted
heart, then the wide love for one’s neighbor. No grudging heart ever yet
had peace. And the more happiness one scattereth the more returneth to
thee. The more Christlike thy heart becomes, the greater will be thy
desire to do for others, and in this will come the recompense. Trust thy
God and then thy trust will grow in all His creatures. Narrow thy life,
and when the one light fails all will be darkness. Thou hast gone but a
little way forward and there are many lessons to learn before thou wilt
reach the end, but the divinest of all is unselfish love.”
Could she be brave enough to put aside her own intense, selfish love? If
another love made Uncle Gaspard happier——
They went out on the step of the old church porch, and he said: “You
will come again, daughter?” And she replied: “I will come every day and
pray for a new heart.”