shooed the chickens into the hen-house, they stayed uncomprehending
before her. What about the little white nightgowns that had to be taken
from the pillow-slip in which they were brought over, and shaken by some
strong hand till they snapped like ox-whips? What about the tub of water
which had to be brought and set in the middle of the floor, in which the
little tired, dusty, sunbrowned feet had every one to be washed sweet
and clean? And it made Marcéline and Marcélette laugh merrily—the idea
that Mamzelle Aurélie should for a moment have believed that Ti Nomme
could fall asleep without being told the story of _Croque-mitaine_ or
_Loup-garou_, or both; or that Elodie could fall asleep at all without
being rocked and sung to.
“I tell you, Aunt Ruby,” Mamzelle Aurélie informed her cook in
confidence; “me, I’d rather manage a dozen plantation’ than fo’
chil’ren. It’s terrassent! Bonté! Don’t talk to me about chil’ren!”
“’Tain’ ispected sich as you would know airy thing ’bout ’em, Mamzelle
Aurélie. I see dat plainly yistiddy w’en I spy dat li’le chile playin’
wid yo’ baskit o’ keys. You don’ know dat makes chillun grow up
hard-headed, to play wid keys? Des like it make ’em teeth hard to look
in a lookin’-glass. Them’s the things you got to know in the raisin’ an’
manigement o’ chillun.”
Mamzelle Aurélie certainly did not pretend or aspire to such subtle and
far-reaching knowledge on the subject as Aunt Ruby possessed, who had
“raised five an’ bared (buried) six” in her day. She was glad enough to
learn a few little mother-tricks to serve the moment’s need.
Ti Nomme’s sticky fingers compelled her to unearth white aprons that she
had not worn for years, and she had to accustom herself to his moist
kisses—the expressions of an affectionate and exuberant nature. She got
down her sewing-basket, which she seldom used, from the top shelf of the
armoire, and placed it within the ready and easy reach which torn slips
and buttonless waists demanded. It took her some days to become
accustomed to the laughing, the crying, the chattering that echoed
through the house and around it all day long. And it was not the first
or the second night that she could sleep comfortably with little
Elodie’s hot, plump body pressed close against her, and the little one’s
warm breath beating her cheek like the fanning of a bird’s wing.
But at the end of two weeks Mamzelle Aurélie had grown quite used to
these things, and she no longer complained.
It was also at the end of two weeks that Mamzelle Aurélie, one evening,
looking away toward the crib where the cattle were being fed, saw
Valsin’s blue cart turning the bend of the road. Odile sat beside the
mulatto, upright and alert. As they drew near, the young woman’s beaming
face indicated that her homecoming was a happy one.
But this coming, unannounced and unexpected, threw Mamzelle Aurélie into
a flutter that was almost agitation. The children had to be gathered.
Where was Ti Nomme? Yonder in the shed, putting an edge on his knife at
the grindstone. And Marcéline and Marcélette? Cutting and fashioning
doll-rags in the corner of the gallery. As for Elodie, she was safe
enough in Mamzelle Aurélie’s arms; and she had screamed with delight at
sight of the familiar blue cart which was bringing her mother back to
her.
The excitement was all over, and they were gone. How still it was when
they were gone! Mamzelle Aurélie stood upon the gallery, looking and
listening. She could no longer see the cart; the red sunset and the
blue-gray twilight had together flung a purple mist across the fields
and road that hid it from her view. She could no longer hear the
wheezing and creaking of its wheels. But she could still faintly hear
the shrill, glad voices of the children.
She turned into the house. There was much work awaiting her, for the
children had left a sad disorder behind them; but she did not at once
set about the task of righting it. Mamzelle Aurélie seated herself
beside the table. She gave one slow glance through the room, into which
the evening shadows were creeping and deepening around her solitary
figure. She let her head fall down upon her bended arm, and began to
cry. Oh, but she cried! Not softly, as women often do. She cried like a
man, with sobs that seemed to tear her very soul. She did not notice
Ponto licking her hand.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
A Matter of Prejudice
A Matter of Prejudice
[Illustration]
Madame Carambeau wanted it strictly understood that she was not to be
disturbed by Gustave’s birthday party. They carried her big
rocking-chair from the back gallery, that looked out upon the garden
where the children were going to play, around to the front gallery,
which closely faced the green levee bank and the Mississippi coursing
almost flush with the top of it.
The house—an old Spanish one, broad, low and completely encircled by a
wide gallery—was far down in the French quarter of New Orleans. It stood
upon a square of ground that was covered thick with a semi-tropical
growth of plants and flowers. An impenetrable board fence, edged with a
formidable row of iron spikes, shielded the garden from the prying
glances of the occasional passer-by.
Madame Carambeau’s widowed daughter, Madame Cécile Lalonde, lived with
her. This annual party, given to her little son, Gustave, was the one
defiant act of Madame Lalonde’s existence. She persisted in it, to her
own astonishment and the wonder of those who knew her and her mother.
For old Madame Carambeau was a woman of many prejudices—so many, in
fact, that it would be difficult to name them all. She detested dogs,
cats, organ-grinders, white servants and children’s noises. She despised
Americans, Germans and all people of a different faith from her own.
Anything not French had, in her opinion, little right to existence.
She had not spoken to her son Henri for ten years because he had married
an American girl from Prytania street. She would not permit green tea to
be introduced into her house, and those who could not or would not drink
coffee might drink tisane of _fleur de Laurier_ for all she cared.
Nevertheless, the children seemed to be having it all their own way that
day, and the organ-grinders were let loose. Old madame, in her retired
corner, could hear the screams, the laughter and the music far more
distinctly than she liked. She rocked herself noisily, and hummed
“Partant pour la Syrie.”
She was straight and slender. Her hair was white, and she wore it in
puffs on the temples. Her skin was fair and her eyes blue and cold.
Suddenly she became aware that footsteps were approaching, and
threatening to invade her privacy—not only footsteps, but screams! Then
two little children, one in hot pursuit of the other, darted wildly
around the corner near which she sat.
The child in advance, a pretty little girl, sprang excitedly into Madame
Carambeau’s lap, and threw her arms convulsively around the old lady’s
neck. Her companion lightly struck her a “last tag,” and ran laughing
gleefully away.
The most natural thing for the child to do then would have been to
wriggle down from madame’s lap, without a “thank you” or a “by your
leave,” after the manner of small and thoughtless children. But she did
not do this. She stayed there, panting and fluttering, like a frightened
bird.
Madame was greatly annoyed. She moved as if to put the child away from
her, and scolded her sharply for being boisterous and rude. The little
one, who did not understand French, was not disturbed by the reprimand,
and stayed on in madame’s lap. She rested her plump little cheek, that
was hot and flushed, against the soft white linen of the old lady’s
gown.
Her cheek was very hot and very flushed. It was dry, too, and so were
her hands. The child’s breathing was quick and irregular. Madame was not
long in detecting these signs of disturbance.
Though she was a creature of prejudice, she was nevertheless a skillful
and accomplished nurse, and a connoisseur in all matters pertaining to
health. She prided herself upon this talent, and never lost an
opportunity of exercising it. She would have treated an organ-grinder
with tender consideration if one had presented himself in the character
of an invalid.
Madame’s manner toward the little one changed immediately. Her arms and
her lap were at once adjusted so as to become the most comfortable of
resting places. She rocked very gently to and fro. She fanned the child
softly with her palm leaf fan, and sang “Partant pour la Syrie” in a low
and agreeable tone.
The child was perfectly content to lie still and prattle a little in
that language which madame thought hideous. But the brown eyes were soon
swimming in drowsiness, and the little body grew heavy with sleep in
madame’s clasp.
When the little girl slept Madame Carambeau arose, and treading
carefully and deliberately, entered her room, that opened near at hand
upon the gallery. The room was large, airy and inviting, with its cool
matting upon the floor, and its heavy, old, polished mahogany furniture.
Madame, with the child still in her arms, pulled a bell-cord; then she
stood waiting, swaying gently back and forth. Presently an old black
woman answered the summons. She wore gold hoops in her ears, and a
bright bandanna knotted fantastically on her head.
“Louise, turn down the bed,” commanded madame. “Place that small, soft
pillow below the bolster. Here is a poor little unfortunate creature
whom Providence must have driven into my arms.” She laid the child
carefully down.
“Ah, those Americans! Do they deserve to have children? Understanding as
little as they do how to take care of them!” said madame, while Louise
was mumbling an accompanying assent that would have been unintelligible
to any one unacquainted with the negro patois.
“There, you see, Louise, she is burning up,” remarked madame; —“she is
consumed. Unfasten the little bodice while I lift her. Ah, talk to me of
such parents! So stupid as not to perceive a fever like that coming on,
but they must dress their child up like a monkey to go play and dance to
the music of organ-grinders.
“Haven’t you better sense, Louise, than to take off a child’s shoe as if
you were removing the boot from the leg of a cavalry officer?” Madame
would have required fairy fingers to minister to the sick. “Now go to
Mamzelle Cécile, and tell her to send me one of those old, soft, thin
nightgowns that Gustave wore two summers ago.”
When the woman retired, madame busied herself with concocting a cooling
pitcher of orange-flower water, and mixing a fresh supply of _eau
sédative_ with which agreeably to sponge the little invalid.
Madame Lalonde came herself with the old, soft nightgown. She was a
pretty, blonde, plump little woman, with the deprecatory air of one
whose will has become flaccid from want of use. She was mildly
distressed at what her mother had done.
“But, mamma! But, mamma, the child’s parents will be sending the
carriage for her in a little while. Really, there was no use. Oh dear!
oh dear!”
If the bedpost had spoken to Madame Carambeau, she would have paid more
attention, for speech from such a source would have been at least
surprising if not convincing. Madame Lalonde did not possess the faculty
of either surprising or convincing her mother.
“Yes, the little one will be quite comfortable in this,” said the old
lady, taking the garment from her daughter’s irresolute hands.
“But, mamma! What shall I say, what shall I do when they send? Oh, dear;
oh, dear!”
“That is your business,” replied madame, with lofty indifference. “My
concern is solely with a sick child that happens to be under my roof. I
think I know my duty at this time of life, Cécile.”
As Madame Lalonde predicted, the carriage soon came, with a stiff
English coachman driving it, and a red-cheeked Irish nurse-maid seated
inside. Madame would not even permit the maid to see her little charge.
She had an original theory that the Irish voice is distressing to the
sick.
Madame Lalonde sent the girl away with a long letter of explanation that
must have satisfied the parents; for the child was left undisturbed in
Madame Carambeau’s care. She was a sweet child, gentle and affectionate.
And, though she cried and fretted a little throughout the night for her
mother, she seemed, after all, to take kindly to madame’s gentle
nursing. It was not much of a fever that afflicted her, and after two
days she was well enough to be sent back to her parents.
Madame, in all her varied experience with the sick, had never before
nursed so objectionable a character as an American child. But the
trouble was that after the little one went away, she could think of
nothing really objectionable against her except the accident of her
birth, which was, after all, her misfortune; and her ignorance of the
French language, which was not her fault.
But the touch of the caressing baby arms; the pressure of the soft
little body in the night; the tones of the voice, and the feeling of the
hot lips when the child kissed her, believing herself to be with her
mother, were impressions that had sunk through the crust of madame’s
prejudice and reached her heart.
She often walked the length of the gallery, looking out across the wide,
majestic river. Sometimes she trod the mazes of her garden where the
solitude was almost that of a tropical jungle. It was during such
moments that the seed began to work in her soul—the seed planted by the
innocent and undesigning hands of a little child.
The first shoot that it sent forth was Doubt. Madame plucked it away
once or twice. But it sprouted again, and with it Mistrust and
Dissatisfaction. Then from the heart of the seed, and amid the shoots of
Doubt and Misgiving, came the flower of Truth. It was a very beautiful
flower, and it bloomed on Christmas morning.
As Madame Carambeau and her daughter were about to enter her carriage on
that Christmas morning, to be driven to church, the old lady stopped to
give an order to her black coachman, François. François had been driving
these ladies every Sunday morning to the French Cathedral for so many
years—he had forgotten exactly how many, but ever since he had entered
their service, when Madame Lalonde was a little girl. His astonishment
may therefore be imagined when Madame Carambeau said to him:
“François, to-day you will drive us to one of the American churches.”
“Plait-il, madame?” the negro stammered, doubting the evidence of his
hearing.
“I say, you will drive us to one of the American churches. Any one of
them,” she added, with a sweep of her hand. “I suppose they are all
alike,” and she followed her daughter into the carriage.
Madame Lalonde’s surprise and agitation were painful to see, and they
deprived her of the ability to question, even if she had possessed the
courage to do so.
François, left to his fancy, drove them to St. Patrick’s Church on Camp
street. Madame Lalonde looked and felt like the proverbial fish out of
its element as they entered the edifice. Madame Carambeau, on the
contrary, looked as if she had been attending St. Patrick’s church all
her life. She sat with unruffled calm through the long service and
through a lengthy English sermon, of which she did not understand a
word.
When the mass was ended and they were about to enter the carriage again,
Madame Carambeau turned, as she had done before, to the coachman.
“François,” she said, coolly, “you will now drive us to the residence of
my son, M. Henri Carambeau. No doubt Mamzelle Cécile can inform you
where it is,” she added, with a sharply penetrating glance that caused
Madame Lalonde to wince.
Yes, her daughter Cécile knew, and so did François, for that matter.
They drove out St. Charles avenue—very far out. It was like a strange
city to old madame, who had not been in the American quarter since the
town had taken on this new and splendid growth.
The morning was a delicious one, soft and mild; and the roses were all
in bloom. They were not hidden behind spiked fences. Madame appeared not
to notice them, or the beautiful and striking residences that lined the
avenue along which they drove. She held a bottle of smelling-salts to
her nostrils, as though she were passing through the most unsavory
instead of the most beautiful quarter of New Orleans.
Henri’s house was a very modern and very handsome one, standing a little
distance away from the street. A well-kept lawn, studded with rare and
charming plants, surrounded it. The ladies, dismounting, rang the bell,
and stood out upon the banquette, waiting for the iron gate to be
opened.
A white maid-servant admitted them. Madame did not seem to mind. She
handed her a card with all proper ceremony, and followed with her
daughter to the house.
Not once did she show a sign of weakness; not even when her son, Henri,
came and took her in his arms and sobbed and wept upon her neck as only
a warm-hearted Creole could. He was a big, good-looking, honest-faced
man, with tender brown eyes like his dead father’s and a firm mouth like
his mother’s.
Young Mrs. Carambeau came, too, her sweet, fresh face transfigured with
happiness. She led by the hand her little daughter, the “American child”
whom madame had nursed so tenderly a month before, never suspecting the
little one to be other than an alien to her.
“What a lucky chance was that fever! What a happy accident!” gurgled
Madame Lalonde.
“Cécile, it was no accident, I tell you; it was Providence,” spoke
madame, reprovingly, and no one contradicted her.
They all drove back together to eat Christmas dinner in the old house by
the river. Madame held her little granddaughter upon her lap; her son
Henri sat facing her, and beside her was her daughter-in-law.
Henri sat back in the carriage and could not speak. His soul was
possessed by a pathetic joy that would not admit of speech. He was going
back again to the home where he was born, after a banishment of ten long
years.
He would hear again the water beat against the green levee-bank with a
sound that was not quite like any other that he could remember. He would
sit within the sweet and solemn shadow of the deep and overhanging roof;
and roam through the wild, rich solitude of the old garden, where he had
played his pranks of boyhood and dreamed his dreams of youth. He would
listen to his mother’s voice calling him, “mon fils,” as it had always
done before that day he had to choose between mother and wife. No; he
could not speak.
But his wife chatted much and pleasantly—in a French, however, that must
have been trying to old madame to listen to.
“I am so sorry, ma mère,” she said, “that our little one does not speak
French. It is not my fault, I assure you,” and she flushed and hesitated
a little. “It—it was Henri who would not permit it.”
“That is nothing,” replied madame, amiably, drawing the child close to
her. “Her grandmother will teach her French; and she will teach her
grandmother English. You see, I have no prejudices. I am not like my
son. Henri was always a stubborn boy. Heaven only knows how he came by
such a character!”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Caline
Caline
[Illustration]
The sun was just far enough in the west to send inviting shadows. In the
centre of a small field, and in the shade of a haystack which was there,
a girl lay sleeping. She had slept long and soundly, when something
awoke her as suddenly as if it had been a blow. She opened her eyes and
stared a moment up in the cloudless sky. She yawned and stretched her
long brown legs and arms, lazily. Then she arose, never minding the bits
of straw that clung to her black hair, to her red bodice, and the blue
cotonade skirt that did not reach her naked ankles.
The log cabin in which she dwelt with her parents was just outside the
enclosure in which she had been sleeping. Beyond was a small clearing
that did duty as a cotton field. All else was dense wood, except the
long stretch that curved round the brow of the hill, and in which
glittered the steel rails of the Texas and Pacific road.
When Caline emerged from the shadow she saw a long train of passenger
coaches standing in view, where they must have stopped abruptly. It was
that sudden stopping which had awakened her; for such a thing had not
happened before within her recollection, and she looked stupid, at
first, with astonishment. There seemed to be something wrong with the
engine; and some of the passengers who dismounted went forward to
investigate the trouble. Others came strolling along in the direction of
the cabin, where Caline stood under an old gnarled mulberry tree,
staring. Her father had halted his mule at the end of the cotton row,
and stood staring also, leaning upon his plow.
There were ladies in the party. They walked awkwardly in their
high-heeled boots over the rough, uneven ground, and held up their
skirts mincingly. They twirled parasols over their shoulders, and
laughed immoderately at the funny things which their masculine
companions were saying.
They tried to talk to Caline, but could not understand the French patois
with which she answered them.
One of the men—a pleasant-faced youngster—drew a sketch book from his
pocket and began to make a picture of the girl. She stayed motionless,
her hands behind her, and her wide eyes fixed earnestly upon him.
Before he had finished there was a summons from the train; and all went
scampering hurriedly away. The engine screeched, it sent a few lazy
puffs into the still air, and in another moment or two had vanished,
bearing its human cargo with it.
Caline could not feel the same after that. She looked with new and
strange interest upon the trains of cars that passed so swiftly back and
forth across her vision, each day; and wondered whence these people
came, and whither they were going.
Her mother and father could not tell her, except to say that they came
from “loin là bas,” and were going “Djieu sait é où.”
One day she walked miles down the track to talk with the old flagman,
who stayed down there by the big water tank. Yes, he knew. Those people
came from the great cities in the north, and were going to the city in
the south. He knew all about the city; it was a grand place. He had
lived there once. His sister lived there now; and she would be glad
enough to have so fine a girl as Caline to help her cook and scrub, and
tend the babies. And he thought Caline might earn as much as five
dollars a month, in the city.
So she went; in a new cotonade, and her Sunday shoes; with a sacredly
guarded scrawl that the flagman sent to his sister.
The woman lived in a tiny, stuccoed house, with green blinds, and three
wooden steps leading down to the banquette. There seemed to be hundreds
like it along the street. Over the house tops loomed the tall masts of
ships, and the hum of the French market could be heard on a still
morning.
Caline was at first bewildered. She had to readjust all her
preconceptions to fit the reality of it. The flagman’s sister was a kind
and gentle task-mistress. At the end of a week or two she wanted to know
how the girl liked it all. Caline liked it very well, for it was
pleasant, on Sunday afternoons, to stroll with the children under the
great, solemn sugar sheds; or to sit upon the compressed cotton bales,
watching the stately steamers, the graceful boats, and noisy little tugs
that plied the waters of the Mississippi. And it filled her with
agreeable excitement to go to the French market, where the handsome
Gascon butchers were eager to present their compliments and little
Sunday bouquets to the pretty Acadian girl; and to throw fistfuls of
_lagniappe_ into her basket.
When the woman asked her again after another week if she were still
pleased, she was not so sure. And again when she questioned Caline the
girl turned away, and went to sit behind the big, yellow cistern, to cry
unobserved. For she knew now that it was not the great city and its
crowds of people she had so eagerly sought; but the pleasant-faced boy,
who had made her picture that day under the mulberry tree.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
A Dresden Lady in Dixie
A Dresden Lady in Dixie
[Illustration]