CHAPTER THE TWENTY-THIRD.
A YEAR'S NEWS.
In the cool of the evening, while the chanting of vespers in the church close by was faintly audible, I went downstairs into the salon. All the household were gone to the service; but I saw Tardif sitting outside in my own favorite seat under the sycamore-tree. I sent Minima to call him to me, bidding her stay out-of-doors herself; and he came in hurriedly, with a glad light in his deep, honest eyes.
"Thank God, mam'zelle, thank God!" he said.
"Yes," I answered, "I am well again now. I have not been really ill, I know, but I felt weary and sick at heart. My good Tardif, how much I owe you!"
"You owe me, nothing, mam'zelle," he said, dropping my hand, and carrying the curé's high-backed chair to the open window, for me to sit in it, and have all the freshness there was in the air. "Dear mam'zelle," he added, "if you only think of me as your friend, that is enough."
"You are my truest friend," I replied.
"No, no. You have another as true," he answered, "and you have this good Monsieur le Curé into the bargain. If the curés were all like him I should be thinking of becoming a good Catholic myself, and you know how far I am from being that."
"No one can say a word too much in his praise," I said.
"Except," continued Tardif, "that he desires to keep our little mam'zelle in his village. 'Why must she leave me?' he says; 'never do I say a word contrary to her religion, or that of the mignonne. Let them stay in Ville-en-bois.' But Dr. Martin, says: 'No, she must not remain here. The air is not good for her; the village is not drained, and it is unhealthy. There will always be fever here.' Dr. Martin was almost angry with Monsieur le Curé."
"Dr. Martin?" I said, in a tone of wonder and inquiry.
"Dr. Martin, mam'zelle. I sent a message to him by telegraph. It was altered somehow in the offices, and he did not know who was dead. He started off at once, travelled without stopping, and reached this place two nights ago."
"Is he here now?" I asked, while a troubled feeling stirred the tranquillity which had but just returned to me. I shrank from seeing him just then.
"No, mam'zelle. He went away this morning, as soon as he was sure you would recover without his help. He said that to see him might do you more harm, trouble you more, than he could do you good by his medicines. He and Monsieur le Curé parted good friends, though they were not of the same mind about you. 'Let her stay here,' says Monsieur le Curé. 'She must return to England,' says Dr. Martin. 'Mam'zelle must be free to choose for herself,' I said. They both smiled, and said yes, I was right. You must be free."
"Why did no one tell me he was here? Why did Minima keep it a secret?" I asked.
"He forbade us to tell you. He did not wish to disquiet you. He said to me: 'If she ever wishes to see me, I would come gladly from London to Ville-en-bois', only to hear her say, 'Good-morning, Dr. Martin.' 'But I will not see her now, unless she is seriously ill.' I felt that he was right, Dr. Martin is always right."
I did not speak when Tardif paused, as if to hear what I had to say. I heard him sigh as softly as a woman sighs.
"If you could only come back to my poor little house!" he said; "but that is impossible. My poor mother died in the spring, and I am living alone. It is desolate, but I am not unhappy. I have my boat and the sea, where I am never solitary. But why should I talk of myself? We were speaking of what you are to do."
"I don't know what to do," I said, despondently; "you see Tardif, I have not a single friend I could go to in England. I shall have to stay here in Ville-en-bois."
"No," he answered; "Dr. Martin has some plan for you, I know, though he did not tell me what it is. He said you would have a home offered to you, such as you would accept gladly. I think it is in Guernsey."
"With his mother, perhaps," I suggested.
"His mother, mam'zelle!" he repeated; "alas! no. His mother is dead; she died only a few weeks after you left Sark."
I felt as if I had lost an old friend whom I had known for a long time, though I had only seen her once. In my greatest difficulty I had thought of making my way to her, and telling her all my history. I did not know what other home could open for me, if she were dead.
"Dr. Dobrée married a second wife only three months after," pursued Tardif, "and Dr. Martin left Guernsey altogether, and went to London, to be a partner with his friend, Dr. Senior."
"Dr. John Senior?" I said.
"Yes, mam'zelle," he answered.
"Why! I know him," I exclaimed; "I recollect his face well. He is handsomer than Dr. Martin. But whom did Dr. Dobrée marry?"
"I do not know whether he is handsomer than Dr. Martin," said Tardif, in a grieved tone. "Who did Dr. Dobrée marry? Oh! a foreigner. No Guernsey lady would have married him so soon after Mrs. Dobrée's death. She was a great friend of Miss Julia Dobrée. Her name was Daltrey."
"Kate Daltrey!" I ejaculated. My brain seemed to whirl with the recollections, the associations, the rapid mingling and odd readjustment of ideas forced upon me by Tardif's words. What would have become of me if I had found my way to Guernsey, seeking Mrs. Dobrée, and discovered in her Kate Daltrey? I had not time to realize this before Tardif went on in his narration.
"Dr. Martin was heart-broken," he said; "we had lost you, and his mother was dead. He had no one to turn to for comfort. His cousin Julia, who was to have been his wife, was married to Captain Carey three weeks ago. You recollect Captain Carey, mam'zelle?"
Here was more news, and a fresh rearranging of the persons who peopled my world. Kate Daltrey become Dr. Dobrée's second wife; Julia Dobrée married to Captain Carey; and Dr. Martin living in London, the partner of Dr. Senior! How could I put them all into their places in a moment? Tardif, too, was dwelling alone, now, solitarily, in a very solitary place.
"I am very sorry for you," I said, in a low tone.
"Why, mam'zelle?" he asked.
"Because you have lost your mother," I answered.
"Yes, mam'zelle," he said, simply; "she was a great loss to me, though she was always fretting about my inheriting the land. That is the law of the island, and no one can set it aside. The eldest son inherits the land, and I was not her own son, though I did my best to be like a real son to her. She died happier in thinking that her son, or grandson, would follow me when I am gone, and I was glad she had that to comfort her, poor woman."
"But you may marry again some day, my good Tardif," I said; "how I wish you would!"
"No, mam'zelle, no," he answered, with a strange quivering tone in his voice; "my mother knew why before she died, and it was a great comfort to her. Do not think I am not happy alone. There are some memories that are better company than most folks. Yes, there are some things I can think of that are more and better than any wife could be to me."
Why we were both silent after that I scarcely knew. Both of us had many things to think about, no doubt, and the ideas were tumbling over one another in my poor brain till I wished I could cease to think for a few hours.
Vespers ended, and the villagers began to disperse stealthily. Not a wooden sabot clattered on the stones. Mademoiselle and Monsieur Laurentie came in, with a tread as soft as if they were afraid of waking a child out of a light slumber.
"Mademoiselle," I cried, "monsieur, behold me; I am here."
My voice and my greeting seemed to transport them with delight. Mademoiselle embraced me, and kissed me on both cheeks. Monsieur le Curé blessed me, in a tremulously joyous accent, and insisted upon my keeping his arm-chair. We sat down to supper together, by the light of a brilliant little lamp, and Pierre, who was passing the uncurtained window, saw me there, and carried the news into the village.
The next day Tardif bade me farewell, and Monsieur Laurentie drove him to Granville on his way home to Sark.