"And here," she cried, turning suddenly upon Abby, "you say you have no such thing, Abiroc,"—this was the name she had given her hostess,—"and here, too, is the evil eye, first what I see in this place, except the dear little children. A man yesterday came while I played, and looked—but, frightful! Ah!" she started from her seat by the window, and retreated hastily to the corner. "He comes, the same man! Put me away, Abiroc! put me away! He is bad, he is wicked! I die if he look at me!" and she ran hastily out of the room, just as Jacques De Arthenay entered it.
CHAPTER V.
COURTSHIP.
Marie could hardly be persuaded to come back into the sitting-room; and when she did at length come, it was only to sit silent in the corner, with one hand held behind her, and her eyes fixed steadfastly on the floor. In vain Abby Rock tried to draw her into the conversation, telling her how she, Abby, and Mr. De Arthenay had been talking about her, and how they thought she'd better stay right on where she was for a spell, till she was all rested up, and knew what she wanted to do. Mr. De Arthenay would be a friend to her, and no one could be a better one, as she'd find. But Marie only said that Monsieur was very kind, and never raised her eyes to his. De Arthenay, on his part, was no more at ease. He could not take his eyes from the slender figure, so shrinking and modest, or the lovely downcast face. He had no words to tell her all that was in his heart, nor would he have told it if he could. It was still a thing of horror to him,—a thing that would surely be cast out as soon as he came to himself; and how better could he bring himself to his senses than by facing this dream, this possession of the night, and crushing it down, putting it out of existence? So he sat still, and gazed at the dream, and felt its reality in every fibre of his being; and poor good Abby sat and talked for all three, and wondered what to goodness was coming of all this.
She wondered more and more as the days went on. It became evident to her that De Arthenay, her stern, silent neighbour, who had never so much as looked at a woman before, was "possessed" about her little guest. Marie, on the other hand, continued to regard him with terror, and never failed to make the horns secretly when he appeared; yet day after day he came, and sat silent in the sitting-room, and gazed at Marie, and wrestled with the devil within him. He never doubted that it was the devil. There was no awkwardness to him in sitting thus silent; it was the habit of his life: he spoke when he had occasion to say anything; for the rest, he considered over-much speech as one of the curses of our fallen state. But Abby "felt as if she should fly," as she expressed it to herself, while he sat there. A pall of silence seemed to descend upon the room, generally so cheerful: the French girl cowered under it, and seemed to shrink visibly, like a dumb creature in fright. And when he was gone, she would spring up and run like a deer to her own little room, and seize her violin, and play passionately, the instrument crying under her hands, like a living creature, protesting against grief, against silence and darkness, and the fear of something unknown, which seemed to be growing out of the silence. Sometimes Abby thought the best thing to do would be to open the door of the cage, and let the little stray bird flutter out, as she had fluttered in those few days ago, by chance—was it by chance?
But the bird was so willing to stay; was so happy, except when that silent shadow fell upon the cheerful house; so sweet, so grateful for little kindnesses (and who would not be kind to her, Abby thought!); such a singing, light, pretty creature to look at and listen to! and the house had been so quiet since mother died; and after all, it was pleasant to have some one to do for and "putter round." The neighbours said, There! now Abby Rock was safe to live, for she had got another baby to take care of; she'd ha' withered up and blown away if she had gone on living alone, with no one to make of.
And what talks they had, Abby and Marie! The latter told all about her early childhood with the good old woman whom she called Mere Jeanne, and explained how she came to have the Lady, and to play as she did. The Countess, it appeared, lived up at the castle; a great lady, oh, but very great, and beautiful as the angels. She was alone there, for the Count was away on a foreign mission, and she had no child, the Countess. So one day she saw Marie, when the latter was bringing flowers to the gardener's wife, who was good to her; and the Countess called the child to her, and took her on her knee, and talked with her. Ah, she was good, the Countess, and lovely! After that Marie was brought to the castle every day, and the Countess played to her of the violin, and Marie knew all at once that this was the best thing in the world, and the dearest, and the one to die for, you understand. (But Abby did not understand in the least.) So when Madame the Countess saw how it was, she taught Marie, and got her the Lady, the violin which was Marie's life and soul; and she let come down from Paris a great teacher, and they all played together, the Countess his friend, for many years his pupil, and the great violinist, and Marie, the little peasant girl in her blue gown and cap. He said she was a born musician, Marie: of course, he was able to see things, being of the same nature; but Mere Jeanne was unhappy, and said no good would come of it. Yes, well, what is to be, you know, that will be, and nossing else. The great teacher died, and there was an end of him. And after a while Monsieur the Count came home, and carried away the Countess to live in Paris, and so—and—so—that was all!
"But not all!" cried the child, springing from her seat, and raising her head, which had drooped for a moment. "Not all! for I have the music, see, Abiroc! All days of my life I can make music, make happy, make joy of myself and ozerbodies. When I take her; Madame, so, in my hand, I can do what I will, no? People have glad thinks, sorry thinks; what Marie tells them to have, that have they. Ah! la tonne aventure, oh gai!" and she would throw her head back and begin to play, and play till the chairs almost danced on their four legs.
De Arthenay never heard the fiddle. Abby managed it somehow, she hardly knew how or why. He had never spoken about the Evil Thing, as he would have called it, since that first day; perhaps he thought that Abby had taken it away, as a pious church member should, and destroyed it from the face of the earth. At all events there was no mention of it, and the only sound he heard when he approached the house was the whir of Abby's wheel (for women still spun then, in that part of the country), or the one voice he cared to hear in the world, uplifted in some light godless song.
So things went on for a while; and then came a change. One day Marie came into the sitting-room, hearing Abby call her. It was the hour of De Arthenay's daily visit, and he sat silent in the corner, as usual; but Abby had an open letter in her hand, and was crying softly, with her apron hiding her good homely face. "Maree," said the good woman, "I've got bad news. My sister Lizzie that I've told you so much about, she's dreadful sick, and I've got to go right out and take care of her. Thank you, dear!" (as she felt Marie's arms round her on the instant, and the soft voice murmured little French sympathies in her ear), "you're real good, I'm sure, and I know you feel for me. I've got to go right off to-morrow or next day, soon as I can get things to rights and see to the stock and things. But what is troubling me is you, Maree. I don't see what is to become of you, poor child, unless—Well, now, you come here and sit down by me, and listen to what Mr. De Arthenay has to say to you. You know he's ben your friend, Maree, ever sence you come; so you listen to him, like a good girl."