With the dazzle of that dancing sun still in her eyes, with happy thoughts filling her mind, Marie turned the corner of the straggling road that was called a street by the people who lived along it,—turned the corner, and almost fell into the arms of a man, who was coming in the opposite direction. Both uttered a cry at the same moment: Marie first giving a little startled shriek, but her voice dying away in terrified silence as she saw the man's face; the latter uttering a shout of delight, of fierce and cruel triumph, that rang out strangely in the quiet morning air. For this was Le Boss!
A man with a bloated, cruel face, sodden with drink and inflamed with all fierce and inhuman passions; a strong man, who held the trembling girl by the shoulder as if she were a reed, and gazed into her face with eyes of fiendish triumph; an angry man, who poured out a torrent of furious words, reproaching, threatening, by turns, as he found his victim once more within his grasp, just when he had given up all hope of finding her again. Ah, but he had her now, though! let her try it again, to run away! she would find even this time that she had enough, but another time—and on and on, as a coarse and brutal man can go on to a helpless creature that is wholly in his power.
Marie was silent, cowering in his grasp, looking about with hunted, despairing eyes. There was nothing to do, no word to say that would help. It had all been a mistake,—the sun dancing, the heavens bending down to aid and cheer her,—all had been a mistake, a lie. There was nothing now for the rest of her life but this,—this brutality that clutched and shook her slender figure, this hatred that hissed venomous words in her ear. This was the end, forever, till death should come to set her free.
But what was this? what was happening? For the hateful voice faltered, the grasp on her shoulder weakened, the blaze of the fierce eyes turned from her. A cry was heard, a wild, inarticulate cry of rage, of defiance; the next moment something rushed past her like a flash; there was a brief struggle, a shout, an oath, then a heavy fall. When the bewildered child could clear her eyes from the mist of fright that clouded them, Le Boss was lying on the ground; and towering over him like an avenging spirit, his blue eyes aflame, his strong hands clenched for another blow, stood Jacques De Arthenay.
Just what happened next, Marie never quite knew. Words were said as in a dream. Was it a real voice that was saying: "This is my wife, you dog! take yourself out of my sight, before worse comes to you!" Was it real? and did Le Boss, gathering himself up from the grass with foul curses, too horrible to think of—did he make reply that she was his property, that he had bought her, paid for her, and would have his own! And then the other voice again, saying, "I tell you she is my wife, the wife of a free man. Speak, Mary, and tell him you are my wife!" And did she—with those blue eyes on her, which she had never met before, but which now caught and chained her gaze, so that she could not look away, try as she might—did she of her own free will answer, "Yes, Monsieur, I am your wife, if you say it; if you will keep me from him, Monsieur!" Then—Marie did not know what came then. There were more words between the two men, loud and fierce on one side, low and fierce on the other; and then Le Boss was gone, and she was walking back to the house with the man who had saved her, the man to whom she belonged now; the strong man, whose hand, holding hers as they walked, trembled far more than her own. But Marie did not feel as if she should ever tremble again. For that one must be alive, must have strength in one's limbs; and was she dead, she wondered, or only asleep? and would she wake up some happy moment, and find herself in the little white bed at Abiroc's house, or better still, out in the blessed fields, alone with the birds under the free sky?
CHAPTER VI.
WEDLOCK.
They were married that very day. Abby begged piteously for a little delay, that she might make clothes, and give her pretty pet a "good send-off;" but De Arthenay would not hear of it. Mary was his wife in the sight of God; let her become so in the sight of man! So a white gown was found and put on the little passive creature, and good Abby, crying with excitement, twined some flowers in the soft dark hair, and thought that even Sister Lizzie, in her blue silk dress and chip bonnet, had not made so lovely a bride as this stranger, this wandering child from no one knew where. The wedding took place in Abby's parlor, with only Abby herself and a single neighbour for witnesses. A little crowd gathered round the door, however, to see how Jacques De Arthenay looked when he'd made a fool of himself, as they expressed it. They were in a merry mood, the friendly neighbours, and had sundry jests ready to crack upon the bridegroom when he should appear; but when he finally stood in the doorway, with the little pale bride on his arm, it became apparent that jests were not in order. People calc'lated that Jacques was in one of his moods, and was best not to be spoke with just that moment; besides, 't was no time for them to be l'iterin' round staring, with all there was to be done. So the crowd melted away, and only Abby followed the new-married couple to their own home. She, walking behind in much perturbation of spirit, noticed that on the threshold Marie stumbled, and seemed about to fall, and that Jacques lifted her in his arms as if she were a baby, and carried her into the room. He had not seemed to notice till that moment that the child was carrying her violin-case, though to be sure it was plain enough to see, but as he lifted her, it struck against the door-jamb, and he glanced down and saw it. When Abby came in (for this was to be her good-by to them, as she was to leave that afternoon for her sister's home), De Arthenay had the case in his hand, and was speaking in low, earnest tones.
"You cannot have this thing, Mary! It is a thing of evil, and may not be in a Christian household. You are going to leave all those things behind you now, and there must be nothing to recall that life with those bad people. I will burn the evil thing now, and it shall be a sweet savour to the Lord, even a marriage sacrifice." As he spoke he opened the case, and taking out the violin, laid it across his knee, intending to break it into pieces; but at this Marie broke out into a cry, so wild, so piercing, that he paused, and Abby ran to her and took her in, her arms, and pressed her to her kind breast, and comforted her as one comforts a little child. Then she turned to the stern-eyed bridegroom.
"Jacques," she pleaded, "don't do it! don't do such a thing on your wedding-day, if you have a heart in you. Don't you see how she feels it? Put the fiddle away, if you don't want it round; put it up garret, and let it lay there, till she's wonted a little to doing without it. Take it now out of her sight and your own, Jacques De Arthenay, or you'll be sorry for it when you have done a mischief you can't undo."