Marie

by Laura Elizabeth Howe Richards

If Abby Rock's kitchen was not heaven, it seemed very near it to Marie that evening. She found herself suddenly in an atmosphere of peace and comfort of which her life had heretofore known nothing. The evening had fallen chill outside, but here all was warm and light and cheerful, and the warmth and cheer seemed to be embodied in the person of the woman who moved quickly to and fro, stirring the fire, putting the kettle on the hob (for those were the days of the open fire, of crane and kettle, and picturesque, if not convenient, housekeeping), drawing a chair up near the cheerful blaze. Marie felt herself enfolded with comfort. A shawl was thrown over her shoulders; she was lifted like a child, and placed in the chair by the fireside; and now, as she sat in a dream, fearing every moment to wake and find herself back in the old life again, a cup of tea, hot and fragrant, was set before her, and the handkerchief tenderly loosened from her neck, while a kind voice bade her drink, for it would do her good.

"You look beat out, and that's the fact," said Abby Rock. "To-morrow you shall tell me all about it, but you no need to say a single word to-night, only just set still and rest ye. I'm a lone woman here. I buried my mother last June, and I'm right glad to have company once in a while. Abby Rock, my name is; and perhaps if you'd tell me yours, we should feel more comfortable like, when we come to sit down to supper. What do you say?"

Her glance was so kind, her voice so cordial and hearty, that Marie could have knelt down to thank her. "I am Marie," she said, smiling back into the kind eyes. "Only Marie, nossing else."

"Maree!" repeated Abby Rock. "Well, it's a pretty name, sure enough; has a sound of 'Mary' in it, too, and that was my mother's name. But what was your father's name, or your mother's, if so be your father ain't living now?"

Marie shook her head. "I never know!" she said. "All the days I lived with Mere Jeanne in the village, far away, oh, far, over the sea."

"Over the sea?" said Abby. "You mean the bay, don't you,—some of those French settlements down along the shore?"

But Marie meant the sea, it appeared; for her village was in France, in Eretagne, and there she had lived till the day when Mere Jeanne died, and she was left alone, with no-one belonging to her. Mere Jeanne was not her mother, no! nor yet her grandmother,—only her mother's aunt, but good, Abby must understand, good as an angel, good as Abby herself. And when she was dead, there was only her son, Jeannot, and he had married a devil,—but yes!—as Abby exclaimed, and held up her hands in reproof,—truly a devil of the worst kind; and one day, when Jeannot was away, this wife had sold her, Marie, to another devil, Le Boss, who made the tours in the country for to sing and to play. And he had brought her away to this country, over very dreadful seas, where one went down into the grave at every instant, and then up again to the clouds, but leaving one's stomach behind one—ah, but terrible! Others were with them, oh, yes!—This in response to Abby's question, for in spite of her good resolutions, curiosity was taking possession of her, and it was evidently a relief to Marie to pour out her little tale in a sympathetic ear,—many others. La Patronne, the wife of Le Boss, who was like a barrel, but not bad, when she could see through the fat, not bad in every way; and there was Old Billy, who took care of the horses and dogs, and he was her friend, and she loved him, and he had always the good word for her even when he was very drunk, too drunk to speak to any one else. And then there was the daughter of Le Boss, who would in all probability never die, for she was so ugly that she would not be admitted into the other world, where, Mere Jeanne said, even Monsieur the Great Devil himself was good-looking, save for his expression. Also there were the boys who tumbled and rode on the ponies, and—and—and ozer people. And with this Mane's head dropped forward, and she was asleep.

It seemed a pity to wake her when supper was ready, but Abby knew just how good her rolls were, and knew that the child must be famished; and sure enough, after a little nap, Marie was ready to wake and sit up at the little round table, and be fed like a baby with everything good that Abby could think of. The fare had not been dainty in the travelling troupe of Le Boss. The fine white bread, the golden butter, the bit of broiled fish, smoking hot, seemed viands of paradise to the hungry girl. She laughed for pleasure, and her eyes shone like stars. It was like the chateau, she said, where everything was gold and silver,—the chateau where Madame la Comtesse lived. As for Abby herself, Marie gravely informed her that she was an angel. Abby laughed, not ill pleased. "I don't look special like angels," she said; "that is, if the pictures I've seen are correct. Not much wings and curls and white robes about me, Maree. And who ever heard of an angel in a check apurn, I want to know?"

But Marie was not to be turned aside. It was well known, she said, that angels could not come to earth undisguised in these days. It had something to do with the Jews, she did not know exactly what. Mere Jeanne had told her, but she forgot just how it was. But as to their not coming at all, that would be out of the question, for how would the good God know what was going on down here, or know who was behaving well and meriting a crown of glory, and who should go down into the pit? Did not Abby see that?

Abby privately thought that here was strange heathen talk to be going on in her kitchen; but she said nothing, only gave her guest more jam, and said she was eating nothing,—the proper formula for a good hostess, no matter how much the guest may have devoured.