A Little Girl in Old St. Louis

by Amanda M. Douglas

  CHAPTER XVII

  RIVALS

  Gaspard Denys had wondered more than once about Barbe's married life,and at Gardepier's second visit to St. Louis he was quite convinced thathe was not the kind of man to make a tender, clinging heart happy. Womenthrove and blossomed in an atmosphere of love; grew cold, pale andlistless when this was denied. It was their natural sustenance. Had thishastened Renee Freneau's death?

  And when he saw Marchand's devotion and Wawataysee's delicious joy init, he could not tell why, but he wished such a marriage had beenBarbe's good fortune.

  He never asked himself what might have happened if he had not gone toCanada for Renee de Longueville. He had started adventuring first in adesperate frame of mind, and then grown to like it exceedingly. He hadpurchased the old house to assist a family in distress who had losthusband and father. On his way home with his little Renee he hadresolved to set up a household, to keep the child under hisguardianship, for he knew well Freneau would not want her. She was soclinging, so sweet. She was a part of the adorable girl he had loved. Ifhe had been certain of her happiness he might have let her fade from hismind, but a fear had always rankled with a thorn-prick.

  Did she know, would she know that he meant to lavish the love thatshould have been hers on the child? What was that country like? Surelythe soul could not linger in the grave, and if it was given to one tohave glimpses of those left behind, she must rejoice.

  With his heart so engrossed he could not think, indeed, was not temptedto a strong feeling for any other woman. Barbe was pretty andsweet--young men were attracted to her--and he felt quite old comparedwith her. Then there was so much business to occupy him, and presentlyBarbe was married without a sigh of regret on his part.

  The little jealous feeling Renee displayed rather amused him. He hardlyunderstood the child's passionate fondness, but was not her exclusivelove something she inherited from her mother? He liked to think so.

  Now she was half woman and still kept the child's eager fondness. Shehad no real lovers, even if she had been asked in marriage. And he didnot want to give her up. When he sat in the fascinating blaze of the logfire and steeped his brain in the haze of his pipe, visions stole softlyabout him. He saw Renee a happy wife, the mother of sweet, enchantingchildren who would climb his knees, half strangle him with baby arms andpress soft faces against his, prattle of their love in turn. No, shemust never go away. And who would he like as well as Andre!

  And she liked him, too, in spite of her wilful manner of flouting him.She was ready enough to put him in the face of any imaginary danger. Hewas a fine, generous, wholesome young fellow, with a good business. Andhe, Denys, could wait. He was not in so great a hurry to share Renee,but he felt there was no life, no joy to a woman comparable withwifehood and motherhood. And he wanted his darling to have the best ofeverything.

  She was very quiet the next morning and stole furtive glances at him,too proud to make any inquiry as to whether he had passed a pleasantevening. After breakfast Andre came with a face of eager light, and yetperplexity.

  "What is it now?" asked Denys.

  "Matter enough. I am divided in two. I have just had an offer--command, Imight say. And whether I am to take it--" looking up with uncertainty.

  "Beating about a bush doesn't always thresh off nuts. There is the rightseason," and a glint of humor crossed the elder's face. "Is there apretty girl in it?"

  Was the world running after pretty girls? Renee frowned.

  "You would not like me to go away, ma'm'selle?"

  A sudden hope had rendered him incautious.

  "It makes no difference to me," she replied coldly.

  "What is it all about?" inquired Denys. "Where were you last night, thatyou are so incoherent this morning?"

  "In the counting house with M'sieu Pierre Chouteau. In about ten days hestarts for New Orleans, and must take some one with him. He proposes thepost to me."

  Denys gave a side glance at Renee. Her face was cold, impenetrable.Clearly she was not in love, much as she liked Andre.

  "Come in the shop!" exclaimed Denys.

  They seated themselves on bales of furs, done up ready to be transferredto the boats.

  "It is a high compliment, Andre. And it may not be a bad thing for ayoung fellow to see a little of the world and learn how to make money indifferent ways. It's a much gayer place than this. And you will be ingood hands."

  "But--M. Denys, I do not want to go."

  The young fellow's face was scarlet, and his eyes were full of unspokenhope mingled with fear.

  "And why not, Andre Valbonais?"

  "Oh, you must know, you must have guessed that I love Ma'm'selle Renee.Ever since last winter I have known that all my heart was hers, that Iwould not be satisfied until I had won her for a wife. And I do notthink--you are averse----"

  He looked so frank and sincere and honorable under the elder's scrutiny,though his face was flushed and the lines about his mouth werequivering.

  Denys took his arm. There was something better than a smile on the face,a tender approval.

  "No," Denys replied in a tone that went to the young man's heart. "Ihave had a little dream of the future. There is no one in St. Louis Iwould so soon take as a son. For look you, Andre, I do not want to giveher up. The man who weds her must come here, must put up with me as Igrow old and full of whims. I cannot be shut out of her happiness. Iwill tell you that I had a brief few months' love with her mother, and adream like this. Her father parted us. The child is as dear to me as ifmy blood ran in her veins, and her happiness is my whole study. If youcan win her I shall be content. But women have to wait for a time tolove. And it is not her time."

  "But if I should go away--" The young fellow drew a long, sorrowingbreath.

  "It might be best, so that you come back."

  "I must stay all winter. And if some one else wins her?" he questionedanxiously.

  "That would be a grief to me. I shall try not to have it happen. Oh, youcan trust me; only I shall not force her inclination. But there is somecomfort to take with you in my full consent."

  "You think, then, I had better go?" reluctantly.

  "It is not every day a friend like M. Chouteau is given to a young man.And," with a vague smile, "you may even advance your suit by going. Ifshe should miss you, so much the better. You have given her a great dealof devotion, perhaps too much. There are some gifts that are notappreciated if they come too easily."

  Andre Valbonais felt as if his dream had been dashed to fragments like abit of glass. He had resolved he would not go away; he _would_ marryRenee. Yet down in his heart he knew she did not love him with thefervor of a sweetheart. But that might come when she understood how muchin earnest he was, and that her guardian really wished for the marriage.Yet, much as he wished for it, he would not spoil his darling's life byany over-persuasion.

  "Yes, it is a fine chance. You will be the envy of the town. And--I trustyou to come back as honorable as you go. A year soon passes."

  "It will be hard to go without speaking."

  "It will do no good." Denys shook his head. "Trust me. I have seen moreof womankind."

  "Then I must be off. I asked to consult you, and I have your answer."

  "Yes, yes! Go, by all means."

  Renee was in her room, moving articles about in an aimless fashion,wondering how Barbe had looked and what she had said. She need not haveworried. There were a dozen other neighbors, ready to talk of the narrowescape and compare their own town with the larger one.

  Now and then she had exchanged a word with Denys, but it seemed as ifevery one talked at once. He had in his mind the picture she made in themorning, but she did not look like that now. There were lines of care inher face, and the prettiness had deepened into womanly beauty.

  Not a question about her did Renee ask. After dinner she took somesewing and went to Madame Marchand's, as she often did. Francois hadbeen to the wharf, hurriedly constructed again, to see when the boatswere likely to go down the river, since it w
as now considered safe.Andre Valbonais had told him he was going.

  "He came to see uncle this morning. I suppose that was what they talkedabout," said Renee.

  The voice had the languor of indifference, and the little face, ratherpale now, betrayed no emotion.

  It was always a busy time when a fleet of boats went down. Now, therewas more talk than usual. Some of the stock had been quite spoiled bythe overflow; indeed, not a little of it had been swept out of thestorehouses and it had been impossible to save it. But men took theirlosses philosophically; they would recoup themselves another year. Andthey now thought it wisdom to build higher up, and leave the muddy bankto itself.

  Andre was very busy, and truth to tell, rather downhearted. He had beenbuoyant; it was his nature. But as he faced the actual now, and thecareless demeanor of Renee, he felt like one roused from a dream andswung to the opposite verge. No, she did not care for him. Yet she hadbeen so sweet at times! He was in and out. Mere Lunde was full ofregrets. She was old and might never see him again. Renee saidcarelessly, "We shall all miss you. I don't know what uncle would do ifhe did not have M'sieu Marchand."

  She and Madame Marchand had gone to the Renauds', as was proper.Wawataysee was charmed with the little Angelique, and they found MadameGardepier quite different from the women of the town, except some of thehigher ladies in the government circles, though she was very sweet andgracious.

  Renee's heart swelled with a great jealousy. Barbe was beautiful andgrand, she could not deny it. Her voice had a lingering cadence, like arivulet in some forest depth, as if she might coax the heart out of one.Renee steeled hers in a sort of desperation. Surely she was distanced.She could not contend against these charms, any more than she could denythem. All her life was suddenly set in the shade.

  So she could not feel much sorrow for Andre's going away; her own filledall her heart. He might have thought her quiet a sign of it, but hiseyes seemed to have been curiously opened.

  "You will give me good wishes?" he said the last evening he came."And--will you not say that you shall miss me?"

  "Of course, I shall miss you," but the dreariness in the tone was notfor him. "I shall be so much alone."

  "M. Denys will be here--" He was a little puzzled.

  "Oh, yes! But, then----"

  "Renee," impetuously, "you have some sorrow. You are not like yourself.What has happened?"

  "Yes, I have some sorrow in my heart. I cannot tell any one," and thered lips quivered.

  "And you were so gay a little while ago. Oh, my darling--" His full heartoverflowed in his face.

  She held up her hand in entreaty. "Don't," she said in a half-irritatedway. "I shall never be any one's darling again. And," in something ofher old imperious tone, "if I cannot have the love I want I will nothave any!"

  He looked at her in amaze. Did she love some one else, then? He wassuddenly stunned. That had never entered his thoughts.

  "Oh," she exclaimed with a burst of feeling, "you have been very good tome, Andre. You rescued me in that dreadful peril, and I shall always begrateful. And I wish you prosperity and happiness."

  Then she vanished from the garden and shut herself in her room. WhenUncle Gaspard begged her to come out, as this was Andre's last evening,she said her head ached and she could not bear the sound of voices.

  They went down to see the boats off, and the air was almost rent withgood wishes. This was always a great occasion. There in the foremost onewas M. Pierre Chouteau and Andre beside him, both waving their hands inresponse to the "_Bon voyage!_" from a hundred throats. The Colonelstood beside his mother, who was a proud and happy woman, and whochatted in a charming fashion with her friends and had singled outBarbe, it seemed, who had come with her niece Sophie.

  The line rounded the curve and began to take in the turn, and thesailors' shouts were mere echoes. To-day the water was tranquil enough,and the heavens so blue that all the atmosphere had an extraordinarybrilliance.

  Madame Chouteau invited some of the friends to come and dine with her.

  "I do not want to," Renee said, shrinking back. "But you go, UncleGaspard, and take my excuse. I am not well. I shall go to bed and makeMere Lunde doctor me, and be right by to-morrow."

  What was the matter with the child? She had grown pale and heavy-eyed.He had been much engrossed with the boats and Andre's perplexity, andthe impression that she desired to evade him, so he had made it easy forher to do so. But if she were going to be ill!

  She threaded her way homeward and sat for awhile under her favoritetree, looking at the vision of Barbe smiling and Uncle Gaspard listeningto her attractive manner of talking and smiling back. For all the summersunshine she was cold, and her temples throbbed with a dull pain. Shedid not want to cry outwardly, but within her heart seemed weepingbitter tears, and its beating was like the dull thud of pounding onlead.

  She startled Mere Lunde when she came in so wan and spiritless. The goodwoman steeped some herbs, and she did really go to bed. Uncle Gasparddid not get home until almost supper-time, and some trappers were in theshop dickering about pelts.

  He came and sat on the side of the bed presently and held her hands,wondering if it was a cold, and recalling the fact that he had heardthere were some cases of fever about.

  She was very languid for several days. He was down at the levee,supervising some of the new work; indeed, it seemed as if he was ingreat demand. She would curl herself up in the big chair at the cornerof the fireplace, not on account of the cold, for the door stood open,as well as the heavy shutters, and the sunshine stole in the room,dancing about on the floor like groups of sprites. Mere Lunde would nodin her chair. Chloe was out in the garden, working. It was so quiet, thevery silence appealed strangely to her, and her mind wandered off to thefuture.

  Some day Barbe would come here from the church leaning on UncleGaspard's arm and looking up in his face with smiles, holding her prettychild by the hand. He would love it as he had loved her. He would carryit in his arms and hold it on his knee, listen to its chatter, just ashe had done with her. And Barbe would have dozens of different gracesand pretty ways to lure him continually. Where would she, Renee, be? Notpushed aside, but left to her own devices, dropped out, half forgotten.

  She wiped away some tears that overflowed her eyes. When Andre cameback, if he wanted her she would marry him. It was comforting to thinksome one might want her. And if he never came back, if some pretty girlin New Orleans attracted him--ah, then, she would be lonely, indeed!Perhaps this was the way her mother had felt in the old chateau. And hergrandfather had wanted _her_ put in a convent--perhaps it would have beenbetter.

  If youth can make pleasures of its own, it can also make bitter sorrows,and in its waywardness longs to drain the cup to the last drop. Perhapsthere may be some strength in the very bitterness, a tonic to work acure.

  Gaspard Denys came in and found her there, picked her up, and, seatinghimself, pressed her to his broad breast and encircled her with hisarms. What an exquisite shelter it was!

  "What can I do for you?" he asked. "You were never ill but once before,and that was the cold. But now you do not seem to improve. I wonder ifyou would like to have a change? It is dull, now that Andre is away, andI am so busy. Madame Renaud and Madame Gardepier are coming overto-morrow. And if you would like to spend a few days with them----"

  "Oh, no! I am content here," in a quick tone.

  "Then some day we could go up the river and take our dinner. Some of theyoung people might like to join. Sophie Pion is so gay andgood-humored."

  "I like the quiet," she returned languidly.

  "But it is not good for you, unless you were really ill."

  "I shall be better soon. I walked out in the garden to-day."

  "That is right. I can't think what could have brought this about. Come,you must cheer up and be like your olden self. It makes my heart ache tohave you so dreary."

  "Oh, does it really ache for me? Then I must try. Yes, I will try," in amore cheerful tone.

  "That
is my own little girl," and he kissed her fondly. Yes, he wouldalways love her in a way.

  The guests came up the next day. Madame Renaud was always bright andcheery. Madame Gardepier brought her little girl, who ran about andprattled and was like a bit of sunshine, sitting a moment in MereLunde's lap, then off again chasing the two half-grown kittens.

  Barbe was very charming and gracious and had a good deal to tell aboutNew Orleans, and thought M'sieu Valbonais would enjoy it very much,though no doubt he would long for the old friends and associations. Andwas he not coming back in a year?

  Renee admitted without any change of color that he was. There was nohalf secret in her face.

  "And now you must see Ma'm'selle Renee's room," exclaimed Madame Renaud."It is just full of prettiness and ingenuity."

  Renee led the way, and if admiration could have lightened her heart,surely all the heaviness would have vanished. They were very cordial,and quite insisted upon having a whole day's visit from her. UncleGaspard promised that she should surely come.

  As they were walking down the street Barbe said: "She does look poorly.I suppose she has been fretting after M. Valbonais."

  "I really wonder that Gaspard let him go. There was no reason why theyshould not marry."

  "And she has some fortune of her own. Why, yes, she could have gone withhim. I hope he will not forget her. There are so many attractive womenthere."

  Wawataysee studied her earnestly a few days afterward, when she had beensitting in silence.

  "What has changed you so, Renee?" she asked with much solicitude. "Thereis a surmise in the air that you are grieving after Andre. What happenedbetween you? For I know he loved you sincerely."

  "I grieving?" Then Renee's face went scarlet and she could hardlyrefrain from tears. "It is not Andre. I seldom think of him. Oh, howcruel and unjust! And it is not true."

  "But something troubles you," in a tender tone.

  Renee was silent.

  "And you never have been so unhappy before. Why do you not tell youruncle?"

  "No, I cannot," and Renee shivered.

  "Then, dear, why not go to the good father? I should if I had anysorrows. But what can I have to pain me, with such a good husband and mylovely children, who are like angels? And Father Lemoine said lastmonth, 'Madame, your confession is a thanksgiving instead.' He is sokindly, that Father Lemoine. But you must find some relief, or you willwaste quite away."

  "I shall get well at once. I will not have people quoting me as alove-sick girl," a little resentfully.

  Still Wawataysee looked doubtfully at her. She tried to be more cheerfulthat evening, and Uncle Gaspard smiled and called her his little girl.Would he always love her? She dared not ask him now. When she hadsorrowed for him in his long absence it had been a comfort to go up tothe little church and pray. But would it not be monstrous to ask God tokeep Uncle Denys from loving Barbe? She was lovely and kind, and merrytoo, for that matter, and if Uncle Denys----

  Ah, there was the sting!

  There crept into her heart a curious dull ache, a sense of something shedid not like, that she shrank from, just as one shuts one's eyes to someunpleasant sight. And this time it was not Barbe. Some one nearer,one that she was answerable for, and she did not like the halfconsciousness. She had believed the sorrow all hers. What if it waswrong to cherish it and make it another's sorrow?

  She went up to the church one afternoon. There was no one about. Theconfessional stood open. She thought she would pray, and then sherecalled a sentence, "Clean hands and a pure heart." Was her heart pure,not desiring what might belong to another? And if she snatched at itwith over-eager hands and a selfish heart?

  She went out quietly and sat on the grass. The soft wind just stirredthe trees and brought wafts of perfume and the distant sound of thevoices of children at play. The sun was casting long shadows andburnishing the tree-tops out on the fields. A few insects were lazilydroning.

  A figure came out in the rusty black cassock with the cord around thewaist, and the little round cap, where a few straggling locks, muchthreaded with white, fell below in a half-curling fashion. He glancedher way, then came over to her and she rose with a reverent obeisance.

  "It is Ma'm'selle de Longueville. You were little Renee. I remember whenyou used to come and pray for your uncle that he might be returned insafety. Is there nothing left to pray for?"

  The tone was wonderfully sweet, and the eyes gave her such a kindly,tender glance that her heart melted within her.

  "I went in the church," she began in a low tone. "I was troubled aboutsomething. I could not find the right prayer. There may be a need beforethe prayer," and her voice trembled like a quivering note of music.

  "Then let us go in and find it, daughter," and he took her hand in hisand gently led her back. She knelt in silence. The kindly hands werefolded on her head in blessing.

  What was it she wanted to say? "If one so coveted a love that it broughtunhappiness if it was shared with any one else; if one had been firstfor years, and found another in the place, and then--" The sorrowfulvoice broke. It was flooded with tears and soft sobs.

  "Is it a lover that has cast longing eyes on another?"

  "Oh, no, no!" And then the poor little story came out in an incoherentfashion. It was selfish, it was covetous, it was unjust. She saw that,now that she put it in words, and it sent a pang of shame and anguishthrough her whole being. Was this the return for all the affection hehad given?

  "Child," said the low, sweet voice, "I think he will not love thee lessbecause another comes into his heart. It is a good, generous heart. Iknow it well. And thou must cast out the selfish fear and give love forlove. God shares His with all His creatures, and asks first a devotedheart, then the wide love for one's neighbor. No grudging heart ever yethad peace. And the more happiness one scattereth the more returneth tothee. The more Christlike thy heart becomes, the greater will be thydesire to do for others, and in this will come the recompense. Trust thyGod and then thy trust will grow in all His creatures. Narrow thy life,and when the one light fails all will be darkness. Thou hast gone but alittle way forward and there are many lessons to learn before thou wiltreach the end, but the divinest of all is unselfish love."

  Could she be brave enough to put aside her own intense, selfish love? Ifanother love made Uncle Gaspard happier----

  They went out on the step of the old church porch, and he said: "Youwill come again, daughter?" And she replied: "I will come every day andpray for a new heart."