A Little Girl in Old St. Louis

by Amanda M. Douglas

  CHAPTER XVIII

  A FINE ADJUSTMENT

  Gaspard Denys was out by the gate waiting, quite at a loss to know whatcould keep his little girl, and wondering what had made her so quiet andindifferent of late. Had she really cared more for Andre than she knew?She must miss him, of course, for although he had touches of sentimentnow and then, he was bright and very much given to the amusing ratherthan the serious side of every-day occurrences. But he was earnestenough where that quality was needed. And he had been Renee's devotedslave.

  Her hands were clasped, her shoulders drooped a little and her step wasslow. Gaspard went to meet her, touched by the piteousness of heraspect.

  "My little darling----"

  She had not been exactly weeping, but her eyes had filled andoverflowed. He would not have seen it in the gathering darkness, but hekissed amid the tears on her cheek.

  "Renee, where have you been?" in a gentle tone. "You were not at theMarchands'."

  "I was up at the church with Father Lemoine."

  Had she some confidence to give the priest that she withheld from him?And he thought he knew all her simple heart.

  "Renee, what is the matter? You are not happy. You are not really ill,either. Something troubles you."

  The girl was silent, but he heard her fluttering breath. He took herhand in his. It was cold and spiritless. It did not curl about hisfingers in her usual caressing fashion.

  "Has some one grown nearer and dearer than I? You need not be afraid----"

  "Oh, no, it is not that! No one is so dear. And if I lost you--" Oh, shedid not mean to say it, and stopped in her slow pacing.

  "You are not likely to lose me. Who has been filling your head withnonsense?"

  His tone was a little sharp.

  "No one is to blame. It was all my fault. I have been selfish andgrudging and"--it burst out vehemently--"jealous!"

  He smiled, and was glad the purple gray of the waning light would notbetray it to her wounding. It was the old story, Barbe Guion again.

  "My dear little girl--" he began with infinite tenderness, clasping hisstrong arm around her.

  "I want to tell you," she interrupted hurriedly, "it is right, and justnow I have the courage. I don't mean ever to be so selfish again. It iswicked and ungrateful, and if anything can make you happier, I shall--tryto rejoice in it."

  And he knew she swallowed over a great lump in her throat. He was deeplytouched as well.

  "It is very wicked and selfish, but I couldn't bear to think of yourloving any one else, and when Madame Gardepier came back so pretty andattractive, and--and you liked her so, it made me very miserable. I didnot want her to come here to be mistress, to have your love, to be firsteverywhere, but I know now how odious and hateful it was, and I amsorry, when you have always been so good to me. And, Uncle Gaspard, ifyou want to marry Barbe and bring her here and be happy with her, I willbe content and not envy her for your sake----"

  She was sobbing softly then. He had his arm around her and led herthrough the open gate to the little arbor of wild grape vines andhoneysuckle that was always in bloom, a nest of fragrance now that thedew had begun to fall. He drew her very close to him and let her sob outher sorrow and penitence. How simply heroic she was to give up a part ofthe best thing in her life, for he knew, as he had believed before, thatValbonais's love had not found the path to her heart.

  "I was so miserable," she went on tremulously, "and I thought I would goto the church and pray as I used, when I asked God to send you back.Then I met the good father. And now I am going to begin. I shall not beunhappy any more, at least I shall strive against it. And I wantyou--yes," catching her breath, "I want you to have whatever pleases youbest."

  For a moment or two so deep was his emotion he could not steady his ownvoice. And as he held her there, felt the beating of her heart, theagitation of her slim figure, the sobs she was trying to control, apassion of tenderness swept over him and almost a desire to claim her ashis and let her rest henceforth in the proud security of entire love.Yes, she would marry him if he said the word. But much as she loved himit would never be that highest of all wifely love. She was still achild, and he was more than double her age. He stood in the place of afather, and there would be a question if the legal relationship wouldnot be a bar in the sight of the Church.

  And--Barbe? He was much interested in her and had a secret sympathy withher. Her eyes had confessed to him that her marriage had not beensatisfactory. If he stood quite alone, perhaps that might be the endingpresently, but it was no plan of his now, no desire, even.

  Ah, Renee, you did not know what an unconscious rival you were! Barbeunderstood the situation much better, but she had a woman's wisdom.

  It had all passed through his mind like a flash.

  "My little dear," he said, toying with the soft hair, "set your heart atrest. I had not thought of marrying Barbe. And I could never give youup."

  "But--if you were going to be happier----"

  "I am quite an old fellow now. I like my own way. A smoke in the chimneycorner is my delight, and a little girl who sits there weaving picturesand adventures in the blaze. I am happy enough."

  Her heart gave a great bound. How could she help delighting in theconfession! But that was selfish again. She would hold this exquisitepleasure on sufferance.

  "Yes, I am happy enough at present. But I should like my little girl tomarry some one who could be a son to me in my old age, who would notwant to take her away, and we would keep step together when we turnedthe summit of the hill and were going down the decline. Only I shallhave to sit on the top a good while waiting for you, there are so manyyears between."

  There was almost a merry sound in his voice.

  "And now is the unhappiness all gone?" pressing her fondly to his side.

  "There is the shame and regret for naughtiness. Have I troubled you agood deal?" in a repentant tone.

  "It would have been worse if you were really ill."

  "I almost made myself so. I did not think that it might cause youanxiety. You see, I was only considering myself and heaping up sorrowwhere there was no real sorrow."

  "But you will not do it any more?"

  "No, not any more," she answered, with exquisite tenderness.

  "And now shall we go in? What do you suppose Mere Lunde will say? Andsee, it is quite dark. There are two stars."

  All above them was the vault of deepest blue, resting on the tree-topsor the vague, far distance where all was indistinguishable. The riverlapped along, some night birds gave a shrill cry, and far off awhippoorwill was repeating his mournful lay.

  "Come." He lifted her up in his strong arms and swung her around. Thedoor stood wide open, framing in a vivid picture of the hearth fire, thebig empty chair, Mere Lunde bending over some cookery. Every year hershoulders grew more round and her head was almost hidden between them.

  Renee seemed to herself like one in a dream. She would not exult in thisnew possessorship. She would keep meek and lowly, remembering herindulgence in sinful feelings, her doubt and distrust.

  "What has kept you so?" cried Mere Lunde. "The fish has dried to acrisp. And one never knows. It may be Indians or wild animals----"

  "Nothing worse than sitting in the arbor, talking."

  "And the child not at all well! When she comes down with a fever--and shelooks like a ghost now."

  That was true enough. The cool air had added to her paleness and hereyes had a softness in their brown depths, a mysterious expression, asif she had not shaken off the atmosphere of some far world.

  "Go to the fire and warm up, even if it is a summer night. You shouldhave known better than to keep her sitting in the chill dew," to M.Denys.

  Then the good mere made her drink a cup of hot broth.

  But she had not much appetite. Now and then she stole a shy glance atUncle Gaspard, and if she met his eyes a faint color suffused her face.The happy, childlike trust was coming back. And though they sat togetherawhile afterward, the faint glow of the dying fire l
ighting the room,neither fell in a humor for talking. She kept half wondering if it wastrue that he did not care to marry Barbe, half disbelieving it; and yetit did not give her the pang she had suffered from the cruel jealousythat had rent her soul. The tranquillity was very sweet, verycomforting.

  She was singing the next morning as she went about her duties a gaylittle French chanson Andre had taught her, and her voice was like abird's.

  "You are happy this morning, ma'm'selle," said Mere Lunde, with fondnessin her old eyes. "Has there been news from the boats?"

  "From the boats?" What had that to do with it? Then she coloredscarlet--that meant Andre.

  "No," she replied gravely. "Uncle Gaspard would have mentioned it ifthere was."

  Still the embarrassing tint ran over her face. All this time had one andanother been fancying that she was grieving for Andre Valbonais? Ah,they would see! She would be as gay as before. She would go out with thegirls berrying, and gathering strange flowers that queer old DoctorMontcrevier was glad to press and put in a great book that he had. Theywere very little troubled by Indians now, yet they always went inconsiderable parties, and Friga was her guard.

  Monsieur Denys took quite a party up the river in the boat he had beenbuilding, and they spent the night at St. Charles. Just beyond wasanother bend in the river, and the air was so clear they could discernthe windings a long distance up. Everywhere there were still some signsof the great flood. But it had not been able to destroy the frowningbluffs, though it had left caves in different places, swept some islandsout of existence or added them to others. The world was a beautifulplace when the elements were at rest, and it was a blessed thing tolive.

  Renee was growing a little graver, a little more womanly and thoughtful,but Denys wondered at the added sweetness. She was quite a devoutchurchgoer now, and occasionally went up for a chat with the goodfather, that was not confession exactly, but helped her insight in someof the greater truths, made her more ready to share happiness withothers.

  It had been quite a trial at first to go cordially to the Renauds',though she did admire Barbe's little girl. Madame Gardepier was a personof some note now, and received invitations to the Government House, andwas on delightful terms with Madame Chouteau and several of the moreimportant residents. Sometimes Uncle Gaspard and Renee walked down of anevening, and the young girl always trembled a little, Barbe was so verycharming.

  Denys understood that he could win her if he cared. Was he reallygrowing so old that he had not the necessary ardor? Had that oneyouthful love and sorrow sufficed him? He was touched by Renee's sweetdemeanor now, though he could not see the quaking heart behind it.

  Monsieur Pierre Chouteau came home to his family late in the fall, and anew Lieutenant-Governor accompanied him. There was strange and stirringnews from France, from Spain, even from the colonies at the eastwardwhich, having shaken off their old rulers, were still harrassed byIndian wars and the unwillingness of England to give up the placesspecified in the treaties.

  They did not mind these disputes in the old town. Life ran on smoothly.They were like one big family; had their joys and few sorrows and tooklittle heed for to-morrow. There was the winter pleasure and newmarriages; there were young men who cast longing eyes at Renee deLongueville, who would have no real lovers. And now she was seventeen.

  They were very happy together, Renee and her uncle.

  "She will marry some time," thought the woman who longed for the placeby his fireside when it should be vacant. Renee's demeanor puzzled her.She was no longer a third person. She often left them quite alone, andwhen occasion offered invited Barbe and her little girl to tea. GaspardDenys was very friendly. He had the gift of being friendly with women.

  The boats began to come up. There was some word about Andre. PierreChouteau came over and told Denys.

  "I hope you will not be too much disappointed," he said, "but there issome important business on hand and he really cannot be spared. We madeit an object for him to remain. Indeed, we should like him to take oneof the head positions there. He is a fine, trusty fellow. He asked me tocome and explain to you, lest you should think he had grown indifferentabout old friends. But you need not fear that."

  "We had counted on seeing him, but duty is duty, and one ought not torun away from it for pleasure," replied Denys, approvingly.

  Renee was not going to give any one an opportunity to consider her alovelorn maiden this time. She was gay and bright, joining the pleasureparties and dancing, ready for canoeing or rowing about on the oldmill-pond in the races. She never summoned the young men to her side andbade them fetch and carry, as she used to Andre; she sent her admirersto this girl and that one, but somehow they always found their way backand gathered as bees about the sweetest flower. They would spend wholeevenings with Denys for the sake of watching her as she sat so demurelybeside the fire, now and then raising her soft brown eyes that the flameseemed to burnish with gold, or smiling vaguely at some conceit of herown instead of what the visitor said.

  When they were alone on rare occasions she would bring Uncle Gaspard hisflute and often sing dainty little songs in the sweetest voiceimaginable. Then he would listen and dream of her mother, and it seemedas if she came and sat beside them. He could see her shadowy form, hebelieved he could touch her with his hand. There was no sin in lovingher now, since she was free from the Count de Longueville.

  Then came winter again. Should they go to the king's ball?

  "I'm too old," said Uncle Gaspard. "I found a white hair in my beardthis morning."

  "Oh, think of the fathers and grandfathers! And they dance, too. Old,indeed!"

  She shook her slim finger at him.

  "I've grown lazy. M. Marchand is such an excellent partner that I havevery little to do."

  "Oh, and you were out skating a few days ago and distanced many of theyounger men! I shall not go unless you do," resolutely.

  "And you have never been a queen in your own right," he remarked with agleam of amusement. "You ought to try your luck."

  "Before _I_ get old and have to wear a coif," shaking her head in mockdespair. "Oh, let us both go!"

  She had to coax a good deal and insist stoutly that she would not stir astep without him. And, of course, he had to yield.

  She listened to the songs and the solicitations, and sent Mere Lunde outwith a generous contribution.

  This time she did not care so much about her gown. It was pretty enough.She had a beautiful necklace that Mattawissa had given her, made of blueand white shells that came from the southerly Atlantic coast and wereheld in high esteem among the Indians and considered of great value inthe way of trade, as they were used in wampums. They were ground in apeculiar fashion, with a small hole drilled in them and strung on achain. In dancing, as they touched each other the jingle had a peculiarmusical sound.

  Madame Gardepier and one of her nieces cut the cake when the midnightbell sounded.

  "You _must_ have a piece, Renee," said Madame Elise Borrie, who wasplump and smiling and the mother of three children. "But," in amischievous whisper, "they will fight to be chosen king. We shall learnwho is your favorite."

  "I've never had any luck," returned Renee in a tone of mockdisappointment.

  "And _I_'ve never cut the cake before! Oh, you must take a piece fromme! There will be luck in it."

  Renee took the piece laughingly, spread out her handkerchief, and brokeit in two or three fragments. Out fell the ring.

  "Oh! oh! oh!" and there was a crowd about her. She slipped it on herfinger and was handed her nose-gay.

  Whom would she choose? There were eager eyes and indrawn breaths, smilesthat asked in wordless language, young men crowding nearer.

  She went over to Denys. "You always were my king," she said in a low,sweet tone that touched him immeasurably. "I am glad to give you theroyal signet, a rose."

  Gaspard Denys bowed like a young courtier.

  "You know I must have done it besides my own desire," she whispered."There would have been quarrels and
heart burnings."

  "Yes," nodding that he understood.

  "Ma'm'selle Renee, that is hardly fair," declared an aggrieved one."There are so many young men----"

  "And other queens, and a room full of pretty girls. I will give you onedance."

  His face lighted up with joy.

  "It will end by a marriage, mark my words," said the mother of threedaughters.

  "No, it cannot," returned Madame Gardepier, with secret exultation. "Hewas appointed her uncle and guardian by the Church. It would beunlawful."

  "True enough. But if she would settle upon some one in earnest the restwould stand a chance. I don't know what there is about her. And she'spast eighteen. It won't do for her to waste many more years."

  Renee and her uncle danced twice. Then she said, with the persuasivetouch in her voice that he never could resist:

  "Now you must dance with Madame Gardepier and some of the young girls,while I comfort the disconsolate. And we will go home early."

  But there was such an outcry she could not get away so easily. They wereall as eager as if there had never been balls before and would never beone again.

  Renee would not attend the next one. Gaspard grumbled at having to go byhimself and meet the storm of reproaches.

  "See, I will tie up my head--you can say you left me that way," and shepassed a folded handkerchief about it, that made her look morecoquettish than ever. "Now--I might rub a bit of garlic over my eyes andthey would look red enough."

  Gaspard laughed in spite of a little ill humor.

  Renee settled herself in his big chair and wrapped her feet in the furrobe. How the wind blew without, though the moonless sky was brilliantwith stars. The trees writhed and groaned, and she fancied she couldhear the lashing of the river. Occasionally a gust blew down thechimney, driving long tongues of flame out into the room and scatteringashes about. But the house of split logs, plastered on the outside andwithin, was solid enough. She only laughed when the wind banged upagainst it and had to depart with sullen grumbling.

  She loved to sit this way and live over the past. What had changed herso? Did wilfulness belong naturally to childhood? Or was it the lessonsshe had learned in the little old church from the good father? Life wasfiner and broader, and duties, real duties, were oftentimes adelight--not always, she admitted, with a little twinge of conscience--andthere were sacrifices of inclination to be made.

  What a curious, varied life hers had been! And now it flowed ontranquilly. Would it always be this way? Uncle Gaspard wanted her tomarry, but who was there to suit them both? The pretty mystery, notquite a smile, but that always made her face enchanting, passed over itnow. This one and that one had been mentioned, and she had scouted themwith a dainty insistence that always amused him, though he would argueabout their best points as if he was in sober earnest.

  "Sometimes I think you really want to get rid of me, Uncle Gaspard," shewould retort, with an air of being provoked. "And what if I should neverlike anybody? I wonder if, after all, when I am old, say thirty,perhaps, I would have to go to Quebec and enter a convent, like MarieGuion?"

  "Thirty! Well, you are a good way from that! And I am a good way pastit, and you won't hear to my being old."

  Then she would laugh and put loving arms about his neck, and he wouldthink he did not mind the waiting. If it was God's will, the thing hewanted would come about; but if it was not, one could not go against thegreat All-Father, whose right it was to give or to deny.

  But he remarked that she had grown to like talking over the times whenAndre Valbonais had come to her rescue and that of Wawataysee.

  "And I would get hungry and tired and cold, and feel afraid of wildanimals in the forest. I was so little, you know, and not wise andpatient like Wawataysee. And I used to cry for you. Andre was very goodnot to get cross and scold, now was he not?"

  "Oh, my little one, I never forget that I owe him a great deal. And I amglad he is prospering so well."

  "But suppose he should want to stay in New Orleans? It is so much gayerand finer than this little St. Louis. Our Place d'Arms is nothingcompared to that handsome plaza, Barbe says. And the women dress somuch, and there is the beautiful church, and the school for girls, and atheatre, and music everywhere on the balconies. Perhaps he will nevercome back."

  Did she sigh a little over her own prediction?

  "We can go there some day----"

  "If you think I am going to run after him," with a charming show ofindignation that made her cheeks bloom like the rose, "you are far outof the way. That would be on every one's tongue. Renee de Longuevillehas gone to New Orleans after M'sieu Valbonais, because she cannot get alover here. Why, he might stay there a hundred years before I would go!"

  "There seems to be no lack of lovers here. Whether they come for me, orthe good fire, or----"

  "They like you, and they like to smoke and ask your advice. And don'tyou notice that sometimes I go to bed, slip away softly, and they nevermiss me?"

  At that Uncle Gaspard would nod, with an expression of incredulity inhis eyes.

  And on nights like these, when she happened to be alone, or in that longspace of winter twilight when she curled herself up in the fur rugs likea kitten, she used to wander off in reveries about that almostdream-like episode, with its terrors, that made her shudder even now,because she realized their dangers so much more keenly. Oh, what ifAndre had not found them? How could they have taken all that longjourney with no care, no kindly treatment? And that tall, fierce BlackFeather! He might have minded about Wawataysee, who was of some value tohim, but she, a little child! And if Andre had said, "Oh, we cannot bebothered with her, we shall have to go so much slower," and they hadstolen away! Some tears always came in her eyes at this point. And therewas that last night, when he had carried her and she had slept in hisarms. Yes, she ought to be very grateful. And sometimes she had beenwilful and treated him very badly. Of course, he had half-forgottenabout her. Was the girl beautiful that he cared the most for? Did shedance with the grace of a fairy, and was her voice sweet and seductive,just as Barbe Gardepier's was at times, a sound that both fascinated andvexed her, the liquid tone that made a man bend his head lest he shouldlose a note of its sweetness? And her parents would be very gracious tohim; she knew how charming mothers could be.

  After they had been married a long, long while she would go with UncleGaspard to visit them. She and Uncle Gaspard would grow old together,and she would have a stoop in the shoulders like Mere Lunde.