Rose à Charlitte

by Marshall Saunders

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  NARCISSE GOES IN SEARCH OF THE ENGLISHMAN.

  "L'homme s'agite, Dieu le mene."

  Mrs. Nimmo was a very unhappy woman. She had never before had a troubleequal to this trouble, and, as she sat at the long window in the bedroomof her absent son, she drearily felt that it was eating the heart andspirit out of her.

  Vesper was away, and she had refused to share his unhappy wanderings,for she knew that he did not wish her to do so. Very calmly and coldlyhe had told her that his engagement to Rose a Charlitte was over. Heassigned no cause for it, and Mrs. Nimmo, in her desperation, earnestlywished that he had never heard of the Acadiens, that Rose a Charlittehad never been born, and that the little peninsula of Nova Scotia hadnever been traced on the surface of the globe.

  It was a lovely evening of late summer. The square in which she livedwas cool and quiet, for very few of its inhabitants had come back fromtheir summer excursions. Away in the distance, beyond the leafy common,she could hear the subdued roar of the city, but on the brick pavementsabout her there was scarcely a footfall.

  The window at which she sat faced the south. In winter her son's roomwas flooded with sunlight, but in summer the branching elm outside putforth a kindly screen of leaves to shield it from the too oppressiveheat. Her glance wandered between the delicate lace curtains, swaying toand fro, to this old elm that seemed a member of her family. How muchher son loved it,--and with an indulgent thought of Vesper's passion forthe natives of the outdoor world, a disagreeable recollection of theAcadien woman's child leaped into her mind.

  How absurdly fond of trees and flowers he had been, and what a fanciful,unnatural child he was, altogether. She had never liked him, and he hadnever liked her, and she wrinkled her brows at the distastefulremembrance of him.

  A knock at the half-open door distracted her attention, and, languidlyturning her head, she said, "What is it, Henry?"

  "It's a young woman, Mis' Nimmo," replied that ever alert and demurecolored boy, "what sometimes brings you photographs. She come in a hackwith a girl."

  "Let her come up. She may leave the girl below."

  "I guess that girl ain't a girl, Mis' Nimmo,--she looks mighty like aboy. She's the symbol of the little feller in the French place I tookyou to."

  Mrs. Nimmo gave him a rebuking glance. "Let the girl remaindown-stairs."

  "Madame," said a sudden voice, "this is now Boston,--where is theEnglishman?"

  Mrs. Nimmo started from her chair. Here was the French child himself,standing calmly before her in the twilight, his small body habited inridiculous and disfiguring girl's clothes, his cropped curly head andwhite face appearing above an absurd kind of grayish yellow cloak.

  "Narcisse!" she ejaculated.

  "Madame," said the faint yet determined little voice, "is the Englishmanin his house?"

  Mrs. Nimmo's glance fell upon Henry, who was standing open-mouthed andgrotesque, and with a gesture she sent him from the room.

  Narcisse, exhausted yet eager, had started on a tour of investigationabout the room, holding up with one hand the girl's trappings, whichconsiderably hampered his movements, and clutching something to hisbreast with the other. He had found the house of the Englishman and hismother, and by sure tokens he recognized his recent presence in thisvery room. Here were his books, his gloves, his cap, and, best of all,another picture of him; and, with a cry of delight, he dropped on afootstool before a full-length portrait of the man he adored. Here hewould rest: his search was ended; and meekly surveying Mrs. Nimmo, hemurmured, "Could Narcisse have a glass of milk?"

  Mrs. Nimmo's emotions at present all seemed to belong to the order ofthe intense. She had never before been so troubled; she had never beforebeen so bewildered. What did the presence of this child under her roofmean? Was his mother anywhere near? Surely not,--Rose would never clotheher comely child in those shabby garments of the other sex.

  She turned her puzzled face to the doorway, and found an answer to herquestions in the presence of an anxious-faced young woman there, whosaid, apologetically, "He got away from me; he's been like a wild thingto get here. Do you know him?"

  "Know him? Yes, I have seen him before."

  The anxious-faced young woman breathed a sigh of relief. "I thought,maybe, I'd been taken in. I was just closing up the studio, an hour ago,when two men came up the stairs with this little fellow wrapped in anold coat. They said they were from a schooner called the _Nancy Jane_,down at one of the wharves, and they picked up this boy in a driftingboat on the Bay Saint-Mary two days ago. They said he was frightenedhalf out of his senses, and was holding on to that photo in hishand,--show the lady, dear."

  Narcisse, whose tired head was nodding sleepily on his breast, paid noattention to her request, so she gently withdrew one of his hands fromunder his cloak and exhibited in it a torn and stained photograph ofVesper.

  Mrs. Nimmo caught her breath, and attempted to take it from him, but hequickly roused himself, and, placing it beneath him, rolled over on thefloor, and, with a farewell glance at the portrait above, fell soundasleep.

  "He's beat out," said the anxious-faced young woman. "I'm glad I've gothim to friends. The sailors were awful glad to get rid of him. They kindof thought he was a French child from Nova Scotia, but they hadn't timeto run back with him, for they had to hurry here with their cargo, andthen he held on to the photo and said he wanted to be taken to thatyoung man. The sailors saw our address on it, but they sort ofmisdoubted we wouldn't keep him. However, I thought I'd take him offtheir hands, for he was frightened to death they would carry him back totheir vessel, though I guess they was kind enough to him. I gave themback their coat, and borrowed some things from the woman who takes careof our studio. I forgot to say the boy had only a night-dress on whenthey found him."

  Mrs. Nimmo mechanically felt in her pocket for her purse. "They didn'tsay anything about a woman being with him?"

  "No, ma'am; he wouldn't talk to them much, but they said it was likely achild's trick of getting in a boat and setting himself loose."

  "Would you--would you care to keep him until he is sent for?" falteredMrs. Nimmo.

  "I--oh, no, I couldn't. I've only a room in a lodging-house. I'd beafraid of something happening to him, for I'm out all day. I offered himsomething to eat, but he wouldn't take it--oh, thank you, ma'am, Ididn't spend all that. I guess I'll have to go. Does he come from downEast?"

  "Yes, he is French. My son visited his house this summer, and used topet him a good deal."

  The young woman cast a glance of veiled admiration at the portrait. "Andthe little one ran away to find him. Quite a story. He's cute, too,"and, airily patting Narcisse's curly head, she took her leave of Mrs.Nimmo, and made her way down-stairs. A good many strange happenings cameinto her daily life in this large city, and this was not one of thestrangest.

  Mrs. Nimmo sat still and stared at Narcisse. Rose had probably not beenin the boat with him,--had probably not been drowned. He had apparentlyrun away from home, and the first thing to do was to communicate withhis mother, who would be frantic with anxiety about him. She thereforewrote out a telegram to Rose, "Your boy is with me, and safe and well,"and ringing for Henry, she bade him send it as quickly as possible.

  Then she sank again into profound meditation. The child had come to seeVesper. Had she better not let him know about it? If she applied theprinciples of sound reasoning to the case, she certainly should do so.It might also be politic. Perhaps it would bring him home to her, and,sighing heavily, she wrote another telegram.

  In the meantime Narcisse did not awake. He lay still, enjoying the heavyslumber of exhaustion and content. He was in the house of his belovedEnglishman; all would now be well.

  He did not know that, after a time, his trustful confidence awoke themother spirit in the woman watching him. The child for a time was whollyin her care. No other person in this vast city was interested in him. Noone cared for him. A strange, long-unknown
feeling fluttered about herbreast, and memories of her past youth awoke. She had also once been achild. She had been lonely and terrified, and suffered childish agoniesnot to be revealed until years of maturity. They were mostly agoniesabout trifles,--still, she had suffered. She pictured to herself thedespair and anger of the boy upon finding that Vesper did not return toSleeping Water as he had promised to do. With his little white face in asnarl, he would enter the boat and set himself adrift, to facesufferings of fright and loneliness of which in his petted childhood hecould have had no conception. And yet what courage. She could see thathe was exhausted, yet there had been no whining, no complaining; he hadattained his object and he was satisfied. He was really like her ownboy, and, with a proud, motherly smile, she gazed alternately from thecurly head on the carpet to the curly one in the portrait.

  The external resemblance, too, was indeed remarkable, and now thethought did not displease her, although it had invariably done so inSleeping Water, when she had heard it frequently and naively commentedon by the Acadiens.

  Well, the child had thrown himself on her protection,--he should notrepent it; and, summoning a housemaid, she sent her in search of some ofVesper's long-unused clothing, and then together they slipped thedisfiguring girl's dress from Narcisse's shapely body, and put on him along white nightrobe.

  He drowsily opened his eyes as they were lifting him into Vesper's bed,saw that the photograph was still in his possession, and that a familiarface was bending over him, then, sweetly murmuring "_Bon soir_" (goodnight), he again slipped into the land of dreams.

  Several times during the night Mrs. Nimmo stole into her son's room, anddrew the white sheet from the black head half buried in the pillow. Onceshe kissed him, and this time she went back to her bed with a lighterheart, and was soon asleep herself.

  She was having a prolonged nap the next morning when something causedher suddenly to open her eyes. Just for an instant she fancied herself ahappy young wife again, her husband by her side, their adored childpaying them an early morning call. Then the dream was over. This was thelittle foreign boy who was sitting curled up on the foot of her bed,nibbling hungrily at a handful of biscuits.

  "I came, madame, because those others I do not know," and he pointedtowards the floor, to indicate her servants. "Has your son, theEnglishman, yet arrived?"

  "No," she said, gently.

  "Your skin is white," said Narcisse, approvingly; "that is good; I donot like that man."

  "But you have seen colored people on the Bay,--you must not dislikeHenry. My husband brought him here as a boy to wait on my son. I cannever give him up."

  "He is amiable," said Narcisse, diplomatically. "He gave me these," andhe extended his biscuits.

  They were carrying on their conversation in French, for only with Vesperdid Narcisse care to speak English. Perfectly aware, in his acutechildish intelligence, that he was, for a time, entirely dependent on"madame," whom, up to this, he had been jealous of, and had positivelydisliked, he was keeping on her a watchful and roguish eye. Mrs. Nimmo,meanwhile, was interested and amused, but would make no overtures tohim.

  "Is your bed as soft as mine, madame?" he said, politely.

  "I do not know; I never slept in that one."

  Narcisse drew a corner of her silk coverlet over his feet. "Narcisse wasvery sick yesterday."

  "I do not wonder," said his hostess.

  "Your son said that he would return, but he did not."

  "My son has other things to think of, little boy."

  Mrs. Nimmo's manner was one that would have checked confidences in anordinary child. It made Narcisse more eager to justify himself. "Whydoes my mother cry every night?" he asked, suddenly.

  "How can I tell?" answered Mrs. Nimmo, peevishly.

  "I hear a noise in the night, like trees in a storm," said Narcisse,tragically, and, drawing himself up, he fetched a tremendous sigh fromthe pit of his little stomach; "then I put up my hand so,"--and leaningover, he placed three fingers on Mrs. Nimmo's eyelids,--"and my mother'sface is quite wet, like leaves in the rain."

  Mrs. Nimmo did not reply, and he went on with alarming abruptness. "Shecries for the Englishman. I also cried, and one night I got out of bed.It was very fine; there was the night sun in the sky,--you know, madame,there is a night sun and a day sun--"

  "Yes, I know."

  "I went creeping, creeping to the wharf like a fly on a tree. I was notafraid, for I carried your son in my hand, and he says only babies crywhen they are alone."

  "And then,--" said Mrs. Nimmo.

  "Oh, the beautiful stone!" cried Narcisse, his volatile fancy attractedby a sparkling ring on Mrs. Nimmo's finger.

  She sighed, and allowed him to handle it for a moment. "I have just putit on again, little boy. I have been in mourning for the last two years.Tell me about your going to the boat."

  "There is nothing to tell," said Narcisse; "it was a very little boat."

  "Whose boat was it?"

  "The blacksmith's."

  "How did you get it off from the wharf?"

  "Like this," and bending over, he began to fumble with the strings ofher nightcap, tying and untying until he tickled her throat and made herlaugh irresistibly and push him away. "There was no knife," he said, "orI would have cut it."

  "But you did wrong to take the blacksmith's boat."

  Narcisse's face flushed, yet he was too happy to become annoyed withher. "When the Englishman is there, I am good, and my mother does notcry. Let him go back with me."

  "And what shall I do?"

  Narcisse was plainly embarrassed. At last he said, earnestly, "Remain,madame, with the black man, who will take care of you. When does theEnglishman arrive?"

  "I do not know; run away now, I want to dress."

  "You have here a fine bathroom," said Narcisse, sauntering across theroom to an open door. "When am I to have my bath?"

  "Does your mother give you one every day?"

  "Yes, madame, at night, before I go to bed. Do you not know the screenin our room, and the little tub, and the dish with the soap that smellsso nice? I must scour myself hard in order to be clean."

  "I am glad to hear that. I will send a tub to your room."

  "But I like this, madame."

  "Come, come," she said, peremptorily, "run away. No one bathes in my tubbut myself."

  Narcisse had a passion for dabbling in water, and he found this daintybathroom irresistible. "I hate you, madame," he said, flushing angrily,and stamping his foot at her. "I hate you."

  Mrs. Nimmo looked admiringly past the child at his reflection in hercheval glass. What a beauty he was, as he stood furiously regarding her,his sweet, proud face convulsed, his little body trembling inside hiswhite gown! In his recklessness he had forgotten to be polite to her,and she liked him the better for it.

  "You are a naughty boy," she said, indulgently. "I cannot have you in myroom if you talk like that."

  Without a word Narcisse went to her dressing-table, picked up hisprecious photograph that he had left propped against a silver-backedbrush, and turned to leave her, when she said, curiously, "Why did youtear that picture if you think so much of it?"

  Narcisse immediately fell into a state of pitiable confusion, and,hanging his head, remained speechless.

  "If you will say you are sorry for being rude, I will give you anotherone," she said, and in a luxury of delight at playing with this littlesoul, she raised herself on her arm and held out a hand to him.

  Narcisse drew back his lips at her as if he had been a small dog."Madame," he faltered, tapping his teeth, "these did it, but I stoppedthem."

  "What do you mean?" said Mrs. Nimmo, and a horrible suspicion enteredher mind.

  "Narcisse was hungry--in the boat--" stammered the boy. "He nibbled buta little of the picture. He could not bite the Englishman long."

  Mrs. Nimmo shuddered. She had never been hungry in her life. "Come here,you poor child. You shall have a bath in my room as soon as I finish.Give me a kiss."

  Narc
isse's sensitive spirit immediately became bathed with light. "ShallI kiss you as your son the Englishman kissed my mother?"

  "Yes," said Mrs. Nimmo, bravely, and she held out her arms.

  "But you must not do so," said Narcisse, drawing back. "You must nowcry, and hide your face like this,"--and his slender, supple fingersguided her head into a distressed position,--"and when I approach, youmust wave your hands."

  "Did your mother do that?" asked Mrs. Nimmo, eagerly.

  "Yes,--and your son lifted her hand like this," and Narcisse bent agraceful knee before her.

  "Did she not throw her arms around his neck and cling to him?" inquiredthe lady, in an excess of jealous curiosity.

  "No, she ran from us up the bank."

  "Your mother is a wicked woman to cause my son pain," said Mrs. Nimmo,in indignant and rapid French.

  "My mother is not wicked," said Narcisse, vehemently. "I wish to seeher. I do not like you."

  They were on the verge of another disagreement, and Mrs. Nimmo, with asoothing caress, hurried him from the room. What a curious boy he was!And as she dressed herself she sometimes smiled and sometimes frowned ather reflection in the glass, but the light in her eyes was always ahappy one, and there was an unusual color in her cheeks.