Rose à Charlitte

by Marshall Saunders

  CHAPTER VI.

  A SNAKE IN THE GRASS INTERFERES WITH THE EDUCATION OF MIRABELLE MARIE.

  "Fair is the earth and fair is the sky; God of the tempest, God of the calm, What must be heaven when here is such balm?"

  --_Aminta._

  Bidiane, being of a practical turn of mind, and having a tremendous fundof energy to bestow upon the world in some way or other, was doing herbest to follow the hint given her by Vesper Nimmo, that she should, as ameans of furthering her education, spend some time at the Sleeping WaterInn, with the object of imparting to Mirabelle Marie a few ideashitherto outside her narrow range of thought.

  Sometimes the girl became provoked with her aunt, sometimes she had tocheck herself severely, and rapidly mutter Vesper's incantation, "Do notdespise any one; if you do, it will be at a great loss to yourself."

  At other times Bidiane had no need to think of the incantation. Her auntwas so good-natured, so forgiving, she was so full of pride in heryoung niece, that it seemed as if only the most intense provocationcould justify any impatience with her.

  Mirabelle Marie loved Bidiane almost as well as she loved her ownchildren, and it was only some radical measure, such as the changing ofher sneaks at sundown for a pair of slippers, or the sitting in theparlor instead of the kitchen, that excited her rebellion. However, shereadily yielded,--these skirmishes were not the occurrences that vexedBidiane's soul. The renewed battles were the things that discouragedher. No victory was sustained. Each day she must contend for what hadbeen conceded the day before, and she was tortured by the knowledge thatso little hold had she on Mirabelle Marie's slippery soul that, if shewere to leave Sleeping Water on any certain day, by the next one matterswould at once slip back to their former condition.

  "Do not be discouraged," Vesper wrote her. "The Bay was not built in aday. Some of your ancestors lived in camps in the woods."

  This was an allusion on his part to the grandmother of Mrs. Watercrow,who had actually been a squaw, and Bidiane, as a highly civilized being,winced slightly at it. Very little of the Indian strain had entered herveins, except a few drops that were exhibited in a passion for ramblingin the woods. She was more like her French ancestors, but her aunt hadthe lazy, careless blood, as had also her children.

  One of the chief difficulties that Bidiane had to contend with, in heraunt, was her irreligion. Mirabelle Marie had weak religious instincts.She had as a child, and as a very young woman, been an adherent of theRoman Catholic Church, and had obtained some grasp of its doctrines.When, in order to become "stylish," she had forsaken this church, shefound herself in the position of a forlorn dog who, having dropped hissubstantial bone, finds himself groping for a shadow. Protestantism wasan empty word to her. She could not comprehend it; and Bidiane, althougha Protestant herself, shrewdly made up her mind that there was no hopefor her aunt save in the church of her forefathers. However, in what wayto get her back to it,--that was the question. She scolded, entreated,reasoned, but all in vain. Mirabelle Marie lounged about the house allday Sunday, very often, strange to say, amusing herself withdeclamations against the irreligion of the people of Boston.

  Bidiane's opportunity to change this state of affairs at last came, andall unthinkingly she embraced it.

  The opportunity began on a hot and windy afternoon, a few days after herdrive with Agapit. She sat on the veranda reading, until struck by asudden thought which made her close her book, and glance up and down thelong road, to see if the flying clouds of dust were escorting anyapproaching traveller to the inn. No one was coming, so she hastily leftthe house and ran across the road to the narrow green field that laybetween the inn and the Bay.

  The field was bounded by straggling rows of raspberry bushes, and overthe bushes hung a few apple-trees,--meek, patient trees, their backsbent from stooping before the strong westerly winds, their short, stubbyfoliage blown all over their surprised heads.

  There was a sheep-pen in the corner of the field next the road, and nearit was a barred gate, opening on a winding path that led down to theflat shore. Bidiane went through the gate, frowned slightly at amowing-machine left out-of-doors for many days by the careless Claude,then laughed at the handle of its uplifted brake, that looked like adisconsolate and protesting arm raised to the sky.

  All the family were in the hay field. Two white oxen drew the hay wagonslowly to and fro, while Claudine and the two boys circled about it,raking together scattered wisps left from the big cocks that Claudethrew up to Mirabelle Marie.

  The mistress of the house was in her element. She gloried in haying,which was the only form of exercise that appealed in the least to her.Her face was overspread by a grin of delight, her red dress fluttered inthe strong breeze, and she gleefully jumped up and down on top of theload, and superimposed her fat jolly weight on the masses of hay.

  Bidiane ran towards them, dilating her small nostrils as she ran tocatch the many delicious odors of the summer air. The strong perfume ofthe hay overpowered them all, and, in an intoxication of delight, shedropped on a heap of it, and raised an armful to her face.

  A squeal from Claudine roused her. Her rake had uncovered a mouse'snest, and she was busily engaged in killing every one of the tinyvelvety creatures.

  "But why do you do it?" asked Bidiane, running up to her.

  Claudine stared at her. She was a magnificent specimen of womanhood asshe stood in the blazing light of the sun, and Bidiane, even in themidst of her subdued indignation, thought of some lines in theShakespeare that she had just laid down:

  "'Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair, Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream, That can entame my spirits to your worship."

  Claudine was carrying on a vigorous line of reasoning. She admiredBidiane intensely, and she quietly listened with pleasure to what shecalled her _rocamboles_ of the olden times, which were Bidiane's talesof Acadien exploits and sufferings. She was a more apt pupil than thedense and silly Mirabelle Marie.

  "If I was a mouse I wouldn't like to be killed," she said, presently,going on with her raking; and Bidiane, having made her think, wassatisfied.

  "Now, Claudine," she said, "you must be tired. Give me your rake, and doyou go up to the house and rest."

  "Yes, go, Claudine," said Mirabelle Marie, from her height, "you lookdrug out."

  "I am not tired," said Claudine, in French, "and I shall not give myrake to you, Bidiane. You are not used to work."

  Bidiane bubbled over into low, rippling laughter. "I delicate,--ah, thatis good! Give me your rake, Claude. You go up to the barn now, do younot?"

  Claude nodded, and extended a strong hand to assist his wife in slidingto the ground. Then, accompanied by his boys, he jogged slowly after thewagon to the barn, where the oxen would be unyoked, and the graspingpitcher would lift the load in two or three mouthfuls to the mows.

  Bidiane threw down her rake and ran to the fence for some raspberries,and while her hands were busy with the red fruit, her bright eyes keptscanning the road. She watched a foot-passenger coming slowly from thestation, pausing at the corner, drifting in a leisurely way towards theinn, and finally, after a glance at Mirabelle Marie's conspicuous gown,climbing the fence, and moving deliberately towards her.

  "H'm--a snake in the grass," murmured Bidiane, keeping an eye on the newarrival, and presently she, too, made her way towards her aunt andClaudine, who had ceased work and were seated on the hay.

  "This is Nannichette," said Mirabelle Marie, somewhat apprehensively,when Bidiane reached them.

  "Yes, I know," said the girl, and she nodded stiffly to the woman, whowas almost as fat and as easy-going as Mirabelle Marie herself.

  Nannichette was half Acadien and half English, and she had married apure Indian who lived back in the woods near the Sleeping Water Lake.She was not a very desirable acquaintance for Mirabelle Marie, but shewas not a positively bad woman, and no
one would think of shutting adoor against her, although her acquaintance was not positively soughtafter by the scrupulous Acadiens.

  "We was gabbin' about diggin' for gold one day, Nannichette and I," saidMirabelle Marie, insinuatingly. "She knows a heap about good places, andthe good time to dig. You tell us, Biddy,--I mean Bidiane,--some of yeryarns about the lake. Mebbe there's some talk of gold in 'em."

  Bidiane sat down on the hay. If she talked, it would at least preventNannichette from pouring her nonsense into her aunt's ear, so shebegan. "I have not yet seen this lake of _L'Eau Dormante_, but I haveread of it. Long, long ago, before the English came to this province,and even before the French came, there was an Indian encampment on theshores of this deep, smooth, dark lake. Many canoes shot gaily acrossits glassy surface, many camp-fires sent up their smoke from among thetrees to the clear, blue sky. The encampment was an old, old one. TheIndians had occupied it for many winters; they planned to occupy it formany more, but one sweet spring night, when they were dreaming of summerroamings, a band of hostile Indians came slipping behind thetree-trunks. A bright blaze shot up to the clear sky, and the bosom ofSleeping Water looked as if some one had drawn a bloody finger acrossit. Following this were shrieks and savage yells, and afterward aprofound silence. The Indians left, and the shuddering trees grew closertogether to hide the traces of the savage invaders--no, the marks ofdevastation," she said, stopping suddenly and correcting herself, forshe had a good memory, and at times was apt to repeat verbatim the wordsof some of her favorite historians or story-tellers.

  "The green running vines, also," she continued, "made haste to spreadover the blackened ground, and the leaves fell quietly over the deadbodies and warmly covered them. Years went by, the leaf-mould hadgathered thick over the graves of the Indians, and then, on a memorableday, the feast of Sainte-Anne's, the French discovered the lovely,silent Sleeping Water, the gem of the forest, and erected a fort on itsbanks. The royal flag floated over the trees, a small space of groundwas cleared for the planting of corn, and a garden was laid out, whereseeds from old France grew and flourished, for no disturbing gales fromthe Bay ever reached this sanctuary of the wildwood.

  "All went merrily as a marriage bell until one winter night, when thebosom of the lake was frosted with ice, and the snow-laden branches ofthe trees hung heavily earthward. Then, in the hush before morning, asmall detachment of men on snowshoes, arrayed in a foreign uniform, andcarrying hatchets in their hands--"

  "More Injuns!" gasped Mirabelle Marie, clapping her hand to her mouth inlively distress at Bidiane's tragic manner.

  "No, no! I didn't say tomahawks," said Bidiane, who started nervously atthe interruption; "the hatchets weren't for killing,--they were to cutthe branches. These soldiers crept stealthily and painfully through theunderbrush, where broken limbs and prickly shrubs stretched outdetaining arms to hold them back; but they would not be held, for thelust of murder was in their hearts. When they reached the broad and openlake--"

  "You jist said it was frozen," interrupted the irrepressible MirabelleMarie.

  "I beg your pardon,--the ice-sealed sheet of water,--the soldiers threwaway their hatchets and unslung their guns, and again a shout of horrorwent up to the clear vault of heaven. White men slew white men, for theinvaders were not Indians, but English soldiers, and there were streaksof crimson on the snow where the French soldiers laid themselves down todie.

  "There seemed to be a curse on the lake, and it was deserted for manyyears, until a band of sorrowing Acadien exiles was forced to takerefuge in the half-ruined fort. They summered and wintered there, untilthey all died of a strange sickness and were buried by one man who,only, survived. He vowed that the lake was haunted, and would never bean abode for human beings; so he came to the shore and built himself alog cabin, that he occupied in fear and trembling until at last the timecame when the French were no longer persecuted."

  "Agapit LeNoir also says that the lake is haunted," exclaimed Claudine,in excited French. "He hates the little river that comes stealing fromit. He likes the Bay, the open Bay. There is no one here that loves theriver but Rose a Charlitte."

  "But dere is gold dere,--heaps," said the visitor, in English, and hereyes glistened.

  "Only foolish people say that," remarked Claudine, decidedly, "and evenif there should be gold there, it would be cursed."

  "You not think that," said Nannichette, shrinking back.

  "Oh, how stupid all this is!" said Bidiane. "Up the Bay I used to hearthis talk of gold. You remember, my aunt?"

  Mirabelle Marie's shoulders shook with amusement. "_Mon jheu_, yes, onthe stony Dead Man's Point, where there ain't enough earth to _fricasserles cailloux_" (fricassee the pebbles); "it's all dug up likegraveyards. Come on, Nannichette, tell us ag'in of yer fantome."

  Nannichette became suddenly shy, and Mirabelle Marie took it uponherself to be spokeswoman. "She was rockin' her baby, when she heard adivil of a noise. The ceiling gapped at her, jist like you open yermouth, and a fantome voice says--"

  "'Dere is gole in Sleepin' Water Lake,'" interrupted Nannichette,hastily. "'Only women shall dig,--men cannot fine.'"

  "An' Nannichette was squshed,--she fell ag'in the floor with her baby."

  "And then she ran about to see if she could find some women foolishenough to believe this," said Bidiane, with fine youthful disdain.

  A slow color crept into Nannichette's brown cheek. "Dere is gole dere,"she said, obstinately. "De speerit tell me where to look."

  "That was Satan who spoke to you, Nannichette," said Claudine,seriously; "or maybe you had had a little rum. Come now, hadn't you?"

  Nannichette scowled, while Mirabelle Marie murmured, with reverentadmiration, "I dessay the divil knows where there is lots of gold."

  "It drives me frantic to hear you discuss this subject," said Bidiane,suddenly springing to her feet. "Oh, if you knew how ignorant it sounds,how way back in the olden times! What would the people in Paris say ifthey could hear you? Oh, please, let us talk of something else; let usmention art."

  "What's dat?" asked Nannichette, pricking up her ears.

  "It is all about music, and writing poetry, and making lovely pictures,and all kinds of elegant things,--it elevates your mind and soul. Don'ttalk about hateful things. What do you want to live back in the woodsfor? Why don't you come out to the shore?"

  "Dat's why I wan' de gole," said Nannichette, triumphantly. "Of'en I useto hunt for some of Cap'en Kidd's pots."

  "Good gracious!" said Bidiane, with an impatient gesture, "how muchmoney do you suppose that man had? They are searching for his treasureall along the coast. I don't believe he ever had a bit. He was a wickedold pirate,--I wouldn't spend his money if I found it--"

  Mirabelle Marie and Nannichette surveyed each other's faces withcunning, glittering eyes. There was a secret understanding between them;no speech was necessary, and they contemplated Bidiane as two benevolentwild beasts might survey an innocent and highly cultured lamb whoattempted to reason with them.

  Bidiane dimly felt her powerlessness, and, accompanied by Claudine, wentback to her raking, and left the two sitting on the hay.

  While the girl was undressing that night, Claudine tapped at her door."It is all arranged, Bidiane. They are going to dig."

  Bidiane impatiently shook her hanging mass of hair, and stamped her footon the floor. "They shall not."

  "Nannichette did not go away," continued Claudine. "She hung about thestable, and Mirabelle Marie took her up some food. I was feeding thepig, and I overheard whispering. They are to get some women together,and Nannichette will lead them to the place the spirit told her of."

  "Oh, the simpleton! She shall not come here again, and my aunt shall notaccompany her--but where do they wish to go?"

  "To the Sleeping Water Lake."

  "Claudine, you know there is no gold there. The Indians had none, theFrench had none,--where would the poor exiles get it?"

  "All this is reasonable, but there are people who are foolish,--alwaysfoolish
. I tell you, this seeking for gold is like a fever. One catchesit from another. I had an uncle who thought there was a treasure hid onhis farm; he dug it all over, then he went crazy."

  Bidiane's head, that, in the light of her lamp, had turned to a dullred-gold, sank on her breast. "I have it," she said at last, flinging itup, and choking with irrepressible laughter. "Let them go,--we will playthem a trick. Nothing else will cure my aunt. Listen,--" and she laid ahand on the shoulder of the young woman confronting her, and earnestlyunfolded a primitive plan.

  Claudine at once fell in with it. She had never yet disapproved of asuggestion of Bidiane, and after a time she went chuckling to bed.