Among the Ashes; or, Doomsday (with illustration) (Christmas Supplement) [pp. A001-A032]

26
AAfOW~ TILL A&JILS. [CHRISTMAS,
bad lost her fragile and woe-begone air;
she grew plump and rosy, and her eyes
began to shine. She sang over her work,
and often smiled to herself with happiness, when no one was by
The elders perceived this change, and
pointed it out to Jacques.
"Thou seest," said monsieur, "she
is getting quite pretty. Thou canst not
be so stupid as still to refuse to marry
her~"
"Pretty! " cr~ed Jacques; "I do not
see it. To my thinking, the Dame Anglaise is prettier."
"At least, she would make a thrifty
wife."
"Cependant," said Jacques, "she is
better as a fellow-servant."
"Thou art too hard to please," said
monsieur, angrily, surveying the crooked
figure of the little man.
"Every man has a right to choose
his wife," said Jac~ues; "and I mean
to do better than to marry that Stine."
The innkeeper was baffled.
"Our affairs stand still," he grumbled
to his wife. "The law will not allow
you to marry a man against his will. I
do not see what we can do."
"Wmt a bit," said madame; "it is
not possible that Jacques dislikes her."
"And thou-dost thou also like her?"
sneered monsieur.
"But that is a different thing," declared madame; "I cannot like a crc atnrc who keeps me in fear and stands in
my way.
"It is true," groaned monsieur, "she
is a bright-eyed marmot, but she keeps
us in deadly fear~"
Whatever the fear was, it preyed upon
the master of La Grue. From being
merely a brutishly sulky man, he became
irritable and violent; even madame, his
wife, began to moderate her temper,
lest, being both in a flame together, they
should burn their establishment to death.
lie began to vow often to his wife that
be would not have that Anglaise in the
house a week longer; that he would have
Jacques popped into the canal, and Stine
shipped off to the antipodes. lle would
wait on his guests himself for the future;
his wife should do the cooking, and let
Rosalie work nt the ironing and keep
the books. llis wife soothed him as well
as she was able, but monsieur was hard
to soothe, and when quiet he was timorous and moody. lle left off eating much,
and his flesh began to fall away.
"I feel that I shall have a fever," he
complained, "and when I mu raving I
shall be sure to tell the story~"
"Nobody shall come near you but
me," said his wife; and, when his fears
came to be verified, and she put him to
bed in a state of delirium, she suffered
no one to help her in the task of nursing
him. The little Anglaise came once on
tiptoe to the chamber-door to ask how
monsieur fared, but madaine greeted her
with a face so dark that she never cared
to venture on this mission again. The
crisis of the fever passed, and monsieur
was restored to his senses, without having betrayed in his ravings any secret
that might be rankling in his mind. The
inn became more lively, and madame, the
landlady, was persuaded by her daughter
to take a drive out of the town for change
of air. Monsieur was not able to speak
much, and Jacques was allowed to sit by
him till his wife returned.
"Jacques," said the sick man, faintly,
"they think I ma getting better, but I
know I am going to die."
"No, monsieur, no," said Jacques.
"I have not long to live, my friend,
and you must go for the cur~ and the
maire. Bring them to me quickly, before
my wife comes back."
"But, monsieur-"
"Go, or I shall die on the instant,
and my death will be on your head."
Stine had quiet times just now, and
she was in the garden leaning against a
tree, with her knitting-needles clinking
in her fingers. The Anglaise sat opposite
to her, and they were talking of Monsieur
Lawrence. While thus engaged, they
saw Jacques, the cur(, and the maire,
coming down the court-yard. Monsieur
desired to make his will and prepare for
death, they said to one another; and both
were shocked
Some time afterward Jacques came
running through the m~chway into th e
garden, his face and manner so excited
that the women stood muazed.
"Come, madame," he said to the Anglaise, "you are wanted immediately in
monsieur's ebmaber." The Ln4ishwoman followed him wondering, and Stine
went back to her kitchen to prepare for
supper.
half an hour passed. Stine was standing at the window straining the soup,
when she saw the little Anglm'se coming
hurrying down il~e court-yard, whitefaced, her head hanging as if with weakness, missing a step now and then striking her foot against the stones of the
pavement, and feeling, as if blindly, for
the door as she entered the kitchen.
She snatched the ladle out of Stine's
band and fimig it on the floor, seized the
girl by the shoulders, laughed in her face,
gave a sob, and fell back swooning into
the arms of Jacques; all of which m'eant
that the will 0' the wisp had turned out
a veritable hearth-llght at last.
"Ah, monsieur Ic inaire, monsieur le
cure~! " she cried, recovering; "let them
come here and tell the story, 2]for my head
is still astray, and I want to hear it again.
Come out of this place, girl! thou art not
Stine, thou art Bertha, daughter of Sir
Sydney Errington, and Millicent, his
wife, both of broken-hearted memory,
in Devonshire, in England. It is all
written down. Jacques, we saw it written down. Will the gentlemen come and
read it to us, or will they not?"
The curC and maire came in wfth
solemn faces. Madmue sat on a bench
and drank from a glass of water, while
Jacques stood on guard by her side.
Stine retreated, and leaned with her
back against the wall, looking doubtfully at these people who had come to
change lier life. There was no mistake
at all about ti~e innkeeper's dying statement. The nurse who had stolen the
child had been his first wife, from whom
he had separated for a time that they
might earn some money. When she
came home to him with the child, he,
being afraid of her, had helped her to
conceal it. lle was then a waiter in
Paris, and tl~ey took up house together,
and prospered. She assured him that
her motive for stealing the child had
been revenge, and that one day, after
the parents had suffered enough, a large
reward should' be obtained for restoring
her to them. With this be had been
obliged to be satisfied. Iiis wife set up
business as a clear-starcher, and made
money enough for the child's support
and her own. She used to smudge the
child's face with brown, and dress it in
boy's clothing; but she died suddenly
when it was five years of age. Then
had monsieur thought of ridding himself
of the burden, but had been frightened
out of his senses by some one whom he
had consulted on the subject. ffe became
afraid for his very life at the thought of
any one discover~ng the identity of the
girl. lleaviest punishment, he feared,
must be the reward of his daring to
restore her to her sorrowing friends.
When be came to Dindans as owner of
the inn, he brought with him Stine as his
niece, and a strange woman emne to live
in a cottage outside the town, who pretended to be his sister-in-law, and the
mother of the girl. lle had trained
Stine to be useful, and, by marrying her
to Jacques, had thought to turn her to
still fufther account in his service. No
one but his second wife, and the pretended mother, had ever shared the secret
which bad sat for years on this cowm~ly soul. Now that he was going to die,
he would shuffle it off. lle had always,
he declared, meant to tell the truth before he died. If the Dmne Anglaise had