CHAPTER II.

TONE BEAUBIEN'S DAUGHTER.

JUST at the corner of the McGregor farm a narrow green road branched off from the main track and led upward among the hills. It was so little used that the short grass nearly covered it, and the melting snows and rains had so gullied and washed the track that any wheeled carriage less strong than a lumber-wagon would have been in great danger of being wrecked. At first the road was bordered by stone walls showing their age by the mosses and lichens which spotted them. Higher up the boundary vanished altogether on one side, and on the other turned into an ancient fence of pine and hemlock stumps, such as one often sees in New England, the worn and bleached but imperishable roots rising above the blackberry and clematis vines which covered the lower part like the bones of antediluvean monsters.

On that side was a stony pasture the sight of which would have made Western-bred cows give up life in despair, but from which, nevertheless, came many a sturdy cheese and roll of fragrant butter. On the other side was first a tripping, chattering brook, then a narrow strip of wood largely made up of black spruce, and behind this a high rocky wall, steep as the side of a house most of the way, though here and there a gap and a narrow, hard-beaten path showed that the sheep had found a way to climb the barrier.

Into this road Therese Beaubien turned and walked rapidly along, singing as she went till the steepness of the ascent and the weight of her basket made it necessary to economize her breath.

It was a lonely place enough; but Therese had no fears. She had travelled it ever since she could remember, and oftener alone than in company. She did start and look round rather fearfully once at a sudden and unaccountable rustle in the bushes near the road, but laughed at her own fears, as nothing appeared to justify them.

"If a bear should come out upon me, I would appease him with the chicken pie, as Fifine appeased the lions with the mutton in the fairy-tale," said she to herself; "but, after all, it is a lonesome place, especially in winter, when the wind howls through the spruces and hemlocks and among the rocks. I do wish mother would move down to the village."

As she spoke, she came in sight of a little red house, very small in itself and looking smaller by contrast with the enormous mass of stone under the shelter of which it was built. Tiny as it was, it looked in good repair and comfortable. There was even some cultivation about it in the shape of a small garden and a very little field of potatoes and corn. Two or three apple trees grew about the house, but they were old and neglected. The little house was such as one often sees in remote situations in Vermont and New Hampshire, where one is tempted to think the first settlers sought out the most dreary and unpromising situations. There was nothing at all remarkable about it, except that all the lower windows were provided with strong wooden shutters.

Even in the June evening both doors and windows were closed. It was not a cheerful-looking home, but Therese seemed to feel her spirits revive at the sight of it, and she quickened her steps. She opened the door softly, intending to surprise her mother. If she succeeded, the surprise did not seem to be an agreeable one. There was nobody in the front room, nor in the little bedroom which opened from it, but as Therese went forward to the door which opened into the little back kitchen she was met by her mother with the words, spoken in a tone of evident consternation,—

"You unlucky child! What has brought you home to-day?"

Therese was certainly very much taken aback, but she was familiar with her mother's moods; and besides, she thought she understood at once the cause of Mrs. Beaubien's evident discomposure:

"Don't be alarmed, mother. I know what you are thinking of, but I have not lost my place. On the contrary, they want me to stay all summer. But Mrs. Tremaine said I must consult you about the matter, and so she let me come for a little visit, and I am to stay till Monday."

By this time Mrs. Beaubien seemed to have recovered her presence of mind.

"She is very good, I am sure. I hope she has not put herself to inconvenience in the matter?" said she, trying to speak in her usual tone.

"Oh no; she said she did not mind. See what she has sent you. And only think, mamma! She has paid me seventy-five cents a week instead of fifty for all the time I have been there. So I have half as much again as I expected, and I have brought it home to you."

"You should not have done that," said her mother. "Better leave it in madame's hands. She is a good lady, and will advise you how to lay it out to the best advantage."

"I thought you would take it and buy yourself a new dress for Sunday," said Therese, evidently disappointed.

"No, no, child! What have I to do with Sunday? Well, there! Never mind. You are a good girl to think of me; but you need clothes more than I. Run up-stairs and see the new kittens."

Therese did as she was bid. She certainly did brush away a tear or two from her long black lashes as she bent over the kittens' basket and fondled the old cat.

She had been looking forward to her visit all the week long and making her little preparations for it, but she could not help seeing that her coming was unwelcome and ill-timed from some reason that she could not understand—that her mother was not glad to see her and wished her away. But she did not feel it as another girl would have done. She had been used to humouring her mother's dark moods ever since she could remember, and to seeing them come and go without any apparent cause. A cloud had overhung the little red house ever since she could recollect. She had learned not to be surprised when it lowered even deeper than usual, and to be thankful when it lifted ever so little.

There was in Holford a colony of French Canadians who had emigrated from the neighbourhood of Quebec and settled in that place, forming a suburb of the little village, called Frenchtown. They were a harmless set, not given to the hard work and close economy of their neighbours, but rather favourites than otherwise, from their good-nature and kindly ways. The women kept house and were called on to wash or cook when extra help was needed; some of the girls went to service or worked in the woollen mills or the cheese factories. The men helped in harvest and planting-time, practiced various little handicrafts, and hunted in the great woods of the Callum estate. The elders among them were nominal Roman Catholics, but the younger people had been got into Sunday schools and Bible classes, and not a few were church members.

Among these people the Beaubien family decidedly took the lead in respectability and thrift. One daughter had married a well-to-do farmer, another had a milliner's shop, in which she succeeded so well as to bring much custom from the neighbouring towns. One of the boys had cleared a farm for himself on the mountain side, and was doing well upon it, and the others were all recognized as respectable if not very industrious citizens.

But there was one black sheep in the flock. Antoine—or, as he was usually called, Tone—Beaubien was one of those boys who seem to love evil for its own sake, and at twenty-one he was a thorough outlaw. He had been in jail for various small robberies more than once, and was very strongly suspected of the graver offences of sheep stealing and passing counterfeit money. At twenty-five he was doing somewhat better. He worked with his father at his trade of harness and saddle making, in which the old man excelled, and was tolerably sober and steady, with the exception of an occasional spree, and now and then an absence of two or three months, when nobody knew of his whereabouts.

The prettiest and one of the steadiest girls in the settlement was Rose Duval, old Gabriel Duval's only child. Great was the amazement when it was discovered that she was being courted by Tone Beaubien, and that she was determined to marry him. In vain was every obstacle thrown in her way. In vain did Gabriel Duval forbid him the house. In vain did the Beaubiens themselves, who loved Rose dearly, tell her of Tone's character and warn her of the risk she ran. The wilful girl would have her way.

On one of Tone's periodical disappearances, Rose disappeared also, and came back with him at the end of three months just in time to see her father buried. Old Gabriel willed his daughter the little house and the land belonging to it as her portion, and there Tone and his young wife took up their abode. For a while things seemed to go well with them. They had the necessaries and a good many of the luxuries of life. Tone was often absent for weeks at a time, and his wife said he went as a sailor on the lake; but as these absences came quite as often in winter as in summer, very few people believed the story.

At last matters came to a climax. An old gentleman who had drawn a large sum of money from the Holford bank was shot down and robbed on his way home by three men. He lived long enough to give an account of the matter, and named Tone Beaubien as one of his assailants. Tone tried to prove an alibi but unluckily Alick McGregor swore to seeing him twice on the very day of the murder in the neighbourhood of his own house. Tone was committed for trial, but in some way or other he escaped, and was never seen in Holford again.

Nobody even suspected Rose of any share in her husband's misdeeds, and the people of Holford were as kind as she would allow them to be. Both her mother and her father-in-law would have taken her home, but she refused their offers, and lived alone with Therese in the old house under Blue Hill, having as little as possible to do with any one. She went out to work for the two or three farmers who lived within walking distance, and cultivated her potato-patch and garden ground with her own hands.

One of the hereditary arts of the French settlers was the making of a peculiar kind of fine basket-work. Rose took up this trade and made improvements on it. She sent her wares to a neighbouring city, where she got good prices for them, and in these ways she supported herself and her little girl.

Such was the cloud which overshadowed Therese Beaubien's entrance into life, and certainly it was a heavy one. Nevertheless, Therese managed to find a good deal of sunshine. Her health was perfect; her mother was sometimes affectionate, and never positively unkind. Though Rose herself never entered the door of either her mother or her father-in-law, she allowed Therese to visit both. The little girl stayed weeks and months with kind, cheerful old Grandfather Beaubien and her grandmother Duval.

Her aunts Lenore and Fanchette taught her to sew and knit, to make lace with the needle—another hereditary employment of the Beaubien family—and made much of her in all sorts of ways. Grandmother Duval taught her to read the Bible both in French and English—for she was a Protestant and well educated—and gave her many lessons in morals and manners.

The village children were usually kind when she encountered them though, now and then, when any quarrel arose, she met with the spiteful taunt, "I don't want to play with Tone Beaubien's girl! What can you expect of Tone Beaubien's daughter?"

Therese loved her mother with overflowing affection, but it was not strange that she liked to escape from the shadow of poor Rose's moody sorrow and the loneliness of the old house to the bright kitchen and cheerful ways of Grandfather Beaubien's household. As she grew up, she could not avoid coming to the conviction that her mother preferred living alone. It was hard to think so, but there was no escape from it; and therefore Therese was not surprised when her mother one day informed her that she was to go and live with Mrs. Tremaine in the village:

"Miss Tilly is lame, and the lady wishes some one to wait on her and to help in the work. She is an excellent lady and will be kind to you."

"I am afraid that grandfather will not be pleased," said Therese, rather doubtfully. "He said he wished me to live with him and be his girl when you did not want me."

"I do not choose that you shall live upon your grandfather's bounty," answered Mrs. Beaubien, with the stern anger she always showed whenever Therese manifested any will of her own. "Do you mean to set up for yourself against me so soon?"

"No, mother," answered Therese, humbly; "I am sure I shall like living with Mrs. Tremaine."

"Like it or not, you go there to-morrow."

"But, mamma, why cannot I stay with you? I would much rather. I can help you with the baskets and keep the house and read to you sometimes. Why should I leave you here alone all winter in this dreary place? Please let me stay with you, and I will be as contented as a little mouse."

With one of her sudden changes of mood, poor Rose caught the child in her arms and covered her with kisses and tears:

"You are my own darling and the light of my eyes, but, dear child, I must send you away. You must learn many things which I cannot teach you, and there are other reasons which I cannot explain. You will often come to see me, and no doubt madame will let you go to grandfather's, for she has been a good friend to the family at all times. Be a good girl, obey the lady in all things, learn all you can, and doubtless you will always have friends."

Therese said no more in opposition, for she saw there was no use in it, and with her usual cheerfulness, she at once turned her eyes to the bright side of the picture: "I dare say I can go to church and Sunday school every Sunday."

"No doubt. Madame has always taught in the school ever since she came to the place, and she is very religious."

"And I can draw books from the Sunday school, and the school library if I live in the district. Aunt Lenore does so; and I know Miss Kitty has plenty of story-books. Oh yes, I shall be very happy."

And very happy Therese undoubtedly was. She had lived at Mrs. Tremaine's all winter, and Mrs. Tremaine had no mind to part with her. But Therese often felt her heart go out with a great yearning toward her solitary mother, and as the spring came on, she felt drawn toward the woods and the rocky pasture she knew so well. She had come home to consult her mother as to her staying with half a hope that she might remain. That hope had vanished already, and she could not help shedding a few tears over its disappearance; but she soon wiped them away and prepared to make the most of her visit.

Mrs. Beaubien, too, seemed to wish to make up for her cool welcome. She exerted herself to talk more than usual, asked the news in the village, and was interested to hear that Aunt Madeline had a new baby girl, and Uncle Claude insisted on calling it Michelle, after Grandfather Beaubien. Still, she seemed somewhat absent, and Therese once or twice thought she seemed to be listening.

"What are you listening to, mother?" she asked at last. "I don't hear anything."

Mrs. Beaubien started: "I thought I heard a noise among the hens. The foxes have carried off two or three lately. Come, daughter, you had better go to bed; you have had a long walk, and must be tired."

Therese was not unwilling to go to bed, for she was really very tired. "Are you not coming too?" she asked.

"Not just yet; I have a bit of work to finish. But I will not have you sit up. Go to bed and to sleep."

Therese hesitated a minute, and then took courage:

"Miss Kitty has given me a French Testament, and I promised her I would read a little every night. May I read to you?"

"Yes, child, if you like."

Therese read the parable of the sower, and then prepared for bed.

"I will come before long," said her mother. "Sleep sound, and don't mind if you hear me moving about."

Therese did sleep sound, but some time in the night she thought or dreamed that she heard people talking in subdued tones, and that some one said rather roughly,—

"Nonsense! I must have the money, and she can get more. You can make excuses enough."

Presently she was waked by some sound like the closing of a door, and by her mother coming to bed.

"Are you not very late?" she asked, rubbing her eyes.

"Rather; my work took more time than I thought. There! Go to sleep again."

All day Saturday Mrs. Beaubien found excuses for keeping Therese close by her side, and Therese, though a little disappointed at losing her run in the pasture, yet rejoiced too much in her mother's unwonted mood of softness not to make the most of her opportunities.

"Does your grandfather ever say anything about your father?" asked Mrs. Beaubien at last.

Therese was astonished. She had never heard her mother mention her father before. She hesitated.

"Yes, I see," said her mother. "They have all tried to set you against him."

"No, indeed, mother," answered Therese, eagerly. "Grandfather told me to say a prayer for father whenever I said my prayers, and I always do."

"And was that all?"

"He said father was led away by bad company and by drink, and he made me promise never to touch a drop of drink."

"Keep that promise, whatever you do," said her mother, earnestly. "If grandfather had always been of that mind, things might have been very different with us."

"Grandfather said that too," observed Therese. "Mother, do you think I shall ever see my father?"

"No, child, never," answered Mrs. Beaubien; "and, Therese, you must never mention his name. Try to make a good name for yourself, so that every one may forget whose daughter you are. That is the best you can do for your poor father."

"I can pray for him, mamma," said Therese, softly. "Grandmother Duval said once that wherever he had wandered, he could not go out of God's sight, and therefore he could not go out of the reach of his children's prayers. Oh, mother, I wish you would go to see her sometimes. Why don't you?"

"She does not want to see me, child."

"Indeed, dear mother, she does," said Therese, eagerly. "She always asks so many questions about you when I go to see her, and she always prays for you morning and evening. Oh, if you would only go, you would see."

Mrs. Beaubien shook her head:

"No, no, Therese; I shall never set foot in Holford village again; but when you go to see my mother, tell her I wish I had been a better daughter to her, and ask her to give me her blessing and her prayers; and be you a kind and dutiful child to her, for she was always the best of mothers to me."

"Yes, dear mother," said Therese, inwardly rejoiced at even this symptom of relenting, and at once beginning to build various castles in the air as to the possibility of bringing her grandmother and her mother together once more.

"And then mother and grandmother will live together in the village, and mother will go to church. Oh, it will be lovely."

Sunday morning came, and with it an end of Therese's visit.

"I think you had better set out for the village as soon as you have done your breakfast," said Mrs. Beaubien. "I don't like to have you miss your Sunday school; and besides, if you stay till afternoon, you may not be able to go at all, for I think we shall have a storm. And, Therese, if you don't mind—if you can leave me part of that money—"

"I will leave you all of it, dear mother. Perhaps you are right about the storm," said Therese, peering out of the window. "I can see every tree and bush on old Haystack."

"Let me comb and braid your hair for you," said Rose as Therese began her preparations. "See, I will curl it for once as I used to wear mine when I was a little girl."

Much pleased, Therese submitted to the curling.

When she had finished, Mrs. Beaubien cut out a thick black curl from the beautiful mass.

"There! I will keep that for myself and give you a keepsake in return," said she. She put her hand into her pocket and drew out an old-fashioned gold miniature setting containing on one side a pretty picture of a young lady in the dress of Louis XIV.'s time, and on the other a place for hair. The picture was attached to a hair chain, which she threw over Therese's neck.

"That has been in our family for centuries, and has always belonged to the oldest daughter," said she. "It shall be yours now. I have braided a chain of my own hair for it. Show it to mother and she will tell you its history. Now I am going to walk down with you as far as the stone step."

The stone step was a kind of stile leading over the wall into Hector McGregor's pasture.

"I must go no farther," said Mrs. Beaubien, when they had reached this place. "When shall you come home again?"

"Next Saturday, perhaps. Good-bye, mother."

Rose Beaubien caught her child in her arms and silently kissed her over and over again. Then, hastily withdrawing herself, she walked quickly back without once turning round.

When Therese went to bed that night, she missed her little French Testament. "It is very odd; I am sure I put it in my pocket when I finished reading. I must go up and get it some day this week."

There was a thunder-storm in the evening, as Rose Beaubien predicted. Just as it rolled away, a man and woman came down the Blue Hill road.

"Wait for me here a few minutes," said the man to his companion as they came to the stile. "I have forgotten something it won't do to leave behind me."

"Be sure you leave all safe," said the woman. "Had I not better go back with you?"

"No, stay where you are; you will have walking enough, and more than enough," replied her companion, not unkindly. "I will not be gone long, and I will leave all safe, never fear."

He went back to the house, entered it, and seemed to be busy for some minutes striking a match and lighting a lamp. Then he came out, closed the door, and rejoined his companion.

"Have you left all safe?"

"Yes, safe enough, never fear. Come on; we must be far from this by morning."