Part 7

“Yes, Julien, was he not good? He would not take the cross—thou rememberest?—our poor mamma’s beautiful cross. It was yesterday, was it not, that I was telling thee how she gave it to me? Madame locked it in the drawer. I wonder if she would not let thee have it if thou wert to ask her? for thou art a man, and thou canst speak English, and she will comprehend. Oh, dear Julien, what is the matter? what have I said? art thou angry with me?”

“No, not with thee, my poor dear little angel! but with those people there—the brutes!”

“Comment! who has told thee of them, my brother?”

“A little fairy.”

“Who is that little fairy that tells thee so much? what is she called?”

“She is called Julie.”

“Comment! what dost thou say? I am she! But how could I tell thee, since thou wilt scarcely allow me to speak a single word, dear monsieur le docteur?”

“My poor little Julie has had bad dreams and talked in her sleep. There, now, thou art weary. Close thy pretty eyes and rest thee. Already, I fear, I have let thee talk too long.”

“But it is so good to be with one who comprehends, and can speak with me our own beautiful language!”

“Poor little sister! when thou art stronger, we will do nothing but talk for a whole day.”

While the child lay sleeping, there came a rap at the outer door. Julien hoped he was going to have a patient. But no, a tall, stout gentleman strode into the office. His face was ruddy, his eyes twinkled merrily. He didn’t look as if he were in any need of medicine.

“I came to ask after the little Julie,” he said. “She came over in my ship,” he explained. “Possibly she has made mention of—”

“Ah! is it ‘oncle le capitaine’?”

“The same,” answered the gentleman, smiling.

“Then let me thank you for your kindness to my little sister!” cried the young man, grasping his hand. “I know not how to express my gratitude.”

“Bah! where is she?”

“In the next room. She sleeps. She is just recovering from a fever—of the brain.”

“Indeed! Strange that woman should not have spoken of it! Has she been very sick?”

“It has been a struggle for life.”

“Ah-h-h, those Lanes! the rascals! Why, sir, I left the child in charge of people I thought I could trust—people I had befriended. Why, that man, Lane, was head and ears in debt! but for me, he and his would be in want and misery to-day! What do they do, the moment I am out of sight, but send her to an orphan asylum! Sent her off! off West! that was all they could tell me at the asylum. Gone West! Nothing definite. No record, no trace. I’ve had a search, I can tell you. Hunted, advertised, from place to place. Yesterday I came here. It was by this cross I found her. I saw it in a shop window and identified it at once with one little Julie had shown me on shipboard. You recognize it?”

“I do, indeed. It is an heir-loom. It has been handed down through I know not how many generations.”

“I made inquiries in the shop, and was directed to a lady who they said was its owner. She proved to be the person who took the child from the asylum. She seemed strangely embarrassed and disinclined to speak about the matter.”

“With good reason! mon Dieu! my blood boils as I think of it. It was the cruelty and overtask that caused my little one’s illness.”

“I suspected something of the kind. Listen to the condition upon which that person acquainted me with your whereabouts—that I ‘shouldn’t mention the matter to any one in town!’ And there’s something wrong about this cross. She said she was afraid the child might lose it, and so had put it under lock and key for safe keeping, and had afterwards lent it to the jeweler as a curiosity. But he was wonderfully inquisitive, and undertook to pump me when I went back after it. What do you think he had labeled it? As one of the jewels of your ex-Empress!”

“C’en est trop![7] these Yankees!” exclaimed Julien; then coloring to the roots of his hair he stammered:

“Pardon, monsieur!”

“No offense,” said the captain, smiling. “I am, then, so genuine a Yankee?”

“I do not say it,” the other slowly answered.

The captain laughed aloud.

Julien opened the inner door.

“Didst thou call, sister?”

“Oui, mon frere. Tell me who is with thee? But I know it—I! It is oncle le capitaine! I heard him laugh!”

“Bonjour, bonjour, mademoiselle l’Empress! how is your Majesty’s health to-day?” cried a voice over Julien’s shoulder. “See, little pale one, I come to bring thee thy cross.”

“Oh, the cross of mamma! the cross of mamma!” exclaimed Julie, seizing it and covering it with kisses, while silent tears crept down her wan cheeks.

Julien turned away to the window, and the captain sat down by the couch and shaded his eyes with his hand.

“But, mon oncle,” said Julie after awhile, “tell me, did you have a good voyage? Did the great waves come and tip the ship right over on its side and almost spill you out? You were gone so long I feared you were drowned. Oh, mon oncle, do not go away again upon the terrible sea; but stay with us, my brother and me.”

“Ah, my little Julie, thy poor old uncle is, upon land, like a fish out of water.”

Julie must not yet hear, the captain thought, the story of that great gale off the coast of the Carolinas, in which his good ship had nearly been wrecked. It would better suit the little convalescent to be told of those islands where he had been; those sunny islands where it is always summer, where oranges and bananas and the rarest and most beautiful flowers grow wild.

While the two were talking, Julien once more took up his pen.

“With monsieur’s permission. An article for the _Morning Post_. It must be ready within the next two hours.”

“Ah!—a treatise on health, doubtless.”

“A treatise on Louis Napoleon—ce scelerat!”

“My friend, take the advice of your sister’s venerable uncle; let that poor wretch alone. He’s about played out. At all events, you are out of his reach. Stick to your profession. Writing is fool’s business. ‘A jack at all trades is good at none.’”

“But monsieur knows one must find some way to kill time.”

“Ah? Pill-peddling is not a lively business nowadays, I take it.”

“Monsieur, I have set up shop in three cities, and in each have waited three months for a patient.”

“Whew! is _that_ so? Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“Why be in haste to tell of it, monsieur? It is nothing to boast of, surely!”

“Why? Because I can help you. I am going to help you. I intended to when I came here, if I found you were in need of it.”

“I have not said I was in need. I ask no one for help. What I ask for is—work!”

“Young man, you are altogether too proud! You should take lessons of Young America! Young America isn’t afraid of the jingling of coin. Young America doesn’t spurn a good offer. Young America would jump at the chance. But as for work, why, work will come to you if you only wait for it long enough. ‘Patient waiters are no losers.’”

“Wait, wait, wait! mon Dieu! and the child there!”

“Yes, we must think of her! Come, my dear fellow, you’ve had a hard row to hoe. No use denying!”

Julien was silent for a few moments; then he said:

“I will confess, monsieur, that I have seen times when I have wished myself well back in France. There, at least, one could fight for one’s country.”

“Is it worth fighting for? Poor France!—a republic, a kingdom, an empire, a bedlam, by fits! ruled yesterday by an idiot, to-day by a lynx, to-morrow by a pack of bloodhounds! Better off where you are, young man; better off where you are.”

Julien had arisen, and stood glaring at the captain.

“Monsieur forgets he is speaking of the land of my birth!”

“And of the land of his birth, as well,” was the quiet reply.

“Quoi! what do I understand monsieur to say?”

“Have you never heard your mother speak of her brother Jean?”

“Often.”

“I am he.”

“But no! He entered a monastery. He was a monk.”

“Still again, I am he. At your age I grew weary of the cloister. Disguised as a sailor I escaped to the United States; and disguised as a sailor I have knocked about the world ever since. My own country is the one I avoid most of all. I suppose I never should have known aught of Marguerite’s children if the little Julie had not come to me just as she did. Indeed, although she told me her name, I never suspected who she might be until she showed me her poor mother’s cross. In the cloister one is buried from the world. I did not know whom my sister married. He, too, is dead, the child told me. I mean your father.”

“General Leblanc, of the Italian campaign—you have never heard of him? It was there that he lost his life.”

“Poor Marguerite! She was coming to you, it seems, and fell ill upon the way.”

“I first learned it from Julie. I had received no tidings for months. Our home was in the region which has fallen into the enemy’s clutches. Mails, of course, were stopped. What other reason for the silence? Mon Dieu! the agony of suspense! I should have returned immediately when the republic was declared, if I could have seen my way—”

“And you two might have sought each other till your locks were gray—and probably would never have met.”

“Mon oncle, please tell to me also those strange, sad things you have been telling my brother now for a long time in that dreadful English, till suddenly, at this moment, he looks frightened.”

Julien went over to the little questioner and kissed her wondering eyes.

“Thy uncle, sister—dear angel!—has been telling me that he is also _my_ uncle.”

[7] That’s too much!

THE VOICES.

“Come now, my children,” said Dame Nature once, in the morning of the world, “let me hear your voices, that I may judge which of all is the most musical.”

Up from the dewy grass sprang a meadow-lark with a burst of melody that thrilled the listening air; then loud, and sweet, and clear, was heard the warbling of a nightingale; the mountain brook, swinging its censer among the rocks, began to chant—in lower, deeper tones; meanwhile, that wanderer, the wind, passing, with nimble fingers touched the keys of the forest-organ, and the towering pines and sturdy oaks and yews quivered and throbbed as he played accompaniment; then caroled in chorus countless millions of birds—even the tiny insects took to humming as they rioted among the golden rays, and the wild beasts and every living creature, encouraged, lifted their voices in trial; from the cloud-mass, above the far-off horizon, came the thunder’s rumble; the river, leaping the cliff, roared in rivalry; quick followed the heavy voices of the great billows as they came surging upon the beach. Oh, grand and mighty music did they all make together in that glad morning of the world. The sunlit heavens leaned over, breathless, to hear it, the purple valleys, lifting, fondled it as they climbed, the speechless hills caught it up, and in envy hurled it back again, note by note, till the whole earth was wild with sound and deafening reverberation, and “Cease, cease, my children!” Dame Nature cried aloud, “lest I render you voiceless, every one, and there be no more music forever.”

But failing to make herself heard, she unrolled the great cloud that lay coiled above the horizon, and drew it like a veil across the sky. Immediately there was silence—silence unbroken for a moment’s space, when “Ha, ha, ha!” giggled the mountain brook, unable to restrain its mirth; “Ha, ha, ha!” repeated a bright-winged forest bird; “Ha, ha, ha!” flew swiftly back from the hills.

“Hush, irreverent ones!” spake Dame Nature in anger; “listen, while I pass sentence upon you! Thou, mountain brook, who hast dared to break silence by thine ill-timed laughter, laugh on, forever and forever: thy song is taken from thee, and thou shalt have thy fill of merriment! From thee, too, bird of the brilliant plumage, is taken the power of song: henceforth thou shalt find voice only to mimic the folly of others. And you, ye hills, will I fetter and bind, that ye no more astonish the world with your envious wrath.

“As for you, my obedient children, ye are all musical, each in his own way; and now will I assign to you places in my choir. Thou, wandering wind, shalt be my organist; and ye larks and nightingales, who are my pride and joy, and all ye merry little birds, the melody is yours; and ye surging billows, and muttering clouds, and roaring cataracts, to you the base belongs.

“Sing on, now, my children; sing on, and practice well, that ye may know your parts when, by and by, I call upon you for a grand and glorious anthem that shall fill the world with wonder.”

And alway since then they have been diligently practicing, till now, when Dame Nature calls for _Te Deum_ at the day-dawn, or for a vesper hymn at eventide, marvelous is the melody of gleesome and gay-hearted little birds; marvelous is the skill of the musician wind, as he sweeps the forest-organ’s answering keys; marvelous are the voices of cloud and cataract, and marvelous the voices of the sea.

But there are birds of rainbow-tinted plumage, wonderful to behold, whose harsh, discordant tones serve only to mock and mimic; the mountain brook wearies ofttimes of laughter, querulous, complains to the rocks, grieving for its lost song; and faint and rare are the echoes heard among the speechless hills.

MOONSHINE.

Moonshine crept down, one clear, unclouded night, to look about the world and see what was going on. In her hand she carried a silver lamp, by whose white rays all objects could be seen as plainly as at noontide; and wherever she went, the shadows, ashamed of their blackness, stole guiltily away and tried to hide themselves. Her path led through a forest and down a mountain side, where wild beasts roamed for prey; but now the timid deer browsed securely among the underbrush, and the hungry bear trudged supperless off to his den, the stealthy panther kept useless watch from the branches overhead, the rattlesnake slid back into its hole and left the tree-toads chirping cheerily, the sly fox found the rabbits too wide awake for him; for was not Moonshine abroad with her silver lamp, proclaiming to all harmless creatures: Here is your enemy, and there is your enemy?

On she passed till she came to a pioneer’s log cabin, standing alone in the wide wilderness. Listening, she heard the sound of a voice singing:

“Lullaby, lullaby, baby, Lullaby, by, by, While all the little stars twinkle, Twinkle up in the sky.

“Lullaby, lullaby, baby, Lullaby, by, by; Thy father has gone a journey, And there’s only thou and I, To rock, rock, to and fro, And to watch, watch for the savage foe, To sleep, sleep, And to keep, keep Watch for the savage foe, While all the little stars twinkle, Twinkle up in the sky.”

“Ah,” said Moonshine, “the mother and her babe are alone and unguarded in that rude dwelling. Even as she sings her voice trembles with fear. I will set my lamp in the window and pause awhile to keep her company.”

Instantly a soft radiance flooded the room within, and the mother, looking up, beheld the gentle face peeping through the window. “Oh, Moonshine,” she cried, with tears of joy, “how glad am I that you have come! Stay with me a little, for I am lonesome; and tell me, pray, if there be any savages lurking about.”

Not far off a band of red men, their faces bedaubed with paint, and their hair decked out with plumes, were gliding noiselessly through the dense woods, thinking to steal upon the cabin unawares and destroy it and its inmates. But as soon as they saw the silver lamp upon the window-sill, they turned away, saying: “Moonshine is there! She would give warning of our approach.”

Moonshine, seeing that the dreaded enemy had turned aside, passed on and left the mother and her child sleeping peacefully. As swift she glided through valley and over hill, and across river and lake and village-dotted plain, the rays of her glittering lamp reached far and wide through the darkness, making the trees and gardens and rippling corn-fields glad, pointing the shortest route to a weary boatman, revealing to a belated traveler the robbers who stealthily pursued, looking in upon three rosy children who slumbered cosily in one couch together—stooping to kiss their shining curls and happy faces, and to whisper something pleasant in their ears. Nor did she pause when she came to the great sea, but glided on over the foaming billows. A white-sailed ship the winds were driving towards an unknown reef. Quickly she set her silver lamp upon the perilous rock. Far over the angry waters shone the beacon light, and the mariners, seeing danger ahead, shifted their sails and changed the vessel’s course.

The wanderer reached, at length, a distant coast, and, holding her lamp aloft, passed on from town to town. A student sat at midnight, wakeful among his books. Moonshine glanced over his shoulder at the closely-printed page, and the light of her silver lamp so put to shame his miserable taper that he extinguished it, and began to write some verses in her praise.

At last, Moonshine peered down into a deep, dark dungeon, and saw a hapless human creature bound with chains. Pale and wan he was, from long years of imprisonment. For hours she remained to speak to him comforting words.

In the morning the pioneer came to his home on the mountain side, and told how he had been rescued by Moonshine from highwaymen who pursued him as he journeyed. “Ah, bless her,” said the wife; “for she also watched over us, and guarded us while we slept.” The three rosy children awakened smiling, and told one another their dreams; they had all dreamed of fairy-land. The storm-tossed ship sailed into port, and the grateful mariners declared that, but for Moonshine, they would have gone to the bottom of the sea. The student went about with such a beaming countenance that people questioned, Was he moonstruck? A jailer, descending into a deep, dark dungeon, found the fettered captive lying silent, with closed eyes; and the sad soul that had gazed out of those eyes—who had set it free? Moonshine?

SUNSHINE.

“_Voila, Jeannette! voila!_”

The little old woman lifts her wrinkled face from the lace-work over which she is bending, and looks where the slender hand just pointed. How did it come there, that sunbeam? So the two question; for never, in all the time they have occupied the low, dim room, with its one window, has a sunbeam shone into it, warm and cheery, like that. Possibly some recent alteration in the high buildings without has made way for the welcome visitor, now that the sun has moved farther around to the north. However it came there, there it is, the mellow ray, deepening in color as the sun sinks lower down, changing from yellow to orange, from orange to rose. The couch must be moved nearer, so that the thin hand may press the wall and feel the warm light as it rests there; then a smile wreathes the wan, weary young face, and its owner goes off dreaming—dreaming with eyes wide open.

Somebody knocks at the door. “Coom,” calls Jeannette. A lad of twelve lifts the latch and enters.

“Is this the place where they mend lace, ma’am?”

“Yes. _C’est moi._”

“Well, they sent a lot in this bundle. They said they wanted it done right away, if you could. It’s a curtain. The kitten tore it, I guess. He’s always scampering up the curtains.”

“Yes.” (Yes is one of the few English words Jeannette is quite sure about, so she seldom adds to it in her replies, when she can avoid doing so.)

“When shall I come after it?”

“Maunday—next—week,” Jeannette slowly answers, and takes the package the lad has brought.

His errand is done; why does he linger? Have the brown eyes, in a rapid glance or two, taken in more than they would if they were not so big and generous? The low ceiling with the laths bared of plaster here and there, the scant furniture, the tumble-down stove, the uneven, uncarpeted floor, the plants in the window—sickly for lack of light—the withered little lace-mender shivering in her shawl for lack of fire, the boy on the couch yonder, clutching at a sunbeam, gazing dreamily into space; he has seen all; he has heard the hollow cough, he winks hard to keep from taking the decided shape of tears something that for an instant dims his bonny eyes.

“Has he been sick a good while?” he whispers.

“Yes,” says Jeannette, and calls, “Ernest!”

Ernest comes out of his dream. The great dark, sorrowful eyes meet the great bright, generous ones. In a twinkling young America, with lusty health and blooming cheeks, is at the bedside of—young France, shall we say?

An hour after Ned hastens home to his sister with the story he has just heard.

“Belle,” he cries, as he bursts into the parlor, “you know where you sent me this afternoon—to that French woman’s? Well, they’re poor as can be. And he’s sick, too. And no doctor, no medicine, no nothing! Wish I was as rich as Crœsus!”

“He? Who’s he?”

“Why, Ernest. His father was an artist, you see; and they came to this country, and his pictures wouldn’t sell, and he couldn’t get work, and he got discouraged and drowned himself. Then, after awhile, his mother died, and Jeannette—she’s a servant who came with them—she stays with him and takes care of him. He’s got the consumption and coughs awfully. _I_ know what’s done it! Starving! and freezing! Guess what he was doing! Warming his hands in the sunshine!”

“Well, did she say when she would have the window curtain finished?”

Where shall one go for sympathy and help? There is no mother. The father is a hundred miles away, engaged as counsel in the settlement of a disputed estate (if anybody knows what all that means). The live-long night Ned lies awake, thinking the matter over something after this fashion:

“There’s that house—corner of South and High Street. Rooms to let—noticed the advertisement to-day. Nice rooms. Plenty of light. Just _the_ place!... Wish I was rich as Crœsus!... What did I want to go and throw away my last allowance that way for? Haven’t got a red cent left! Don’t know where it’s all gone to, now! Got a lot of trinkets that aren’t of much use to me, anyhow. Cut my thumb half off with my jack-knife first time I used it; broke all the strings to my violin before I’d had it a week; and made myself about sick trying to smoke cigars.... Wish I was rich as Crœsus!”

When, next morning, Ned meets on the street his elderly friend, the physician, who helped him comfortably through with the measles, mumps and whooping cough, and is greeted with, “Why, young man, there’s a cloud on your face—what’s the trouble?” he answers, “Come and see,” and leads to a dismal quarter of the town, and from one story to another of a dismal tenement, till they reach the chamber where Ernest lies. When they are down in the street again, Ned takes up the old refrain—

“Wish I was rich as Crœsus. We’d get him out of there and cure him up, wouldn’t we?”

“Ah, my boy, if we had the wealth of twenty Crœsuses it’s too late to help him now. The best we can do is to make him as comfortable as possible where he is. Come round to the office with me, and I’ll give you something to ease the cough a little.”

When the medicine is ready Ned rises to go, but hesitates.

“There wasn’t any fire there, Doctor. I’ve used up all my last allowance, and father’s away from home. What’s to be done?”

The Doctor writes down some names and addresses on a slip of paper.

“There. You go to these gentlemen, state the case, and we’ll see what they’ll do for you.... I might give you a recommend.... But no. We’ll try without, first. I fancy that honest face of yours will open the pocket-books quicker than any note from me.”