Chapter 10

Next morning Eva wakened early and looked out of her window, which was shaded by a climbing rose that trailed right across it. The house was boarded and shingled, one little piece of wood neatly overlapping the other; it was only two stories high, with deep eaves and a wide verandah all around it.

Breakfast once over, Eva made a tour of the rooms, ending up in the kitchen, accompanied, of course, by all the boys and Babs at her heels. Uncertain what to do first, she was much astonished at a voice proceeding from the washhouse saying in familiar fashion, "Where on earth are you all?" There had been no knock at the door, no bell rung--what could it mean?

Standing unconcernedly in the middle of the room unrolling an apron stood a little woman of about forty years.

"Good day to you, Eva; hope you slept well after your journey. Come out of the pantry, Jack, or I'll be after you."

"May I ask whom I am talking to?" asked Eva icily, much resenting being addressed as "Eva."

"I am Mrs. Meadows, and thought I'd just run in and show you where things are. You'll feel kind of strange."

"Of course it will take some time to get used to things, but I think I should prefer doing it in my own way, thank you."

"Perhaps that would be best," replied Mrs. Meadows. "To-day is baking day; can you manage, do you think?"

"I suppose I can order from the baker?"

The woman smiled. "'Help yourself' is the motto of a young country, my dear; every one is her own cook and baker, too. Let me help you to-day, and by next week things will seem easier, and you will be settled and rested. Your mother is my friend; for her sake I'd like to stand by you. Will you tidy the rooms while I see to the kitchen?"

Fairly beaten, Eva walked upstairs, hating the work, the house, and everything in general, and Mrs. Meadows, whom she considered forward, in particular.

The next three days were trials in many ways to the doctor's household, himself included. The meals were irregular, the food badly cooked, but the man patiently made allowances, and was silent. It was a break in the monotony of "sweep and cook and wash up" when Sunday arrived and the family went to church. The tiny building was nearly filled, and many eyes were turned on the newcomer. But she noticed no one. The old familiar hymns brought tears to her eyes, and her thoughts stole away from her keeping to the dear land beyond the seas. However, she rallied and joined heartily in the last hymn, her voice ringing out above all others.

When next she saw Mrs. Meadows the conversation turned to church and congregation. After telling her details she thought were interesting, Mrs. Meadows said, "You have a nice voice, Eva, but you mustn't strain it."

[Sidenote: Eva's Top Notes]

"Do you think I do?" she replied. "I was trained at the Guildhall School, and I suppose my master knew the limits of my voice. _He_ approved of my top notes. Perhaps you don't know what the Guildhall School is, though," she added insolently.

"On the contrary, my father was one of the professors until he died. Don't think that in New Zealand we are quite ignorant of the world, Eva."

The conversation upset the girl sadly. She was vain of her voice and anxious to make the most of it. She went into the kitchen to make a pie, heedless that Jack had found a jar of raisins and was doing his best to empty it as fast as he could, and that Charlie was too quiet to be out of mischief. The paste was made according to her ability, certainly neither light nor digestible, and was ready for the oven, when suddenly a giggle behind her made her turn to behold that wretched boy Charlie dressed in her blue velvet dress, best hat, and parasol.

"You wicked boy, how dare you?" she cried, stamping her foot, but the boy fled, leaving the skirt on the floor. Picking it up, she gave chase to recover the hat, and when at last she returned to her pie, she found that Jack had forestalled her and made cakes for himself out of it and a marble tart for her.

Eva did not trust herself with the boys that morning; she literally hated them. Still, she must master herself before she could master them, and show once and for all that she was able to deal with the situation. Shutting herself into the parlour, she sat quiet, trying to think and plan, but in vain--she could not calm herself.

She took up a book and attempted to read and forget her annoyances in losing herself in the story, but that, too, failed. Her trials were countless. Not sufficient were to be found in the house, but that interfering Mrs. Meadows must criticise her singing.

She opened the piano, determined to listen to herself and judge what truth there was in the remark. She ran over a few scales, but was interrupted by a rough-looking man shouting, "Stop that noise, and come here! It'd be better if you looked after the bits of bairns than sit squealing there like a pig getting killed. Don't stare so daft; where's yer father?"

Eva rose in anger, but going up to the man, words died on her lips--her heart seemed to stand still, for in his arms he held Babs, white and limp.

"What has happened--is she dead?"

"Don't know; get her to bed." But Eva's hands trembled too much to move them, so the old Scotch shepherd pushed her aside, muttering, "Yer feckless as yer bonny; get out of the way." Tenderly his rough hands cared for the little one, undressing and laying her in her bed.

"She's always after the chickens and things on our place, and I think she's had a kick or a fall, for I found her lying in a paddock."

"Where were you, Eva? Hadn't you missed Babs? I thought at any rate she would be safe with you," said her father.

Eva's remorse was real. Her mother dying, perhaps, the children entrusted to her, and she--wrapped up in herself and her own grievances--what use was she in the world? But oh! if Babs were only spared how different she would be! If she died, Eva told herself, she would never be happy again.

She went downstairs wretched and helpless, and once more found Jessie Meadows in possession of the kitchen. "How is Babs?"

"Conscious, I think--but I don't know," and the girl buried her face and wept passionately.

"There, there, Eva, we've all got to learn lessons, and some are mighty hard. Take life as you find it, and don't make trouble. The change was a big one, I know, but you'll find warm hearts and willing hands wherever men and women are. I just brought over a pie and a few cakes I found in my pantry----"

"I can't accept them after being so rude."

[Sidenote: A Short Memory]

"Were you rude, dear? A short memory is an advantage sometimes. But we'll kiss and be friends, as the children say, and I will take turns with you in nursing Babs."

What Eva would have done without the capable woman would be hard to say, for the child lay on the borders of the spirit land for weeks. When the crisis was past her first words were, "Evie, Evie!" and never before had Eva listened with such joy and thankfulness to her name. The child could not bear her out of sight; "pretty sister" was doctor, nurse, and mother in one. Unwearied in care, and patient with the whims of the little one, she was a treasure to her father, whose harassed face began to wear a happier expression.

"I have great news to tell," he began one evening when, with Babs in his arms and the boys hanging around in their usual fashion, they were sitting together after tea.

"Tell, tell!" shouted the audience; but the doctor shook his head, while his eyes rested on Eva.

"Is it about mother?" she whispered, and he nodded.

"Mother is well, and coming home."

"Mother's coming back!" was echoed throughout the house to the accompaniment of a war dance of three excited kangaroos until sleep closed all eyes.

The day of the arrival was memorable in many ways to the young girl. In the morning came an invitation to sing at a concert, an hour later Mrs. Meadows' brother arrived, laden with good things for the returning invalid, and with a letter from an editor in Wellington, which brought a flush of delighted surprise to Eva's face.

Mrs. Meadows herself came over later.

"The editor is a friend of mine, Eva," she said; "and in rescuing a story of yours from Jack, I found him a contributor. Not for what you have done, but for what I'm certain you can do if you will write of life and not sentimental rubbish. You are not offended, are you?"

Eva's eyes glistened. "Offended with _you_--_you_ who have laden me with kindness, and helped me to find all that is worth having in life! I have learned now to see myself with other eyes than my own."

Eva's doubts were set to rest once and for ever when she saw the frail mother she had really forgotten, and felt her arms around her as she said, "My daughter--thank Heaven for such a treasure!"

[Sidenote: Rosette was a girl of singular resolution. Through what perils she passed unscathed this story will tell.]

Rosette in Peril

A Story of the War of La Vendée

BY

M. LEFUSE

A loud knocking sounded at the door.

"Jean Paulet," cried a voice, "how much longer am I to stand and knock? Unbar the door!"

"Why, it is Monsieur de Marigny!" exclaimed the farmer, and hurried to let his visitor in.

"Ah, Jean Paulet! You are no braver than when I saw you last!" laughed the tall man who entered, wrapped in a great cloak that fell in many folds. "I see you have not joined those who fight for freedom, but have kept peacefully to your farm. 'Tis a comfortable thing to play the coward in these days! And I would that you would give a little of the comfort to this small comrade of mine." From beneath the shelter of his cloak a childish face peered out at the farmer and his wife.

"Ah, Monsieur! that is certainly your little Rosette!" exclaimed Madame Paulet. "Yes, yes, I have heard of her--how you adopted the poor little one when her father was dead of a bullet and her mother of grief and exposure; and how, since, you have loved and cared for her and kept her ever at your side!"

"Well, that is finished. We are on the eve of a great battle--God grant us victory!" he said reverently--"and I have brought the little one to you to pray you guard and shelter her till I return again. What, Jean Paulet! You hesitate? Before this war I was a good landlord to you. Will you refuse this favour to me now?" asked de Marigny, looking sternly down on the farmer from his great height.

"I--I do not say that I refuse--but I am a poor defenceless man; 'tis a dangerous business to shelter rebels--ah, pardon! loyalists--in these times!" stammered Jean Paulet.

"No more dangerous than serving both sides! Some among this republic's officers would give much to know who betrayed them, once, not long ago. You remember, farmer? What if _I_ told tales?" asked de Marigny grimly.

"Eh! but you will not!" exclaimed the terrified man. "No, no! I am safe in your hands; you are a man of honour, Monsieur--and the child shall stay! Yes, yes; for your sake!"

De Marigny caught up Rosette and kissed her. "Sweetheart, you must stay here in safety. What? You are 'not afraid to go'? No, but I am afraid to take you, little one. Ah, vex me not by crying; I will soon come to you again!" He took a step towards the farmer. "Jean Paulet, I leave my treasure in your hands. If aught evil happen to her, I think I should go mad with grief," he said slowly. "And a madman is dangerous, my friend; he is apt to be unreasonable, to disbelieve excuses, and to shoot those whom he fancies have betrayed him! So pray you that I find Rosette in safety when I come again. Farewell!"

But before he disappeared into the night, he turned smiling to the child. "Farewell, little one. In the brighter days I will come for thee again. Forget me not!"

* * * * *

Round Jean Paulet's door one bright afternoon clustered a troop of the republican soldiers, eyeing indolently the perspiring farmer as he ran to and fro with water for their horses, and sweetening his labours with scraps of the latest news.

"Hé, Paulet," suddenly asked the corporal, "hast heard anything of the rebel General Marigny?"

"No!" replied the farmer hurriedly. "What should I hear? Is he still alive?"

"Yes, curse him! So, too, is that wretched girl, daughter of a vile aristocrat, that he saved from starvation. Bah! as if starving was not too good a death for her! But there is a price set on Marigny, and a reward would be given for the child too. So some one will soon betray them, and then--why, we will see if they had not rather have starved!" he said ferociously.

"I--I have heard this Marigny is a brave man," observed the farmer timidly.

"That is why we want the child! There is nothing would humble him save perchance to find he could not save the child he loves from torture. Ha! ha! we shall have a merry time then!"

"Doubtless this Marigny is no friend to the republic," said the farmer hesitatingly.

The corporal laughed noisily as he gathered up his horse's reins. "Head and front of this insurrection--an accursed rebel! But he shall pay for it, he shall pay; and so will all those fools who have helped him!"

And the little band of soldiers rode away, shouting and jesting, leaving Jean Paulet with a heart full of fear.

With trembling fingers he pushed open the house door, and, stepping into the kitchen, found Rosette crouched beneath the open window. "Heard you what they said--that they are seeking for you?" he gasped.

Rosette nodded. "They have done that this long time," she observed coolly.

[Sidenote: "They must find You!"]

"But--but--some time they must find you!" he stammered.

Rosette laughed. "Perhaps--if I become as stupid a coward as Jean Paulet."

The farmer frowned. "I am no coward--I am an experienced man. And I tell you--I, with the weight of forty years behind me--that they will find you some time."

"And I tell you--I," mimicked Rosette saucily, "with the weight of my twelve years behind me--that I have lived through so many perils, I should be able to live through another!"

"'Tis just that!" said the farmer angrily. "You have no prudence; you take too many risks; you expose yourself to fearful dangers." He shuddered.

"What you fear is that I shall expose you," returned Rosette cheerfully. "Hé, well! a man can but die once, Farmer Paulet."

"That is just it!" exclaimed the farmer vivaciously. "If I had six lives I should not mind dying five times; but having only the one, I cannot afford to lose it! And, besides, I have my wife to think of."

Rosette meditated a moment. "Better late than never, Farmer Paulet. I have heard tell you never thought of that before." The sharp little face softened. "She is a good woman, your wife!"

"True, true! She is a good woman, and you would not care for her to be widowed. Consider if it would not be better if I placed you in safety elsewhere."

"Jean Paulet! Jean Paulet!" mocked Rosette; "I doubt if I should do your wife a kindness if I saved your skin."

Jean Paulet wagged a forefinger at her angrily. "You will come to a bad end with a tongue like that! If it were not for the respect I owe to Monsieur de Marigny----"

"Marigny's pistol!" interrupted Rosette.

"Ah, bah! What is to prevent my abandoning you?" asked the farmer furiously.

Rosette swung her bare legs thoughtfully. "Papa Marigny is a man of his word--and you lack five of your half-dozen lives, Jean Paulet."

"See you it is dangerous!" returned her protector desperately. "My wife she is not here to advise me; she is in the fields----"

"I have noticed she works hard," murmured Rosette.

[Sidenote: To the Uplands!]

"And I will not keep you here. But for the respect I owe Monsieur de Marigny, I am willing to sacrifice something. I have a dozen of sheep in the field down there--ah! la, la! they represent a lifetime's savings, but I will sacrifice them for my safety--no, no; for Monsieur de Marigny, I mean!" he wailed. "You shall drive them to the uplands and stay there out of danger. I do not think you will meet with soldiers; but if you do, at the worst they will only take a sheep--ah! my sheep!" he broke off distressfully. "Now do not argue. Get you gone before my wife returns. See, I will put a little food in this handkerchief. There, you may tell Monsieur de Marigny I have been loyal to him. Go, go! and, above all, remember never to come near me again, or say those sheep are mine. You will be safe, quite safe."

Rosette laughed. "You have a kind heart, Jean Paulet," she mocked. "But I think perhaps you are right. You are too much of a poltroon to be a safe comrade in adversity."

She sprang from her chair and ran to the doorway. Then she looked back. "Hark you, Jean Paulet! This price upon my head--it is a fine price, hé? Well, I am little, but I have a tongue, and _I know what my papa de Marigny knows_. Ah! the fine tale to tell, if they catch us! Eh? Farewell."

She ran lightly across the yard, pausing a moment when a yellow mongrel dog leaped up and licked her chin. "Hé, Gegi, you love me better than your master does!" she said, stooping to pat his rough coat. "And you do not love your master any better than I do, eh? Why, then you had better keep sheep too! There is a brave idea. Come, Gegi, come!" And together they ran off through the sunshine.

* * * * *

It was very cold that autumn up on the higher lands, very cold and very lonely.

Also several days had passed since Rosette had ventured down to the nearest friendly farm to seek for food, and her little store of provisions was nearly finished.

"You and I must eat, Gegi. Stay with the sheep, little one, while I go and see if I can reach some house in safety." And, the yellow mongrel offering no objection, Rosette started.

She was not the only person in La Vendée who lacked food. Thousands of loyal peasants starved, and the republican soldiers themselves were not too plentifully supplied. Certainly they grumbled bitterly sometimes, as did that detachment of them who sheltered themselves from the keen wind under the thick hedge that divided the rough road leading to La Plastière from the fields.

"Bah! we live like pigs in these days!" growled one of the men.

"It is nothing," said another. "Think what we shall get at La Plastière! The village has a few fat farmers, who have escaped pillaging so far by the love they bore, as they said, to the good republic. But that is ended: once we have caught this rascal Marigny in their midst, we can swear they are not good republicans."

"But," objected the first speaker, "they may say they knew nothing of this Marigny hiding in the château!"

"They may say so--but we need not believe them!" returned his companion.

"Ah, bah! I would believe or not believe anything, so long as it brought us a good meal! How long before we reach this village, comrade?"

"Till nightfall. We would not have Marigny watch our coming. This time we will make sure of the scoundrel."

Rosette, standing hidden behind the hedge, clenched her hands tightly at the word. She would have given much to have flung it back at the man, but prudence suggested it would be better to be discreet and help Marigny. She turned and ran along under the hedge, and away back to where she had left her little flock, her bare feet falling noiselessly on the damp ground.

"Ah, Gegi!" she panted, flinging herself beside the yellow mongrel, "the soldiers are very near, and they are going to surprise my beloved papa de Marigny. What must we do, Gegi, you and I, to save him?"

Gegi rolled sharply on to his back and lay staring up at the skies as if he was considering the question. Rosette rested her chin on her drawn-up knees and thought fiercely. She knew in what direction lay the château of La Plastière, and she knew that to reach it she must cross the countryside, and cross, too, in full view of the soldiers below; or else--and that was the shorter way--go along the road by which they encamped.

Rosette frowned. If they spied her skulking in the distance, they would probably conclude she carried a message that might be valuable to them and pursue her. If she walked right through them? Bah! Would they know it was Rosette--Rosette, for whose capture a fine reward would be given?

She did not look much like an aristocrat's child, she thought, glancing at her bare brown legs and feet, and her stained, torn blue frock. Her dark, matted curls were covered with a crimson woollen cap--her every garment would have been suitable for a peasant child's wear; and Rosette was conscious that her size was more like that of a child of seven than that of one of twelve. She had passed unknown through many soldiers--would these have a more certain knowledge of her?

[Sidenote: "How am I to Settle it?"]

"Oh, Gegi!" she sighed; "how am I to settle it?"

Gegi wagged his tail rapidly and encouragingly, but offered no further help.

If she went across country the way was longer far, and there was a big risk. If she went near those soldiers and was known, why, risk would become a certainty. That Death would stare into her face then, none knew better than Rosette; but Death was also very near Rosette's beloved de Marigny, the man who had cared for her and loved her with all the warmth of his big, generous heart.

"Ah! if my papa de Marigny dies, I may as well die too, Gegi," she whispered wearily. The yellow mongrel cocked one ear with a rather doubtful expression. "Well, we must take the risk. If papa de Marigny is to live, you and I, Gegi, must take him warning!" Rosette cried, springing to her feet; and Gegi signified his entire approval in a couple of short barks. "I will take the sheep," his little mistress murmured; "'tis slower, but they will be so pleased to see them. Poor Jean Paulet!" she thought, with a faint smile.

Gegi bounded lightly through a gap in the hedge, and dashed up to the soldiers inquisitively. With an oath, one of the men hurled a stone at him, which Gegi easily dodged, and another man stretched out his hand for his musket.

"There are worse flavours than dog's meat," he observed coolly. "Come, little beast, you shall finish your life gloriously, nourishing soldiers of the republic!" He placed his gun in position.

"Hé! you leave my dog alone!" called Rosette sharply, as she stepped into the roadway. "He has the right to live," she added, as she moved jauntily up to them. Her pert little face showed nothing of the anguish in her heart.

"Not if I want him for my supper," observed the soldier, grinning at his comrades, who changed their position to obtain a better view of the coming sport.

"But you do not," corrected Rosette. "If you need to eat dog, search for the dog of an accursed fugitive!"

The men laughed. "How do we know this is not one?" they asked.

"I will show you. Hé, Gegi!" she called, and the dog came and sat in front of her. "Listen, Gegi. Would you bark for a monarchy?" The yellow mongrel glanced round him indifferently. "Gegi!" his mistress called imperiously, "do you cheer for the glorious republic?" And for answer, Gegi flung up his head and barked.

"You see?" asked Rosette, turning to the grinning man. "He is your brother, that little dog. And you may not eat your brother, you know," she added gravely.

[Sidenote: "Whose Sheep are those?"]

"Hé, by the Mass! whose sheep are those?" cried a soldier suddenly.

"They are mine, or rather they are my master's; I am taking them back to the farm."

"Why, then, we will spare you the trouble. I hope they, too, are not good republicans," he jested.

"I have called them after your great leaders--but they do not always answer to their names," Rosette assured him seriously.

"Then they are only worthy to be executed. Your knife, comrade," cried one of the men, jumping to his feet. "What, more of them! Six, seven, eight," he counted, as the sheep came through the gap. "Why, 'twill be quite a massacre of traitors."