Fabiola : or, The church of the catacombs - Digital Repository Services

1
with coM, distant, civility, ami not even altemp
quaiii
ualh dreading his departure, not merely from a
Sense lli:il there mig \VI-D n.fi' .-ibout it, though she could
. :is
in fault, but that she had bi
v for the brief moments, when a few words were e\-
1 ln'i \veen them, us the interesting periods of I
he il.
that i;' -lit sight of his face at times when lie \\
of it, her eyes could not detach themselves from it. She
unk into a deep reverie, from which shu was aroused by
'. ing:
" Xow, I must take }hc coats to feed on the moor behind those
to the left. We always go there at this hour, and Monjjeur
.generally comes home, that way with Wasp, who lias now
made friends with my goats. He is going to -tell me the story
of a peasant girl, who was a little shepherdess like me, and a
-aint. Did you know, Misc, that little girls who lake can:
of sheep and goats could be saints? Will you come and hear the
Monsieur is going to tell me?"
"No, I must hasten home, Bcnoitc; but to-morrow morning
\\ ill you be with the goats? I will come to you and you
will tell me that story.''
" Down by the side of the brook where it runs close to the
Mise. Good night," and Beuoite walked away, followed
by her goats.
Hose went home. "I can never forget that look." Those
s letter seemed to haunt her. Had that look
that instant indeed decided their fate, as he had said, beyond
and recall? She had been wrong, she knew it, to show
9 she now regretted had existed, and which had disappeared
a way, if not to opposite, at least to different
i
1 1 had been indeed an almost involuntary fault as
Mstant was concerned, yet she could not but rcmem-
she had nurtured and encouraged in herself contempt
ami aversion towards the person she knew she must marry,
had prevented her from even trying to see in him anything
belter than what her dislike and ready belief of what
s had said about him, pictured to her.
in and again she asked herself what could she do now that
tli" lables .,eemed turned. George really seemed to have conceived
an aversion for her. The feeble efforts she made to converse
with him on any but the most trivial subjects were met with a
]>
ilile, hulili ,d an utter absence of interest. Then Rose
i- temper rising, and she showed a sort of irritation which
.'dd not conquer at the moment, and which yet, she was
hii'h can.-;"d it.
confirm him in the belief that it was his pres-
It was not strange that a young and timid girl in so difficult a
ID did not know how to act. It may indeed seem extraordinary
that, she did not hasten to her Aunt Mise, or write to her
for ad vice; hut a vague fear of bringing matters to a crisis, by her-
self taking any lu.iinihm even Mdlle. Lesealle of the
had tunned, kept her silent. Mise Mcde
think it riicht to speak to his parents and hers of the in-
tended separation, and she abhorred the idea of their interfer-
either to make that separation a formal one, or to compel
> alter
his intention.
This feeling was so strong that it enabled her to receive her
t on the day after her first interview with Benoite with a
lk in a way which salislled ,Mad-
,-nr Le.cnlle that although og to certain hints which
iven her during a brief conversation in the
n, M. le Baron was a very dull and silent companion, and
that .Mise Kose would soon be ill if -he continued to lead such a
1 life, her daughter was well siti-lied with her lot.
" I5nt, Miirnonne," she said, when Hose expressed her wish to
at P,elbousc|Uet. " W e could very well lodge you in
-.is until i
I be-
nd nothing artei- nil lull a common ra^h.
me of yoiu 1
have
had
them linn.!'; up in my large wardrobe. T 1
for
"
I :,m
.sure that. QeOre likes belter to he here Ih
town, mamma. This plae uell. 1|.
walks into the mountains. II to the rocks of
Knlreat. I am sorry he will miss you."
" And does he, then, leave you in this way alone? '
"Oh, he heard you were "
coming, mamma, and Rose
stopped, and then added, feeling that this sounded rude, " And
I suppose he may have thought that we should like to be
together. George is very shy, you know "
Well, well, I suppose he will get used to me in time, and
the best, way will be to bring him to us at once. What day shall
Xuxt Saturday? And then, on Sunday, alter church, wo
can take a walk on the Tasse: and you can put on your bl
white moire gown, and your black lace bonnet with the white
rose."
"I will speak to him about it, dear mamma, and write you a
note."
"Oh, for that matter, my love, I hope you are not got
place yourself on the footing of asking your husband what he
likes to do. At any rate, during the honeymoon it is a matter of
course that you do as you like, and with such a young, iiu
enced man I mean, the sort of man he is if you inana:
hand. I am sure tins i-. what
you will always have the upper
the de Vedelles wished. And if you find any ditlieuliy about it.
I can make him quickly feel that when we agreed to the marriage
that was quite understood."
Rose winced at this speech, and felt how dreadful it would be
to have her mother interfering in her concerns. So she onlyanswered
that as they had hitherto not disagreed about: anything
there was no occasion for any assertion of her right to ha
own way. She again expressed her wish to remain in the coun-
try, and Madame Lesealle reluctantly waived the point.
A day or two afterwards, as Rose was standing by a window
in a back passage which looked on the garden, sue saw George
sitting on a bench with a bit of paper and a pencil in his liana.
His face, as he looked up, was full of expression, his eyes flasu-
ing and his lips moving. He was writing; now aim (hen he
paused, looked up, and then wrote again. After a while he put
the pencil into his pocket, tore the paper, threw the bits on the
grass behind the bench, and walked out of the garden.
Rose had been two successive mornings to the spot whei
noon, the little shepherdess rested in the shade with her Hock
and, seated by her side on the grass, had made Benoite i
the stories which George had told her the evening before. First
about the holy shepherdess, Germaine Cousin, and then about the
dear Saint and sweet Queen, St. Elizabeth of Hungary. The little
girl repeated in a touching manner some of the incidents of these
wonderful lives. She told how Germaine planted her stall on
the hill-side when she went to mass, and left her sheep under the
care of her guardian angel. Never, Benoite said, did they stray
from the spot, and then, in her picturesque phraseology and
with expressive gestures, she described the miracle of the I
changed into roses, which has been so often painted and carved
and sung in verse, in honor of the dear St. Elizabeth.
"Monsieur has made me a song about that," she added, as she
finished her recital.
singing
" He made it yesterday, and I have been
it ever since. Shall I sing it to "
you, Mise?
Rose nodded assent, and then Benoite's childish voice warbled
in the Provencal dialect the melodious language of the
troubadours rhymes of which the following verses are a feeble
translation :
By nit the humble erare (l:;it marked
I Thy im ihy lurlli,
By nil tin' niirar]'.- tlial
Thy brief
By Jill Itie sufferers, yonn^ and old,
That '.inic,
By all the' lepers foul an.:
Thai
n;lc name,
By eaeli fair rM> that lilnomei! uitHln
-I wtiere love hail >m]t,'ht
Wi;
To famished heee- 1