THE GOLDEN HEART.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume VIII, Issue 36, 12 September 1891, Page 367

THE GOLDEN HEART.

CHAPTER I. EN one of the fairest districts of Northern France there was an old Norman town, wonderfully beautiful and picturesque, with its quaintly carved houses, its superb galleries, and curious peaked I roofs; its massive iron studded and I ornamented doors; its shrines placed ' at almost every street corner, and containing the stone image of the Virgin and infant Saviour ; its glorious greys and browns, its colour and rich still life. The streets were paved with round grey pebbles—pebbles that tortured the feet of nnwary strangers and made them long for the smooth asphalte of Paris —indeed, the pavements of this lovely little town were its sole drawback. Its cathedral was noble, grand, and imposing. Outside were winged dragons fighting for the lite of a saint against some evil power. Strange and unknown animals crouching submissively at the feet of holy men ; long processions of sculptured disciples mingled with many episodes of the Saviour’s life carven upon the ancient grey stones. It was dignified, stately, and handsome. Inside the dim, cool church, rich with mellow tinted paintings, and the gorgeously coloured shadows that fell from the stained windows, its tapestries and crowded altars, its massive white columns and glitter of gold and silver, there was one plain oaken door that led to the cloisters above. They were noble not only by reason of their great age, for surely age lends dignity, but by the superbness of their marble arches and splendid carvings, their faded altars and lofty saints. Once seen, they were cloisters to be remembered, to be thought of with wistful regret and a sigh for their imperishable strength and beauty. The river that ran through the town was sluggish and slow, but it bore the market boats and the corn barges and stole away to the brilliant blue sea, reflecting, as it crept along, the overhanging eaves and the dark dormer windows of the quaint wooden houses. Fruitful orchards stretched around it ; wide fields of yellow colza flamed in the sun, and low purple hills, covered with a mist in the early morning as beautiful as the bloom upon a cluster of grapes, hemmed it in from the busy, bustling, outer world. There were deep, green woods, golden here and there with patches of gorse, and far away northward was a faint streak of ocean, while from many a hill or by the roadside the tall Calvaries stretched out their arms sorrowfully, yearningly, to the travellers who passed beneath.

A beautiful, world-forgotten old place. Frequented by few strangers, and they only wandering antiquaries and artists who sought it for the art treasures it gave them freely and ungrudgingly. There was a little wooden hamlet on the outskirts of the town, where the people grew an abundance of fruit and flowers for the market. The entrance to the village was marked by a cross, and in the winter a lantern swung there. Even in their busiest moments the people paused as they passed it, to cross themselves and murmur a prayer, to implore some greatly desired object and to beg Mary’s guidance through the day and her assistance in their buying and selling, their bargaining and transferring. Sometimes the women, on their way to the still, quiet town, bearing their baskets of richly-hued flowers and fruits, paused to rest there, and talked lightly and laughingly of their every day affairs, their husbands, or, if they were unmarried, of their lovers, whispering even beneath the shadow of the cross—that symbol of perfect, pitiful love —some choice bit of scandal concerning a neighbour, some idle rumour that destroyed, by its foulness, the fair fame of an innocent girl, or added to the shame of a weak and erring sister. There was a cool, glistening fountain opposite the cross, noted for the sweetness and purity of its waters, and here the young girls and bent old women came W'ith their pitchers, and the patient-eyed oxen refreshed themselves during the heat of the day. Ujxm the low stone seat the market women rested and the children played. It was an intensely hot summer day. The roads were dry, and white with powdered dust. The grass of the wayside was burnt and scorched. There bad been no rain for some weeks, and everything was drooping—dying .The birds had taken shelter from the dazzling ball of fire among the boughs of the trees, and occasionally a faint twitter betrayed their hiding place. All Nature slumbered—a leaden sleep. The fields were brilliant with yellow mustard, golden with the ripening corn and red with the flame of thousands of poppies. The orchard trees were laden with fruit. Never had the villagers experienced a more plenteous season. Between the long row of poplars that edged the road came two peasant girls. Two tall young creatures, each poising an empty basket upon her head, barefooted, lithe of movement, supple and erect, walking with the free, proud carriage of Eastern country women. One was wonderfully beautiful, with a pale oval face, arched brows, and deep, fathomless, purple black eyes that looked out upon the world with a strange, scornful expression smouldering in their depths. Her companion was slight and fragile. Her face was round and iair, pink as an apple blossom, innocent and childish. She had large laughing eyes, and her hair shone like a golden net filled with imprisoned sunbeams. Vnlike as these girls were they were sisters. They paused when they reached the well, each setting down her light burden and drawing a long breath of weariness. The younger girl rested herself upon the low seat, fanning herself with her blue apron. The slight movement lifted the little curls that strayed over her forehead and ruffled them. ‘Reine.’sbe said softly, addressing her sister wholeant over the fountain dipping her slender brown fingers into the limpid water, ‘ Are you weary ?’ ‘ No.’ * Angry f * No? * Is it that you have not forgiven me ?’ * There is nothing to forgive,’ answered Heine shortly. * If you are rested we will go on.’ * I am ready,’ the elder girl said, rising as she spoke.

* It seems folly to rest when one is so near home, but our mother always sat here, and it was on this seat that you and I waited for her return from market. Do you remember, Heine?’ * Why should 1 forget it more than you, Toinou ?’ * Ah, why,’ said Toinou, sadly. A shade passed over Heine’s beautiful face. Her sombre eyes rested for a moment upon Toinou. * * It must be pleasant to have no work to do,’ she said abruptly. ‘No fruit nor flowers to gather ;no cattle to feed and tend. Tell me, Toinou, are you quite happy working in the garden, going to market day after day, no change, always the same —ever the garden and the market —the market and the garden? * Why do you ask ? Oh, Heine, has he spoken to you of another life—of Paris ?’

*He ! Whom ?’ demanded Heine, haughtily, but her eyes fell and a dark colour burnt in her cheeks.

‘ There is but one man who would talk of such things to a village girl,’ answered Toinou. ‘ And I need not tell you who he is. So he has talked of Paris, and he tells you that life is dark and dull in oui peaceful village. Oh, Heine, why will you listen to him ? Why do yon not close your ears and your heart against him. He has an evil spirit—he is a child of the unholy one? •So am I,’ retorted Reine scornfully. ‘ W’hy should one pray to Mary ? Yon have prayed to her night and morning, you have pleaded with her to save me, and yet she never hears yon, she never prevents my meeting him. If the Blessed Mother is powerful and stronger than Satan, why cannot she keep me from him—tell me why not ?’ Her voice had risen to a wail of despair, her hands clenched the basket with convulsive force, and her chest heaved stormilv.

• Perhaps she needs another offering,’ said Toinou after a pause. •It is long since we gave her the silver heart. Shall we save our money and give her a golden one, Reine ?’ ‘lt is useless now,’ said Reine bitterly. ‘ His words have sunk deep into my heart, and I cannot uproot them. In the night I think of Paris I I hear the roll of carriages ; I see the gleaming lights, the fountains, and the great buildings. I dream in my sleep of silks and laces, of satins and velvets, of gleaming jewels, of servants that obey the slightest wish of their mistress, of everything the heart can desire, and of that bitter price that must be paid for them !’

* Reine ! oh ! my sister, you will not, not—think of good Father Jose—oh ! Reine? Toinou’s voice broke down in a passionate fit of sobbing, while the elder girl looked calmly before her at the modern houses just coming into sight, and the tower of the plain little church rising tall and straight to the blue summer sky. • Hush !’ she said, not ungently. ‘ Dry your eyes. Someone may see you—Toinou, say nothing to Father Jose ; when I go again to confession I will tell him everything? ‘ And he will help you—oh ! he will help you? cried Toinou ; but Reine’s proud lips quivered as she murmured : ‘No one can help me—nothing can save me now. The saints are dead and Satan alone hears our prayers and answers them? Rut in the evening she crept away, and Toinou, who saw her go fell down upon her knees befoie the crucifix. ‘ She has gone to meet the evil one ! Oh ! Holy Mother ! if you will save her, I will give you a golden heart? she cried piteously, and the waxen figure under the glass shade stared before her with unseeing eyes, and the smiling mouth seemed to scoff at the girl’s heartbroken appeal. CHAPTER 11. Through the Champs Elysees, green with the leafy chestnuts, gay with crowds of smartly dressed people all bent upon enjoyment, noisy with the laughter of children and the music of a brass band hidden somewhere among the trees, walked a girl. A. poor little peasant girl, blue-eyed and gulden-hailed, dressed in a simple stuff gown and carrying a tiny rose tree close to her beating heart. A timid little girl whose blue eyes wandered fearfully and anxiously around her and whose faltering feet seemed barely able to support her tired, trembling body. She was Toinou. The people sitting beneath the trees looked carelessly after her—some little market girl from the Madeleine they thought, seeking the house of a puicbasei who had brought or ordered the rose tree she was carrying with such care. She was so weary, so faint and sick. It seemed years since she had awoke in the quaint old bedroom, where the roses crept in at the casement, and the starry-eyed jasmine made the air sweet with its perfume —to find the place by her side vacant and Reine missing. It seemed years ago since she had read the note lying upon the settle downstairs, the letter Reinehad written in the grey shadows of the early morning, before the crimson roses had shaken off the dewdrops or the tall lilies quite opened their snowy gold-dusted petals. She remembered reading it in a vague, dazed manner, and something of the sharp pain that had pierced her heart at that bitter moment still lived in her bosom. It was only a small piece of paper, but it had crushed the youth out of her, and in the place of the child had left a woman, who suffered and hid her agony nobly and bravely. This was what Reine bad written with a hand that had never faltered nor trembled as it fulfilled its task, while Toinou was sleeping peacefully in the little white chamber, her golden head resting upon her ai m and her lips smiling as she dreamt:

‘ I have gone to Paris.' That was all. No tender expression of love for the sister she was leaving—the little sister she had promised her mother to guard and shield always. And Toinou had read it, and then with her throbbing heart filled with one great resolve had fought back her tears and sat down to think. ‘ I will go to Paris and save her? It was an easy thing to say, but very difficult to carry out. How could she, a weak, inexperienced country girl, find her way to Paris, and when she reached it how could she discover Reine among the many thousands who dwelt in that vast city ? Love is strong ; love is powerful. Toinou took out the little hoard that she had been saving, with shy tenderness and grave forethought for a day that came to nearly all the village girls—her wedding day. It was a pitiful sum. The shoeblacks of Paris would have earned more in one day, and the flower sellers in the street would have taken double for one big basket of fragrant violets in the early season ; but to Toinou it seemed unlimited wealth.

She had no idea how far Paris was from the hamlet ; no idea which way to take nor in what direction it lay, but she knelt before the altar in the church and prayed that the Holy Mother would take her safely to Reine. * I have no offering to give you, dear Mother? she sobbed, as she prostrated herself before the smiling figure. ‘Only flowers, nothing else. But when I find Reine, I will bring you a golden heart? The white saint’s mute eyes stated at the sad childish figure, and the light from a [tainted window streamed over the pale, piteous face, and so with the golden glow upon her she passed out of the church and went home. She fastened up the wooden house, and took the key to a kindly neighbour who bad been good to the motherless girls, for she had children of her own. ‘ I am going a long journey, Marie? she said, try in" to speak bravely, and to steady her quivering voice. ‘ Will you see to the cow, and perhaps the children will water my Howers ; and if Reine returns before I, tell her I have gone to Paris—she will know why? • Going to Paris ?’ screamed Marie. ‘ Paris, it will take many weeks to reach the city. Why are you going? It is filled with traps and pit falls for such as you? ‘ I may tell you nothing, dear madam, but for my mother’s sake do as I ask? pleaded Toinou, and Marie had promised, and so began Toinou’s quest. She had walked by day through the villages and towns, and the dusty roads, under the dazzling sun, that burnt and blistered her skin even as the cruel hard pavements hurt her feet. Sometimes a friendly waggoner had given her a lift or a woman on her way home from market had placed her upon her mule. She was always grateful for these kind actions, and many good wishes followed her upon her journey. She had slept amongst trusses of hay and straw, and once beneath a hedge. And at last, haggard, weary and exhausted, she had reached the Paris end, the Champs Elysees. Poor little Toinou ! The crowds bewildered her; the music saddened her. Now that she had gained her goal she did not know where to go. She wandered on and on, through an immense place filled with statues, and where so many carriages passed to and fro that their number seemed countless and their procession endless. And the people laughed and talked, jostling her as they went by, everyone looking careless, happy, and prosperous. She had carried her rose tree all the way. It had been planted by the dead mother, and was too sacred a treasure to entrust even to Marie. The gay beds of flowers that she passed in the gardens were not so beautiful in her eyes as this tree. The children were sailing boats upon a sheet of water, while the fountain played and the white spray fell, and the children’s mirthful voices rang in her tired ears. She sank upon a seat at last, and rested her weary head upon her arm. Her eyes were closed, when suddenly a thought flashed through her brain. * Reine may be here among these gay people to-day. ’ The people passed by. Handsome w omen dressed in costly garments, fair and dark beauties, but no Reine. Another thought added now to Toinou’s perplexities. Where was she to find lodgings for the night ? The afternoon was waning, and the summer evening growing rapidly. Soon night would come. She counted up her poor stock of money—it was very small now, for her journey had taken many a silver coin from it. She looked hopelessly down the long garden. The crowds were leaving them. The smart nurses, in their fine caps and long ribbons, were carrying the children away. Everybody seemed going at once. Toinou rose and mingled with the crowd. What mattered it where she went ? So she passed out with them, and at length found herself drawn into the vortex of a struggling mob, who stood outside a great building, watching a long row of carriages pass. Suddenly a murjiur rang through the air. The people pressed eagerly forward. The cry passed from lip to lip ‘ Here she comes? Toinou bent forward with the rest. On came the carriage, drawn by magnificent horses and driven by highliveried coachmen. Among the luxuriant cushions a woman reclined. A beautiful, proud faced woman, whose lovely eyes shone defiantly, and whose dusky cheeks were flushed with a glow of triumph. A woman dressed in delicate silk and lace, with flashing jewels shimmering at her ears, her throat and upon her slender wrists. And as she made her triumphant procession a cry of * Reine, Reine? rose from someone among the bystanders. A figure ran forward, right before the horses’ heads, and under their feet. There was a confused babble of shouts mingled with the screams of teirified women and the exclamations of men, and then a man lifted the limp body of a golden-haired girl in his arms, whose fair childish face was crushed and bruised by the cruel hoofs of the horses, and whose blue eyes were closed never to open again upon the world, but closed for ever by the icy fingers of death. In the road lay a trampled rose-tree and a broken flower hat. The cat riage passed on. The men carried the dead body away. She was nobody. There were no tender, reverent hands to lay flowers upon her cold breast, or among the silken meshes of her pretty hair. She was only a friendless country girl. They buried her in the common ditch among the other city waifs, and Marie waits in vain for the home coming of the two sisters. But the Holy Mother has Toinou’s gift of the Golden Heart, even though it was given in vain.