The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, 11 August 1910, Page 1251

The Storyteller

A HEARTLESS MOTHER (Concluded from last week.) Once established in the house of her father and mother, Aimee seemed like a sick bird in a new cage. Accustomed . j to open doors and the fresh air, she felt Suffocated in the close atmosphere of the house, which she seldom left more than once a day, and then for about an hour at a time* She suffered in body, heart, and soul. Everything was strange to her; the elegant furniture, the long mirrors ■ which revealed to her whenever she glanced at them the figure of a mournful-looking, pallid little girl; the governess who came three hours a day and treated her as though she were a machine; the maid who took her most unwillingly for her. daily walk, and with whom she seldom exchanged a word. Above all, the vicinity of her parents oppressed her, and their conduct toward her made her quail at the very sight of them. Immersed in his own concerns, her father, after the first few days of passive kindness, seemed to forget aU about her. Her mother, more actively hostile, often scolded her for her awkwardness, her sullenness, her gaucheries, of which the child was unconscious, and which she might have amended, if the proper method had been taken to teach her to do so. She persisted in addressing her parents as ' Madame ' and 'Monsieur ' —terms which she applied equally to the concierge and the cook. The demon of stubbornness had entered her soul: nothing could banish it from its lodgment. In the depths of her heart she had conceived the idea that if she did not conform to the wishes of her parents, they would send her back to Catherine, which was what she most desired. The situation was strange, disagreeable, and peculiar. Till within a few months she had been a joyous, care-free, and affectionate child, happy in her home and in all human relations about her; yet at the same time, to the most casual observer, superior to those with whom she was thrown, in appearance, gait, gesture, and manner. .-;•'- ;|p-. H§ And now, in the house of her father and mooter, she seemed a little peasant girl, transplanted to. an atmosphere to which she could never become accustomed,, in which she might be said merely to exist. The situation was becoming more and more intolerable every day, when it suddenly came to an end. Monsieur Punol died, after a short illness, of pneumonia. The third day after the funeral, as Aimee stood regarding herself in the mirror, looking more solemn and unhappy than ever in her" black garments, she took a sudden resolution, which she prepared to carry into effect. Without saying a word to anyone, she went to the kitchen, carrying her little basket, and asked the cook for some bread and meat and a small flask of wine and water. ' What do you want to do with it, child inquired the old woman. ' It is for a poor little girl,' replied Aimee. ' If I let you have the food, will you give her the basket to carry it in? It is such a common-looking affair for a young lady to own Madeline tells me your mamma hates the sight of it.' 'Yes, I will give her the basket.' ~;'.,;.. ' Now, that is very good of you, Mademoiselle. You will not be so stubborn in future, will you? You will not bother your poor mamma, now that your father is dead, and she has so much trouble?' . , ; ' I do not bother herl hardly ever see her. But I promise you, Eulalie, not to bother her any more.' ' Very well. Here is a nice packet of food. Now, be " off to your little girl. I never believed, myself, that you had a bad heart.' ' Thank you, Eulalie!' said the child, with tears in her eyes. It was. the first display of feeling that had been seen since her arrival, and the heart —not a bad oneof the woman was touched. . ' They have not done the right thing by the child,' she said to herself, returning to her work. " 'lf they had used different methods, she would be different. And now that tho father is gone was the better of the twowell, well, how will it be?' Instead of going to the concierge with the food as Eulalie had supposed, Aimee hastened to her own room, where she changed her black garments for her peasant costume. After having written on a small piece of. paper, 'I have gone to live with Catherine,' _ she pasted it on the windowpane, where it could not fail to be seen. It was late in the afternoon of an April —the time when the concierge would doubtless be in his little room. The stairway was in twilight: no one recognised the little peasant girl descending with her primitive basket. When the ground-floor was reached, the runaway stepped boldly into the street. She was familiar with the route to the station; with a self-possession which was a heritage from both father and mother, she purchased a third class ticket to the village of L. Several persons in the compartment wondered at the old-fashioned, lonely little creature, who sat up like a woman, with her gaze constantly fixed on the landscape through which they were passing, and who ate her modest luncheon of bread, meat, and wine as though she were an experienced traveller.

■ Night was falling when the train arrived at L.; and Aimee left the carriage, in which she, had not exchanged a single word with any ' of her companions/ Plodding on steadily, without a thought of fatigue or fear, until she came to the village, she approached the humble home in ; which she had left her childish heart. Through the uncurtained window she saw the family seated around the supper table. Softly opening the door, she stood before the astonished group. ' I have come back!' she cried; 'I have come back! I have run away. My father is dead, and my mother will not be sorry that. I am here. If you do not let me stay with you, I will throw myself in the river. And if they take -me back, I, will throw myself out of the highest window, or under the feet of the horses in the street.' Then, bursting into a paroxysm of tears, the first she had shed since she left the cottage, she fell into Catherine's arms, opened to receive her. . - Strange as it may appear, Madame Punol did not attempt to redeem her daughter. Utterly indifferent to Aimee as she was, her departure afforded her more satisfaction than regret. As soon as possible negotiations as to the future were arranged between herself and the Martins; and Aimee entered once more into the life she loved, and became, as formerly, in every particular a model child. At tKe age of sixteen she began to teach the village school. At twenty she married the nephew of the cure, a young doctor from Nevers, who had come to pass the vacation with his uncle. At that time it became known that a suitable marriage portion had been provided for her by . her mother— welcome addition to the modest purse of the young physician. From this period Aimee passed fpr ever v out of the lives of the Martins, whose family were in homes . of their own. But tender memories still existed between the child and her kind foster parents. As soon as she was transplanted to another atmosphere, the soul of Aimee expanded and adapted itself to circumstances more fitted to her refined nature. The beautiful and gentle Madame Dirmontel was everywhere loved and admired. Three lovely children came to bless this ideal union. When the Dirmontels had been married ten years the health of the doctor began to fail, and they decided to ' spend the summer near Trouyille, with their children, satisfied that a complete renunciation of business would effect a cure, which proved to be the case. A cottage was rented, and the whole family entered into the full enjoyment of their holiday. One morning, her husband and children having preceded her to the beach, Aimee, after attending to some household duties, prepared to follow them. A small runabout in which two ladies were seated passed her, going very quickly. They were elderly persons, very well dressed, and had the air of people of some importance. Suddenly, through the cloud of dust they left behind them, Aimee perceived a grey chiffon veil, which fell to the ground at her feet. She stooped to pick it up, and at the same moment saw that the carriage had turned about and was approaching the place where she stood. She made a step forward with the veil in her hand. The elder of the two ladies,-who was very handsome, in a cold, statuesque way extended her hand. Thank you, madame!' she said politely, as she received the veil. If I had had it on my hat where it belongs, " instead of on the seat beside me, I should not have lost it.' 'You are welcome, madame,' answered Aimee, and for an instant the two women looked into each other's eyes. It was over in a moment; the travellers resumed their journey. The lady turned to the driver. 'Do you know the name of the persons who live in the t cottage we have just passed,' she inquired' where that lady was standing who picked up the veil?' They are the Dirmontels,' he replied. He is a doctor.' Do they reside here?' 1 They are from Nevers for the season only.' ' Thank you !' responded the questioner, while her friend remarked: .' That was a very good-looking and refined young woman, quite out of the ordinary. Don't you think so?' ' I agree with you,' said the other. 'I fancy you looked very much like that at her age,' continued her friend. ' Perhaps I did,' replied her companion, thoughtfully. But I never had those soft, dark eyes. They are the crowning feature of her face.' 'Yes, you are right,' rejoined the other, mentally contrasting them with those of the woman beside her, which were a hard, steely grey. , , V . , , . -i - The elder woman took a note-book from her pocket and wrote a few words; then she leaned back, silently musing, . until they came in sight of Trouville, where they were sojourning. ... Aimee walked slowly toward the beach, musing in her turn. The subject of her reflections was not a pleasant one. 'That was my mother,' she said to herself' my -: mother! And she recognised me! God forgive me, but the £'->»■sight ofl her has aroused the worst feelings of which I am terrible feelings of resentment and aversion, which capable—terrible forgotten resentment and aversion, of my I thought were forgotten in the great happiness of my 4 life 1 v But this shows what I might have become, what ■■': possibilities there are within me; which, owing to fortunate circumstances, have not been developed. I do not wish her -evil—oh, no!—but, God, Thou knowest it, I wish also never

again to meet Leri And, if I am not altogether mistaken lr \ 1 her character, this first meeting, if she can so order it, will be our last. 0 Catherine! 0 Claude 1 What, where would I have been if you had not sheltered me? I shudder to think of it.’ .Five years later the Dirmontels came into possession of a large fortune, left them, it was said, by a distant relative of Aimee’s; but the husband and wife knew the real source of their increased wealth, and whence came the tardy recognition, the effort at atonement for years of indifference and neglect on the part of a most unusual and unnatural mother. Ave Maria-.