Beside the River ... New edition, revised

Front matter

"For love is a celestiall harnionie Of Ukely harts composed of starres concent, Which joyne together in sweet sympathie, To work each others joy and true content, Which they have harbour'd since their first descent Out of their heavenly bowers, where they did see And know ech other here belov'd to bee. Then wrong it were that any other twaine Should in Loves gentle band combyned bee But those whom Heaven did at first ordaine, And made out of one mould the more t'agree ; For all, that like the beautie which they see, Straight do not love ; for Love is not so light As streight to burne at first beholders sight." Spenser's Hyinne in Honour of Beautic. A TA L E. BY KATHARINE S. MACQUOID, AUTHOR OF "AT THE RED GLOVE," " MA_SIE DERRICK," ETC, ETC A NEW EDITION. REVISED U on Don : A. D. INNES & CO, (late Walter Smith & Innes), 31 & 32, BEDFORD STREET, STRAND, W.C. 1892.

LONDON : PRINTED BT WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS. TO ROBERT BARRETT BROWNING. My dear Mr. Browning, I think you ivill take a lively interest in the scenery through which this story moves, and I offer the book to you in remembrance of some happy autumn days beside a river. Sincerely yours, KATHARINE S. MACQUOID. Stanley Place, Chelsea, March 1st, 1881. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE 1 11 16 21 33 37 48 57 66 70 76 82 91 99 108 117 124 134 139 I. On the Meuse In Hope . . II. III. IV. A Sacrifice Madame Boulotte "The Fossil" V. A Letter VI. VII. VIII. A Young Widow Jeanne's Struggle IX. Madame Delimoy's Answer A Moth X XI. Sorrow A Crisis XII. XIII. Consequences . . Settled . . XIV XV. Too Late A Wedding Baffled XVI. XVII. XVIII. Pauline's Home XIX. An Old Acquaintance Monsieur Baconfoy calls on Madame Monsieur Baconfoy gossips XX Boulotte 143 XXI. 152 XXII XXIII XXIV.

XXV Reaping 158 The Housekeeper of Antoine Vidonze At Chateau Montcour 163 176 A Band of Brothers . . The Journey to Spa A Recognition 182 XXVI. XXVII. XXVIII 189 194 A Fright 203 Jeanne's Vision 209 XXIX XXX 215 The Photographer CONTENTS. VIII PAGE

Chapter I. On The Meuse

Light is fading on the river, the water has lost the opal brightness of half an hour ago. But for the swiftly moving current one might think the spacious valley borders a lake, for the broad river turns abruptly at each end, and the steep wooded hills on either side of it close so completely that there seems no outlet from the still lonely beauty of the place. Across the broad stream, the green hills are very lofty, irregular in outline, and almost perpendicular. Birch trees clothe their dark sides, and among the light foliage here and there the earth shows purple, or else huge crags peer forward — a warm grey against the slender satin birch stems. The trees grow down the steeply descending hillside almost to the brink of the river, and their reflections in this waning light are spreading a uniform olive tint on the surface of the water.

On the near side the cliffs recede in the form of a crescent, leaving space for a small meadow between them and the river, and in this meadow, nearer the water than the hills, stands a small white-washed cottage, with green shutters and doors, its only peculi arity being that the thatched gable is not equal in B its slopes,— the long side stretches out to shelter a cow-house with an arched doorway facing the river. The cottage seems a part of the solitude of the place, it is as still as all the rest, only the whirr of a beetle's wing or the leap of a fish in the swift-flowing water gives a sign of life ; even the bird in the green cage beside the door seems asleep. A sudden break comes into the stillness. The cottage door opens, and the click click of knitting needles sounds distinctly from within.

All at once the noise stops, there is a sound of hearty kissing, and then of a fresh young voice — " Come now, grandmother," it says, " you stick too close to Edmond's socks, come out with me a bit while I fetch Merette home." The voice has grown more distinct, and now there stands in the doorway, relieved against the dark back ground of the room, a girl of more than middle height, and of rounded graceful shape. She looks about twenty, and in spite of her pale complexion is full of health and youth ; she is not perhaps pretty, but there is much charm in the sweet thoughtful face with its dark eyes and fair hair, a charm that clings to the memory of those who have once seen Jeanne Lahaye, with more tenacity than mere prettiness would. She looks full of vigorous life and brightness, and yet a certain dainty grace that accompanies her movements keeps this robustness within feminine limits.

The grandmother raises her kerchief-covered head and smiles at the young girl ; hers is such a still wan face that the sudden smile seems to galvanize it into life ; she shakes her head, and a gleam of mockery shows in her pale blue eyes. " My old legs cannot match your young ones," she says in a cracked voice. " Wait till Edmond comes, and he'll fetch Merette home." Jeanne laughs gaily — "Yes, yes, Edmond will be here soon. But why cannot you come too, grandmother ? " The old woman's pale straight face stiffens, she looks searchingly into the girl's clear dark eyes. Then grasping with one hand a stick which rests against the arm of her chair she gets up, with difficulty, clutching at Jeanne's arm for help. " Since you want me, child, I will come." Side by side age and youth walk slowly down the gentle green slope that lies between the cottage and the swiftly flowing river, to where a pale fawn coloured cow stands with her feet in the clear water drinking.

" Dear Merette, she has not gone far," Jeanne said. " I thought, grandmother, you should for once see how pretty she looks as she stands drinking in the clear water, with a reflection like a twin Merette. I often wish I could paint her picture." The old woman stood gazing at the cow without speaking for a minute or two. " Jeanne," the girl started as the thin voice broke the stillness of the valley, sleeping now in the olive light spread down its dark sides, and over the clear water, " you will never desert me, Jeanne." The girl laughed, a hearty reassuring laugh of utter incredulity at the idea suggested, but the truth shining out of her brown eyes was even more convincing to her questioner. " Why, grandmother, what do you mean ? " she said, " you are foolish to-night ; to begin with, whom could I go to if I left you ? no one would be plagued with me, you have so spoiled me since I left the convent."

The grandmother's pale blue eyes looked from out the deep caverns into which age had sunk them. " Are you sure you do not want to leave me, Jeanne ? It is a dull life here for a bright young girl. But," her thin voice grew shriller yet with agitation, and Jeanne felt the withered arm tremble within her own firm clasp, " I can keep you, child, while you are willing to stay here with me ; what I have could not keep you and me too if it were divided, and it would not suffice in a town as it does here, in the country." Jeanne was shaking her head in merry disapproval. "What is the matter this evening, grandmother? do you really think I could leave you and Merette ? " The cow came slowly up from the water, and when it reached Jeanne, rubbed its head lovingly against her shoulder. Jeanne slipped one plump arm round its neck and kissed it between the eyes.

" Yes, my Merette," she said in a soft purring voice, *-' even grand mother talks nonsense sometimes, you must help me to scold her, Merette." The cow shook her head as if she understood. " Oh, if I only had your picture, my beauty ! Grandmother, Monsieur Vidonze said, the last time I saw him, he would photograph Merette, as well as me, the next time he came." Madame Delimoy 's face changed suddenly, and one saw at a glance how stern those pale straight features and sunken eyes could look. " Monsieur Vidonze ! Bah ! " her voice had a harsh scoff in it. " He knows nothing about photographing, see what a fright he made of you. I tell you, Jeanne," in a vexed suspicious tone, " I'll not have a vagabond do-nothing like Antoine Vidonze loitering here again." Jeanne raised her soft cheek from the cow's neck, and turning a laughing face on the angry old woman, said, " What has he done, poor fellow ?

I thought you liked him." But Madame Delimoy had recovered herself. " He is good for nothing," she said sharply, " he is not worth talking of." Jeanne turned away, still smiling, and Merette followed, filling the air with sweet milky fragrance and soft lowings. 1 wonder why grandmother is angry," Jeanne thought ; " Monsieur Vidonze is not amusing, but I do want a likeness of Merette." The broad arched door of the cow-house stood open, and Merette passed on to her comfortable lodging, and her bed of green broom shoots. Jeanne lingered longer than usual with the cow. She had lived with her grandmother for the last four years, and this was the first time she had seen her really angry. The girl's frank fearlessness kept the atmosphere bright and unclouded, she and her mother had always under stood one another, and she had never learned the art of disputing.

But Madame Lahaye had gone to join the husband who had died some years earlier, and when Jeanne left the convent where she had been taught, she had come to live with her grand mother. They got on very well together, though the girl sometimes wished she could find out what lay under the old woman's cold and often sarcastic manner. But then, if Madame Delimoy rarely showed affection and never praised, she also never blamed her grand child. This was the first time that Jeanne could remember to have had her will thwarted. " Something has vexed her that I know nothing about," she thought; the serene look came back to her sweet face ; she said good night to Merette, and closed the cow-house door. As she turned round, the smile warmed into a delighted expression, and a rich glow flushed her cheeks.

There stood talking to her grandmother a tall slender young fellow, dressed in a short jacket, dark brown velveteen trousers, and a rush-plaited high-crowned hat on his head. His large dark eyes were fixed on the cow-stable, and as they met Jeanne's, the impatient look left them. He nodded to Madame Delimoy, and went forward to meet Jeanne. " You've come at last ! " he said, as they shook hands. "I thought that you had gone to bed with that precious cow, no one has a chance beside her." Jeanne nodded, but she looked saucy. " Dear, pretty Merette, how can I help loving her, she would be a sweet bed-fellow. I care for her next best to grandmother." " Mechante," he said, shaking his head at her. Jeanne laughed. "Of course I do, and is it not right and just? She gives us milk and butter, and she loves me ; she never strays.

I take her to pasture every morning and fetch her in to be milked ; then I take her down to water and fetch her in for the night ; and never once has she tried to have any will but mine; tell me, my friend, would any two-legged friend be half as amiable as Merette ? I do not think so." " She talks folly," the old woman said, for they now stood beside her ; " lead me in, Edmond, and then you can come out to Jeanne." " What ! tired already, grandmother ? " the girl said as the old woman turned to the cottage, leaning heavily on Edmond's arm ; but Jeanne was very happy, for the evening visits of Edmond Dupuis had grown to be the best part of her life. The young fellow had moored his boat to the white post where the cow had stood, and now Jeanne went slowly to the post, and begun uncoiling the rope he had fastened round it.

Edmond came hurrying from the cottage before she had finished ; his dark eyes glowing, and a rich colour on his cheeks. No words were spoken till Jeanne was seated in the boat, and he began to row her slowly down the river; the two friends sat smiling at one another. " Let me have an oar," the girl said, presently. " You shall have them both, if you will promise not to row me into the bushes." Changing places with her, he gave up the oars, and Jeanne's pale face glowed with pretty triumph as the boat shot forward under her strong even strokes. Edmond sat watching her, his great gipsy-like eyes following every movement, but though there was an easy fellowship of manner between these two that might have been mistaken for relationship, the ex pression of those deep glowing, dark eyes was not that of a brother.

Edmond Dupuis had known Jeanne for two years, and she was fond of saying that they must be related, because grandmother seemed to belong to Edmond as much as she belonged to her. Madame Delimoy had known Edmond's mother, and it was very pleasant to him to talk to some one who remembered his early home. He had lost both father and mother in his child hood, and it always seemed strange and fortuitous that the first acquaintance he made in B-imay should have been Madame Delimoy. She was far less feeble two years ago, and one afternoon when she was sitting chatting in the parlour of his landlady, Madame Boulotte, the comely dame began to sing the praises of her lodger, Monsieur Dupuis, the young engineer, who had come from Namur to help in making the new railway. Madame Delimoy recognized the name of Dupuis, when he came in soon after, and was introduced to Monsieur Edmond.

It had always been surprising to Jeanne that her reserved gi*andmother should have invited a stranger to the cottage ; but Edmond quickly seemed to be at home, and he and she were soon like brother and sister. He had been brought up by his cousin, Jules Baconfoy, an innkeeper at Namur, but though the cousin was kind, he was a bachelor, and eccentric; and till Edmond became acquainted with Jeanne Lahaye and her grandmother, he had not known the sweetness which women bring to home life. At first he had come to the cottage every Sunday ; but lately he came on week days also, sometimes every other day; and Jeanne began to wonder how she had lived without his visits— they seemed the great events in her monotonous existence. The two friends had always something left from last time to talk over, and each was sure to have some special need to consult the other before they again met.

Madame Delimoy had looked on well pleased to see the children, as she called them, happy together. Edmond Dupuis amused her, and she was always glad to see him, for he was very amusing and clever, with that sort of ready wit and pleasant adaptable talent which finds an outlet in all society and sympathy with every one. Jeanne went on rowing with earnest face and strained muscles, so absorbed in her efforts that she forgot her companion ; all at once she pulled both oars into the boat and broke into a merry laugh. " Why don't you speak, Edmond ? you are as mum as a mouse, you have been quite silent these ten minutes ; I did not know you could keep so quiet. Are you ill ? " She tried to look grave, but the saucy dimples round her mouth would not be smoothed away. " Jeanne," he said abruptly, " shall you miss me if I do not come next Sunday ?

" He kept his eyes fixed on her face, and the change he saw there satisfied him. Jeanne looked half frightened, half ready to cry. "Not come on Sunday! why not, what are you going to do ? are you going anywhere with Madame Boulotte ? " He shrugged his shoulders and smiled. " I should not give you up for Madame Boulotte. No, I had a note from my cousin Jules this morning ; he tells me if I come to Namur at once I shall hear something to my advantage." " Does he say no more than that ? " Edmond shook his head as if it were the best joke in the world. " No, if you had seen him you would know that, good fellow as he is, Jules Baconfoy takes a certain grim pleasure in teasing me— but he is the best friend I have — and I know he is always trying to help me — he has good news now," the young fellow spoke warmly.

" Then why did you not go to him at once ? " Edmond took the oars and motioned the girl to sit in his place — then he gave her a look full of reproach. " Upon my word, Jeanne," he said, " I thought you would be disappointed if I did not come here this evening, and this is your appreciation, is it ? " Jeanne left off laughing. " Yes, it is very kind of you, but even to please me you must not vex j-our cousin, though he does hate women. You will certainly go to-morrow, will you not ? " " Perhaps," he smiled ; " why, what a woman of business you would make, Jeanne, a regular driver ! I had not thought of going for several days." Jeanne blushed shyly. " You know best, no doubt," she said ; " but indeed, Edmond, I should not like to hurry or to be a woman of business ; I only meant I do not want to be selfish."

He gave her a loving, grateful glance. "You could not be that if you tried," he said, tenderly ; then, suddenly changing his tone, he laughed. " Your grandmother and Merette do not give selfishness time to grow in. I fancy you have always so much to do for one or the other that there is not much chance for any one else." " Poor Merette ! you always have a rap at her ; it is mean of you to be jealous of a cow. But we must go home, must we not, my friend ? " While they had been talking the shadows had grown deeper on the water, the hills on either side of the valley looked more solid and inaccessible, and the post and the wall of the cottage stood in glaring whiteness amid the gloom. "Not just yet," and Edmond rowed on past the landing-post. " Suppose I am away a week, shall you miss me ? " " Edmond ?

" It seemed to Jeanne that he must be joking to ask such a question, and she looked up laughing — expecting to see his dark eyes sparkling with merry mischief; she met instead a look full of reproach ; but the next moment he said brightly, " Of course if you have Merette, you don't want any one else, that is plain." " Of course not," said Jeanne lightly, but she was thinking of Edmond's eyes. She had scarcely ever seen them serious before. What power of expression there was in their dark velvet-like depth ! How beautiful they were ! — for Jeanne, like many a woman only moderately gifted with good looks almost worshipped actual beauty, and certainly Edmond Dupuis, with his delicate richly coloured skin, his clustering chestnut hair and darker beard, and his marvellous dark eyes — eyes like those which Andersen calls "beautiful dark lakes" — was an ideal of youthful beauty.

He was tall too, and straight, and well made; as they again neared the landing-place, and he flung the rope round the post and stood drawing the boat closer in shore, he looked full of grace and strength. It was lighter here ; on this side of the cottage a narrow valley opened in the dark hill behind it, indistinct just now from a veil of blue mist, which seemed to indicate that here was the home of the trickling thread of water that meandered among the purple crocuses in the meadow. " Good night, Jeanne," Edmond said, holding the girl's hand clasped in his as she passed him to get out of the boat. " I will come as soon as I get back from Namur, and that may be on Sunday — who knows ? " "I wish you good speed," she said. "I shall so much want to know what Monsieur Jules has to tell you. Good-bye."

She stood watching till the boat was out of sight. She sighed as she turned back to the cottage. IN HOPE. Something had fallen across the brightness that Edmond usually left behind him. She seemed all at once to have become old and anxious. " Will he come back ? " she thought, " will he ? "

Chapter II. In Hope

Madame Boulotte is more disturbed than she cares to feel. For Madame Boulotte has a theory that worry or any mental disquiet tells unfavourably on the outward appearance : wrinkles the forehead, brings puckers and creases to the corners of the eyes and mouth, and, when much indulged in, even alters the shape of the lips. Strong feelings and impulsive natures, she argues, invariably age the outward appearance, and perhaps she is right. At any rate, since the due and respect able amount of grief she showed at her husband's death some fifteen years ago, Madame Boulotte has not worried or allowed herself to be strongly moved, and she is one of the best preserved women in Belgium. No one knows how old she is. But sometimes when you meet her coming from Mass, with her veil down, she may be taken (except that her well proportioned figure is rather full) for five and twenty.

To-day, however, fighting with care that will not be driven out, Madame Boulotte looks forty. Madame Boulotte is very handsome still ; though she is not tall she has a queenly aspect, her square, well-shaped head is admirably placed on her shoulders ; her fair hair is arranged in stiffly frizzed curls, and these, with her clearly defined eyebrows, her pale blue eyes, and aquiline nose, give her rather the air of a marquise of bygone days, and make one think of powder and patches, of a hoop and red heels. Madame Boulotte is, however, simply dressed in black silk ; pearl earrings, a handsome diamond ring shining on her finger, and shining steel buckles in her shoes, are the only ornaments she wears. She is speaking now to her freckled, red-haired bonne, who for the twelfth time has come to ask when Monsieur Edmond is expected.

" He has been away a fortnight, and he only went for three days," she says. Madame Boulotte gives a calm smile. She says to herself with a touch of sarcasm, " See what a favourite he is ! one might have thought Marie would have been glad of less work to do, and yet hcsre she comes every day to worry me with the same question, as if I am not worried enough as to what has become of him." " Marie," she says aloud ; " do not trouble yourself, go about your business ; Monsieur Dupuis will give due notice before he returns ; he would never take us by surprise." Madame Boulotte is sitting at a small round table in the middle of her parlour, with her back to the door ; but at a little cry from the much-enduring Marie, she turns round and sees Monsieur Dupuis as he comes into the room. Madame Boulotte does not look surprised.

She is ever calm and courteous. She holds out her soft, plump hand to her truant lodger. " You are welcome, Monsieur Edmond ; but what has happened to you ? " Then she sees how disturbed the young fellow looks — rather agitated than anxious — though his face is full of unspoken projects, and she asks no more questions. " Your room is ready, Monsieur, for we have expected you every day." This is all the reproach she permits herself. " You will tell me all your news after supper. Marie, Monsieur Edmond will sup with me." " Pardon me, Madame," he seems to remember for the first time that he has been neglectful ; " I know IN HOPE. 13 I ought to have written to you, but I had no notion that I should be away so long — I am very sorry. But, Madame, I cannot have the pleasure of supping with you, you will have me to-morrow instead — I know you will."

He gives her a sweet look out of his liquid dark eyes. Madame Boulotte looks at him quietly; not the faintest tinge of colour appears on her cheeks ; no movement of her lips betrays her mortification ; but she is grieved. She believes herself to be the confidant of the charming young fellow's joys and sorrows. Has she not tried to replace to him his lost mother — no, hardly that, conscience whispers ; she has been a sweeter and more original companion, a role which Madame Boulotte thinks no other woman would have been able to enact so well — mother, sister, friend, all in one, with just the restraint that heightens interest and makes influence more lasting, yet without a tinge of nonsense or flirting. Surely she has a right to know all he has been doing at Namur. But she takes no notice of his refusal to sup with her.

" And how is Monsieur Baconfoy, poor man ? " she asks, for Edmond has seated himself at the table, and has begun to play with her scissors. " Is he as great a woman-hater and fossil as ever ? " Edmond laughs and looks mischievous. " He is, if possible, worse than ever ; he said the other day that he could see no reason for the existence of women as reasonable beings. I dare not tell you half of his heresies." " Ah ! he has no one to contradict him," says Madame Boulotte, calmly. "Men never contradict one another's folly. Be sure, my friend, that that man in his youth has loved in vain, and therefore, as the right woman could not be had by him, he refuses to believe in any other ; but, ma foi, he is not a man," she adds with an air of superb disdain, " he is a mummy." " Nevertheless, Madame," Edmond rises up and moves towards the door, "he is a fine specimen of flesh and blood, and he has a good heart under his cynicism.

Who knows, Madame," he says laughingly, "what might happen if you undertook his conver sion, you might do wonders with him." She looks at him earnestly, it has never occurred to her that her friend Edmond could laugh at her, and yet this sounds like ridicule. She draws herself up slightly. " I am not strong-minded, Monsieur Edmond, I do not profess to teach. It is only where my affections are interested that I can give help or advice. No, Monsieur Baconfoy would find as much to overcome in me as I should in him before we could even begin to talk to one another." Edmond laughs. " I am sure you would convert him," he says. " You must have more faith in your self." As he goes out of the room, he thinks, " I believe these two would get on excellently if they would only make acquaintance — he would manage her, and she would give in ; she is too much for me."

He was really afraid of his landlady to-day; he felt that she had become aware that some trouble disturbed him. All through his short life — he was only twenty-four — he had been content to let him self drift along the channel created by circumstances. His cousin had, he knew, used to the best advantage the small sum left him by his parents, to complete his education and to place him in his profession, and he had accepted his cousin's propositions without com ment. His work at Rimay was only temporary ; but he had given himself up to the full enjoyment of life there, and had shut his eyes to the future. He had gone on this long time in a dreamy happiness, knowing that his visits to the cottage by the river gave to life a something that it had wanted before, and never troubling himself to find out how much he cared for Jeanne Lahaye.

IN HOPE. 15 And now he knew that his happy dream was over. A much better post had been offered him close to Namur, and though he had been expecting, and desiring even, a rise in position, this prospect of change had come on him with the force of a shock ; shattering his blissful dream, and leaving a weight of care in its place. He rowed along, out of tune this afternoon with the lovely river and its banks, full just now of light and shade— his heart was filled with Jeanne. It seemed as if a new sight had come to him ; the dream like past no longer blinded him to what had been all this while the aim of each day's hope. Looking back, he saw how the thought of Jeanne had lightened his daily labour, and how the certainty of those evenings with her had put a shield between him and all the petty vexations of life.