Green Dolphin Street
Page 45
“Mamma says Paradise is where the angels live,” Véronique had replied to this remark of Papa’s.
Papa had scratched his head and looked puzzled.
“Maybe lots of different countries make up Paradise, like lots of different countries make up the world,” Véronique had suggested. “Maybe it’s just the place where your spirit can go without your body.”
And Papa had looked relieved and said maybe it was.
Green Dolphin Country was Papa’s favorite, but Véronique, though she loved it dearly, loved the second world, the Island, even more. It was the Island where Papa had lived when he was a little boy, and where Mamma and Aunt Marguerite had been born, and it was made very real to Véronique by the fact that her most precious treasure, the box of shells that Aunt Marguerite had sent her, had come from there. She adored these shells, and every night after Papa had left her she would jump out of bed and get them out of the carved cradle-chest and spread them out on her pillow and play with them. The biggest shells represented to her the different stories Papa told her about the Island. The grey-blue shell shaped like a curling wave was the story of the sarragousets who rode on the sea and dined in the cave in La Baie des Petits Fleurs; and the one shaped like an elf’s cap was the one about the peasant who was very poor and when he went to bed asked the fairies to help him, and when he woke up in the morning every flower on the gorse bush under his window had turned to a gold coin; and the one like a rose petal was the one about the little girl who looked in a wishing well and wished for a baby brother, and there he was rolling about in the buttercups. And there was a shell like a grey cowl that was the story of the monks who came from Mont-Saint-Michel in their little boats, and landed at La Baie des Saints and built Notre Dame du Castel. And there was a shell like a drop of starry light that was the animals all kneeling down in their stables at midnight on Christmas Eve to worship the manger, and a lavender-colored one shaped like a distaff that was the old Island woman who spun a magic carpet that carried her away to fairyland.
Véronique knew the landscape of the Island as well as she knew the landscape of her own home. She knew the old houses of St. Pierre climbing the steep rock above the harbor, the deep gardens with their magnolia trees and hydrangeas and bushes of jessamine, the rocky bays and cliffs covered with purple heather, the windmills on their green knolls, and the sandy roads arched over by storm-twisted stunted oaks. Three children played with Véronique on the Island, Papa, Mamma and Aunt Marguerite when they were little. Papa had described them so vividly that Véronique was well acquainted with the rosy-cheeked boy with the torn, untidy clothes, the small brown girl whose nurse had said she was a fairy changeling, and the other little girl who was very like Véronique herself, except that she was fatter and laughed louder. It was this little girl, Marguerite, who was the most important person in the Island world, as Captain O’Hara was in the Green Dolphin world. She was so important that the whole of the Island world seemed to group itself about her, and she was in the center of it all like a picture in a frame.
But the odd thing about her was that she did not stay in her frame. She was not only with Véronique in the Island world but in the everyday world too. If Véronique was playing by herself in the garden and suddenly felt lonely, she would find that Marguerite in her blue frock was running up the garden path beside her, tossing the curls out of her eyes. And if she woke up in the night and was frightened, she would see Marguerite sitting on the bed, laughing and swinging her legs in their long white pantalettes. She was always laughing, and when she was there, one did not feel afraid. Véronique’s instinct had been to tell no one, not even Papa, about Marguerite coming out of her frame; but one day when she had been talking to Marguerite, Mamma had come in and said, “Who in the world are you talking to, child?” And Véronique, a truthful little girl, had replied instantly, “Aunt Marguerite.” And Mamma had looked startled and then had said sharply, “Nonsense! Aunt Marguerite lives on the other side of the world. She lives in France in a convent. She’s a nun. You must not talk to people who aren’t there, Véronique. It’s very silly.”
But Véronique had not been discouraged by Mamma’s sharp remarks. She understood perfectly well that there were two Aunt Marguerites. One was old, nearly as old as Papa, and was called Sister Clare and lived in France, and wrote her rather boring letters in a beautiful, pointed handwriting about being a good girl and saying her prayers; but the other was the little girl Marguerite, who was never boring but the most exciting person in the whole world. But she was very careful never again to mention Marguerite to Mamma. And neither she nor Papa ever spoke of their two countries to Mamma. They had decided together that it would be better not. They did not suggest to each other any reason why it would be better not, they just said—better not.
“. . . And the peasant mother put the baby in the cradle and turned round to the fire to cook the limpets for her husband’s supper,” said Papa, deep in tonight’s story. “It was a beautiful fire of furze and vraic, and she raked the hot embers together and put the limpets to cook on top. There was a pot of parsnips boiling over the fire, and another of potatoes and another of soup. Suddenly she heard a voice she did not know, and she turned round and there was her week-old baby sitting bolt upright in the cradle, and it was looking different from usual, for instead of having a round, red face and blue eyes it had a brown face and pointed ears and black eyes like sloes, and it was saying in tones of great astonishment,
‘I’m not of this year, nor the year before,
Nor yet of the time of King John of yore,
But in all my days and years I ween
So many pots boiling I never have seen.’
And then the mother knew what had happened. While her back was turned the fairies had come and stolen away her own baby and left a changeling in its place. But the peasant mother knew what to do. She seized the changeling out of the cradle and pretended she was going to put it on the fire with the limpets; though of course she wouldn’t really have put it on the fire, for she was not a cruel woman and it was a nice little changeling; and immediately there was a fearful commotion outside, and a little woman in a green skirt came leaping over the half door, the hecq, without waiting to lift the latch, and seized the changeling away from the peasant mother. And the peasant mother turned her back for a few minutes, and when she looked round again, there was her own baby asleep in the cradle once more.”
“What would have happened,” asked Véronique, “if the mother hadn’t been in the room when the baby was changed?”
“Well, then the fairies would have had time to get a long way away with her baby, right back to fairyland in fact, and she would have had to keep the changeling. I expect she would have loved it, for it was a nice, pointy-eared, bright-eyed little changeling.”
“But would the changeling have liked living with humans?” asked Véronique.
“I’m afraid not,” said Papa. “It would always have been restless and dissatisfied because it was shut out from fairyland. It would always have been trying and trying to find the way home.”
There was a tapping of footsteps and a swishing of skirts, and suddenly Mamma was there, and she was angry.
“William, we’re waiting supper for you, and you’ve not even bothered to change your clothes or wash your hands. And if you must keep the child awake telling her stories, need they be morbid tales of changelings and such nonsense? Go and wash your hands. Véronique, lie down. You should have been asleep an hour ago.”
Papa’s red face went redder than ever, and the veins stood out on his forehead, but he bit back the swear words and went quietly out of the room. Véronique admired him very much.
“It wasn’t a morbid story, Mamma,” she said, anxious to detain Mamma while Papa got over it. “It was a cheerful story because the changeling went off home to fairyland in the end.”
“There are no such things as changelings,” said Mamma. “Do you hear m
e, Véronique? There are no changelings. There is no fairyland. You must not believe your Papa’s ridiculous stories.”
She spoke vehemently, standing stiff as a ramrod at the foot of the bed, her hands clasped upon the rail so tightly that the knuckles stood out white. Véronique could see no reason for Mamma’s being so upset, but that was nothing unusual, for Mamma’s upsets were always beyond her. She was, however, very good at dealing with them. She lay down now quite flat and closed her eyes. “I’ll be asleep in five minutes, Mamma,” she said submissively.
But Mamma, tonight, was not satisfied by submission. She came round and knelt down beside the bed. “Won’t you even kiss me good night, sweetheart?” she asked in a hard, tight voice.
Véronique opened her eyes at once and wound her arms tightly round her mother’s neck. “Good night, darling Mamma,” she said.
They kissed warmly, and then Véronique once more lay flat on her back with her eyes closed, and Mamma rustled away. When she heard the kitchen door slam, Véronique knew that Mamma was dishing up the supper and that she was safe. With one flying leap she was out of bed and scurrying to the carved cradle-chest. She lifted the lid and took out the box of precious shells. She ran back to bed again, lay down flat on her tummy, and spread them out on the pillow.
2
Marianne sat at the round table in the parlor and dispensed a perfectly cooked supper to two men who were for once too preoccupied to appreciate it. Nor were they in a frame of mind to appreciate the fact that she had made herself one of the new crinolines, shaped like an isosceles triangle, and was wearing it under her voluminous rose-pink skirt, or that she had dressed her hair in a new style, gathered up into a net in the nape of her neck. Though she lived in the wilds, she always managed to keep more or less abreast of fashion, for Sophie’s London friend sent her a packet of fashion plates monthly, so that she had never had to sink into the dowdiness of most pioneer women, and it was most annoying when her efforts were not appreciated, were not even noticed, by her menfolk. Tai Haruru generally noticed, even if William did not, but he had come back from his trip up the coast in so heavy a mood that it brooded over the whole room like a thundercloud. Marianne bit her lip and straightened her shoulders. It was her cross to be forever unappreciated, and she must bear her cross. Even her own child did not appreciate her. She had a dreadful suspicion that Véronique and William were more to each other than she was to either of them, even though she had borne Véronique with so much pain, and completely saved and reinstated William. He was seldom drunk now, had apparently given up gambling and other vices of which in the past she had shrewdly suspected him, and had become a husband against whom she could lodge no reasonable complaint except the overwhelming one that he seemed entirely unaware to whom it was that he owed his salvation. If only she could have had a son! But she had never had hope of another child, even though she had willed him with all the strength of which she was capable. Oh, to have had that son! A son would have appreciated her, would have seen where credit was due, would have given her at last the love that she deserved. He, if she had left him as she had been obliged to leave William when she went to Wellington, would not have been obviously sorry to see her back again. She was not going to leave William again. Never again was she going to give him the opportunity of hurting her as he had hurt her then. Never would she forget the blissful relaxation of his attitude, lying there in a long chair on the shattered verandah, his coat unbuttoned and his chin unshaven, his pipe in his mouth and a drink beside him, nor the look of dismay that had spread over his face when the wagon drew up at the gate.
“. . . So you and Véronique must go back to the Kellys again, Marianne.”
William was speaking and she came back abruptly to the present.
“Why?” she demanded.
“I’m afraid the Governor has blundered over the peace terms. It’s blazing up again, and you’re not safe here.”
“I’m not going back to live with the Kellys,” said Marianne decidedly. “I like and admire the Kellys, but I can’t live with them. They’re so narrow-minded, and Susanna’s cooking is most indigestible. No, William, Véronique and I stay here. There are plenty of men in the settlement and plenty of weapons. If you build ditches and stockades round the house and garden and defend the place properly, we shall not be attacked. Most of the Maoris round here are well disposed and will not cause much trouble unless they are tempted, as last time, by indolence and lack of resolution upon our side. Last time you did not take sufficient trouble, and when you were attacked you were not prepared. If I leave you, it will be the same story all over again—you will not take sufficient trouble.”
“We should be making the worst mistake possible if we turned the place into a fort, Marianne,” said William. “I doubt if any fortifications we should have the time to make would be proof against an overwhelming attack, and it would immediately alienate the friendly Maoris by showing a lack of trust in them.”
“You are merely making excuses for your laziness,” said his wife.
William shrugged his shoulders and Tai Haruru leaned forward.
“I’ve not liked the look of things up north, Marianne. I went a good deal among the Maoris, and I came across some men of the tribe who knew me in the old days, and who look upon me as one of themselves, and they told me ugly things.”
“Idle tales,” said Marianne. “They are out to frighten us. If they can get what they want by threats only, that is to their advantage. They fear the Red Garment.”
“They fear nothing,” said Tai Haruru tersely, for the Maori honor was intensely dear to him. “And I did not only hear ugly things. I saw them. I passed through a settlement in which there was not a white man left alive.”
Marianne’s eyes widened for a moment, but she was not shaken from her resolution. “That was far out in the bush. They would not dare to do that sort of thing here, only a few days’ journey from Wellington barracks.”
Supper was finished and Tai Haruru rose abruptly. “I leave you to argue with your wife, William,” he said. “She will not, it appears, listen to me.” And with a curt bow to Marianne he went out. She was bitterly hurt by his rudeness, for they were friends now, and he might at least have expressed thanks for his beautifully cooked meal, and have paid her the compliment of just one glance at her new gown. No, of course she was not going to listen to him. She was near to hating him again.
William came blundering round the table and laid his hand caressingly on her shoulder. “You must go, Marianne. Véronique must be kept safe.”
She jumped up and backed away from his hand. Véronique, always Véronique, whom he loved better than his wife. “You know perfectly well that if we take proper precautions there will be no danger here,” she flashed. “You want to get rid of me. You want to turn the whole place into a beer garden, as you did before, and drink and smoke and gamble behind my back, and have native women in, and . . .”
“Hold your tongue, Marianne!” he shouted at her, stung to fury. Not a single Maori woman had crossed his threshold while Marianne had been away. He had indulged in no weaknesses that he needed to hide from her, except that one bout of drinking in which she had caught him on her return from Wellington, since . . . since . . . that letter to Marguerite. And she knew it. She was merely, for some reason that he could not fathom, trying to drive him mad.
“If you shout so loudly, you will wake your precious child,” she said coldly.
So that was it. She was jealous of Véronique. She had found out at last about that storytelling hour, and she was jealous. Poor Marianne! His anger vanished, and his immense kindness took its place. He turned and flung his arms round her.
“You know I always want you with me,” he lied gloriously. “You know I’m wretched away from you.”
“You were sorry to see me come back from Wellington,” she said sullenly.
“I was sorry to see you come back into danger.”
“Let’s leave it, for tonight, and decide tomorrow,” hedged William. This was his invariable remark when he and Marianne could not agree. He always hoped that meditation during the night would make her see the wisdom of his point of view, and the fact that she usually slept the whole night through, indulging in no meditation whatever, and woke up the next morning in exactly the same frame of mind in which she had gone to sleep, did not seem to prevent his tentative hope from once again thrusting up its head at every fresh disagreement.
“You see, dearest, don’t you, that it would be best for you and Véronique to go back to Wellington?” he said hopefully at breakfast the next morning.
“I see nothing of the sort, William,” said Marianne tartly. “Véronique and I stay here, and you and Mr. Haslam start this very morning erecting your defenses. The work in the forest can wait. Get every man you have upon the job.”
“Marianne!” pleaded William. “I do not think it would be wise to defend the place.”
“You know perfectly well, William,” she said, “that whenever you neglect my advice you regret it. I have more common sense than you, dearest. You know that I am as concerned for the safety of Véronique as you are, and I am aware that I am doing the sensible thing. Véronique and I are far more likely to be set upon and murdered during the journey to Wellington than we are if we stay well protected here.”
Marianne had thought of this additional reason for doing what she wanted while doing her hair that morning, and she entirely believed in it.
“You understand, don’t you, that I cannot face the danger of the journey for Véronique?” she said later to Tai Haruru, at the end of a long and rather exhausting argument which left her with the uncomfortable suspicion that it was his hatred of scenes rather than her stronger will that had left the victory with her.