CHAPTER VII.

Looking back.

The half of a life! for so Marie counted the loss of her violin.  She never spoke of this—­to whom should she speak?  In her husband’s eyes it was a thing accursed, she knew.  She almost hoped he had forgotten about the precious treasure that lay so quietly in some dark nook in the lonely garret; for as long as he did not think of it, it was safe there, and she should not feel that terrible anguish that had seemed to rend body and soul when she saw him lay the violin across his knee to break it.  And Abby came not, and gave no sign; and there was no one else.

She saw little of the neighbours at first.  The women looked rather askance at her, and thought her little better than a fool, even if she had contrived to make one of Jacques De Arthenay.  She never seemed to understand their talk, and had a way of looking past them, as if unaware of their presence, that was disconcerting, when one thought well of oneself.  But Marie was not a fool, only a child; and she did not look at the women simply because she was not thinking of them.  With the children, however, it was different Marie felt that she would have a great deal to say to the children, if only she had the half of her that could talk to them.  Ah, how she would speak, with Madame on her arm!  What wonders she could tell them, of fairies and witches, of flowers that sang and birds that danced!  But this other part of her was shy, and she did not feel that she had anything worth saying to the little ones, who looked at her with half-frightened, half-inviting eyes when they passed her door.  By-and-by, however, she mustered up courage, and called one or two of them to her, and gave them flowers from her little garden.  Also a pot of jam with a spoon in it proved an eloquent argument in favour of friendship; and after a while the children fell into a way of sauntering past with backward glances, and were always glad to come in when Marie knocked on the window, or came smiling to the door, with her handkerchief tied under her chin and her knitting in her hand.  It was only when her husband was away that this happened; Marie would not for worlds have called a child to meet her husband’s eyes, those blue eyes of which, she stood in such terror, even when she grew to love them.

One little boy in particular came often, when the first shyness had worn away.  He was an orphan, like Marie herself:  a pretty, dark-eyed little fellow, who looked, she fancied, like the children at home in France.  He did not expect her to talk and answer questions, but was content to sit, as she loved to do, gazing at the trees or the clouds that went sailing by, only now and then uttering a few quiet words that seemed in harmony with the stillness all around.  I have said that Jacques De Arthenay’s house lay somewhat apart from the village street.  It was a pleasant house, long and low, painted white, with vines trained over the lower part.  Directly opposite was a pine grove, and here Marie and her little friend loved to sit, listening to the murmur of the wind in the dark feathery branches.  It was the sound of the sea, Marie told little Petie.  As to how it got there, that was another matter; but it was undoubtedly the sound of the sea, for she had been at sea, and recognised it at once.