Molly Brown's Orchard Home Part 17

"How happy could I be with either, were t'other dear charmer away," he sighed.

"Well, my opinion is you will fall between two stools if you can't decide which one you want," answered his mother a little sharply, considering that it was her beloved son she was addressing. "Of course Molly is my choice, but Judy is charming and lovely, and if you think you will be happier with her you must not consider me. For my part, I have my doubts about either one of them accepting you." But Sally Bolling d'Ochte was not quite her honest self when she made that last remark, as she did not see how any girl in her senses could refuse her beautiful young son. "Next week we will all be at _Roche Craie_ and maybe you can fix your seesawing heart. Cousin Mildred and the girls are delighted at the thought of getting out to the country for awhile, and goodness knows, I'll be glad to quit the glitter of Paris for a quiet rest."

All of them were glad to have a change. The spring was well under way.

Paris was never more beautiful, with flowers everywhere; but Mrs. Brown confessed to being a little tired of housekeeping; and Molly was looking a little f.a.gged. The lecture rooms were hot and the dinners at the restaurants were not so delightful, now that the novelty had worn off.

Spring fever was the real matter with them and a good lazy time at the chateau in Normandy was all that was necessary to put them on their feet again. Pierce Kinsella had been included in the invitation, as the marchioness slyly told her son, to take care of the girl that he, Philippe, would finally decide not to be the one of all others for him.

_Roche Craie_ was very interesting to the Americans. It was a castle literally dug out of chalk cliffs. The so-called new chateau (only about two hundred years old), was built out in front, but the original old castle was little more than a cave or series of caves. The family used only the new part but kept it all in absolute repair. The architecture was pure Gothic, vaulted roofs and pointed arches. Where the roof and walls were dug in the chalk, there was an attempt at carving, carrying out the Gothic spirit. Huge chimneys had their openings in the fields overhead, and strange, indeed, did it seem to find one of these old chimneys in a wheat field with poppies and corn flowers growing in its crevices.

"A very convenient country for Santa Claus to ply his trade," said Molly to Philippe, who was showing her over the estate. "But what is this peaked thing with the cross on it?"

"Oh, that is the steeple to the chapel, which is dug very far back under the hill and is one of the most interesting things about _Roche Craie_.

We did not take you there this morning when we were showing you over the old castle, as my mother has a kind of horror of it and hates to go in it. There is a ghost story connected with it, and you must know by this time how _ma mere_ shuns the disagreeable things of this life," answered Philippe, looking at Molly with growing admiration. Some persons seem to belong out of doors and Molly was one of them. Her clear, fine complexion could stand the searchlight of the brightest sun, her hair was like burnished gold, her eyes, Philippe thought, like the bluets in the fields of Normandy.

"Cousin Molly, you remind me of the beautiful Jehane de Saint-Pol.

Jehane of the Fair Girdle, the beloved of Richard Coeur de Lion, Richard Yea-and-Nay. Her eyes were gray green while yours are of the most wonderful blue, but there is something about your height and slenderness, your poise, the set of your head, the glory of your hair that suggests her. If Mother gives the fancy dress ball that she is threatening, please go as Jehane. I should like to go as Richard."

Molly blushed. She was always confused by compliments and personalities and hoped Philippe would stop pressing them on her. They had been pleasant companions in Paris and she had liked being with him very much.

He was extremely agreeable and well-informed, handsome and charming, but Molly preferred him as a cousin to a courtier. She had an idea that the t.i.tle of "Yea-and-Nay" was rather suitable for him, more suitable than "Lion Hearted."

"Please tell me the ghost story about the chapel," she begged, changing the subject adroitly.

"All right, if you won't tell mother I told it. She has a horror of it and is afraid the servants might get timid and refuse to stay here alone while we are in Paris, if the old tale were revived. My people, you perhaps know, were Huguenots. The archives show that it was from flocks of sheep belonging to _Roche Craie_ that the wool was taken to send as a present to Queen Elizabeth of England, in return for her gift of nine pieces of cannon to the downtrodden Huguenots.

"The owner of _Roche Craie_ was one Jean d'Ochte, a man of great intelligence and integrity. He had been a gay courtier at the court of Charles IX, but, there, had come under the influence of Admiral Coligny and had turned Huguenot. His wife, much younger than himself, the beautiful Elizabeth, a cousin of the Guises, followed her husband's example but saw no reason why she need give up all gaiety and pleasure because of her change of heart. But Jean took her away from the court and all of its dissipations and dangers and brought her here to the old chateau, where she was literally buried alive in stupidity and ennui.

"Jean fought with the Prince of Conde against the Guises, but when peace was finally declared in 1570, I think it was, he came back to _Roche Craie_ and began to get his estate in order. Elizabeth besought him to take her back to court where she had been a great favorite, but he feared that the life of gaiety would undermine her not too strenuous piety, and refused.

"The Huguenots were seemingly in great favor with Catherine de Medicis, who was preparing for her great coup, the Ma.s.sacre of St. Bartholomew.

The d'Ochtes were not overlooked by the cruel queen, but a guard was sent to _Roche Craie_ headed by a zealous Jesuit. Jean was murdered in his bed but Elizabeth escaped with her little son Henri to the chapel.

She shut the great iron door and managed to place the heavy bar so that the soldiers could not open it, but the artful Jesuit came up into this field and made the soldiers tear down the steeple and then he lowered himself into the chapel with a rope. It was raining in torrents and as the steeple was removed the floor was deluged. Elizabeth hid her little son behind the altar and ran to the door hoping, it is supposed, to divert the attention of the furious priest from her son to herself. She shrieked, and the soldiers in the field above heard her agonizing cry, 'G.o.d help me, G.o.d help me!'

"There was a tremendous clap of thunder and a blinding flash of lightning. The Jesuit lunged forward with his dagger raised, but the lightning struck before he could, and he and the Lady Elizabeth met death at the same moment. Strange to say, the little Henri, hiding behind the altar, was unharmed. The bolt from heaven had come straight through the aperture made by tearing down this steeple, not touching the soldiers in the field above or the frightened child below. It is said that the bodies of the lady and the priest were both entirely consumed.

The soldiers, taking it as a sign from heaven, spared the young heir of _Roche Craie_; otherwise, the race would have been exterminated on that dreadful day.

"And now for the ghost story after my long narrative, which I am afraid must have bored you sadly."

"Oh, don't think it! I have been thrilled by it. Please go on,"

exclaimed Molly.

"You are very kind to find it interesting. It always excites me, especially when I think how close little Henri was to being killed; and had he not been spared, I myself could never have come into existence."

"That would have been a calamity, indeed," laughed Molly.

"Would it have made any difference to you, Cousin Molly? I should like to think it would have made some difference to you," and Philippe looked rather more ardent than Molly liked to see him.

"Of course it would make loads of difference to all of us, Philippe. But the ghost story, the ghost story! I believe you are afraid to tell it to me."

"Well, the legend runs that on a stormy night if the floor of the chapel, which is paved with soapstone, gets wet, the footprints of the Lady Elizabeth, where she ran across the deluged floor, are plainly visible. She was just out of her bed and her feet were bare. They say it shows she had a very small foot with a high arch, the print of the heel, a s.p.a.ce where the instep arches over, and then the ball of the foot and the tiny toes. Peasants pa.s.sing in the field above have heard (provided the night is stormy enough), the agonizing cry, 'G.o.d help me, G.o.d help me!' seeming to come from the old steeple."

"How wonderful! But tell me, have you never seen the footprints yourself?"

"Mother has such a horror of the story and the talk about ghosts that I have spared her feelings and never put the legend to the test. I used to think I'd go some stormy night alone to the chapel, but when the stormy nights come I am too sleepy or too indolent or afraid of disturbing mother or something else turns up, and I never have done it."

The young heir of the d'Ochtes led his cousin to a higher point of the hill overlooking the chateau where he could show her the whole estate of _Roche Craie_. It was a beautiful sight. The gentle hills sloped to the Seine with here and there a sharp cleft showing a cliff of chalk, standing out very white against the green of the spring gra.s.s.

Some of the peasants had their homes in the cliffs, and Philippe a.s.sured Molly that they were very comfortable, dry houses. It was a vast estate in the highest state of cultivation. The village was clean and prosperous, consisting of about twenty houses besides the ones dug in the cliffs, two shops and an inn. Across the river was a forest of great trees that made the beeches at Chatsworth seem saplings.

"Is the land across the river yours, too?" she asked.

"Yes, indeed, that is the best part of _Roche Craie_. My studies at Nancy have taught me what to do to keep our forest, and I am at work now preserving those beautiful old trees. You do like it here, don't you, Cousin Molly? It does not seem small and mean to you after Chatsworth, does it?"

"Small and mean! It is beautiful, the most beautiful place I ever saw!

You must not get an idea that Chatsworth is magnificent like this."

As Molly looked out across the hills of this splendid French estate she thought of her home in Kentucky, of the beech woods and the orchard as it was before the old tree they called their castle blew down; and then she began to wonder what the orchard looked like now with Professor Green's bungalow occupying the site of the old castle. There had been no letter for her from Wellington, the week before she left Paris for Normandy, and the girl had secretly hoped it meant perhaps that her friend was on the eve of his departure from America. She longed for some definite news both of Professor Green and her brother Kent.

"What are you thinking about, Cousin Molly?"

"Apple trees," answered Molly, coming back to earth.

"Oh, are you especially fond of apple trees? I must show you the orchard over this hill. It is in bloom and a very beautiful sight. Not much to look at unless it is in bloom, however," and Philippe conducted Molly over the brow of another hill where a very orderly apple orchard was in full bloom.

Philippe broke off a spray for her. "I must not let the steward see me do such a thing. The old man would count the blossoms and tell me I had spoiled so many apples."

Molly buried her face in the cl.u.s.ter of flowers and her thoughts flew back again to the trees at Chatsworth, not the orderly, trimmed ones like these of Normandy, but old and gnarled and twisted. The dream she had had on the steamer came back to her and again she felt Edwin Green leaning over her, looking at her with his kind brown eyes and saying: "Molly, this is _your_ orchard home."

She was awakened from her revery by Philippe, who seized her hand, apple blossoms and all, and addressed her in the most impa.s.sioned tones: "Cousin Molly! Molly, dearest Molly! I have longed for this moment as I want to tell you how much I am gratified that you like _Roche Craie_.

The place means so much to my mother and father and to me that we are happy when any one likes it, but for you of all persons to be pleased with it, adds to its value in our eyes. We all of us want you to make your home here. I know it would be more convenable for me to address your mother first, but since I am half American you will pardon me if I let that half speak to you, and later on the French half can arrange with your charming mother."

Molly was greatly mystified. At first she had feared that Philippe was going to make love to her when he had seized her hand with so much ardor; but it turned out that he was merely offering _Roche Craie_ as a home to her mother and herself in the name of the Marquis and Marquise d'Ochte. She was greatly relieved that he was not going to be sentimental and answered him gratefully:

"You are very kind, Philippe, but mother and I have our home in Kentucky, and while we are enjoying our stay in France, every moment of it, we have every intention of returning to our own country in the course of time. I cannot answer for mother, but I am almost sure she will take the same stand I do."

"But should she not, would you abide by her decision, like a dutiful daughter?" exclaimed Philippe eagerly. "My own mother has been very happy in her adopted country and you are strangely like her in some ways."

"Yes, but Cousin Sally had every reason for remaining in France. She had her Jean----"

"Ah," interrupted Philippe, "would not you have your Philippe? Could I not be as much to you as my father has been to my mother?"

At last Molly understood. Her cousin was proposing to her. Molly was by nature so kind that her first feeling was one of pity for the young man as she hated to hurt his feelings; but she was sure that he did not love her in the least and that her refusal of him would astonish him but not give him a single heartache.

"Philippe," she answered, looking him straight in the eye without sign of coquetry or softness, "you know very well you could never be to me what your father is to your mother; and one of the biggest reasons is that I am not to you what your mother is to your father and never could be. You are not in love with me nor am I in love with you. I have liked you a whole lot and I believe you like me, but there must be more than mere liking to make it right to marry. I don't see how you could have lived always in the house with your mother and father, who are as much sweethearts now as when they first married, and not understand something about real love."

Philippe's feelings ran the gamut from astonishment and embarra.s.sment to humility. He was not by nature a conceited fellow, but so many mothers and fathers of so many demoiselles had approached him with a view to an alliance for those daughters, that it had never really entered his head that, when the time came for him to make a decision in choice of a wife, he would be refused. He did like Molly very much, liked and admired her, found her agreeable and interesting, lovely to behold and such a lady, and at the same time so perfectly acceptable to his beloved mother and father. She was in fact so entirely suitable to become the future Marquise d'Ochte. Had his mother not made a wonderful success as a marchioness? Were she and Molly not of the same blood and traditions?

True, he did not have for Molly the grand pa.s.sion that novelists write of; but a sincere liking might last longer than the so-called grand pa.s.sion.

Molly's words brought him upstanding. After all, he did not understand anything about real love, not as much as this chit of an American girl.

He bowed his head for a moment in deep dejection, and then, shrugging his shoulders, he smiled into her stern eyes a little wistfully.