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Because of conscience | Project Gutenberg
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<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74479 ***</div>
<div class="figcenter hide"><img src="images/coversmall.jpg" width="450" alt="cover"></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<h1>BECAUSE OF CONSCIENCE</h1>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p class="ph3"><span class="smcap u">By Amy E. Blanchard</span></p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<p>AN INDEPENDENT DAUGHTER<br>
THREE PRETTY MAIDS<br>
MISS VANITY<br>
HER VERY BEST</p>
<p class="center"><i>12mo. Cloth, illustrated, $1.25<br>
per volume</i></p>
<hr class="tiny">
<p>TWO GIRLS<br>
GIRLS TOGETHER<br>
BETTY OF WYE</p>
<p class="center"><i>12mo. Cloth, illustrated, $1.00<br>
per volume</i></p>
<hr class="tiny">
<p>TWENTY LITTLE MAIDENS</p>
<p class="center">Illustrated by <span class="smcap">Ida Waugh</span><br>
<i>Small 4to. $1.25</i></p>
</div></div></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<figure class="figcenter illowe2_8125" id="i_frontis">
<img class="w100" src="images/i_frontis.jpg" alt="Because you have shown me how powerful a shield a
woman can be, I stand here">
<figcaption class="caption"><p class="caption">“Because you have shown me how powerful a shield a
woman can be, I stand here”</p>
<p class="right">Page <a href="#because">104</a></p>
</figcaption>
</figure>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_title.jpg" alt="title page"></div>
</div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="titlepage">
<p><span class="xxlarge bb">Because of Conscience</span></p>
<p><span class="large"><i>Being a</i> <span class="smcap">Novel</span> <i>relating to the</i> <span class="smcap">Adventures</span><br>
<i>of certain</i> <span class="smcap">Huguenots</span> <i>in</i> <span class="smcap">Old New York</span></span></p>
<p><span class="large">By</span><br>
<span class="xlarge"><i>Amy E. Blanchard</i></span><br>
Author of “Her Very Best,” “Betty of Wye,”<br>
“Two Girls,” “Girls Together,”<br>
“Three Pretty Maids,”<br>
etc.</p>
<p><i>With Frontispiece by</i><br>
<span class="large">E. Benson Kennedy</span></p>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_titlelogo.jpg" alt="publisher's logo"></div>
<p><span class="large">Philadelphia & London<br>
J. B. Lippincott Company<br>
1901</span></p>
</div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p class="center">
<i>Copyright, 1901<br>
By J. B. Lippincott Company</i><br>
<br>
<i>Electrotyped and Printed by<br>
J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, U. S. A.</i></p>
</div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<p class="center"><span class="large">DEDICATED</span><br>
<br>
WITH DEEP AFFECTION AND PROFOUND ADMIRATION<br>
<br>
TO<br>
<br>
<span class="xlarge">ELIZA ELVIRA KENYON</span><br>
<br>
WHOSE LOVING INTEREST AND LOFTY EXAMPLE<br>
HAVE BEEN MY STAY FOR<br>
MANY YEARS</p>
<p class="right">A. E. B.</p>
</div></div></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[9]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak">CONTENTS</h2>
</div>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_contents_decor.jpg" alt="decoration"></div>
<table>
<tr><td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap">CHAPTER</span></td><td class="tdr" colspan="2"><span class="allsmcap">PAGE</span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">I.</td><td> <span class="smcap">A Wild Marigold</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_11"> 11</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">II.</td><td> <span class="smcap">The Feast of the Fat Calf</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_34"> 34</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">III.</td><td> <span class="smcap">The Way to Church</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_48"> 48</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">IV.</td><td> <span class="smcap">The Cider Frolic</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_64"> 64</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">V.</td><td> <span class="smcap">From the Snare of the Fowler</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_81"> 81</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">VI.</td><td> <span class="smcap">For Life or Death</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_98"> 98</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">VII.</td><td> <span class="smcap">Whither Thou Goest</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_114"> 114</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">VIII.</td><td> <span class="smcap">Plot and Counter-Plot</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_131"> 131</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">IX.</td><td> <span class="smcap">Three Partings</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_151"> 151</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">X.</td><td> <span class="smcap">On Shipboard</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_165"> 165</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">XI.</td><td> <span class="smcap">From Ship to Shore</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_177"> 177</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">XII.</td><td> <span class="smcap">General Jacques</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_195"> 195</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">XIII.</td><td> <span class="smcap">A Daughter of the Woods</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_215"> 215</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">XIV.</td><td> <span class="smcap">Pierre, the Engagé</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_229"> 229</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">XV.</td><td> <span class="smcap">Madam, my Mother</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_247"> 247</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">XVI.</td><td> <span class="smcap">One Night in May</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_265"> 265</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">XVII.</td><td> <span class="smcap">Forgiveness</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_282"> 282</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">XVIII.</td><td> <span class="smcap">Papa Louis Tells a Story</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_300"> 300</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">XIX.</td><td> <span class="smcap">The Mark of the Red Feather</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_316"> 316</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdr">XX.</td><td> <span class="smcap">Mathilde’s Tableaux</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_336"> 336</a></td></tr>
</table>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[10]</span></p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[11]</span>
<p class="ph2">BECAUSE OF CONSCIENCE</p>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_contents_decor.jpg" alt="decoration"></div>
<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER I<br>
<small>A WILD MARIGOLD</small></h2>
</div>
<p><span class="smcap">Nothing</span> in the world smelled so sweet as fresh
sun-dried linen, thought Alaine as she watched
Michelle heaping the white pile upon her strong
arms; unless, indeed, Alaine reflected a moment
later, it be a loaf baking in the oven, yet even that
did not suggest odorous grass and winds laden with
the fragrance of hedge and wood. She lay in the
long grass, chin in hands, her brown eyes wandering
over the low-growing objects which her position
brought easily within her vision. “Now I know
what it is to be a creature like Fifi; no wonder he
is forever running after the impossible, as it seems
to me, for I, gigantically lifted above him, cannot
see the objects on a level with his sharp eyes.”
She watched her dog darting among the stubble at
the edge of the field, and as she idly viewed his
gambols her eyes caught sight of a yellow flower
growing near the hedge. She lifted her little head
with its toss of brown hair, then drew her slender,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[12]</span>
lithe body from its covert to stand erect and to walk
slowly across the open space to gather the wild
marigold, at which she gazed thoughtfully, standing
so still that her shadow scarcely wavered.</p>
<p>The sudden sharp bark of her little dog roused
her, and she turned her head to see some one coming
toward her,—a young man swinging along with an
easy, confident tread.</p>
<p>“Good-evening, my cousin,” he cried. “You
were so deep in thought that I fancied I should
not move you till I came near enough to touch
you. What are you studying so intently?”</p>
<p>“This.” Alaine held out her yellow blossom.
“Tell me, Étienne, does it turn always to the sun,
this yellow marigold?”</p>
<p>“Who told you so?”</p>
<p>“Michelle, and she says it was chosen as her device
by Margaret of Valois because it does truly resemble
the sun. It is likewise the emblem of the Protestants,
who say that it signifies that they ever turn to
the true source of light,—God in his heaven. Was
Margaret of Valois Protestant, Étienne, and——”</p>
<p>“Is Michelle, then, Protestant?” Étienne interrupted
her by asking.</p>
<p>“Yes, I think so. I know so. She has a little
Bible, Étienne, which she guards sacredly, and she
makes long journeys at night to secret meetings, I
fancy. She is very good and devout, Étienne, but
still——”</p>
<p>“Still you can cry, ‘À bas les Huguenots!’ is it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[13]</span>
not so? She would make you Protestant, my
cousin, would she not?”</p>
<p>Alaine looked up at him gravely from under her
long lashes. She wondered how much she dared
tell to this cousin to whose opinions she had deferred
ever since she could remember.</p>
<p>“Would she not?” he repeated, smiling as he took
the flower, with rather too rough a hand, Alaine
thought. “Can you say with true spirit, ‘À bas
les Huguenots’?” He spoke the words so fiercely
that Alaine looked half alarmed, at which he laughed.
“There, my cousin,” he continued, “you are too
young to be troubled by these questions, and your
father is too good a Catholic to let you stray from
the fold.”</p>
<p>“But I do not wish to be done with questions. I
wish to know about everything, and I mean to ask
my father this very night when he returns from
Paris. He will tell me, if you will not. I know he
will. You are very provoking, Étienne, to treat my
questions so,” she pouted. “Give me my flower; I
want to wear it.”</p>
<p>“What if I want to wear it?”</p>
<p>“Ah, Étienne, are you, then, a Huguenot?”</p>
<p>“That is nothing to you,” he returned. “I am
simply your cousin, Étienne Villeneau. Better trust
me, Alainette; I know more than Michelle there; in
fact, it is an amusement of mine to follow up all
sources of information that will in any way benefit
the house of Villeneau, and I will pass over to you<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[14]</span>
anything in the matter of news which may be good
for you.”</p>
<p>“Which may be good for me! As if news were
like doses of medicine. I will take your news or
not, as I like.”</p>
<p>“You will take it whether you like it or not,”
he returned, looking at her for a moment with
narrowed eyes. “If your father does not return
from Paris you will be glad enough to run to me for
knowledge of him.”</p>
<p>“Étienne, how can you? My father will return
from Paris; he said he would, and he speaks truly
at all times.”</p>
<p>“Too truly for once, it is reported. Au revoir,
my cousin; when you are ready to hear what I have
to tell send me word.” And he turned on his heel.</p>
<p>“You are hateful! a beast, a monster!” Alaine
cried after him. “I hate you.”</p>
<p>“I have heard that before,” the young man replied
over his shoulder, “and the next day you have
told me the opposite.”</p>
<p>“It will not be the next day this time, nor for
many days that you hear it,” Alaine retorted. “And
you have not given me back my flower. Thief!
Robber!”</p>
<p>He tossed the flower on the ground, then, as if
urged by an angry impulse, he stopped and ground
it with his heel, but immediately after he turned,
laughing: “That for your naughtiness, fierce little
cousin. Adieu.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[15]</span>“Go!” she cried. “I am glad to see your wicked
body disappear.” Then, half in tears, she ran to
Michelle, who had returned from bearing her burden
into the house and was now picking up the remaining
articles left on the grass to bleach. “Michelle!
Michelle!” cried the girl, “that detestable cousin of
mine has been teasing me, and has crushed the life
out of the little yellow marigold I meant for you.
Is he not a beast, Michelle? and how dares he say
that there is any doubt of my father’s return?”</p>
<p>“He says that?” exclaimed Michelle, looking
startled.</p>
<p>“He did not say just that, but only if my father
should not return that I would be glad to run to him
for news of him. He will return; say so at once,
Michelle.” She shook the good woman’s arm impatiently.</p>
<p>“God grant he returns,” murmured Michelle,
gravely. “And your cousin, what further did he
say?”</p>
<p>“Very little, except to ask if you were trying to
make me Protestant. You would like to have me
one, you know, Michelle, but my tender flesh shrinks
from the horrors of which you tell me, and that
have been going on since before I was born. I have
no wish to be dragged through the streets, to be
beaten or burned or foully abused in any way, and
I do not see how you can be happy with such a
possibility hanging over you, Michelle.”</p>
<p>“Listen to the poor little one,” said Michelle to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[16]</span>
herself. “She little knows of the real terrors that
threaten us. And your cousin Étienne, did you tell
him I was Protestant?”</p>
<p>“I believe I did, but no doubt he knew it before;
and what matters it anyhow to one of the family to
whom you have always been so good? Many a
scrape have you helped my cousin out of. He
would defend you to the last, and so would I, Michelle,
Catholic as I am.”</p>
<p>Michelle made no answer. She stood still with
her arms clasped around the web of homespun linen
which had been bleaching on the grass. Her eyes
wandered over the fair fields to the spires of Rouen
in the distance, and then to the chateau closer at
hand, showing dimly gray through the trees. She
shook her head, but turned with a smile to the girl
at her side. “Come in, my Alainette,” she said;
“it grows late and I have a loaf in the oven. There
is no need to be angered by the words of your
cousin, he did but tease; and should your father not
return to-night, there is no doubt some good reason
for his staying.” And Alaine, accustomed as she
had been from babyhood to accept Michelle’s adjustments
of her difficulties, forgot her late quarrel with
her cousin and ran on ahead to satisfy her youthful
appetite with the fresh sweet loaf that no one knew
better than Michelle how to bake.</p>
<p>The days were over when the Huguenots were an
influence, or were at all formidable in politics. They
pursued amiably and tranquilly their various avocations.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[17]</span>
The massacre of St. Bartholomew had occurred
over a century before; La Rochelle had fallen
more than half a century back, and Protestant subjects
were so faithful in their allegiance to the throne
that even the reigning sovereign, Louis XIV., acknowledged
that his Huguenot servitors had proved their
devotion; he had, moreover, promised that the provisions
of the Edict of Nantes should be faithfully
maintained, yet at this very time a decree was issued
fixing the age of seven as that when children were
to be allowed to declare their religious preferences,
and forbidding parents to send their children out
of the country to be educated. In consequence,
it was a common thing for children to be enticed
from their parents to be placed in the hands of the
clergy, or to be persuaded by rewards or coerced by
threats to attend mass, and then to be claimed by
the Church. One by one the Protestant seats of
learning were suppressed, and the consternation of
the Huguenots was great.</p>
<p>Beyond this the system of dragonnades had done
much toward terrorizing and impoverishing the
Protestants, so that again numbers were fleeing the
country through every possible means. The times
were ripe for the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes.</p>
<p>Of all these things Alaine Hervieu was passingly
aware. The horizon of her little world was bounded
by Rouen, beyond whose borders she dwelt, spending
a quiet and joyous existence with Michelle, her
foster-mother and her chief guardian: Michelle with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[18]</span>
her fund of reminiscences, too often those thrilling
and horrifying tales of massacres and persecutions.
When Michelle waxed too fierce and terrifying Alaine
would fly to her father for diversion, but, to her
credit be it said, she never laid the cause of her
frights upon her nurse, but rather complained of
loneliness and begged that dear papa would tell her
tales of his boyhood; of her sainted mother she
was quite ready to hear, but of other saints she
heard more than enough from Father Bisset, she
declared. Something rousing and merry she preferred;
and her father, taking her on his knee, would
tell her of the Fête des Rois, and would show her
the basket of wax fruit won upon one of those festive
occasions. Or he would sing her some old song,
such as</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="indent4">“Gloria patri ma mere a petri</div>
<div class="indent5">Elle a faict une gallette,</div>
<div class="verse">Houppegay, Houppegay, j’ay bu du cidre Alotel.”</div>
</div></div>
<p>And he would tell her of the time when the Boise
of St. Nicaise was dragged away and burned by the
young men of St. Godard.</p>
<p>Alaine herself had more than once been taken to
the Fête St. Anne to see, running about the streets,
the boys dressed as angels and the girls as Virgins,
and at Easter Eve she had watched the children
when they mocked and hooted at the now scorned
herring while the boys pitched barrels and fish-barrows
into the river.</p>
<p>But of late it was of other things he told her; of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[19]</span>
brave resistance by those who fought for freedom of
thought; of the loss of position by those who refused
to conform to the requirements of state and
church; and sometimes he would sing to her in a
low voice, from a small book, some of those psalms
which Michelle, too, sang.</p>
<p>Alaine once showed the little old book with its
silver clasps to her cousin Étienne. “I remember
it well,” he told her; “it belonged to our great-grandfather,
for in his day the Psalms of David were
held in great esteem by the ladies and gentlemen of
the court, and once on a time in the heart of Paris,
on the favorite promenade, five or six thousand, including
the king and queen of Navarre, joined in
singing psalms.”</p>
<p>“It must have been fine. I wish I had been
there,” Alaine exclaimed, clapping her hands. “Go
on, Étienne, what more about the book?”</p>
<p>“It is a seditious thing now,” he returned, turning
to the copy of the Hervieu coat of arms on the inside
cover. “If we were as zealous as we should be
we would burn it, for if it were discovered here
trouble might come of it. Let us make a fire of the
heretical thing, Alaine.”</p>
<p>“No, no.” Alaine clasped it to her breast. “I
like it, Étienne. It is a family relic. I will keep it
safely hidden, and no one shall know of it.”</p>
<p>She did keep it safely hidden, and her father never
once asked for it, because another book had taken
its place; one over which he pored for hours at a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[20]</span>
time, and which Alaine knew to be a Bible. Was
her father turning Protestant? she asked herself.</p>
<p>Within the last few months it was Alaine who
tried to divert her father, for often there was a cloud
upon his brow, and he was frequently grave and
taciturn, so that his daughter tried to set him laughing
when she could, and when she could not would
take refuge with her cousin Étienne, who lived but
a short distance away. He was her elder by ten
years, but a good companion for all that, with whom
Alaine quarrelled once a day upon an average, and
upon whom she penitently used her blandishments
when next they met.</p>
<p>She, therefore, was quite ready for Étienne when
he appeared upon the terrace the next morning after
her latest quarrel with him. “Papa did not come,
Étienne,” she cried, jumping up to meet him, “but
Michelle says it is nothing; men are often detained
so. Come, sit here and tell me what you have done,
and how is my aunt; also, if you have that piece of
news you offered me yesterday.”</p>
<p>“Am I a thief and robber, then? A monster and
a beast?” he asked, sitting down beside her.</p>
<p>“No, you are not; it was yesterday you were
those things, and this is to-day.”</p>
<p>“Child!” he exclaimed, “but a woman-child for
all. Alainette, would you turn Protestant if your
father were one?”</p>
<p>“There, now, you said we were done with that
question.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[21]</span>“It was you who urged it upon me, and who became
angry with me because I put you off.”</p>
<p>“Again that was yesterday, and this is to-day, as
I told you.”</p>
<p>“Nevertheless, I put the question again.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I don’t know. What would you do if you
were I, Étienne?”</p>
<p>“I should do as my conscience and my Church
bade me, rather than obey my father.” He looked
at her again with those narrowed eyes, the expression
of which Alaine was beginning to dread.</p>
<p>“Thank you for your advice, sir. My father is
not likely to command me to do anything wrong;
and even if he did——”</p>
<p>“Even if he did,” repeated her cousin, “you
would be taken to a convent and be separated from
him, as you well know. There would be one way
out of it, Alaine.”</p>
<p>“And that?” She looked up at him with all the
confidence of her youth shining in her piquant little
face.</p>
<p>“Would be to marry me,” he said, slowly.</p>
<p>The blood rushed to the girl’s face and she sprang
to her feet. “How dare you say such a thing,
Étienne? It is for your mother and my father to
arrange a matter like that. Besides,”—she burst
into a sob,—“I—I don’t want to be married. I don’t
want to go to a convent either. Why do you come
here troubling me with such dreadful things, Étienne?
I hate you for it.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[22]</span>He caught her hands and looked down closely
into her dark eyes. “No you don’t; you love me
for it.”</p>
<p>“I do not! I do not!” she cried, passionately.
“I detest you. Monster, beast! Monster, beast!
Hear me, I say it again and again. I hate you, hate
you, hate you!” And having wrested one hand
from his grasp, she gave him a stinging blow on the
ear.</p>
<p>He loosed his grasp of her and pushed her from
him. “You shall pay me for that,” he said, his
breath coming quickly, as he sprang to his feet.</p>
<p>Alaine, frightened at what she had done, shrank
from him. “I—I never did so before, did I, Étienne?
I—I was so surprised, you see.” She made a faint
attempt to smile, but there was no response from
her cousin. She remembered vaguely that she had
once or twice before seen him thus angry, and she
also remembered that her aunt had told her that
Étienne was very vindictive. “It would not be
proper for me to say that I would marry you,
Étienne,” she said, wistfully. “You know we must
not think of such things; Michelle says we must
not, and Mother Angelique says that it is very wrong.
It really would not be proper for me to tell you that
I would marry you.”</p>
<p>“You shall tell no one else,” he said, fiercely,
“and you will have to do it soon or——”</p>
<p>“Or what?” She crept closer to him and laid
her hand on his arm.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[23]</span>He looked down at her, the resentment in his face
fading into something like compassion. “Listen,
Alaine; your father will not come back to-day; one
cannot say that he ever will. He has announced
himself a Huguenot, and has disappeared, we know
not where.”</p>
<p>Alaine fixed her great eyes on him. Suddenly
she dropped her childish coaxing tone. “Are you
telling me the truth, Étienne? I am—yes, I am
nearly a woman. A girl of fifteen has a right to
decide for herself as you say. Tell me, are you
merely teasing me, or is this the truth?”</p>
<p>“It is the truth, and at any moment this place
may be given over to the dragonnades. Will you
stay? If you do not come to us your case will be
pitiable, indeed. I have not said anything as yet to
my mother, for you know her state of health, but
you will be safe with us, Alaine.”</p>
<p>“And Michelle, she must go too.”</p>
<p>“No, she must not. She is Protestant, and must
take the risks with those she has chosen.”</p>
<p>“Étienne! and after all these years that you have
known her, and when she has done you more than
one good service.”</p>
<p>“We cannot remember anything but that she is
an enemy of the Church.”</p>
<p>“You have said that if my father commanded I
must not obey, therefore I will learn his commands, if
I can. You would not desire to marry a Huguenot,
Étienne.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[24]</span>“That need not disturb you just now; the main
thing is your safety.”</p>
<p>“And if I refuse to leave Michelle?”</p>
<p>“You know the consequences.”</p>
<p>“Do you think, then, that Father Bisset will not
speak for me? Have I ever neglected my religious
duties? And the Mother Angelique, will she not
answer for me?”</p>
<p>“Once you go to them you will find closer bonds
than those with which I would bind you.”</p>
<p>“But they love me.”</p>
<p>“Because they love you they would keep you.
It has been weeks since you saw Mother Angelique,
and as for Father Bisset, how long since you have
had a call from him? At this moment he is on his
way to Holland, unless, indeed, he has been overtaken,
the poor miserable apostate.”</p>
<p>“How do you know? How do you know?”</p>
<p>“I am neither deaf nor blind. I see what is before
me and I hear what is told me.”</p>
<p>“It is the Revocation which is doing all this,”
cried Alaine. “Michelle told me so. Dear Father
Bisset! Would he had told me he was going and
had given me his blessing before he fled! I hope he
will escape in safety.”</p>
<p>“I hope he will not,” returned Étienne, savagely.</p>
<p>Alaine turned and looked at him, then paced up
and down the walk, her hands folded against her
breast, her eyes bent upon the ground. Her brain
was in a whirl, but by degrees she collected herself<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[25]</span>
sufficiently to say, “Étienne, my cousin, I am but a
young and not overwise girl, and I cannot decide
this thing while you are here to disconcert me.
Leave me to-day, and do not come near me till I
have thought this over. You have thrust a hard
alternative upon me, but I see that I must meet it.
I will believe that you intend the best for me, but I
must have time to think. To-morrow I will tell you
what I will do. It is good of you to allow me the
privilege of choosing my own way, for I can see that
it might be otherwise; that, in the absence of my
father, you and my aunt have the right to exercise
a control, or that you might at once report me to
the authorities, who would not hesitate to send me
whither they would. I am safe here, in my own
home, till to-morrow you think?”</p>
<p>“Yes, I am sure you are.”</p>
<p>“Then, leave me, please. Give my duty to my
aunt and thank you, Étienne.” She looked up into
his face as if searching for something she did not
find. “Étienne, you forgive me for what I did yesterday?
I was very rude. You do not bear resentment
against me for it?”</p>
<p>The look she dreaded came into his eyes. “Would
I wish to marry you if I did?” he returned, but
without a smile.</p>
<p>She let him go, not adding another word; and when
he was beyond hearing she sank again upon the
bench where they two had sat together. Marriage
with Étienne; she had never thought of it, and suddenly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[26]</span>
she realized that her whole nature shrank from
it. She dropped her face in her hands, for a moment
sitting very still, then, with a swift determination,
she ran to find her nurse.</p>
<p>“Michelle, Michelle,” she cried, taking the good
woman’s comforting arms and folding them around
herself, “I am sorely pressed. Tell me what to do.
My father, did you know? he is Protestant. Étienne
has just told me of his admission, and that he has
disappeared, he could not tell where. Oh, Michelle,
what shall I do? What shall I do? I am afraid of
Étienne, I am afraid.”</p>
<p>The mother look on Michelle’s broad face deepened
into one of anxiety. “My lamb! My lamb!”
she murmured. “An hour of great distress is at
hand. Yes, I know. I have known for some time,
but for your sake, my pretty one, your father has
not declared his convictions for fear you would be
stolen from him.”</p>
<p>“And now! Ah, Michelle!” She then told of
her cousin Étienne’s proposal and her own distress.
“Ah, that I knew my father’s desires!” she cried.
“Shall I ever see him again? If I thought I could
find him I would hie me forth this very night.”</p>
<p>“And forsake all else?”</p>
<p>“Yes, yes.”</p>
<p>“You would be willing to become a refugee for
his sake? You would give up the protection and comfort
you would find in your aunt’s home to become
a wanderer? You would give up your Church?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[27]</span>“Yes, and more, if it gave me a chance to again
be united to my father; a thousand times yes. Those
whom I love best upon earth, whom from childhood
I have been accustomed to obey, have become Protestants,
why should an ignorant girl dare to say
they are not right? My father, you, and Father Bisset,
have you not all been my teachers and guardians?
Shall I forsake you now?”</p>
<p>“My infant! My child of the good heart!” cried
Michelle, weeping copiously. “I am the one to lead
you forth from your own country, and I cannot hesitate.”
She thrust her hand under the kerchief folded
across her bosom and drew forth a paper. “Read,”
she said, holding it out to the girl.</p>
<p>“From my father!” cried Alaine. “What does
he say?” She took the letter and read rapidly.
“He sees danger ahead; he does not know how it
will result. Some one has contrived to undermine
him when he felt safe, and he may have to make an
effort to escape to England or to Holland. Listen,
Michelle: ‘Should my daughter desire to remain in
France, or should she declare herself unable to accept
my belief, do not urge her, but allow her to
remain with her relations, and bear to her my love
and last blessing. But should she wish to join me
in London, Christian friends at the French church
on Threadneedle Street will be able to give her
word of me if I succeed in making my escape. We
can no longer, my good Michelle, expect tolerance,
now that the Edict of Nantes has been revoked, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[28]</span>
for your own sake I would advise you to leave the
country. But my little daughter, should you desert
her, where will her comfort be?’</p>
<p>“Ah, Michelle,” the tears rained down Alaine’s
cheeks, “let us go. Take me with you, dear Michelle.
I shall not care to live without you and
papa. Take me; let us go.”</p>
<p>“My dear little one, have you thought well upon
it? The way is full of danger. Are you willing to
share the lot of a poor Huguenot? Can you be
content in poverty and in a strange land?”</p>
<p>“Yes, yes, no matter what comes, I am willing to
face it. Teach me my father’s belief, Michelle, so that
he may know that we are one in all things.”</p>
<p>“We shall have to start before to-morrow dawns,”
said Michelle, after a moment’s thought.</p>
<p>“So much the better, for I promised my cousin
that he should have my answer to-morrow. He
will find it here. We must not let the servants
know. We will say that we go to the city to join
my father.”</p>
<p>“Say nothing, but come to my room after dark
this night. I have thought of little else this day. I
was up betimes, for the letter came to me by the
hand of a friend last night, and I did but wait for
a proper time to reveal its contents to you. Your
father foresaw this days ago. He told me where I
should find money. I have sewed it into the hem
of my petticoat. You will be disguised as a boy.
I have the clothes ready.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[29]</span>“Where did you get them?”</p>
<p>“From my sister. They belonged to her son.
We will set out before dawn and carry eggs to
market.”</p>
<p>“We will stand in no danger of being intercepted?”</p>
<p>“I think not. Go now, my pretty one, and try
to be as like yourself as possible. In these days
one does not know who may be friend or foe. I
have prepared a chest, which I shall send out during
the day by one of my own faith. He will carry it
safely to Dieppe for us, and we shall not need to
leave all behind.”</p>
<p>“Poor little Fifi, I shall have to leave him. Jean
will be good to him I hope.” She turned away
sadly as a realizing sense of what she must forsake
came over her.</p>
<p>It was a long, weary day for the girl, who occupied
herself feverishly in such ways as would seem
most usual to the servants. “Never again will I
see my home,” she said over and over again. Over
an unknown way to an unknown land, the thought
would now and again terrify her, but her heart leaped
as she thought of her father, and more than once
Michelle heard her clear young voice singing an old
madrigal. “Child of the good heart,” she would
sigh, “she little knows of what is before her. It is
but the strange journey to a strange land of which
she thinks, the poor little one.”</p>
<p>The house was very still when Alaine crept from<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[30]</span>
her room and presented herself before the door of
Michelle’s chamber. The housekeeper’s room was
not far from her own, for Michelle was something
more than servant and scarcely less than one of the
family. “Are you ready, Michelle?” came Alaine’s
whisper.</p>
<p>The door opened cautiously and she went in.
“Can I help you?” she asked. “We are to be
comrades from now henceforth, Michelle; let us not
stand upon ceremony,” she added, sweetly, as she
saw her companion hesitated to ask a service.</p>
<p>“If you will help me, dear child, to roll my Bible
into my hair. I must carry it so lest it be discovered.
It will not show?”</p>
<p>“Not at all.” Alaine viewed the arrangement
critically. “What have I to do?”</p>
<p>“First I must crop your abundance of brown
locks. A boy has not such a crop of hair.” And
she relentlessly clipped the shining tresses, which
slipped to the ground in soft coils. Alaine laughed
to see herself, at last, clad in the blouse of a peasant
lad, a cap set upon her short curls, her slender hands
stained and even scratched. “They will then look
more in keeping with my character,” the girl said,
gayly.</p>
<p>Then out into the night they slipped; Michelle
with basket on arm, Alaine with one hand inside her
blouse clasping tightly the small Beza psalm-book;
from henceforth it would mean more than a family
relic. One last look at the gray walls of her home<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[31]</span>
looming up darkly against the starry sky, and Alaine
whispered, “Forever! forever!” then she followed
Michelle down the dusty road to where Rouen lay
sleeping by the river Seine.</p>
<p>The streets of the city when the fugitives reached
it were full of armed men, who rode about the town
changing place as soon as they had compelled those
upon whom they were quartered to sign their act
of conformation. They seemed to be everywhere,
and Alaine shrank closer to Michelle as she noted
the haughty, overbearing look of the soldiers. “Be
of good heart, little one,” Michelle whispered.
“Remember you are no longer Alaine Hervieu, but
Jacques Assire, my son, and we live in the direction
of Dieppe; we return to our home when we have
sold our eggs. Name of Grace! but one sees a woebegone
set of countenances here; it is pitiful indeed.
We have escaped none too soon; the dragonnades
are in full force, as you see, and if we would not be
witnesses to worse sights than the driving forth of
women and children into the streets we will not
tarry long. It is early yet, but none too early for
our purpose.”</p>
<p>And, indeed, Michelle had hardly exchanged her
eggs for some of the homely commodities which a
peasant might be supposed to buy, when issuing from
a shop across the narrow street Alaine caught sight
of her cousin Étienne. “Michelle, Michelle, do not
look; my cousin is there on the other side,” the girl
said, in a shrill whisper.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[32]</span>Michelle needed no second warning, but, proving
equal to the occasion, re-entered the shop, where she
was well known, and where she held a brief consultation
with the shopkeeper, which resulted in the
conducting of the two through a back way into one
of the riverside streets, where numerous inns and
drinking-places stood to the right and left. Here
sailors rolled jauntily along, and here wonderful old
houses, each story overlapping the one below,
loomed up over the heads of the passers-by. A few
steps away was the Rue Harenguerie, and here in
the midst of the cries and chatterings of the fish-wives
it was easy to lose one’s self. Across on the
opposite bank was the favorite promenade of the
ladies of the town. Alaine had often been there
with her aunt among the careless pleasure-seekers,
but now she watched anxiously the stolid countenance
of Michelle, who elbowed her way through
the market, and at last stopped upon its outskirts,
where, after some chaffering with a sharp-eyed man,
she appeared satisfied, and turned with a smile to
her charge.</p>
<p>“Here we go,” she said. “Yonder is the cart
which will take us in the direction of Dieppe; but,
alas! my little one, you have been looked upon too
suspiciously; yours is no peasant face, and despite
your dress you may be detected, for I gather enough
to know that it is going to be no easy task to get
away safely. However, if you can be content with
a bed of cabbages and a coverlet of carrots you shall<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[33]</span>
be transported without harm. As for me, I am
weather-beaten enough to pass easily, yet we must
wait till evening before we start. Meantime, under
yonder cart is your refuge, and I will stay here pretending
to sell fish.”</p>
<p>In the dimness of twilight Alaine was established
uncomfortably enough on her bed of cabbages, and
over her were lightly piled some overturned baskets
which were to hide her from view. She could
breathe easily and could move slightly, but the
journey was long, and more than once there were
moments of terror when the cart was stopped and
the driver questioned. Michelle, however, was
always equal to the occasion, and by daybreak the
small fishing village toward which their faces were
set was in sight, and by high noon the refugees were
on their way to England.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[34]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER II<br>
<small>THE FEAST OF THE FAT CALF</small></h2>
</div>
<p><span class="smcap">In</span> the little village of New Rochelle there was a
great jollification on a day in June which marks the
feast of John the Baptist. From one of the houses
erected on the side of the high street could be heard
a voice singing clearly the Huguenot battle psalm,—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="first">“Oh, Lord, thou didst us clean forsake</div>
<div class="verse">And scatter all abroad,”—</div>
</div></div>
<p>and from a doorway a girl’s face peeped out. “They
are making ready, Mère Michelle,” she cried, stopping
her song. “Hurry with the loaves, I see
Gerard coming now; the men are gathering from
every direction. Hola, Gerard, is it a very fat calf?”
she cried to the young man, who waved his cap to
her as he approached.</p>
<p>“A lusty young creature, indeed,” he replied, as
he came near. “Are the loaves ready?”</p>
<p>“Mère Michelle is but now placing them in the
baskets. It will be a fine day for the feast, Gerard.
Some one said there were new-comers in the village
to swell the crowd.”</p>
<p>“So there are, and to share the feast. The number
increases. Hasten, good mother,” he cried, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[35]</span>
from the inside room from which issued odors of
newly baked bread came Michelle, her honest face
wreathed in smiles. “Papa has been hurrying me
this half-hour, as if one would take underdone bread
from the oven. Yet I see the occasion approaches;
the procession is forming.”</p>
<p>“And I must be there. You will soon be ready,
you and Alaine. I shall see you with the others.”
And he went off bearing his two baskets of fresh
loaves.</p>
<p>Mère Michelle settled her cap. Alaine gave a
glance at herself in the tiny mirror, smoothed down
her black silk gown, and tucked a stray lock behind
her ear. “Will I do, Mère Michelle?” she asked.</p>
<p>Michelle looked at her critically. “Your silver
chain, my dear; a maid needs a bit of ornament.
But hasten, for I hear sounds of shouting and singing
coming nearer and nearer.”</p>
<p>Alaine clambered up the ladder which led to her
little loft chamber, and speedily returned decked out
with her silver chain. She caught Michelle’s hand
and hurried her along. The clumsy latch of the door
clicked behind them and they stepped out into the
glory of the June weather.</p>
<p>Up the little street the procession trooped: a fat
calf well garlanded was being led along amid cheers
and voluble chatterings. This was the yearly fee to
John Pell, lord of the manor of Pelham, in return
for having conveyed to Jacob Leisler six thousand
acres of land on which was built the village of New<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[36]</span>
Rochelle. The merry crowd was every few steps
augmented by new participants, who joined it as it
passed along, and all trooped towards the place of
presentation. A great ceremony this, a feast always
following the acceptance of the calf, and the sober
Huguenots became for the occasion lively Frenchmen.
The appearance of the huge joints and stacks
of fowls and venison piled up before them served
as an assurance that even here in this wild country
one might still enjoy an occasional fête-day.</p>
<p>“La, la!” cried Mère Michelle, “it does my eyes
good, my friend, to see such an indulgence of mirth;
it was not so a couple of years ago, eh, Alainette?”</p>
<p>“Where is Papa Louis?” said Alaine, her soft eyes
taking in the scene, “Ah, here he is, and here
comes Gerard bringing a stranger.”</p>
<p>“Be wary of strangers,” was Michelle’s warning.</p>
<p>But it did not take Michelle’s words to teach
Alaine discretion; she had learned her lesson well
in these two years; moreover, she did not quite like
the crafty expression in the eyes of the young man
who bowed before her.</p>
<p>“’Tis good to hear one’s own tongue spoken without
hesitation,” said the stranger. “I am come up
from New York, where I hear little except a vile
Dutch tongue and that brain-splitting English. One
finds great relief in this gay company, as much from
the merry occasion as from the association. Your
brother was good enough to accede to my request to
present me. He is your brother, is he not?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[37]</span>“The son of my mother’s husband,” returned
Alaine, sedately. “He is my step-brother.”</p>
<p>“Ah! and yonder rosy-faced good wife is your
mother? You do not resemble her, mademoiselle.”</p>
<p>“I resemble my own father,” replied Alaine,
steadily.</p>
<p>“And from what part of France are you? Madame
Mercier should be from Normandy. I am at
home there. I was born in Rouen.”</p>
<p>“Yes?” Alaine tried to look indifferent, but her
eyes were taking in every detail. She had a dim
consciousness of having seen this face before. “I
was not born there,” she added. “The Merciers
are not from there, and in these days, monsieur,
one’s birthplace is of less account than that place
where he will meet his death.”</p>
<p>“Yes, yes; quite true, when one is in a wild and
savage country. M. Mercier, is it he standing yonder
by his son? The son has overtopped his father by
many inches.”</p>
<p>“That is M. Mercier. But listen, some one is
starting up a song of praise, and I see my brother
comes for me.”</p>
<p>“I say but <i>au revoir</i>, mademoiselle.”</p>
<p>Alaine made a slight inclination of her head. She
did not like the confident tone. “Gerard,” she
whispered as he led her away, “who is the man?
He is too inquisitive for my liking. He does not
sing, either. I hope he is not some evil, prying<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[38]</span>
creature. I told him but little, whatever he may
have desired to know.”</p>
<p>“What did you tell him?” asked Gerard.</p>
<p>“I said only that you were my step-father’s son
and that I was not born in Rouen.”</p>
<p>Gerard laughed. “Discreet little Alainette. Come
and tell Papa Louis; it will amuse him. Do you
know it is over two years, Alaine, since we left
England, and more than a year since we came away
from Martinique?”</p>
<p>“Those long journeys, how I remember them
with horror, Gerard! Two years ago I was Alaine
Hervieu and you were Gerard Legrand; to-day we
are both children of the same parents and of the
name of Mercier.”</p>
<p>“Than whom no better parents exist. For our
sakes, Alaine, what have they not done?”</p>
<p>“So, my children, what gives you so grave an
aspect?” inquired Papa Louis, as they approached
the spot where he and his wife were waiting for
them that they might continue their homeward
way.</p>
<p>“We were talking of you, Papa Louis,” retorted
Alaine, with a flash of mischief in her eyes.</p>
<p>“And so you were grave,” he laughed. “Enough,
indeed, am I for gravity, as Michelle says when I
tramp with muddied feet upon her clean floor, or
when I do not praise her cooking in fine enough
terms. The good Michelle, to stand a mulish husband
who is so obstinate not to see the virtue of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[39]</span>
neatness. A year and more married and no improvement;
no wonder you are serious, Alaine.”</p>
<p>“My life, but you invent mockeries, Louis,” said
Michelle. “Who was the young man to whom you
were talking, my daughter?”</p>
<p>“M. Dupont, from Rouen,” she returned, calmly.</p>
<p>Michelle started. “And you told him—what?”</p>
<p>“I told him nothing save that you were my
mother, Papa Louis your husband, Gerard my
brother by marriage. Was not that enough?”</p>
<p>“Enough, and not too much,” said Papa Louis, patting
her hand. “Where did you meet him, Gerard?”</p>
<p>“He came up with some visitors from Manhatte.”</p>
<p>“He remains for some time?”</p>
<p>“But so long as it suits him.”</p>
<p>“He must not meet you again, Alaine.” Michelle
spoke with anxious voice. “Avoid him. He may
have recognized you as it is, for he is a friend of
your cousin Étienne’s.”</p>
<p>“And what of that? I am far removed from my
cousin Étienne, and beyond his anger, thanks to you,
good mother.”</p>
<p>“You cannot be sure of that.”</p>
<p>“Ah, foolish one,” said Papa Louis, “how can he
reach her here in a free country? You are right,
Alaine; you need not fear.”</p>
<p>“I do not.” She threw back her head with a
movement expressive of her feeling of unchecked
action. “I fear no one now.”</p>
<p>“But you will not tell him your name,” Michelle<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[40]</span>
urged, still anxious. “Do me so small a favor as
this, Alaine.”</p>
<p>“I have already told him I am Alaine Mercier, and
I shall not likely meet him again.”</p>
<p>“Yet promise me.”</p>
<p>“If it please you, yes, I promise. Now, Papa
Louis, why do you not make Gerard promise the
same thing on his part?”</p>
<p>Papa Louis rubbed his hands together and chuckled.
He was a little man, with an eager, gentle face. He
stooped slightly and had the air of a student rather
than of a peasant or a mechanic. Gerard towered
far above him.</p>
<p>“Papa Louis and I have nothing to lose,” said the
young man. “Those from whom all has been taken
have nothing to conceal. Every one knows our
story.”</p>
<p>“Still,” said the cautious Michelle, “I would not
be too free to tell it.”</p>
<p>“Maman has not yet lost her fear of the dragonnades,”
remarked Papa Louis. “She cannot quite
grasp the fact that we are utterly safe, and wakes up
with a dread of having insolent soldiers quartered
upon her before night.”</p>
<p>“Which is not true,” maintained Michelle, sturdily;
“but, Louis, I know too much not to feel that the
long arm of resentment can stretch across seas.”</p>
<p>Papa Louis raised his hands. “She speaks well,
this wife of mine. She has acquired a glibness of
speech which is truly remarkable.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[41]</span>“That comes from association with you, Papa
Louis,” laughed Alaine, taking his arm. “Let us be
going. Mère Michelle’s bread has disappeared like
dew before the sun; we shall get no more though
we stay here all night. Take maman with you,
Gerard, and Papa Louis and I will follow. I think
we should celebrate the day, too,” she said to M.
Mercier, “for it is due to that same accomplishment
of making such excellent bread that we are here
to-day.”</p>
<p>“True, my daughter,” returned her companion.
“See, we will deck maman.” And picking up a
discarded wreath from the ground, he ran forward
and flung it around his wife’s neck.</p>
<p>“Am I, then, a fat calf?” spluttered Michelle, indignant
at this assault upon her dignity.</p>
<p>“No, no, maman, you are honored because of
your able pursuance of a craft which brought us
here,” said Alaine, kissing her. “Let me see, we
will rehearse it all as we walk along, that you may
understand why Papa Louis, in a burst of gratitude,
has so decorated you. We met two years ago on
shipboard. We remember it, do we not, Gerard?
You with your tutor, Papa Louis there, and I with
my foster-mother, Mère Michelle. You were dressed
as a girl, and in your petticoats, as well as in Mère
Michelle’s, were sewed some gold pieces, while in
my blouse I carried my book of psalms, and Papa
Louis carried the leaves of his Bible stitched in his
coat. We became friends when you believed me a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[42]</span>
boy and I believed you a girl. How astonished we
were when we discovered that we might well exchange
places, and how soon those gold pieces
melted away in England! and in Martinique, what
distress we endured! so hungry and forlorn were
we. Then did maman happily think of baking bread
and selling it. A good trade it was and one that
satisfied our own hunger, for we could eat the stale
loaves. And when Papa Louis fell ill did Mère
Michelle nurse him while you and I watched the
loaves in the oven. You would tell me of your
home in La Rochelle, and of your escape after your
father and mother were dragged away, and I would
relate of our weary watching for my father, of whom
not a word could we learn in London. Then—be
patient, maman, we are coming to the end of the
story—because there was still not freedom for us in
Martinique, said Papa Louis, ‘Had I but the money
for the passage we would go to New England,’ and
that day you, Mère Michelle, found a gold coin where
it had slipped into a seam of your petticoat, and not
long after papa remembered a jewel which he still
retained for Gerard. Then said he, ‘When we can
earn enough we will go as a family, my good Michelle,
if you will. These are our children, Alaine
and Gerard Mercier, and you are Madame Mercier if
you consent, for we have been comrades in misfortune
this year past, and my life, which your nursing
has saved, is yours.’ Was it not so, maman? So
now, because of the happy thought of the bread<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[43]</span>
which did sustain us all, and because of your industry
in baking and selling the good bread which
all were so eager to buy, we at last managed to save
enough to bring us here, and we are one family.
So, now, to-day, on which they celebrate the feast
of John Baptist, at home in dear France, and here
does honor to the fat calf, we will also have a feast
of the loaves, and you shall always be crowned
queen of the feast. Shall it not be so, Papa Louis?
Shall it not, Gerard?”</p>
<p>The recital of the tale and the honor bestowed
upon her so overcame Mère Michelle that her dignity
lost itself in tears, and she fell on the neck of her
little husband, who braced himself to receive her
weight, and patted her comfortingly on the back,
while Alaine and Gerard started up a joyful psalm,
then ran on ahead down the woodland path towards
the village, saying they would prepare a reception at
home.</p>
<p>The sound of merry voices had not ceased in the
direction of the place of the feast. The occasion
was one not only for the expression of ordinary joy,
but it served to voice a deeper note, that of thanksgiving
for an escape from persecution, and to the
rollicking songs were added psalms of praise, those
psalms so long denied utterance to the patient band
of Huguenots now setting up their homes in this
new world.</p>
<p>The woods sweetly smelling in the June weather,
the soft odors arising from the sea-salt marshes, the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[44]</span>
glimpses of the blue sound, the peeping up here and
there of unfamiliar blossoms beneath their feet, all
these things awoke in the hearts of Alaine and
Gerard a strange new feeling of unfettered joyousness,
and in sheer good fellowship Gerard reached
out a hand to clasp the girl’s as they walked home.
“You look very happy, my sister,” he said. “Not
since we left England’s shores have I seen you so.”</p>
<p>“It is good to live,” Alaine answered, raising her
face to the sky. “To be young and free and hopeful
is much. On days like this, Gerard, I always
believe that I shall see my father again. Do you
feel so?”</p>
<p>“No, I do not. Papa Louis has always warned
me against an encouragement of hope in that direction.
He thinks there is no doubt but that my father
and mother are with the good God.”</p>
<p>“So he tells me, but Mère Michelle says that it is
possible that my father may have become an engagé;
that thought is to me more terrible than the other,
for if he is with the good God he is at peace, but
otherwise he is suffering misery at the hands of masters.
And oh, Gerard, you have told me how you saw
those miserable ones tied two and two, walking in
procession like criminals, or wretchedly bound in a
cart. Ah, me, to be sold into slavery, yes, that is
worse than death for a Huguenot. We saw at Martinique
many of those unfortunates, and the thought
that my father may be one such as those is too
dreadful to endure. No, I myself am readier to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[45]</span>
believe that he is somewhere in hiding, and that he
will yet discover us. So many escaped to Holland
who eventually have reached England, and our
friends of the church in London are aware of our
arrival here, therefore I take the hope to my heart
that my father and I may yet meet. Meanwhile, I
am willing to work hard in gratitude to those dear
parents of our adoption.”</p>
<p>“And I, too, Alaine. We must do our share for
their sakes, for they have spared no pains to help
us. Papa Louis has never been strong since that
dreadful fever on the island, and besides, a man who
has spent his days poring over books, what is he to
till the ground or to work at the looms?”</p>
<p>“You grow so tall and strong, Gerard, I think you
look a man already. I, too, grow strong and hardy
in this good salt air. I trust I may grow in grace
likewise,” she added, piously. “I cared not once
much about that, Gerard, but these sore trials have
sobered me.” Then her fresh young voice took
up the psalm,—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="first">“Sus, sus, mon ame, il te faut dire bien</div>
<div class="verse">De l’Eternal: ô mon vrai Dieu, combien</div>
<div class="verse">Ta grandeur est excellent et notoire!”</div>
</div></div>
<p>Gerard joined in, and hand in hand they continued
their way through the woods and up the path to
their home, Papa Louis and Michelle following, the
latter still garlanded.</p>
<p>Gerard and Alaine fled laughing to the little loft<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[46]</span>
chamber, and presently down came a lad in a blouse
too small for the expanding figure, and following, a
girl in very short petticoat and coarse chemise.</p>
<p>“La, la!” cried Michelle. “Here they are, the
bad ones. Look, papa, did you ever know such
mischiefs? They have grown, in truth, these two
years. Such short petticoats, Gerard, and your
blouse, Alaine, is far too small; you can scarce meet
it. Another year and you cannot wear the garments,
my children. Put them away and keep them
as a reminder that the grace of God has lent you the
name of Mercier.”</p>
<p>A knock at the door silenced their laughter.
Alaine shrank behind Michelle’s broad back, and
Gerard, looking rather foolish in his short petticoat,
retreated into a corner. Papa Louis opened the
door to welcome a neighbor, M. Therolde. Behind
him came the stranger whom Alaine had met at the
fête. “A little frolic to end the day’s entertainment,”
said Papa Louis. “My children are attired
for our amusement. You will excuse their costumes,
gentlemen. Come forward, Gerard; your petticoats
are none too short that they need stand in the way
of a greeting to our friends. And you, my daughter,
need not mind masquerading in your brother’s
clothes upon a fête-day.”</p>
<p>“We but stopped to give you thanks for the acceptable
addition to our feast, Madame Mercier,” said
Jacob Therolde. “Truly, madame distinguishes herself
in the baking of excellent bread. Not a fragment<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[47]</span>
was left; the good wives even saved the crusts,
nor would let the dogs have them. You have
changed places, eh, my children? Come, M. Dupont,
we are promised at home.”</p>
<p>“It was an ill-timed call,” complained Michelle,
when the guests had departed. “I saw that young
man view you with all too familiar eyes, Alaine. I
wish he might never be seen here again. I do not
like him, nor ever did.”</p>
<p>“There, maman, there,” began Papa Louis, “do
not discompose yourself; we must be merry to-night.
Your little bird will not hop so far out of your sight
that she will be snared. A beaker of wine will we
drink in health to us all, and then Gerard and I must
see to our chores, for it is later than it would seem;
the long day was over an hour ago.”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[48]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER III<br>
<small>THE WAY TO CHURCH</small></h2>
</div>
<p>“<span class="smcap">It</span> is a long walk, my child,” Papa Louis was
saying; “you should not think of taking it.”</p>
<p>“But try me, papa,” Alaine persisted, “and if I
tire myself there may be cars to take me in. Is it
not so, Mother Michelle? Surely the Bonneaux or
the Allaires or the Sicards are no stronger than I;
and even if there be no room, or no cars going in
the morning, I can walk.”</p>
<p>“She must have her will at all times, the little
one,” Papa Louis said, with a sigh of resignation.
“See you, then, Gerard, that maman does not over-fatigue
herself, and so you will go ahead, Michelle,
and we follow in the morning. We shall needs be
up by break of day, Alaine.”</p>
<p>Already the sound of the low-wheeled wagons
could be heard rumbling down the one street of the
town; these “cars” with their canvas tops, their
deep felloes and turned spokes, were thoroughly
French in appearance; they were filled with women
and children, only the very little ones being left at
home with some care-taker. By the side of the
wagons walked the men in sabots, and carrying
their shoes and stockings in their hands. Each man<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[49]</span>
was well armed, for the way through the deep forests
was full of possible dangers. Upon the soft silence
of the summer evening arose the plaintive strains of
a hymn. The march to church had begun, although
it was still Saturday evening. “O Lord, Thou didst
us clean forsake,” chimed in the voices of Gerard
and Michelle as they, too, joined the company,
dressed in their Sunday clothes, a touch of color
giving evidence of the fact that, sober and earnest as
were these people, they were still truly French.</p>
<p>Down the street the troop went, their hymn, which
they invariably sang upon starting, echoing along the
way. They were always singing, these Huguenots,
as if they could never make up for those days when
their psalms were denied them. Alaine watched till
the last figure became hidden by the trees, then she
turned to say, “The poor little cow, it would scarce
be right to leave her, and you well know, Papa
Louis, that I would be wretched to know you were
here alone. I do not mind the long walk nor the
early start, and by morning I hope our Petite Etoile
will have regained her health; she would be a sore
loss.”</p>
<p>Papa Louis looked grave. It had been a struggle
to acquire even the little they had, though it was of
the plainest. Theirs was a long, low-pitched house,
with a big living-room below and two loft chambers
above. In the former could be seen two beds with
blue linen curtains, a couple of chests, a small table
octagonal in form, a little mirror in gilded frame.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[50]</span>
By the huge fireplace hung the warming-pan, and
there was a brass candlestick upon the shelf above
it. A gun and powder-horn were hung within easy
reach of Papa Louis’s arm. In the fireplace swung
two iron pots on long cranes, and at the side hung a
bright kettle. Two spinning-wheels, of course, held
their places, but now their drowsy hum was hushed,
for Alaine, stepping briskly back and forth, prepared
the supper. From time to time she looked out of
the open door toward the barn just beyond the
garden, now brave in summer blossoms. The
pretty young cow had been joyously welcomed, and
now a wicked wolf had torn her sleek skin so that
Papa Louis must needs doctor her. “He is so
skilful, that Papa Louis,” said Alaine to herself,
pausing, wooden tankard in hand; “he knows herbs
and simples well; his book knowledge has served
him more than once, the dear little papa. And how
he loved his garden! It is well that Gerard has a
strong arm for the furrows, else the corn would not
look as well as the flowers. Mère Michelle can guide
a plough and handle a scythe better than her husband.
How we laughed, Gerard and I, when she first taught
papa to follow the plough! the poor little papa, he was
so determined and so patient, while big Mère Michelle
scolded and encouraged and laughed.” She took
her tankard out to the well, which stood in front of
the door. Guiding the long sweep till the bucket
touched the clear water below, she waited till it
filled and then drew it up, balanced it on the curb,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[51]</span>
and poured the water into the trough. At this
instant Papa Louis appeared leading the cow.
“Good!” cried Alaine. “He brings her for a drink,
poor pretty Etoile. It was fortunate that she was
not far off when Gerard heard her cry, else she
would have fed the wicked wolf ere now.” Over
the orderly rows of vegetables she looked to see
Papa Louis advance.</p>
<p>“We shall have no milk to-night,” he told her,
“yet she becomes better, and I think to-morrow will
see her safe, so we can start betimes.”</p>
<p>Alaine with gentle hand stroked the soft ears of
the cow, which eagerly drank from the trough and
was led back to the barn; then the girl filled her
tankard and bore it indoors.</p>
<p>“I must go to see Alexandre Allaire,” said Papa
Louis when the simple meal was over. “I shall
have to leave you alone here for a short time, my
daughter, but there is nothing to fear. I greatly desire
to know where we stand in the matter of a new
church; a deep longing for it takes possession of us
all, and I trust the day is not distant when we can
rear the walls of a new temple here in the wilderness.”</p>
<p>By the time he had disappeared behind the leafy
trees just beyond the newly set out orchard Alaine
had cleared away the supper dishes and ran out for
a last look at her fowls. They must be well secured,
and there was no Michelle there to spy out a possible
loophole where wild creatures could make an<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[52]</span>
entrance. Assuring herself that all was safe, she
returned to the house. As she entered the sitting-room,
by the dim light she saw sitting a figure bending
over the little table.</p>
<p>“Ah, mademoiselle, I am indeed fortunate,” said
François Dupont, who put down the book he had
been holding and advanced to meet her. “I feared
you might have gone with the others upon the long
journey to Manhatte, yet I did not see you among
the train as they passed, and, therefore, I ventured
here in hopes of finding you.”</p>
<p>Alaine retreated a step. What ill fate had given
her an interview with this man whom she had hoped
never to see again?</p>
<p>“And I was fortunate,” he repeated, “Mademoiselle—Hervieu.”</p>
<p>Alaine started, but recovered herself to say,
steadily, “My father, M. Louis Mercier, will be here
in a moment to welcome you, monsieur. I regret
that Madame Mercier, my mother, is not here to
entertain you.”</p>
<p>M. Dupont looked at her with a half-smile curling
his lips. “All of which sounds very well, mademoiselle,
but does not alter the fact that Mademoiselle
Hervieu, herself, does not seem over-glad to
meet an old acquaintance.”</p>
<p>“An old acquaintance? An exceedingly short
acquaintance. It was at the Feast of the Fat Calf
that I met you, and since then not at all.”</p>
<p>“But that was not our first meeting: I remember<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[53]</span>
a charming child who visited her aunt one day, when
I was also there, and to whom I offered some cherries
which I had gathered; I snatched them from
her before she had a taste of them, and I remember
how I chased the little maid around the garden and
made her give me a taste of her cherry lips in exchange
for the fruit. I have not forgotten the pretty
little incident, Mademoiselle Hervieu, although it was
some years ago, and you were but a gay and happy
child.”</p>
<p>Alaine stood silent, but there was fierce anger in
her eyes. He dared remind her now. She looked
helplessly from one side to the other, then she lifted
her chin with a haughty gesture. “Monsieur, your
imagination quite exceeds your memory. I declare
to you that I have not the honor of your acquaintance.”</p>
<p>He laughed mockingly. “She has very much the
air of a peasant, this child of the good honest Michelle
of the bourgeois face. Strange how she resembles
her mother.” He glanced at the girl’s slim
hands and feet, and his eyes travelled back to the
well-set little head and the fine oval of the fair face.
“So closely does she resemble her mother that I
can well imagine how she will look some twenty-five
years from now.” He laughed again. “We of
the upper class do not mind amusing ourselves with
a peasant lass, mademoiselle, and so you cannot be
surprised if I steal a second kiss, since you repudiate
the one you gave me six or eight years ago.” He<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[54]</span>
made a step toward her, and Alaine shrank back
with a little cry. “Monsieur,” she said, in a low,
strained voice, “what is your motive in all this?”</p>
<p>“Ah-h! she comes to herself; the peasant lass is
no more; she was too much for Mademoiselle Hervieu.
I but desire to press my claim to your acquaintance,
and to urge you to return to the home
which is still open to you; to say that, as the friend
of your cousin, Étienne Villeneau, I desire to do him
the favor of returning the lady of his love to his
arms. I had an opportunity of looking into the
small black book on yonder table, the book which
contains those hymns you Huguenots are so fond of
singing at all times and in all places. I am too
familiar with the Hervieu arms not to recognize the
plate on the inside lid of the book, and the haunting
face of the demoiselle whom I met at the fête was
no longer that of a stranger. I understand why it
seemed so familiar; in the flash of an eye I recollected
the little scene which I have just recounted
to you. That you were not better known to me is
due to the fact that for some years past I have been
in Paris to complete my studies.” Alaine listened
gravely, making no comment. He waved his hand
to a chair. “May we not sit, mademoiselle? I
have more to say. I would not keep you standing.”</p>
<p>She bit her lip, but seated herself and regarded
him silently.</p>
<p>“Étienne Villeneau is my friend; we were together
at school in Rouen. Always Étienne spoke<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[55]</span>
of his little cousin, his sweetheart, as he called her.
Judge of my surprise and distress when, upon my
return home some two years ago, I was told that
this same pretty child whom I so well remembered
had been stolen by her foster-mother and had disappeared,
no one knew where. Étienne was in
despair; he sent his emissaries to search high and
low, but to no avail. When he knew I was to depart
for these colonies he gave me as a parting
charge, ‘My cousin, François, forget her not when
you are in the land of the savage, and if chance be
that you come across any who know of her, press
home the discovery, so will you be my heart’s best
friend.’ I find you here. I see you in this humble
cot, performing with your own hands tasks that your
servants at home should be doing for you, and,
therefore, mademoiselle, not only in pity for my
friend, but in sympathy for you, I beg of you to
return to your native country.”</p>
<p>“Monsieur,” Alaine’s voice was low and determined,
“you forget that I am a Huguenot.”</p>
<p>He snapped his fingers with an upward movement
of them as he would say, “So slight a matter?”
“That is easily adjusted, mademoiselle. Because
you, as a child, were over-persuaded by your nurse
is no reason why, as a woman, you should not
revoke your opinions.”</p>
<p>“My father is also Protestant,” said Alaine, her
dark eyes growing larger and more intense.</p>
<p>“Your father, M. Hervieu? And where is he?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[56]</span>“I know not, but this I know: for his sake, if not
for my own conviction, would I forswear the country
which, if it has not witnessed his death, has condemned
him to a life of misery. Dearly as I loved
my own France, I am more Huguenot than French.
Revoke my decision? Abjure my belief? Never!
Day by day and hour by hour it becomes more and
more dear to me in this free home. Listen, monsieur:
to-morrow morning I start at break of day to
walk over twenty miles to church. I shall do it
gladly, joyfully, for it brings me to a service which
is my delight. Would I do this if I could be turned
by your chance words? My home is humble, yes,
but here we are free to sing our psalms, to worship
as we desire. I toil with my hands; I labor in the
fields that I may help to pay for this piece of land
which we call ours. I would work a thousand times
harder for those who cherish me and who have given
me their honest, honorable name that I may be safe
from those who hunt me down and who seek to do
me despite. Leave these, my dear adopted parents?
Never, till my father himself returns to claim me.”</p>
<p>M. Dupont listened thoughtfully. “You would
leave only at your father’s command? It behooves
me, then, to find him.”</p>
<p>Alaine clasped her hands. “Oh, monsieur, find
him, find him, and I will bless you forever, though
you may be my enemy!”</p>
<p>“Your enemy?” He shrugged his shoulders; then
looking at her with an inexplicable smile, he said,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[57]</span>
“Consider me yours to command, mademoiselle.
We shall meet again, fair Alaine Hervieu, and I shall
yet bid you good-morrow under the skies of France.”
He lifted the heavy wooden latch of the door and
bowed himself out, leaving Alaine stunned and
bewildered.</p>
<p>In the dimness of the room Papa Louis did not
perceive the expression on the girl’s face as he entered
and gayly cried, “The wolves have not devoured
my little bird, I see.”</p>
<p>Alaine flew toward him and clasped his arm.
“Oh, papa, papa, there has been some one here!”
And she poured forth her tale, one moment the passionate
tears falling, and the next a tremor born of
fear creeping into her voice.</p>
<p>Papa Louis listened silently until she had concluded,
then he said, “But this young man, he is
Protestant; he is a friend of Jacob Therolde’s. I
have been speaking but now of him to Alexandre
Allaire. He has talked to one and another, and no
one seems to imagine evil of him. This is a puzzle,
my daughter. I am dismayed by the strangeness of
it. Ma petite, he did but tease you, perhaps; yes,
that is it, he did not mean it when he urged your
return to France; he would find out how steadfast
you really are, that is all.”</p>
<p>“No, no, I am sure it was not that; yet——”
She paused and considered the matter. “He did
not say that he was not Protestant, he but spoke as
if it were nothing to change one’s religion as favors<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[58]</span>
come one’s way. If he is not Protestant, why is he
here among us, so far from home? and what means
his ardent friendship for my cousin? I am terrified
by it all, papa.”</p>
<p>“But you need have no fear. Who shall take
you from us? Not one man, nor two. So go to
sleep, my little one; the good God will defend you.
Say your prayers to Him and sleep well, for we have
a long walk before us and must start betimes. I
hope before long that it will be but a step to our
own temple of worship. Mark how sweet is the
air and how quiet the night. God be thanked for
our peace. Embrace me, little one, and good-night.”</p>
<p>Alaine crept up the ladder to her room above.
Why, after all, should she fear? There were papa
and Gerard and all the good friends and neighbors
to defend her. What could one man do? and why
should he desire to harm her? And she went to
sleep with a prayer upon her lips.</p>
<p>It required an early start, indeed, to reach New
York in time for the service. Alaine put up a frugal
lunch, and with others, who had not gone the evening
before, they started forth, the men armed, for
who knew what lurking foe might not come upon
them in the lonely woods. Singing they went: those
old songs of Marot’s and of Beza’s so dear to the
Huguenot heart. To-day the talk was serious.
Fierce and fiercer had grown the conflict between
Romanists and Protestants. James II. of England<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[59]</span>
had been compelled to abdicate; France had declared
war against England; a Committee of Safety
had intrusted Jacob Leisler with the command of
the fort in New York, and to him the eyes of the
people were turned. Would the French descend
and threaten New York? Would the Indians join
them and there be worse to be expected?</p>
<p>“Ah, la la,” sighed Alaine, as she stepped briskly
along by the side of Papa Louis, “I see you are
anxious to discuss the latest news with M. Sicard.
Leave me to trudge along with the younger lads and
go you, good papa, to those ahead.”</p>
<p>He looked at her with a smile. “So ready to be
rid of papa? However, I do wish to discuss these
matters, and I will send back to you some one who
has been casting longing looks this way ever since
we started. Approach, Pierre, and defend my daughter
from any naughty enemy who may descend upon
us,” he cried to one of the young men striding along
in his clumping sabots and with gun in hand.</p>
<p>A smile lighted up the grave face of the youth.
“Papa Louis is always a good companion,” he returned;
“I fear mademoiselle will lose by the exchange.”</p>
<p>“Variety, my dear boy, variety; we need it. Pray,
how would taste one’s pot à feu if but one ingredient
composed it? A little of this, a little of that, and
we have a dish fit for a king. So with life, my good
Pierre; one needs a mixture. I leave you to help
to a good flavor my daughter’s pottage to-day. Be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[60]</span>
not onion to make her weep, nor pepper to cause
her anger.” And, laughing, Papa Louis gayly
stepped ahead, and Pierre fell into a pace to match
Alaine’s.</p>
<p>“You undertake a long walk,” Pierre said, after
a moment’s silence.</p>
<p>“Yes, but you know our cow was hurt, and ’twas
not safe to leave her last night, so I stayed behind
to keep Papa Louis company, although Gerard begged
to do so. But papa would not hear of Mère Michelle’s
going alone, and thus it settled itself. I have
long wanted to take this journey. I am young and
strong, and why not? Mère Michelle, active as she
is, could not well stand it, but I am sure I can.”
She paused and looked at her tall companion, who,
always grave, to-day seemed more so than usual.
“I wanted to tell you, Pierre,” she began again,
“that I do not trust that M. Dupont who was in
our village yesterday, and also upon the day of the
fête. He claims affiliation with us, but I believe he
is a Papist.”</p>
<p>“Even so, there are some good Papists,” returned
Pierre, quietly.</p>
<p>Alaine gave a little scream of protest. “You to
say so, Pierre! You who began your life in the
midst of horrors and who have suffered the loss of
all nearest to you?”</p>
<p>He gave her one of his rare smiles. “Do you
remember what the good Beza said in reply to the
king of Navarre? ‘Sire, it belongs in truth to the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[61]</span>
Church of God, in whose name I speak, to endure
blows and not inflict them. But it will also please
your Majesty to remember that she is an anvil that
has worn out many hammers.’”</p>
<p>Alaine nodded. “I remember the couplet which
Papa Louis taught me,—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="first2">‘Plus a me frapper on s’amuse,</div>
<div class="verse">Tant plus de marteau on y use.’</div>
</div></div>
<p>But to tell you the truth, Pierre, I am not a patient
being. I am full of indignation many times
a day, and I wonder if I will ever be called a patient
Huguenot. That anvil, it is because of Beza’s words
that we have it for an emblem, is it not so? I like
better the marigold myself.”</p>
<p>“And I like the anvil,” returned Pierre.</p>
<p>Alaine gave him a half-saucy look from under her
long lashes. “Yes, you are more like an anvil,”
she told him.</p>
<p>“Quite hard you mean?”</p>
<p>“I did not say so. Perhaps I meant very useful.”</p>
<p>“And you are more like the marigold.”</p>
<p>“Quite useless?”</p>
<p>“I did not say so. Perhaps I meant because of
a heart of gold.”</p>
<p>“Merci, monsieur. I like that better than if you
had said as truly lovely.”</p>
<p>“I meant that, too.”</p>
<p>“It strikes me,” said Alaine, slyly, “that one
should not put honey in pot à feu.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[62]</span>“Let us have, then—what shall we say?”</p>
<p>“A smack of gossip which we will call herbs for
smart flavor; I will repeat that I do not trust M.
Dupont, and you can contradict me if you will. I
tell you this because I do not want to say so to
Gerard, who is too fiery, nor to Papa Louis, who
would call me an alarmist, nor to Mère Michelle, who
would be seized with affright. But remember, if
anything happens, that I said this. Ah, here we
come to the rock where we rest. I see the clump
of cedars quite plainly. You shall have a taste of
Mère Michelle’s good bread for your pretty compliments.”</p>
<p>They were not long in reaching the spot which
invariably served as the resting-place for the church-goers,
and from there they travelled on to Collect
Pond, where the dusty feet were bathed, the shoes
and stockings put on, and the journey considered as
nearly over. The neighborhood of the French
church in Marketfield Street was alive with the
crowds of those who had come from Long Island,
Staten Island, and New Rochelle. Many had passed
the night in the “cars,” and had eaten their breakfast
in these same wagons, to be ready for the long
service before the last stragglers should have arrived.</p>
<p>“And are you so very fatigued, my pigeon?”
asked Papa Louis, as Alaine, a little pale, but still
keeping up her energetic walk, approached the
church.</p>
<p>“I am a little tired,” she returned, “but I am here,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[63]</span>
and I shall have time to rest. Ah-h!” she gave a
little start. “See there, papa, M. Dupont is talking
to M. Allaire. I trust he will not see us.”</p>
<p>To Alaine’s relief M. Dupont did not discover her.
She kept a sharp eye out during the period of intermission,
when a cheerful chatter was kept up by
those who visited around from group to group. It
was a great event, this communion service on special
Sundays, and meant not only the enjoyment of free
worship, but a gathering of friends and an exchange
of visits; a day’s pleasuring, in fact, for they enjoyed
it all, from the hearty singing of the psalms and the
long sermon to the arrival home after the toilsome
journey.</p>
<p>“And you will not walk back?” said Pierre to
Alaine, as they were making ready for the return.</p>
<p>She shook her head. “No; twenty-three miles in
one day quite satisfies me, but I enjoyed it and the
pot à feu, honey and all.”</p>
<p>“What do you say, my daughter?” Mère Michelle’s
alert ears caught the last words.</p>
<p>“Nothing important, maman; I but discussed the
difference between the pot à feu of those from
Rouen and those from La Rochelle. Pierre there
likes to put a sprinkling of honey in his.”</p>
<p>Mère Michelle looked mystified.</p>
<p>“It is but some of Alaine’s mischief,” said Gerard,
seeing the expression on Pierre’s face. “Come, climb
in, Alaine; we must be off.” And the long journey
home began.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[64]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER IV<br>
<small>THE CIDER FROLIC</small></h2>
</div>
<p>“<span class="smcap">Come</span>, come, step up, my dear,” Mère Michelle
said so often, one morning a few weeks later, that
Alaine realized with a start that she was less virtuously
energetic than usual. “So triste, my little
one, or is it that you are fatigued from yesterday’s
labors? I feared that you were going beyond your
strength out there in the field.”</p>
<p>“No, no,” protested Alaine, “I have seldom enjoyed
anything more. It was so pleasant there out
under the blue sky, but one has so many things to
think about as one grows older. I will hasten to
finish my daily tasks, and then I wish to see Mathilde
Duval.”</p>
<p>Mère Michelle looked at her sharply. “It is not
well for a lass to frequent the home of a young
man,” she said.</p>
<p>Alaine gave her delicate chin an upward toss.
“I frequent the home of a young man? I fail to
understand you, Madame Mercier.”</p>
<p>“Ta ta, she has quite the air of a grande dame,
she who might now be weeping in a nunnery, or as
a slave, a poor engagé, but for her old Michelle, who
guards her but for her own good, poor little fledgling.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[65]</span>“Forgive me, Mère Michelle,” cried Alaine, stopping
her occupation of burnishing a brass kettle; “I
forget sometimes, but indeed it was not because of
Pierre, nor of any other man, that I wished to see
Mathilde. We both desire to go to the Point this
afternoon to join in the devotions and to send a
prayer heavenward for the safety of our beloved
ones.”</p>
<p>Michelle wiped a tear from her eye. “Wretched
old woman that I am!” she said, with a quick digression
from wrath to remorse. “I was thinking, Is
not Gerard enough for her that she must run after
other youths?”</p>
<p>“Gerard? Nay, but Gerard is my brother. You
forget that he is a Mercier as well as I.”</p>
<p>“He is a Legrand as you are a Hervieu,” returned
Mère Michelle.</p>
<p>Alaine shook her head. “No, no, we do not say
so. I pray you, Mère Michelle, put any such ideas
away. Whisper it not to any one that I am a Hervieu.
But a day or two ago you warned me not to
disclose it.”</p>
<p>“Ah, well, I say so to no one outside this house.”</p>
<p>“But the birds of the air; there is one now
on the bush outside; I fear he will bear the
news.”</p>
<p>Mère Michelle turned her head quickly, and then,
at Alaine’s merry laugh, set to work again at paring
the vegetables she was making ready for the dinner.
“Beware how you go out alone,” she warned after<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[66]</span>
a moment’s silence. “Louis says the Indians are
gathering to-day for their yearly cider fête.”</p>
<p>“That is nothing,” replied Alaine; “they are
friends. I do not fear them.”</p>
<p>“Ah, that may have been, but nothing is certain
since the word has come of intended war,” said
Mère Michelle, shaking her head. “Is it not expected
that our countrymen from whom we have
providentially escaped will descend upon us from
Canada? and what may be expected at their hands
should they be joined by the Indians? Affairs are
in a turmoil. There are grave rumors and it is the
hour’s talk.”</p>
<p>“Ah, but Monsieur Leisler, maman, remember
him; he is at the head of the people; he stands for
the Protestant party. He has assembled the people
by beat of drum and has read to them the proclamation
of the English William and Mary. You should
have heard Pierre telling of it.”</p>
<p>“Pierre! And did I not hear Gerard also tell?”</p>
<p>“He told not so much, but he said that M. Nicholas
Bayard and Mayor Van Cortlandt did not uphold M.
Leisler. Then cried out Pierre, ‘Me, I am for
Leisler,’ and Gerard looked dubious. ‘No wonder,’
cried I, ‘that Pierre is ready to put his trust in one
who upholds Protestant faith; engagé that he was,
he knows the grip of the irons.’ For a truth, maman,
it makes my heart bleed when Mathilde tells me of
how Pierre endured that dreadful journey to Guadaloupa,
of how he was beaten and abused by the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[67]</span>
master to whom he was sold, and how it was he
who planned the escape of the party of which she
became one. Poor Mathilde, her sufferings were
great, but his were greater.”</p>
<p>“And she adores Pierre in consequence, of
course,” said Mère Michelle, with a grimness unusual
to her.</p>
<p>“Yes, as I adore Gerard,” replied Alaine, demurely.
“Companions in misery, Pierre and Mathilde,
Gerard and I. But dear maman, we suffered
little, for it was the good God who gave us you and
Papa Louis to lessen our difficulties, and we, though
refugees, were never slaves.”</p>
<p>“Since you adore Gerard,” remarked Michelle, “it
would be well if you were to pluck me a leaf or two
from the garden to season his dinner.”</p>
<p>Alaine needed no second bidding. Down between
the rows of garden vegetables she went. If there
was anything in which the Huguenots excelled it
was in their cultivation of fruit and flowers, and
their gardens were miracles of luxuriant growth.
Soft-hued peaches sunned their sides on southern
slopes, grape-vines showed here and there a purple
cluster, for among his greatest treasures carefully
brought from the mother country the refugee considered
his slips of vines as among the first. Seeds,
too, brought from France and carefully tended,
brought a harvest of bloom along garden-beds to
cheer with their brilliant colors the homesick emigrants.
To these Huguenot refugees, more than to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[68]</span>
any other element, is due the establishing of nurseries
and floriculture in America.</p>
<p>Stopping to pick a leaf here, a sprig there, Alaine
bent over the garden-beds. From the fields adjoining
came the song of the workers. The girl paused
a moment to listen, and then ran back to the house
to help serve the dinner on broad wooden trenchers,
to assist in the clearing away, and then to make ready
for her visit to Mathilde.</p>
<p>The girlish figure appeared before Michelle quite
differently attired; a half-shamed look was on
Alaine’s sweet face.</p>
<p>“Voilà!” cried Michelle; “she appears as if for a
fête in her silk gown, her Lyons silk, of which she
has but two remaining. Perhaps she is bidden by
the red men to their cider fête, is it so, then? And
a charming figure to be in the midst of howling savages
scantily clothed and not too clean. For why
is this on a week-day, and no feast at all that good
Christians should attend? Ah-h!” she spread her
fingers and shrugged her shoulders, “it is for M.
Pierre, I doubt not.”</p>
<p>The tears started to Alaine’s eyes. “Mère Michelle,”
she said, “you do me wrong all the time of
late. You have forgotten, though I have not, that
this is my dear father’s fête-day, and I go to Bonnefoy’s
Point with those who do not lose their memory
of France; there with them I pray and send my
psalm of longing across the sea. It is all that I can
do to show my father honor, this, to wear my best.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[69]</span>Michelle dropped on a chair and covered her face
with her apron. “Reproach me; that will be right,
my poor fatherless one. I do you wrong, I who
should cherish you and defend you from unkindness
and suspicion. I am to-day, as one would say, at
odds with myself. Petite émigrée, pauvrette, fifille,
I am a stupide. I ought to have seen why your
eyes have all day been triste and your mouth so
wistful. It is not the kisses of a husband for
which you sigh, but for those of a father. Go,
then, star of my life, and I will add my prayers to
yours.”</p>
<p>Alaine, overcome at this humility, embraced her
and called her dear mamma and her always beloved
Michelle, and then she turned to go. From under
her little cap her soft brown hair peeped, her high-heeled
shoes with their silver buckles clicked as she
walked across the floor, and her gown swished softly
against the sides of the door as she passed out. It
was no peasant girl, but the daughter of one well-born,
who appeared that day on the street of New
Rochelle. She walked quickly toward a solid-looking
new house and knocked at the door. “Enter,”
came the word, and almost at the same moment
Mathilde appeared.</p>
<p>“I knew it was yourself, my Alaine,” she cried.
“I am ready this quarter-hour. All are gone;
Pierre and my uncle to the fields, my aunt to the
poor young wife of Jean de Caux; she has hoped
and feared till now the fear is swallowed up in grief,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[70]</span>
for she has news that her husband died on the
voyage from France. Wait here till I again assure
myself that all is well.”</p>
<p>Alaine stood waiting for her before the fireplace,
which was adorned with tiles showing forth the history
of the prodigal son, the lost piece of silver,
and other Scriptural incidents. She was absorbed
in contemplation of the raising of Lazarus when
Mathilde returned.</p>
<p>“All is well,” she announced, briskly. “Come, I
saw Papa Renaud go by but this instant. The poor
old one, he has never missed a day in going to the
spot where he landed, to turn his eyes toward his
beloved France and to lift up his voice in prayer and
song. He is smitten with a great home-sickness, is
Papa Renaud. But me, I never wish to see France
again; it holds too many graves. Ciel! when I
think of how many of them, I am affrighted by the
number.”</p>
<p>Alaine laid a caressing hand on her shoulder. “I
do not wonder, my poor Mathilde; one who alone
of all her family is left must feel so. As for me, I
know not, and so I still long for France if it contain
my father. Hark! Papa Renaud begins his psalm.”
They walked soberly to the spot where, with head
uncovered, stood the old man, his arms outstretched,
and his quavering voice chanting,—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="first">“Estans assis aux rives aquatiques</div>
<div class="verse">De Babylon, plorions melancholiques.”</div>
</div></div>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[71]</span>Mathilde and Alaine joined in softly, and then kneeling
down, with wet eyes, Alaine sent up a prayer
for her father.</p>
<p>She knelt so long that Mathilde at last touched
her on the shoulder. “I must go now,” she said.</p>
<p>Alaine arose. “Leave me a little, then; I wish to
stay longer.” Mathilde turned and left her, and for
a long time the girl knelt with clasped hands, her
eyes fixed upon the blue waters of the sound. So
long was her gaze turned in one direction that she
did not see that at last she was left quite alone by
her friends and that a pair of crafty eyes were watching
her. The sound of the psalm-singing had given
place to the distant noise of the Indians in their
frolic; the rise and fall of a monotonous chant;
howlings and whoopings.</p>
<p>“Ah, my father,” sighed the girl at last, “if you
be on earth may the good God bring you safe to me.”
She arose to her feet, and with downcast head she
descended to where a cave in the rocks showed the
remains of charred wood. Here the arriving Huguenots,
upon landing, had built their first fire. The
place was held as common property, and the mood
that caused Alaine to take a mournful pleasure in
gazing at all which could in any way remind her of
her friends, her faith, her lost France, made her
linger here.</p>
<p>Suddenly stealthy footsteps crept up behind her;
a pair of sinewy arms seized her; a hand was clapped
over her mouth, and before she could scream or<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[72]</span>
struggle she was carried around a point of rocks
and placed in a canoe, which was quickly pushed
out upon the dancing waters of the sound. In vain
she tried to make some signal to those on shore.
Only the dancing, yelling Indians could see the little
craft with one of their own number guiding it through
the water. Friendly though they might be, this was
their cider frolic, and even if they had been aware
of the deed, they would have been in no state to
render assistance.</p>
<p>Alaine had passed through too many trying scenes
to weakly give up to tears. She lay very still in the
bottom of the canoe, her large eyes fixed on the
Indian’s face. After a short time he loosened the
thongs with which he had bound her and said,
“Little squaw not be afraid.”</p>
<p>“Where are you taking me?” she asked, sitting
up. He gave a grunt and shook his head. That
question was not to be answered.</p>
<p>“Estans assis aux rives aquatiques,” she began to
sing shrilly.</p>
<p>Her captor frowned and bade her hush. “No
sing.” What could she do? Where was he taking
her? She cudgelled her brains for a reason for this
sudden act, for this seizure of her innocent self, but
could decide upon no cause for it.</p>
<p>On, on, the little canoe sped. The dense forests
grew deeper and darker as the light waned. Alaine
with eyes strained for sight of a passing boat scarcely
moved, but as the sun began to sink and to redden<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[73]</span>
the water she shivered. Night was coming, and
what would it bring her? Her thoughts travelled
to her humble home in the village. Now Gerard
and Papa Louis were coming in from the field; now
Michelle was milking; now they were making ready
for supper, a salad, an omelette, maybe. They
would miss her; they would fear that she might be
drowned, or that something dreadful had happened.
Something dreadful? It had happened.</p>
<p>The light and rosy clouds were turning to gray
when the boat at last touched shore. All was as
silent as death. The great sombre pines beyond the
sands loomed up grimly against the sky; a sea-bird
once in a while dipped its wing into the waves, then,
with a cry, circled aloft. The girl crouching in the
canoe did not attempt to move even when the Indian
drew the boat high off the sands. He waited for
a moment, then put a hand on her shoulder with
the word, “Come.” She obediently arose, and he
helped her out upon dry land. Then seizing her
wrist, he strode up the beach toward the woods,
which he entered by a narrow path. Beyond, a
faint glimmer of light showed that a clearing existed
not far off.</p>
<p>Alaine gave a little cry as, issuing from the dimness
of the forest, she saw before her a substantial house,
from the windows of which flickering lights were
already beginning to twinkle. What was this, and
who lived here? For a moment a sense of relief
stole over her. This was no Indian camp, but the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[74]</span>
home of white people; all the surroundings indicated
it. The evening breeze fluttered the vine-leaves
over the small porch. Across this small porch the
patient prisoner was led, and before a door the Indian
paused for a moment. “Warraquid has come,”
announced he.</p>
<p>The door flew open and out stepped, gay and
debonair, François Dupont. “Good-evening, Mademoiselle
Hervieu,” he said, with a splendid bow,
“I trust I see you well. Your little trip has in no
way given you discomfort, I hope. So fine an evening
as this it should be delightful upon the water.
Permit me.” He extended his hand, but she proudly
preceded him into the room, the door of which he
held open for her.</p>
<p>It was a pathetic little figure which stood before
the half-dozen men assembled in the great room;
her black silk gown was stained by mud and torn by
briers, and her little high-heeled shoes were scratched
and rubbed by rough stones, but the pale face, usually
so sweetly piquant, held a look of noble resolve,
though the shadows under the dark eyes bespoke
anxiety.</p>
<p>“This, gentlemen,” announced M. Dupont, “is
Mademoiselle Hervieu, whose presence here is not
so much a compliment to us as we could wish, since
she was not aware of her destination.” The gentlemen,
who had arisen when the girl entered, now
bowed low, and one advanced to lead her to a seat.</p>
<p>“Though you visit us perforce, mademoiselle,”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[75]</span>
said this gentleman, “we trust your stay will not need
be made a disagreeable one. You have but to answer
a few questions and you will be safely returned to
your own home.”</p>
<p>“And if I cannot answer them.”</p>
<p>“If you will not M. Dupont will tell you the alternative,
which, after all, is not so unpleasant a one,
or should not be to a young and charming lady.
First, then, you are well acquainted with Pierre
Boutillier, Louis Mercier, and——”</p>
<p>Alaine turned swiftly. “I demand to know the
alternative before I answer these questions.” She
faced M. Dupont imperiously. “It is true that I am
here by no choice of my own, and my lips are
sealed unless I know some good reason why I should
speak. Whatever is just and right I will answer,
but nothing else.”</p>
<p>Her interrogator nodded in the direction of M.
Dupont, who said, “By your favor, mademoiselle, we
will discuss this in private, and to spare you the
situation let me lead you to the other room.”
Again Alaine by a gesture refused his escort, and
walked out with head carried high. In the hall she
paused uncertainly, but M. Dupont, with a quick
movement, opened a door on the opposite side and
ushered her into a room sweet with newly gathered
flowers, and silent but for the steady tick of an old
Dutch clock which hung against the wall.</p>
<p>The door shut, Alaine again demanded, “The
alternative.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[76]</span>“So short you are, fair mademoiselle; then short
must I be. An’ you answer not these questions you
will be sent to Canada, placed in a nunnery there
till your cousin Étienne comes to claim you.”</p>
<p>“And if I refuse him.”</p>
<p>“You remain in the nunnery.”</p>
<p>Alaine pondered the situation gravely. “But
why? What good are these questions? Alas! why
do they distress a forlorn maid so sorely for the
sake of such scant information as she can give?”</p>
<p>“Because—it is for France. Do you not love
France, Alaine Hervieu, the dear place of your
birth?”</p>
<p>She was silent a moment, then she said, slowly,
“I love France.”</p>
<p>“It is for France you will do this; not for faith,
nor for freedom, nor for favor, but for France. She
is at war with England, and for her honor, her glory,
we would know how stands this colony of Yorke.
You know as well any other—you are not wanting
in wit and wisdom and experience—that disaffection
is at work in the colony; that Leisler holds the fort;
that Nicholas Bayard and Phillipse and Van Cortlandt
are his enemies; at such a time, when all is
confusion and there is no unity at home, it is the
time for a blow to be struck from the outside. Think
of this as a French colony, of the peace and content
and glory for those you love, for you do love them
still, those in your old home. Think of being reunited
to your father, when he shall occupy a place<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[77]</span>
of honor in this new country. No longer a peasant,
you; no longer associating with servants, but lady
of your own manor, an honored wife, a happy
daughter. You will do this for France and for your
father?” He spoke with rapid intensity, his brilliant
black eyes fixed on her face.</p>
<p>Alaine listened with parted lips. “My father!”
she cried. “Where is he? Does he live?”</p>
<p>“He lives. I can tell you no more. It is not so
much you are asked to do. No one will be the
wiser; no one worse off than before.”</p>
<p>The girl’s heart beat fast; her hands trembled.
“Take me back. I will answer as I can, monsieur,
as my conscience approves.” This time she did not
refuse the hand which led her through the hall back
to the room where the others awaited her. She
approached with steady step the table by which her
questioner stood. “I am ready,” she said.</p>
<p>“You are well acquainted with Louis Mercier,
with Gerard Mercier, his reputed son; with Pierre
Boutillier, the reputed nephew of M. Thauvet?”
The question was put without preliminary.</p>
<p>“I know them,” Alaine answered, without hesitation.</p>
<p>“They are friends and are upholders of Jacob
Leisler?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“They are refugees from France, and have interested
themselves in raising soldiers for the defence
of New York?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[78]</span>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“Have you ever heard them say how many were
with Leisler in the fort?”</p>
<p>Alaine was silent.</p>
<p>“Or in what condition are the fortifications?”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“They are working upon them, so M. Dupont has
already told us; so that may pass. We must ask
of you but one more thing. Write at our dictation
the following words: ‘I have been carried away by
the Indians, but am now abandoned on the shore
close to Long Point. Come to me as soon as possible.
I send this by one who refuses me escort.—Alaine.’”</p>
<p>She looked from one to the other. What did this
mean? The questions had seemed trivial and out
of proportion to the deed of kidnapping her. She
was suspicious, but even her alert mind could see no
danger in sending the message which was to restore
her to her friends, and she acquiesced without a
word of protest.</p>
<p>“Three separate notes, if you please. Address
them to Louis Mercier, to Gerard Mercier, to Pierre
Boutillier,” came the request. Alaine did as they
bade her, and a nod of satisfaction followed the
courteous thanks she received. “To-morrow evening
you will be free,” she was told. “François,
summon some one to wait upon mademoiselle to
her room.” And presently appeared an old woman,
French and Indian half-breed, who silently conducted<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[79]</span>
the girl to an upper chamber, locked the door upon
her and left her alone.</p>
<p>The room was comfortably furnished; there was
no lack of order anywhere in the establishment, and
Alaine wondered who had the ordering of it. No
discourtesy had been shown her, yet she felt distrustful
and uneasy. What did it mean? Had she
unwittingly brought trouble upon those her best
protectors? Upon Papa Louis, under whose roof
she dwelt, upon Gerard her almost brother, upon
Pierre who had already suffered so much? She
caught her breath as she thought of this. Oh, to
gain her freedom and warn them! She leaned far
out the open window, but the house built with projecting
upper story, in the old fashion, gave no
means of escape in that direction. She drew back
with a sigh. Night and darkness, and howling
wolves, and prowling Indians confronted her, perils
enough to make a stouter heart quake. Beyond
these terrors, she knew not where she was, nor the
way home. There was nothing to do but to submit
to the inevitable.</p>
<p>With a woman’s heed to appearance she smoothed
her gown, brushed from it some of the stains and
mud, tucked her soft brown locks under her cap,
and was standing looking ruefully at her scarred
shoes, when the door opened and the half-breed
glided in. Alaine marked the greedy look in the
twinkling eyes as they fell upon the silver buckles
on her shoes and the chain about her neck, but the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[80]</span>
eyes shifted before the girl’s look of inquiry, and the
summons to supper reminded Alaine that she was in
reality very hungry.</p>
<p>She descended the stairs, at the foot of which
stood François Dupont. “I await you, mademoiselle.
It is a pity that you must take your meal
with none but those of the stern sex, yet I trust
your appetite is good. If you would prefer you can
have your supper served in your own room. Let
me thank you for what you have done for France.”</p>
<p>She smiled a little sadly. “I fear it was not so
much for France as for my own well liking. After
we have eaten, monsieur, I would have further
speech with you.”</p>
<p>“To my pleasure; but before we join the others let
me give you a word of warning. For me, I am indifferent
as to creeds, I am only for France, France
Protestant or France Catholic, but with these gentlemen
here it is different. I pray you speak not in disfavor
of the Church. They believe you—but I will
not anticipate our discourse. Let me lead you in.”</p>
<p>She gave him her hand and was led into the long
dining-room, where a plentiful meal was spread.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[81]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER V<br>
<small>FROM THE SNARE OF THE FOWLER</small></h2>
</div>
<p><span class="smcap">Alaine’s</span> youthful appetite sufficed to cause her to
consume a good supper. The talk around the table
was cheerful, and there were no issues raised. “A
strange position for a young French girl,” Alaine
thought, “in company of these men, I who all my
life have taken refuge by the side of my aunt or
Michelle, and have never even taken a walk with
any man save Gerard or Papa Louis, unless I except
that one Sunday when I walked to church with
Pierre as companion. What would my aunt say to
my present situation? Allowed free converse with
a young man? Shocking!” She smiled to herself in
spite of the condition of affairs. The Indian woman
stood in one corner of the room during the meal, and
the girl wondered if she were to be again conducted
to her chamber, but she was relieved to find that
this was not intended, for the other gentlemen, sitting
over their wine, allowed François Dupont to
lead her from the room.</p>
<p>“I am your guard, mademoiselle, therefore see
that you do not overpower me and make your escape,”
he said, playfully.</p>
<p>“Into what?” she asked. “Into the terrors of
the forest? Into unknown ways? I am not so<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[82]</span>
foolhardy, monsieur. I wish I might trust you,” she
added after a pause in which she had eyed him
wistfully.</p>
<p>“Have I given you reason for lack of confidence?”</p>
<p>“Have you not? Ever since your arrival you
have been persistently following me up and prescribing
my actions. For why is this?”</p>
<p>“Said I not that I was a friend of Étienne Villeneau?
I will tell you, mademoiselle, they believe
you to have been spirited away by your nurse, if
not by force, by over-persuasion, and that once you
are brought back you will conform.”</p>
<p>She shook her head. “That will I never do. I
am Protestant as my father is. If I did not accept
entirely the teachings of his faith before I left France
it was because I was not sufficiently informed. I
now know them and accept them fully. I shall
never retract.”</p>
<p>“But you cannot blame your friends over there in
France if they desire it.”</p>
<p>“No, I cannot blame them, for they do not know
the truth of it: how I begged to be taken with Michelle
when my father’s letter came, and how I knew
that I would rather by far suffer with her and with
my father than to live at ease as the wife of my
cousin. No, they could not know that, nor that I
would never conform.”</p>
<p>“Not to save your father?”</p>
<p>“From what?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[83]</span>“From the life of an engagé.”</p>
<p>“He is that? My poor father! Ah, I was not
wrong, then, when I felt this to be so.”</p>
<p>“If he be still alive you can save him, and if he
be not alive you can still save yourself from this life
of poverty and labor. It is the wish of madame,
your aunt, of your cousin Étienne, that you do not
lose the property which is yours while you are
Catholic, but which was in danger of confiscation
when your father became Protestant. In view of
the relation of the Villeneaux, who are not without
influence in high circles, the estates await your return,
and once you are Madame Étienne Villeneau
they are yours. Am I not candid, mademoiselle?”</p>
<p>“You are. I understand it all but your part in
the matter. I confess you seem frank, Monsieur
Dupont, but why this extreme interest on your part?”</p>
<p>“You still doubt me? Be it so.” He shrugged
his shoulders and changed the subject by saying,
“’Tis not so bad a country this, if one had never
lived in France.”</p>
<p>“It is a very good country in spite of France.
We who are émigrés have brought over our own
plants, have planted the vegetables familiar to us,
and are cultivating the vine. We have modelled our
homes upon those we have left, and we are not
strangers.”</p>
<p>“We who are émigrés,” he repeated. “I do not
accept the term in the case of yourself. You are
still a daughter of France, la belle France.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[84]</span>“Let us return to our first subject. My father, it
is of him I think continually. To-day is his fête-day,
and for him I dressed in my best that I might
do him honor, though he knows it not, and for him
I am become a prisoner. Alas, I am unfortunate!”
She sighed and folded her hands resignedly.</p>
<p>François watched her for some moments, his head
bent, his eyes taking in every detail of the delicate
profile, the fine lines of the figure leaning against the
post of the porch. “Mademoiselle,” he said at last,
“I have another proposition to make. I throw myself
at your feet. Escape you may. Your father,
too, shall be free if——”</p>
<p>“If——” She turned quickly and leaned eagerly
forward. “You mock me, monsieur. What would
you say? If——”</p>
<p>“If you will fly with me to Canada.”</p>
<p>“With you?”</p>
<p>“With me, as my wife. Do you not see that I
adore you?”</p>
<p>“I do not see it. You scarcely know me, monsieur.”</p>
<p>“To know you an hour is to love you.”</p>
<p>“And Étienne, your friend? This is your honorable
love for him.”</p>
<p>“Did I not first plead his cause, and did you not
refuse to consider him? Have I placed myself first?
Listen, Alaine; it is so easy. We arise early; we go
forth. I take you to Canada, to the convent. When
you are ready we are united. I do not urge it now?<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[85]</span>
I even make this concession: one year and you will
marry me. I leave you with the Sisters, and at once
I proceed to Guadaloupa, where I win the release of
your father. I buy his discharge and I present him
to you as my wedding-present. Is it not all so easy?
We return to France, to your old home; you leave
behind you but a company of poor peasants, and
you return to your own.”</p>
<p>“And Étienne?”</p>
<p>“Will submit to the fate which has given you to
me rather than to him. I will say, My good friend,
I tried to induce mademoiselle to consider you, but
since you commissioned me instead of going yourself,
you see the result. Is it not so easy, so beautiful,
this plan of mine?”</p>
<p>“But my father, you forget as a Huguenot he cannot
return to France. How, then, shall I be benefited
after all?”</p>
<p>“We can then do this: we can take up a residence
in these colonies. I do not even say that I
will not in time embrace your religion.”</p>
<p>Alaine’s heart was beating fast; she had learned
one supreme fact: her father was in Guadaloupa.
Inside the house the others were playing cards with
many excited exclamations and much laughter; the
clink of mugs of wine, the occasional thump of a
hand as it laid a pile of jingling coin upon the table,
the stir of a chair upon the bare floor, these sounds
broke the stillness. Outside the insects kept up a
monotonous jarring noise; the damps of a September<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[86]</span>
night began to chill the air. Alaine shivered
slightly and leaned back again against the post of the
porch. Her father’s life or hers, for one does not
have to die to lay down a life for a friend. At last
she drew a long breath. “You would take me away
alone?” she asked.</p>
<p>“Marie, the half-breed, shall attend you.”</p>
<p>“And your plan is——”</p>
<p>He leaned eagerly forward; she could feel his
warm breath against her cheek; where the light of
the candles fell on his face she could see the intenseness
of his eyes. Her hands folded themselves in
a rigid clasp as she listened to what he said in his
low, rapid voice: “To-morrow morning early, very
early, by break of day, I will have some one unlock
your door, the one toward the rear of the house.
Leave your room, follow the entry to the back of the
house; at the farthest window you will see a ladder;
climb down and follow the path to the edge of the
wood; I will be there to meet you. We will go to
the water’s brink and find the boat left there last
night; we have but to pursue our way a little farther
and then strike inland, cross the northern colonies
to Canada, and all is well.”</p>
<p>“But why this great secrecy? These, your friends
here, do they not agree with your way of settling
this?”</p>
<p>“One cannot tell; they are Frenchmen, but they
are also Jesuits; they would not agree to the escape
of your father; they might discover our intention<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[87]</span>
with regard to him.” He watched her narrowly to
see the effect of his words.</p>
<p>“Oh, my father,” she murmured.</p>
<p>“You understand; these men are Frenchmen,
and there is war between France and England;
there is no need to explain their mission here, nor
the reason of secrecy where they are concerned.
When they have accomplished their intention they
will depart; we shall not see them again, but now,
while they are here, one must be discreet.”</p>
<p>For a long time Alaine sat with her chin resting in
her two hands. At last she spoke: “If I consent
to this, you will permit me to send a note to Michelle
and M. Mercier to explain that I am safe.
They have been very good to me, peasants though
you call them.”</p>
<p>“You shall certainly do so if it be no more than
a note, and if it does not compromise these your
present entertainers.”</p>
<p>The girl arose to her feet. “Then, monsieur, if
you see me at the edge of the wood to-morrow
morning it will be because I consent; otherwise I
shall have no object in going forth to tread an unknown
way. I will retire.”</p>
<p>He seized her hand and pressed a kiss upon it, and
Alaine shuddered. “I will send Marie to you.
Good-night, sweet Alaine,” he murmured.</p>
<p>Slowly Alaine ascended the stairs and entered her
room. The sound of the revellers came up from
below-stairs. The girl knelt before the open window.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[88]</span>
Somewhere beneath the stars her father, a
wretched slave, was resting. Conform? She would
never do that; perhaps, after all, she need not.
Yet, the nunnery, the ever-vigilant watchers, the
loss of liberty. Alas! alas! there would be worse
than all that. If she, of her own accord, by her
own efforts, could win her father’s release, how hard
she would work. She would appeal to her friends;
perhaps they could help her. “My father, my
father,” she sighed, “if I but knew what to do.” She
leaned her forehead on the window-sill, and back to
her remembrance came those peaceful days at home
in France before those hours of terror threatened
her; then came the recollection of the quiet dwelling
in New Rochelle, the good pious parents, the
simple, earnest, happy ways. “I know now,” she
said, rising. “No one, not even my father, would
have me seem to renounce my faith for any material
good, nor have me live a lie. Die will I, and die
must my father, but we will not, we cannot be
treacherous to our friends nor our faith. This man,
what do I know of him? How can I tell what designs
induce his fair promises? No, no; I dare not
trust myself in his hands. I do not know much of
the world, but I have distrusted him from the first.
He may never try to liberate my father once he
wins me from my friends; he may be making these
fair promises but as a ruse to tempt me away.”</p>
<p>Marie’s soft step aroused her from her thoughts.
There was an angry glitter in the woman’s eyes.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[89]</span>
“Marie, Marie,” cried Alaine, pleadingly, “I am a
lonely, friendless girl; be good to me this night.”
Suddenly she slipped the silver chain from her neck,
and, stooping, tore the buckles from her shoes.
“See, see,” she whispered, “I will give you these
if you will help me to escape. I do not want to go
with François Dupont; I do not want to go back
to France. Oh, Marie, you are a woman, save
me.”</p>
<p>The woman’s brown fingers touched the silver
ornaments caressingly. “Marie like zis,” she said.
“She no like you go wis François Dupont. Marie
sink you lof zis man, ees it so, yes?”</p>
<p>“No, no, I love only my own dear people, and I
must go back to them. Oh, if I could but reach
them on the other side of Long Point, could be sure
that they and I were safe! If I could but get home
again away from all this! Marie! Marie! help me,
and anything I have is yours.”</p>
<p>The woman’s eyes were fixed upon the trinkets,
but she raised them and allowed them to travel up
and down the girl’s dress, and presently the brown
finger pointed to a silver clasp in the shape of a
dove which fastened Alaine’s kerchief.</p>
<p>“That, too? Yes, yes; you shall have all if you
will but help me away, early, so early, before it is
day. Can you? Will you?”</p>
<p>Marie lifted the chain and dropped it from one
hand to the other, as she considered the subject.
After a few moments she nodded.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[90]</span>“I take you. No Long Point; ozzer place where
is some one will show you ze way.”</p>
<p>“Is it far? Can we walk, or do we have to go
by water?”</p>
<p>“We walk. Early I come for you. I sleep here.
François Dupont say meet him. I meet him.” She
nodded her head emphatically. “Before ze sun, he
is arise, we go.”</p>
<p>Comforted by this hope of escape Alaine fell
asleep, to be awakened before the first indications
of dawn had begun to tinge the sky. The gray
shadows were just giving place to a streak of light
in the east when the two women stole from the
house, hurried across the wet grass and into the
deep woods. The birds were chirping sleepily in
their nests in the trees above them, though it was
still dark in the forest. Save for a fox bounding
along, a rabbit leaping from the underbrush, or a
mole scuttling to his mound, there were no signs of
wild creatures. A walk of two or three miles
brought the two women to another clearing. Here
Marie paused and pointed to a house from the chimney
of which a wreath of blue smoke was beginning
to curl. “It is there you find friend,” Alaine was told
by her companion. “I go to meet François Dupont.”</p>
<p>Alaine caught her hand. “Adieu, Marie! The
good God bless you for helping me.”</p>
<p>Marie held up the chain with a grim smile. “I
am well pay, mam’selle.” Then she turned and
disappeared into the sombre shadows of the woods.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[91]</span>Across the fields Alaine took her way and presented
herself before the door of a house. Some
one came clattering through the hall as the girl’s
knock was heard,—a sturdy Dutchwoman, who
gazed at this early visitor in stolid surprise. “May
I come in?” asked Alaine.</p>
<p>The woman looked at the little shoes, damp with
the morning dew, and at the draggled skirts. Then
she came out, shut the door behind her, and beckoned
Alaine around the corner of the house to the
back door, where she pointed to a mat on the step
outside the kitchen. Alaine understood. She gave
her shoes many rubbings upon the mat and stepped
into the kitchen, warm from the wood-fire crackling
upon the hearth. After a moment’s gazing at the
girl the woman pattered off into the house, and
came back with a lady, who looked with curious eyes
at the intruder. “Who are you, and where do you
come from, my child?” she asked. Alaine in her
broken English began to stammer out her story.
The eyes of the lady lighted up as the stranger’s
accent bespoke her nationality, and she rapidly put
her questions in French, and to these Alaine was
able to reply clearly. “Poor little one, a refugee
and a tool of enemies. Ah, me, how much wickedness
there is in this world! Come see my husband;
he is French, a Protestant and an émigré, so you may
consult together and, companions in misery, may
help each other. We are but guests here ourselves,
but Annetje, guessing your French birth, brought me<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[92]</span>
to you. She is not so stupid as she looks, that good
Annetje.”</p>
<p>Alaine followed her guide to an inner room. Before
a window stood a grave-looking man. “Nicholas,
I have brought you a compatriot,” said his
wife, “and, like a good knight, you must lend your
aid to a maiden in distress. This is my husband,
Nicholas Bayard,” she said, turning to Alaine, “and
you are?”</p>
<p>“Alaine Mercier, of the Huguenot colony at New
Rochelle. I was carried away from my home yesterday.”
And she told the details.</p>
<p>Her new-found friends listened attentively. “A
plot!” cried Nicholas Bayard, striking his hands
together. “French spies, without doubt, those men.
Ah, that I had the power to drag them from their
retreat! These friends of yours, can you imagine
why these men are trying to secure them?”</p>
<p>Alaine answered in the negative.</p>
<p>“I can tell you. They have been commissioned
as bearers of messages to certain points. They
were to have started to-morrow. Doubtless these
men desire to get them into their hands, knowing
they are refugees, and that a threat to return them
to France will cause them to divulge all they know
of the affairs of the colonies. They will probably
offer to take them into their service as spies, offering
them such reward as they think will be of value to
them in return for their promise to act in complicity
with them. I think that explains it. We fear a descent<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[93]</span>
of the French and Indians, and I feel quite
sure these men are acting for the enemy. As for
me, I am a friend of the government, but not of
Jacob Leisler, consequently, as an office-holder under
James II., I am suspected of upholding the papists.
Now you understand why I am here in hiding.
You say these messages to your friends mentioned
this evening as the time to find you. We must, then,
return you before then, but, mind you, not a word
of whom you have seen here. These friends of
yours are all for Leisler, I suppose.”</p>
<p>“Yes, they are Protestant, you know.”</p>
<p>“And am I not Protestant? Is not Van Cortlandt
Protestant? Bah! ’tis a poor excuse to gain the
encouragement of the people. He is a vile upstart
and usurper, that Leisler. To hale us out of town,
who are the proper upholders of the government.
Yet, I suppose you, mademoiselle, also believe in
Leisler.”</p>
<p>Alaine nodded. She was nothing if not truthful.</p>
<p>“Then no friend of mine,” he returned, but he
smiled as he spoke. “Poor little dove with the
hawks after her,” he said, half to himself; “we
must send her under safe escort to her home.
Where is Lendert, my wife?”</p>
<p>“He is here and ready for breakfast. And will
be the more ready when he sees the guest we have,”
Madame Bayard said, smiling at Alaine. “Our good
cousin Lendert Verplanck it is of whom we speak.
Here he is. Your aunt will not leave her bed this<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[94]</span>
morning, cousin, but we have a guest you see,
Mademoiselle Mercier, and you may take her out to
breakfast.”</p>
<p>The good-looking young Dutchman was nothing
loath despite Alaine’s torn clothes and dilapidated
shoes, for it did not need that she should wear
dainty raiment; the graceful head and little hands
and feet were not those of a peasant.</p>
<p>“Lendert,” said his cousin, “it must be you who
will see this young lady to her home, for I know
none better to protect her by the way.”</p>
<p>“A horse from the stable and we are off whenever
you say the word, my cousin,” he returned.
“We can cut across country and be out of the way
of followers, I think. Then I will continue on to
the city and bring you news of what goes on there.
I believe it is not safe for you to venture there while
Leisler holds the reins. It is best you should keep
your hiding-place a secret.” He glanced at Alaine
as he spoke.</p>
<p>“It will never be known through me,” she ventured,
softly, “for, woman though I am, I can keep
a secret. My days have been too full of trouble not
to know the feeling of one hunted.” She smiled at
the young man, who protested that he had never
dreamed of distrusting her.</p>
<p>“So lovely she is I could wish the way longer,”
he whispered to his cousin a half-hour later when
they set off, Alaine mounted on a pillion behind her
cavalier. Her graceful, well-knit, buoyant figure was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[95]</span>
a strong contrast to his big heavy one, and her sense
of humor of the situation once or twice caused her
to smile behind the broad back. Here was she
travelling through the country with a strange young
man whose rosy Dutch face she had never seen till
that morning. What would Michelle say, and Gerard
and Pierre? Strange that she had perfect confidence
in this escort, and had not the slightest fear
of any one or anything while he was there. How
angry M. Dupont must be by this time!</p>
<p>She gave a little shiver at the thought, and Lendert’s
blue eyes cast her a glance over his shoulder.
“Are you not comfortable, mademoiselle?” he
asked.</p>
<p>“Oh, yes,” she returned, “but I suddenly thought
of where I might now be but for my good fortune
in finding friends.”</p>
<p>He nodded in reply. He was rather silent, this
young man of the flaxen locks, Alaine considered,
but then, like Pierre, he might be of a thoughtful
inclination. He was at least a good listener, for
although Alaine did not understand Dutch, and his
knowledge of French was evidently slight, they both
knew enough English to make themselves understood
and Alaine noticed that mynheer could always
supply the word over which she hesitated, if not in
English then in his familiar Dutch. So that a good
understanding between them was reached before
they had compassed half their journey.</p>
<p>But it must be said that in following the bridle-path<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[96]</span>
through the dense forest Alaine felt somewhat
less assured. She stopped her eager chatter, and
her arm around the waist of Lendert crept closer.
At this he turned and smiled at her with a reassuring
expression of sympathy. “You are all safe,” he
told her.</p>
<p>She gave him a smile in return. “I know, but
the forests are so still, so deep, so interminable, one
fancies, one dreams, one almost fears that something
terrifying may be lurking in the unknown beyond.”
Through the leaves patches of sunlight flickered
down upon them; across their pathway a squirrel
leaped; birds at their approach started from the
branches overhead and, with sudden cries, darted
deeper into the dim recesses.</p>
<p>“I know the way well,” Lendert told her. “I
travel here frequently. Half-way we are. There is
a long straight path ahead; you can see where the
sunlight comes through the trees all the way.”</p>
<p>It was, as he said, a path of sunlight ahead of
them, checkered, indeed, by leaf shadows, but much
brighter than the surrounding woods. As they advanced
something was discerned moving toward
them rapidly. Presently their eyes discovered it to
be a horseman urging his steed to its utmost. Lendert
glanced at his pistols, gathered his bridle more
firmly in his hand, cast a reassuring glance at Alaine,
and continued his way with seeming placid unconcern.
“He journeys fast,” he remarked. “A messenger
express, I take it.” As they drew within<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[97]</span>
closer range he called out, “What, ho, my friend?
What is the news you ride so fast with?”</p>
<p>But Alaine gave a little scream of dismay and hid
her face behind Lendert’s broad shoulder. She had
caught sight of the wrathful countenance of François
Dupont.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[98]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VI<br>
<small>FOR LIFE OR DEATH</small></h2>
</div>
<p><span class="smcap">At</span> the sound of Alaine’s cry Lendert set spurs to
his horse and made a dash past the on-coming rider,
but there came a report of a pistol; his hold upon
the bridle loosened; he reeled slightly in his saddle;
the horse made a plunge forward, then stopped
short, and in an instant François was alongside.</p>
<p>“You thought to escape me, my falconet,” he
cried, “but I have the jesses ready. You do not
leave my wrist again. By St. Maclovius, I was in
luck to have crossed your path when I was on my
way to your hiding-place.”</p>
<p>He seized her waist and attempted to drag her
from her seat, but she clung to Lendert, down whose
cheek the blood was running.</p>
<p>“Mynheer Verplanck,” she cried, “do not die!
Do not leave me to the mercy of this man!” And
she beat off with her fists the hands of the man
whose hold was tightening upon her.</p>
<p>For a second Lendert looked around in a dazed
way, then his stunned senses returned, and he gave
the horse a cut which caused him to spring forward,
and the suddenness of the movement dragged François
from his saddle, but he clung to Alaine’s pillion,
and, cat-like, scrambled up behind her. “I also<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[99]</span>
go,” he said. “To quote your favorite Scripture,
mademoiselle, ‘Whither thou goest I will go.’”</p>
<p>Lendert lashed at him furiously with his whip, at
which François gave a low mocking laugh. “I advise
you not to attempt that, monsieur,” he said;
“you might also strike Mademoiselle Hervieu. So
closely are we united, she and I, that what touches
one touches the other. Is it not so, Mademoiselle
Hervieu?”</p>
<p>She made him no answer, but tried to shrink
away from his close embrace, and leaning forward,
asked, in a low voice, “Are you hurt, Monsieur
Verplanck?”</p>
<p>“But slightly,” he whispered back.</p>
<p>Alaine made a little exclamation, for at this instant
François whipped out his knife to cut the belt
into which Lendert’s pistols were thrust. These fell
with a clatter to the ground. In one moment their
owner had pulled in his horse, but to dismount
meant to leave Alaine in the hands of her enemy,
and he but gave note to the spot and rode on.</p>
<p>“We ride,” cried François, “to the devil, maybe,
though I fancy your horse may grow weary if the
journey be long. I am not of a great weight myself,
but monsieur there is not too light, and three
of us.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Yet, I do
not alight while mademoiselle rides,” he continued.</p>
<p>Lendert gave a slow, sleepy look over his shoulder.
“The mosquito is sometimes bad in the woods,” he
remarked, confidentially, to Alaine. “After a while<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[100]</span>
we are able to rid ourselves of the pest.” And he
turned his horse around.</p>
<p>“Ah-h!” cried François, “I see your manœuvre,
monsieur,” and with the quickness of a monkey he
unloosed Alaine’s hands from the hold and leaped
with her to the ground, crying, “Ride on, monsieur,
you are well rid of the pest, eh? He will satiate
himself first, this mosquito.” And again a pistol-shot
rang out.</p>
<p>“Poltroon! villain!” cried Alaine. “You shoot
a man when his back is turned.”</p>
<p>“I use the means the good God gives me, mademoiselle.
I kill to defend myself, and who would
not? I kill even you, yes, rather than that other
there possess you.”</p>
<p>The pistol-shot had wounded Lendert in the
shoulder, but he rode back over the ground at a
gallop, was down from his horse in an instant, and
picking up his own pistols from where they had
fallen, he levelled one at François.</p>
<p>But without hesitation François thrust Alaine in
front of him, crying, “This is a fashion of defence
employed in some of your colonies, I hear. One
Monsieur Bacon has adopted the measure in Virginia,
and I follow this excellent American custom,
good Sir Avoirdupois. Elephants are clumsy creatures,
and the nimble mouse can sometimes get the
better of the large beast of the long nose.”</p>
<p>Lendert advanced steadily upon him, but, holding
Alaine still as a shield, François sprang behind a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[101]</span>
tree. “A game, a merry game in the wildwood,”
he cried. “Catch who can. Advance, monsieur;
there are trees enough to enable us to keep up our
pastime for many hours, and to resume it to-morrow,
if we like. Yet, I fancy, Monsieur Le Gros, you will
have lost the taste for sport by that time, judging
from the amount of bloodletting I have caused you.
Ah-h, mademoiselle, the toil in the fields has given
you a peasant’s strength, yet it is not worth while to
attempt escape; I am the stronger, you see.” For
Alaine had tried, by a quick jerk, to extricate herself.</p>
<p>For two or three moments Lendert stood silently
looking at them, then he gazed around him with a
puzzled expression on his quiet heavy face.</p>
<p>“He is at a loss, that Monsieur Le Grand,” François
whispered, leaning forward and saying the words
close to Alaine’s ear. “He will presently leave us,
since he does not care to have the sport prolonged.
Did you think, Alaine, that I did not know the way
to win a secret from Marie? Fool that she is, to be
dazzled by a few paltry trinkets. I repeat, I am
seldom at a loss, and she will do better the next
time. You will not have a more vigilant guardian
than Marie when she receives you into her keeping
this evening. And to-morrow we commence our
journey to Canada.”</p>
<p>The horses had wandered away some little distance,
and were cropping the grass along the path.
Toward first one and then the other Lendert advanced,
slipped their bridles over their heads, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[102]</span>
led them some little distance, where he fastened
them. He next took off the deer-skin hunting-jacket
which he wore and sat down upon the ground.
Alaine saw that there was a deep red stain coloring
the white shirt underneath. She watched him with
fascinated eyes. What was he about to do? From
his pocket he took his sharp hunting-knife, and, strip
by strip, painfully and laboriously, he cut thongs
from the deer-skin garment. It must be a painful
operation, Alaine considered, for even the slightest
movement of the wounded shoulder must give a
pang.</p>
<p>“Monsieur Le Gros Cochon amuses himself,” said
François. “I could compassionate him upon his
lack of freedom of movement; I, too, can use but
one arm, hampered as I am by the possession of this
Naomi, to whom I have pledged myself, ‘Whither
thou goest I will go.’”</p>
<p>“There is at least one place where monsieur cannot
accompany me,” remarked Alaine, in cutting
tones, and speaking for the first time to her captor.</p>
<p>“And where is that, my Mara, so bitter?”</p>
<p>“To heaven,” Alaine retorted.</p>
<p>François laughed. “Some would say otherwise,
mademoiselle. I fancy those from whom you have
parted company in la belle France would consign
you to a more fiery abode, and since you refuse to
conform, I may perhaps not be misunderstood if I
employ any means which will still allow me to accompany
you even to an uncomfortable place. But<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[103]</span>
we will discuss this later. There will be time
enough. At present I am rather curious to discover
our large friend’s intention. It seems the work of an
imbecile to cut one’s clothes to pieces, wanting something
else to do. Perchance he wishes to take me
off my guard and seeks to mislead me by playing
the fool, so that I will release you, but I hold you
fast, do I not, my falconet?”</p>
<p>Lendert arose to his feet. His ruddy countenance
was growing strangely white; his flaxen hair was
dappled with blood and his shirt was stiffened by
the same, but in his blue eyes there was the steady
look of obstinate resolve.</p>
<p>“I think we may attempt to run now, mademoiselle,”
said François. “He cannot follow very fast
nor very long. I regret that I cannot spare time
from my devoted attention to you to reload my
pistols. I may need them.”</p>
<p>“You will not find yourself very light of foot with
a dead weight to drag behind you,” vouchsafed
Alaine.</p>
<p>“But if I lead the chase, Monsieur Le Cochon
Hollandais cannot keep up the pace for very long;
he bleeds freely, the stuck pig. See, I start.” He
pushed the girl behind him, clasped her arms around
his waist, and, holding her hands in front of him,
set off on a run.</p>
<p>But Alaine, as she felt his left hand fumble for his
pistols, let herself drop to her knees.</p>
<p>At this instant there came a singing, whirring<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[104]</span>
sound; a slender leather rope whizzed through the
air and fell about them, tightening around the man’s
shoulders with a jerk. He was brought to a standstill;
then as the thongs enclosed him more securely
his arms were forced back by the strain, and the girl
saw her opportunity. A short struggle and she was
able to make her escape. She rushed breathlessly
toward Lendert. “Monsieur Verplanck, I will help
you,” she cried.</p>
<p>François bowed himself and fiercely tore at the
slender deer-skin thongs, and at last, running backward,
was able to slacken the cord and to wriggle
himself out of its hold. A moment more and his
pistol was ready in his hand. Alaine foresaw his
intention, and before he could fire she sprang before
her deliverer, who had sunk upon his knees and was
leaning heavily against a tree, all his strength gone
from this last effort. “Monsieur,” cried the girl, “it
is an American custom, you say, to use a woman as
a shield. Monsieur Verplanck has proved that it is
false, and that it is but the makeshift of a coward.
Yet, <a id="because"></a>because you have shown me how powerful a
shield a woman can be, I stand here.” She gave a
quick glance at the fainting figure before which she
stood; then she lifted her head high and faced François.
“I defy you, monsieur,” she said.</p>
<p>He rushed at her blind with rage. “I will kill
you before you shall escape me!” he cried.</p>
<p>“Kill me if you will. I have warned you that
where I go you cannot follow. Do you think me so<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[105]</span>
great a coward as to be afraid to die?” she asked,
with a mocking look in her great eyes. “Death
comes to all, and what matter when or where?
Shall I be worse off in that other world because you
choose to be the means of sending me there before
God wills it so? Or shall you be better off here
when I am gone, and after, when you go to face
God’s judgment of you? Take my life? You cannot;
it is God’s, who gave it, and it is for the life
eternal. Kill me if you will; you lose all if you do
and I gain everything.”</p>
<p>Twice he lifted his pistol; twice it dropped to his
side. “I will wait till your friend is dead,” he said
at last, in sinister tones. “’Twill not be long. I
will wait, mademoiselle. It is sometimes better to
endure patiently, say you Huguenots, therefore I
follow your example. A dead man needs no shield,
and, also, can tell no tales.”</p>
<p>Alaine cast a frightened glance at the drooping
figure behind her. “Monsieur Verplanck,” she cried,
in dread, “if I but dared to turn my back, but
yonder wretch has no conscience, and he would
finish the work he has begun. I must keep my face
toward him to watch him, but I will try to stanch
your wound.” She took the kerchief from her
neck, and without exposing him to the possible attack
from François, managed to twist a tourniquet
above the place which bled the most freely, after
which she arose to her feet, and stood again defiant,
determined. The eyes of her enemy were bent<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[106]</span>
fixedly upon her. She closed her own and began to
sing one of the familiar psalms.</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="first">“Aux paroles que je veux dire,</div>
<div class="verse">Plaise toi l’oreille prester:</div>
<div class="verse">Et à cognoistre t’arrester,</div>
<div class="verse">Pourquoi, mon cœur, pense et soupire,</div>
<div class="indent2">Souverain Sire,”</div>
</div></div>
<p>rang out the plaintive voice in the still forest.
“Sovereign Sire” came the echo. Was it an echo?
Alaine’s dark eyes grew more intense as she listened.
Faintly upon the air came the second stanza of the
psalm,—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="first">“Enten à la voix très ardente,</div>
<div class="verse">De ma clameur, mon Dieu, mon Roy,</div>
<div class="verse">Veu que tant seulement à toi</div>
<div class="verse">Ma supplication présente</div>
<div class="verse">J’offre et présente.”</div>
</div></div>
<p>Nearer and nearer came the voice, and with all her
heart in her singing Alaine continued, but before she
had finished the third stanza the song ended suddenly,
and her glad cry was, “Pierre! Here, Pierre,
mon ami! Praise to the good God, thou art come!”
Then from the greenwood strode Pierre Boutillier,
who stopped in amazement at the sight of Alaine
standing guard over a prostrate man, while the form
of François Dupont retreated down the path into
the forest beyond.</p>
<p>“Pierre, Pierre, hasten! I dare not move. Secure<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[107]</span>
yonder man.” Alaine’s trembling finger pointed
to François.</p>
<p>Pierre rushed forward. François raised his pistol
and half turned in his flight, but before he was able
to fire he stumbled and fell forward on his face.</p>
<p>“God have mercy!” cried Alaine. “Pierre, have
you killed him?”</p>
<p>He stooped and turned over the body of the man
at his feet. “No, he lives. It was his own pistol
gave the hurt; it went off as his foot struck the root
of this tree where he fell.”</p>
<p>“God have mercy!” again whispered Alaine.
“Then, Pierre, we have two of them wounded.
And how did you find me? And is this not a terrible
thing, all this? Have you some spirits? Monsieur
Verplanck has fainted. Is it not strange that I
am not dead? I thought my last hour had come.
And you, Pierre, you are not hurt?”</p>
<p>He assured her that he was untouched, and then
busied himself in ministering to Lendert while Alaine
poured forth her story.</p>
<p>“We have been scouring the woods,” Pierre told
her, “and I took this direction, and when I heard
your voice I knew the good God had put my feet
upon the right path. Gerard is not far away. I
think I can summon him. We were to meet at the
end of this path when the sun was noon high.
There, your friend is recovering; he opens his eyes.”</p>
<p>“You are better, monsieur,” said Alaine, softly,
kneeling down by him. “Now, pray you, Pierre,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[108]</span>
see to that other unfortunate. One would not have
the blood even of an enemy upon his head; but,
Pierre, I advise you to secure him that he does not
move. He is possessed of the very evil one for
strategy. Yet he spared me,” she murmured. “If
you find you can restore him, go you and find
Gerard, and I will wait here. I am no longer afraid.”
She raised her lovely eyes to his, and Pierre with a
swift movement caught her hands.</p>
<p>“I thought you dead, Alaine,” he said, brokenly.
“I thought I should see you nevermore in this
world.”</p>
<p>Lendert lay watching them. He stirred slightly,
and Alaine with a soft flush on her cheek bent over
him solicitously. “We are safe,” she told him.
“My good friend Pierre Boutillier, who has been
out with a search-party looking for me, has arrived
and goes for succor.”</p>
<p>“And the Frenchman?” said Lendert, feebly.</p>
<p>“He is wounded sorely by a shot from his own
pistol. He is not able to move, and can do no one
harm for some time to come. We will take you to
our home and nurse you well, monsieur.” She
nodded brightly as he shook his head. “’Tis no
more than our right, since you were hurt in my service.
But for me you might now be safe and unhurt.
Will you not allow me to pay my debt?
Mère Michelle is a famous nurse, and can make you
strengthening soups such as you never ate, and will
have you up and about in no time. I think you will<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[109]</span>
allow it is best, M. Verplanck. Besides,” she lowered
her voice, “it would not do to let it be known that
Monsieur Bayard abides so near. I would not bring
trouble upon him and madame, his wife, and so—— No,
no, it is not that Pierre and Gerard and Papa
Louis would try to do evil to one who had befriended
me, but it might be inconvenient for them to know
where hides Monsieur Bayard. Is it not so? You
agree?”</p>
<p>“I agree,” he answered; “though I do not wish
to give you the trouble of nursing me.”</p>
<p>Alaine had cut away the sleeve and was carefully
examining the wound. “It is not severe, I think.
You will not be very long an invalid. The loss of
blood has weakened you. I ought to go to yonder
man now.”</p>
<p>Lendert looked at her in surprise.</p>
<p>“He is my enemy, yes, but one ought to do good
to one’s enemy,” she said, simply. “I will first bind
up your wound with these bandages steeped in the
wine which Pierre has brought, and you will feel
better.”</p>
<p>But she was spared the necessity of giving attention
to François, for Pierre and Gerard were soon
with him. Alaine threw herself into Gerard’s arms.
“My brother,” she cried, “I am here! Is it not
wonderful that I am here? And you have been all
night seeking me. I am thankful that you have
found me; you do not know how thankful I am
that Pierre came at that moment. You did not receive<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[110]</span>
my message, for you have not been at home,
and for that I am also thankful. All is well, very
well, save that M. Verplanck is suffering for his defence
of me. As for that other, he is punished for
his wickedness. M. Verplanck does not deserve
punishment, and yet he has it.”</p>
<p>“We all deserve punishment,” said Pierre, solemnly.</p>
<p>“That may be,” returned Alaine, “but for me, I do
not wish to say why one should suffer for his good
deeds. No doubt the good God knows, but still I
say if M. Verplanck suffers it may be for his good,
but not because he deserves punishment. For what
should he, Pierre, when he has but defended
me?”</p>
<p>Pierre shook his head. “I cannot say, Alaine.”</p>
<p>“And you, Gerard, is it punishment, think you?”</p>
<p>Gerard laughed. “To stop here in the forest to
discuss a theological question when two suffering
men are to be removed to a more comfortable place
seems unnecessary. If you and Pierre must debate
let it be on the way home. If your friend there can
ride let him mount his horse, and I will take the
other steed and bear the more injured one upon it.
You and Pierre can walk, unless Pierre would prefer
to be guard for M. Dupont.”</p>
<p>But here Lendert interposed. “Why cannot Mlle.
Mercier travel with me the same as before, on my
horse?”</p>
<p>Alaine looked at Lendert and then at Pierre. “I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[111]</span>
will walk till I am tired,” she gave her decision,
“and then, M. Verplanck, I will ride.”</p>
<p>The tedious journey came to an end when the
little hamlet of New Rochelle was reached that afternoon.
Papa Louis was overtaken before they had
come to the edge of the woods. “A pretty plot for
a romance,” he exclaimed, after clasping Alaine and
kissing her on each cheek; “a lost ward returning
with four attendant knights, and some of them
wounded in the fray? Who are these, my daughter?”</p>
<p>“These, Papa Louis? Ah, it is a long story! I
will walk with you and tell you my romance, as you
call it; a strange one, indeed. Captured by Indians,
rescued by yonder gentleman, wrested from him by
the other, so sorely hurt. Am I not the heroine of
a romance? Yet it has been a sad time for me, and
I would rather the humdrum of every day so I be
safe with you and Mère Michelle.”</p>
<p>“And for what was it all?” asked Papa Louis,
knitting his brows as Alaine went into the particulars
of her experience.</p>
<p>“That I cannot altogether tell. I half doubt M.
Dupont’s words, though he acts the distracted lover,
he who has seen me but two or three times.”</p>
<p>Papa Louis shook his head. “It will be for Michelle
to unravel it. She is very acute, is my
Michelle, and though she has not the learning from
books, she has a penetration unexcelled. She is
distracted, the poor one; she one moment thinks you<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[112]</span>
destroyed by wolves, the next drowned in the waters
of the sound, and again she declares you have been
carried away by savages. She has not slept, neither
has she eaten a mouthful. As for the neighbors,
they have sent out search-parties in all directions.
The news of your return must be given and the
signal-fire lighted.”</p>
<p>And, indeed, there was a great running to doors
and windows and a great bustle in the street when
the little procession wended its way through the village.
Mère Michelle, weeping, fell on Alaine’s neck.
“She that was lost is found! Helas! my Alainette,
how I have grieved for thee! On my knees all
night, save when I watched from the window, prying
into the darkness for a torch-light which might tell of
your safe return.” But here the good woman’s attention
was distracted by the sight of the two patients.
Gerard and Pierre bore the unconscious François
into the house and laid him on one of the beds, and
Papa Louis assisted Lendert with much show of
concern. Lendert protested, but was made to occupy
the other bed, and this strange situation brought a
grim smile to Pierre’s lips.</p>
<p>Michelle, running from one to the other, directing,
exclaiming, rejoicing, grieving, had her hands full.
“Heat me a kettle of water, Louis. Ah, mon cœur,
but he is badly hurt, this wicked one. Thank
heaven! you escaped, my Alaine. Yet see your
best silk gown, a rag, a fringe, and your buckles
gone from your shoes, which are fit only for burning,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[113]</span>
so skinned and torn are they, and where will you
get another pair? Alas! you come back poorer
than you went. A stoup of wine, Gerard, for this
gentleman grows faint. He is of good stuff, for he
has not flinched, and his shoulder must be very
painful. Steep the bandages well, Gerard. Art
better, monsieur? There, I think we must keep
you very quiet. The other is of no weight. I could
lift him myself, but he is the color of wax. He is
not fit to die, the miserable, and we must save him
for God knows what, yet we cannot let even an
enemy go directly to burn in hell, as he surely
would.”</p>
<p>The eyes of the sufferer opened slowly; they caught
sight of Alaine. “Whither thou goest,” the white
lips murmured, and Alaine, bravely as she had endured
everything else, now burst into tears, and
sobbed inconsolably upon Papa Louis’s shoulder.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[114]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VII<br>
<small>WHITHER THOU GOEST</small></h2>
</div>
<p>“<span class="smcap">Did</span> I not say that I was not to be shaken off?”
were the first words that greeted Alaine as she
passed by the bed of François Dupont the next
morning. “A charming situation, this; I could not
have played my cards better. For what else but
this sorry wound could have made me an inmate of
your household? I am here—pouf! and you cannot
move me or I die. I am lucky, by St. Michael.”
The triumphant look in his eyes for an instant made
Alaine pause, a retort upon her lips, but she passed
on without a word. “Water! A draught of water;
I am so parched!” cried François.</p>
<p>Alaine looked around. Mère Michelle was preparing
a broth and was giving all her attention to it.
Gerard and Papa Louis were not within-doors.</p>
<p>“A cup of water, Alaine,” said Michelle, without
taking her eyes from the bubbling mess over which
she stood. “Give him a fresh drink from the well.
I am at a most critical point with this, and I dare
not leave. Hasten back, for my hands are full.
We shall have help later in the day.”</p>
<p>Silently Alaine took her cup to the well, in her
heart protesting at having to do this service. “A
wicked girl am I who am not willing to obey my<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[115]</span>
Bible, which says, ‘If thine enemy hunger, feed
him; if he thirst, give him drink.’ Helpless though
he be, I still fear M. Dupont. I could, an’ it were
not wicked, I could wish he were never to leave his
bed.” She caught sight of Pierre across the street,
and she called, “Pierre, Pierre!”</p>
<p>He came toward her gladly, a smile curving his
grave lips. “Take this cup and give a drink to M.
Dupont,” she said. “I do not wish to be the bearer.
I will not cheat him out of the water, but I will
cheat him out of my service of it. Do not look so
judicial, my friend. He is mine enemy, yet am I
not sufficiently complaisant in sending him the water
by such a good messenger as yourself? Carry it to
him, good Pierre. How is Mathilde? And will all
the village flock to behold me this morning? There,
take in the cup, and tell Mère Michelle that I have
gone to speak to Papa Louis, and that I will return
in a moment.”</p>
<p>Pierre took the cup without protest and entered
the house. “Wait there till I come back,” Alaine
called after him, and then she disappeared into the
garden.</p>
<p>The melancholy face of the young Huguenot bent
over the pillow of François. “I bring you water,”
he said.</p>
<p>François opened his eyes. “So I am not to be
favored by grace from my lady’s hand. I will win
it yet, and would win it the sooner were it not for
yonder lubberly piece of flesh which sleeps so<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[116]</span>
soundly in his bed. By my faith, he did not stir
when the demoiselle herself entered. I am a rack
of pain and parching with fever, yet she bestows not
a glance of compassion upon me, while she tiptoes
past yonder Sir Mount-of-Flesh as he were a sleeping
infant. I owe you small thanks for your part
in this pain I bear, but I am under obligation to you,
monsieur, for the good turn you have unwittingly
done me in causing me to be in a condition to be
brought here perforce, and I thank you for the cooling
draught of water.”</p>
<p>“Monsieur, you talk too much,” came from Michelle.
“I cannot answer for your recovery if, with
a fever upon you, you chatter like a magpie.”</p>
<p>“I will subside when I am ready,” said François,
“good Michelle, who, I remember well, has scolded
me before in those old days in France, when Étienne
Villeneau and I robbed her currant-bushes.”</p>
<p>“Tchut, monsieur! you vagarize. You are wandering.
I pray you compose yourself. Look yonder
at M. Verplanck; he has the docility of a lamb. I
say, ‘Sleep;’ he sleeps. I say, ‘Eat;’ he eats. I
say, ‘Drink this,’ and he swallows my mess however
nauseous. He will recover, that lamb.”</p>
<p>“And I will not?”</p>
<p>“You will be longer at it, monsieur.”</p>
<p>“Then I converse. I address myself to you, if
you are here; to Monsieur Lamb, be he asleep or
awake; to the wall; the fire.”</p>
<p>Mère Michelle turned her back upon him and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[117]</span>
beckoned Pierre to the window. “’Tis about Alaine
I wish to speak,” she began, in a low tone. “This
will be upon the tongues of all, and monsieur there
is too ready of speech. We must not let the whole
story be known. We shall say that Alaine was
captured by the Indians, who in their drunken frolic
did not know what they were doing, but coming to
their senses abandoned her and she was rescued by
M. Verplanck; that you came upon them returning
here; that M. Dupont was found wounded in the
wood, and you brought him also. This is all strictly
true, Pierre; a good Huguenot cannot lie, yet we
must shield Alaine. You must say, Pierre, that our
patients are too ill to receive company, and so will
we keep off the curious ones. You agree, Pierre?”</p>
<p>“I agree.”</p>
<p>“Then tell Alaine that I wish her here. Cœur
de mon cœur, but I fear to have her out of my
sight.” She turned back toward the fire as Pierre
closed the door and went out.</p>
<p>“I detest you, monsieur, I am ready to confess;
I detest you. To yon funeral-faced Huguenot I am
grateful because, though I would have fired at him,
it was to secure my liberty, and he understands; but
as for you, Monsieur Ox, Monsieur Beef, I detest you,
sleeping there like a log.” François rambled on.
“No, Michelle, I will not be still. I am entertaining
to myself, and I talk. I will drink your well dry, but
I will take none of your herbs, nor your nauseous
potions. I shall not die because I will to live. I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[118]</span>
am of a strong will, Madame Mercier, who was
Michelle Assire back there in France, and I do not
mean to die just yet. A drink of water when I ask
it, and you are free to pour your messes down yonder
bumpkin’s throat. I confess I would heal the
sooner were he elsewhere, for I detest him, that
Monsieur Blubber-fat.”</p>
<p>“For shame, monsieur,” Michelle chid him gravely.
“You have done much more to offend than has M.
Verplanck, and you must not call him such names
here in my house.”</p>
<p>“You cannot help it, Michelle, for you do not
desire to pitch me out of doors and have my life on
your conscience. Besides, he cannot speak French,
and it amuses me to call him names. Ho, there,
Ox! Wake up.”</p>
<p>Michelle, distressed, hurried to Lendert’s bedside.</p>
<p>“His brain wanders, good sir. I pray you do not
mind him,” she said, in anxious explanation.</p>
<p>Lendert smiled and turned his head. “Ho there,
Mosquito!” he said, sleepily. “I thought I heard
you buzz some time ago.”</p>
<p>Michelle looked helplessly from one to the other.
“You see he does understand more than you think.
I shall have to separate you, gentlemen, if you are
bound to carry on your differences here side by
side.”</p>
<p>And true enough, François found his defiance
went for little, for, with Gerard’s help, Michelle
screened him in, and he was not allowed the diversion<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[119]</span>
of watching what went on outside the counterpanes
which served as partitions to shut off his bed
from the rest of the room. His chatter sometimes
sank into a murmur, but he talked incessantly, while
Lendert lay docility itself.</p>
<p>“She is distraught, is Mère Michelle,” Alaine told
Pierre that same afternoon, “so distraught that I do
not dare tell her the news of my father, nor what I
intend to do when these two are well. I cannot
leave her now, it would be too cruel, but I intend to
rescue him, Pierre. I have told no one, not even
Gerard, nor Papa Louis, what I mean to do.”</p>
<p>Pierre looked down at her concernedly. “And
what is it, Alaine?”</p>
<p>“I mean to go to Guadaloupa. Surely they will
accept me in my father’s stead, one as young and
strong as I.”</p>
<p>He gave a smothered groan. “You know not of
what you speak, Alaine. Once there you and he
would both be restrained. You cannot, must not
attempt it.”</p>
<p>The tears gathered in Alaine’s eyes. “But my
father, I cannot let him remain bound when I go
free. They will take me, Pierre. You surely do
not think they would not do it.”</p>
<p>His eyes had a far-off look in them as she went
on. “You have been so peaceful, so happy here,”
he said.</p>
<p>“I cannot be happy now; I can never be happy
while he is there. I should be content, I would<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[120]</span>
serve joyfully, if he were free. All my life there
will be that misery at my heart if he dies an engagé
and I make no effort to free him.”</p>
<p>“What is your plan?” Pierre asked after a
silence.</p>
<p>“I thought to go to Manhatte to find a ship sailing
for the islands and touching at Guadaloupa. I
have a little money, and I could earn more. I
would sell anything I possess to add to the sum to
pay my passage, and once there I would find my
father’s master. Oh, Pierre,—his master! You
know what that means, for you have escaped from
one. I would say, Here am I, young, strong, and
willing; take me and let my father go.”</p>
<p>Pierre shook his head. “That cannot be. You
would never accomplish it, Alaine, but I will consider
what is to be done, and we will speak of it
again. Now I must warn you to be cautious how
you tell of your experience. Not even to Mathilde
must you tell all.”</p>
<p>“I know. Mère Michelle has advised me. And
I, also, warn you, Pierre. The three notes which
came while you were off in the woods looking for
me, I wrote them, yes, you know that, but those who
bade me do so are spies; therefore beware, if you
must go on any mission. You might be captured,
and it would be best to take some other route than
that you intended. This François Dupont may be a
spy for all we know, and you must be very wary
of him.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[121]</span>“And M. Verplanck, is he also an enemy?”</p>
<p>Alaine looked down. “I do not know, Pierre.
I do not think he is.”</p>
<p>“Where does he live? How did you encounter
him? I have not yet been informed of the whole
matter.”</p>
<p>“I was directed to his aunt’s house by the woman
Marie, and there I met him.”</p>
<p>“You saw his aunt?” Pierre looked down at the
girl’s drooping head.</p>
<p>She hesitates a moment. “No, I did not see her.
She was ill of a migraine. I saw another lady; her
cousin.”</p>
<p>“And who was she?”</p>
<p>Alaine was silent.</p>
<p>“Did you see any other?”</p>
<p>“Yes, the Dutchwoman who rules the kitchen.”</p>
<p>“And no one else?”</p>
<p>Alaine gave her head a toss. “You question too
closely, Monsieur Pierre; beyond your right, and
beyond what I choose to answer.” She dimpled
and smiled as she looked up into his grave face.
“Mère Michelle warned me of speaking too minutely
of my experiences. I take her advice.” She walked
away. Pierre followed her a few steps.</p>
<p>“Alaine, Alainette,” he called, softly.</p>
<p>She paused under the shadows of the trees. He
came close and said, slowly, “I have not the right
to question you, Alaine, but I love you, Alaine. I
love you.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[122]</span>She sighed and glanced at him from under her
long lashes. “Papa Louis and Mère Michelle have
designed to marry me to Gerard.”</p>
<p>“And Gerard?”</p>
<p>“Loves Mathilde better.”</p>
<p>“Mathilde?”</p>
<p>“Yes; and you, do you not love Mathilde?”</p>
<p>“I love her, yes, as one does a sister; not as I do
you, Alaine.”</p>
<p>“As I love Gerard and as he loves me, no doubt.
But one must be guided by one’s parents.”</p>
<p>“And your parents; one is in heaven, the other
in Guadaloupa, as you have told me. Therefore,
Alaine——”</p>
<p>“Therefore I have no one to whom I can refer
you except Papa Louis and Mère Michelle.”</p>
<p>“And yourself, Alaine? Ah, if you but knew
how anguished I was at your disappearance; if you
knew how I have thought of you, of you only since
that blessed Sunday when you walked to church.”</p>
<p>“And not before?”</p>
<p>“Before? Yes, ever since your little face like a
star came to illumine my sky.”</p>
<p>Alaine put her head bird-wise to one side. “You
are a poet? I never knew that. You are so solemn,
as an owl, Pierre. We should quarrel, yes, about
those questions of theology. I am light-minded;
when I have thrown aside a sorrow you do not
know how I make merry over little things, and that
would seem childish and unbecoming to you.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[123]</span>“You are not really that, Alaine. You are full of
courage and dignity, yet you are also like the birds
who sing. Ah, my soul, when I heard your voice
in the woods singing ‘Aux paroles que je veux
dire,’ I thought I should expire with joy.”</p>
<p>“Poor Pierre! I do not know, my friend; I, too,
was overjoyed at sight of you, but—no, no, not so
near—I do not know, I cannot tell whether it was
because of its being Pierre Boutillier or whether it
was because it was a deliverer. And then, Pierre,—this
is my real reason,—as I have told you, I must
release my father before I can consider a marriage
with any one.”</p>
<p>“And if I could—if I should release him you
would—Alaine, you would marry me?”</p>
<p>“I can make no promise. I would then marry
him of whom my father should say, This is he
whom I wish for my son. But if there is no way,
no way, Pierre, save that I spoke of to you, I must
go. You will learn about a ship for me?”</p>
<p>“I will do that.”</p>
<p>“Soon?”</p>
<p>“As soon as I can. There are things I must do
first. I have to go away on a mission, Alainette.”</p>
<p>“For whom?”</p>
<p>“For Governor Leisler. When I return I will see
you, and then——”</p>
<p>“And then? Why do you look so miserable,
Pierre?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[124]</span>“Because I love you. You do not know how I
love you, my Alainette.”</p>
<p>“Not yours, nor any one’s, but my father’s.”</p>
<p>“Whom you shall see again if he be alive.”</p>
<p>“Mère Michelle is calling me; I must go.”</p>
<p>“You will let me say good-by to you here.”</p>
<p>“Yes; but it need not be a long farewell I hope.”</p>
<p>He caught her hands and pressed fervent kisses
upon them. “God bless thee, now and forever,” he
murmured.</p>
<p>“He is so good, that Pierre,” thought Alaine, as
she walked slowly toward the house. “Ciel! who
would dream that he could say such things, he is so
grave and solemn, my owl Pierre. I am very fond
of him, I confess, but a maid has many minds, and
now I have begun to fancy that blue eyes, sleepy
blue eyes,—no, not always sleepy,—but honest blue
eyes, may be more charming than black or brown.
Black I like not; no, I like them not. I fear it will
be, Adieu, Pierre; yet if you bring my father to me
I keep my promise, good Pierre. I am very foolish;
a maid should not let her fancy rove when her
parents have made a choice for her.”</p>
<p>“Alaine, Alaine!” called a voice from the garden.</p>
<p>“Yes, yes, Gerard, I come. Here I am,” she
answered.</p>
<p>The young man waiting for Alaine at the edge of
the garden was gazing over field and orchard. The
young trees but a year ago planted gave promise of
thriving well, and of supplying luscious peaches or<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[125]</span>
bouncing apples. The treasured vines, so carefully
guarded in their transport from France, had grown
sufficiently to twist their slender tendrils around the
trellis built for them. In the garden-beds flourished
endive, chicory, and those garden-stuffs dear to the
French palate. Beyond the enclosure stretched fields
of maize yellow for the harvest.</p>
<p>“It is a quiet, pleasant little home, Alaine,” said
Gerard; “we owe it to Mère Michelle and Papa
Louis that it is ours, is it not so?”</p>
<p>She came over to his side and leaned against the
fence. “We owe them much, Gerard.”</p>
<p>“And because they have sacrificed themselves for
us we should not show ourselves ungrateful.”</p>
<p>“You have worked with a good will, Gerard, side
by side with Papa Louis in the garden, and, ciel!
how many miles you must have walked in planting
and tending the maize in the fields!”</p>
<p>“And you, Alaine, how your little hands have
spun and scoured and toiled! You were not meant
to do such things, my sister.”</p>
<p>“Nor were you, my brother.”</p>
<p>“Nor was Papa Louis meant to be a tiller of the
ground. All of us save Mère Michelle have stepped
out of the world in which our fathers lived. It was
for us, I am sure, Alaine, that Papa Louis married.
It was for me that he fled from France and became
an émigré here in America. I well remember that
flight in the dead of night, and the sound of the
dragonnade. Papa Louis could have gone alone more<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[126]</span>
easily, but he took me, who had not always been the
most diligent of pupils.”</p>
<p>“And Mère Michelle could have escaped without
me, but burden herself she would. And when I
was ill, how she tended me on that long voyage over,
and before that and since!”</p>
<p>“And myself the same. She is a good nurse, a
good wife, a good mother, that Mère Michelle.”</p>
<p>“And Papa Louis always so cheerful, so gay, and
never willing to admit failure. So ready to help
with his little strength. He has been very good to
us, a giant in love and faithfulness.”</p>
<p>“And therefore, Alaine.”</p>
<p>“Therefore——”</p>
<p>“We should please them, those two, by acceding
to their wishes.”</p>
<p>“We should do that, Gerard, yet——”</p>
<p>“You understand?”</p>
<p>“Yes, I understand.”</p>
<p>“They would have us marry and succeed to the
little farm they have begun to love so dearly, and
where they hope to pass the rest of their days.
They would have us to dwell here with them, to
cherish them in their old age; and have they not a
right to expect that we will regard their wishes?”</p>
<p>“Yes; but, Gerard, I have made a promise.”</p>
<p>“Alaine! Without consulting them?”</p>
<p>“I was obliged to; it was to Pierre. I promised
him that I would marry whom my own father should
desire. He may be alive, Gerard, and I am nursing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[127]</span>
a little hope that he will return to me. Pierre is
arranging a plan.”</p>
<p>“But there is Mathilde.”</p>
<p>“What of her?”</p>
<p>“Her uncle and aunt wish to see her married to
Pierre.”</p>
<p>Alaine’s eyes danced and she laughed. “And
you, Gerard, you would be delighted if it were
arranged, I am sure.”</p>
<p>He laughed too. “I see, then, there is nothing
to be done at once. What is it that Pierre purposes
doing? What is this plan of which you speak?”</p>
<p>Alaine shook her head. “Say nothing of it,
Gerard. Leave it for a time. I fear it may be that
my father no longer lives, yet I heard of him in
Guadaloupa.”</p>
<p>“And you love this sober Pierre?”</p>
<p>“I think he is very good, and if my father should
say, Alaine, marry him, I should obey. It is he I
should consider first, is it not, Gerard?”</p>
<p>“Of course. And if he does not say this?”</p>
<p>“I do not know what.”</p>
<p>“Then there is nothing to do but to wait and see.
We are young, Alaine, my sister, and we are very
happy here in this little village.”</p>
<p>“Yes, I am, or I would be if I could know my
father were well and safe. You, Gerard, would be
happy if it were Mathilde whom you were to bring
home. I understand, my brother, that it would not
be so hard to marry Alaine if Mathilde were promised<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[128]</span>
to another, but she is not, you see, and therefore
I think we will say no more on the subject at
present. I do not wish to do wrong to Papa Louis
and Mère Michelle, but we can wait. Yet I am
afraid of yonder man who lies ill at home, and I
think so is Mère Michelle.”</p>
<p>“Not M. Verplanck; the other, you mean.”</p>
<p>“The other who swears that whither I go he will
follow. And there is also Étienne.”</p>
<p>“Myself, Pierre, M. Dupont, and Étienne.” Gerard
counted on his fingers. “How many more,
Alaine? Shall we add M. Verplanck?”</p>
<p>She blushed and looked down, but laughed.
“You tease me, Gerard. I will tell you how it is.
Of them all it is Pierre alone who loves me. Étienne,
maybe, has a pride in uniting the estates, for I believe
if I were to return it would be that they need
not be confiscated, so Michelle says. He also hates
the Protestants, and thinks if he could win me back
it would be a great achievement. He loves me in
a way, but only to the advantage of himself. He
desires to rule, to have his way, and he cannot bear
that a girl should prevent that. You, yourself,
Gerard, are my brother, my dearly loved brother;
that is enough. M. Dupont I cannot understand;
he professes to adore me, yet there is something
behind it all. I do not understand, I only fear.”</p>
<p>Gerard took her hand and stroked it softly. “Do
not be afraid, little sister. You have left out M.
Verplanck,” he said, after a moment’s reflection.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[129]</span>“M. Verplanck but performed a knightly deed in
escorting me, a lost maiden, to her home; he defended
me as he would any other in distress. He
will return to his family when he has recovered, and
that will be the end of that. One thing troubles me,
Gerard: why did those men seek to lure you to a
certain spot through me?”</p>
<p>“They are French spies, we think, and seek to
learn something to their advantage through the emissaries
sent out to the various villages and settlements.
We uphold Jacob Leisler, the friend of the people,
the upholder of a Protestant king. We have the
confidence of those who believe in him rather than
in those aristocrats, Bayard and Van Cortlandt and
Phillipse. There is much that you do not understand,
my sister, and I am not at all sure but that
we have enemies nearer home than France, enemies
who would work the ruin of any belonging to our
party.”</p>
<p>“And you will not go with messages to warn the
settlements of danger from the French?”</p>
<p>“I will go where I am sent. Pierre and I will go;
Papa Louis, no. We have another selected in his
place.”</p>
<p>“And you start?”</p>
<p>“To-morrow. That is why I wanted to talk to
you. I thought should anything happen to me it
might be a comfort to the good parents to know that
we were fiancée.”</p>
<p>“If anything were to happen to you they would<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[130]</span>
not be so easily comforted. We are brother and
sister, Gerard, and I am fiancée to no one. There
is Mère Michelle calling. I have left her there with
those two miserables to nurse, and I chatter here
half the afternoon.”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[131]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VIII<br>
<small>PLOT AND COUNTER-PLOT</small></h2>
</div>
<p><span class="smcap">The</span> situation in New York at this time was exciting.
The air was rife with reports that the
Roman Catholics of other colonies adjacent were
making preparations to march upon New York, and
that there were persons within the city’s borders
who were willing to betray it into the hands of those
opposed to Protestantism. It was even rumored
that General Dongan was in the plot, and the people
turned to Jacob Leisler, that impetuous, if indiscreet,
upholder of the liberties of the people. Having first
seized the fort, he turned out the English troops,
established himself in the name of the common
people, and defied his enemies. It was quite natural
that many of the Huguenots, dreading an establishment
of that power from which they had already
suffered so much, should cling to Leisler’s cause,
and that the Dutch militia, all strong Protestants,
should also array themselves against any government
which represented a Jacobite king. Yet there
were many office-holders who because of their being
members of the same church as Leisler should have
been above suspicion, but the impetuous Leisler
did not believe in half measures, and pursued, denounced,
and arrested in a wholesale manner. It<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[132]</span>
was all or nothing with him, and honest as his intentions
doubtless were, his hammer-and-nails way
of dealing with his political opponents, his lack of
tact, and his uncompromising faculty of making enemies
at last brought about his own downfall.</p>
<p>Without being aware of it those under the roof
of the Merciers were at loggerheads. Papa Louis
and Gerard were strong upholders of Jacob Leisler;
Lendert Verplanck was as strongly arrayed on the
side of Van Cortlandt, Bayard, and Phillipse; while
François Dupont, an ardent Frenchman, was ready
to do what mischief he could to any foe of his own
country. He considered that no means should be
despised if it brought about the ultimate benefit to
France, and he was ready to declare himself a friend to
any cause if by so doing he could accomplish his ends.</p>
<p>“I love France. How, then? Who of her children
does not?” he exclaimed, when Mère Michelle
suspiciously sought to fathom his errand to
New York. “You yourself, madame, and your
good husband there, are you not also the same?
And that old man of whom you tell me, he who
goes every day to look toward France and to stretch
out his hands in her direction, émigré though he is,
has he forgotten his love for his country. Of what
do you accuse me? Of being a Frenchman instead
of a Dutchman, or an Englishman? Am I not
Rouennese, and therefore the more your compatriot?
Judge me not so ill as to think I plot against you,
Mère Michelle.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[133]</span>“I trust you not, else why did you steal away my
child, my Alainette?”</p>
<p>“I steal her away?” He laughed. “’Twas I
who rescued her from those who were her captors.
Yes, yes, I know you will not believe that, nor that
when the Indian brought her in I was as surprised
as any one. Those in whose company she found me
are no more your enemies than the Dutch monsieur
yonder who receives your good offices. The story
is this: Mademoiselle is carried off by a thieving
Indian, who, for hope of reward, brings her to us
with a tale of having rescued her from his comrades.
I desire to aid mademoiselle to a return to her rightful
possessions, and I offer her escape from yonder
Dutchman, whose good intentions I have no reason
to know. She, in a spasm of fear, resents this, and
behold the result; I suffer from a gunshot wound,
and monsieur, the Dutchman, suffers from my self-defence,
and here we are.”</p>
<p>Michelle, slowly stirring a cup of broth, listened,
but was not convinced by his plausible tale. “You
have been too near to death, monsieur,” she said,
“and you should not lie to me.”</p>
<p>“Mon Dieu! and do I lie? I lie on this good bed
far too long. When do I arise, Mother Michelle?”</p>
<p>“Not for some days.”</p>
<p>“And monsieur, the Dutch ox?”</p>
<p>“M. Verplanck will arise to-day and will soon be
on his way home.”</p>
<p>The eyes of François shone with satisfaction.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[134]</span>
“Pray God we have a chance to meet on other than
neutral ground. Pig that he is! I would fain have
a good sword-arm to use when we do meet.”</p>
<p>“Why do you not strive to love your enemies,
monsieur?” said Michelle, with unmoved gravity.</p>
<p>“Strive? I do not strive for such sorry results.
He is your enemy as well as mine. Do you love
him?”</p>
<p>“I am not averse to him; he seems a well-disposed
and amiable young man.”</p>
<p>“Who will go hence and do you a harm when he
gets a chance. Do you not know him for an aider
and abettor of King James’s minions,—a Jacobite?”</p>
<p>“I know him for nothing but a wounded stranger
who is patient and grateful.”</p>
<p>“And you think I am neither. I may prove to
be both some day. To-morrow I arise from my
bed, Mère Michelle, and that Dutchman yonder
leaves the house.”</p>
<p>“Ta-ta-ta, but he is the very evil one, that M.
Dupont,” Michelle confided to her husband the
next day. “I am thankful, Louis, that you remain
with us, else I know not what might happen
here.”</p>
<p>Papa Louis swelled out his breast in conscious
pride of his office as protector. “I remain, my
wife, and you need have no fear; though Gerard
and Pierre have departed, I remain.”</p>
<p>“I trust those two will return.”</p>
<p>“And why not?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[135]</span>“There are signs and rumors and distresses; one
cannot tell who is safe. If the French be ready to
descend upon us we shall, ah, my husband! we shall
again fall under the shadow of persecution.”</p>
<p>Papa Louis spread out his fingers and raised his
hand as if to say, That flies away, that possibility.
“For myself I am not anticipating that,” he said.
“The good God who has brought us this far will not
desert us.”</p>
<p>At this moment a white face and tottering form
appeared from behind the curtain at the other side
of the room. “Monsieur, you are defying Providence!”
cried Michelle.</p>
<p>“I said I would arise, and I keep my word. Give
me your shoulder, good Papa Mercier, and I will get
to that seat by the door. Mon Dieu! but it is good
to see the sunshine again. Ho, there, lubber, I am
up before you!”</p>
<p>He turned toward the bed occupied by Lendert,
and Papa Louis chuckled at his sudden change of
expression. “Whom do you address, M. Dupont?
Is it perhaps M. Verplanck? He has been sitting
outside the door this half-hour.”</p>
<p>François ground his teeth. “The pig! How did
he manage it?”</p>
<p>“You were asleep and we helped him quietly to
dress. You would best sit here, monsieur.”</p>
<p>“No, nearer, where I can look out. Ah-h, I see
why that other sits there outside; that he may the
better converse alone with mademoiselle. I will be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[136]</span>
watch-dog, Papa Mercier. You do not guard your
daughter any too well.”</p>
<p>“She needs no overlooking,” spoke up Michelle,
sharply, “and it is not M. Verplanck from whom she
must be guarded.”</p>
<p>François laughed mockingly. “We will prove
the truth of that later on.” He dropped trembling
into his chair and gazed out upon the autumn landscape
showing that haziness peculiar to the season.
Under a large tree were two figures: Lendert Verplanck
and Alaine. The girl with her hands folded
before her was talking earnestly to the young man,
with once in a while a toss of her head toward the
house.</p>
<p>“They speak of me, no doubt,” said François.</p>
<p>“You are egotist, monsieur,” laughed Papa Louis
as he was about to leave the room.</p>
<p>François called him back and motioned to a chair
opposite. “Sit there, M. Mercier,” he said. “I
have said to Madame Mercier that I may yet be able
to prove myself a grateful, if I have not been a
welcome, guest. I see that mademoiselle has finished
her conversation with M. Verplanck. We are alone?”
He glanced around the room. Mère Michelle had
gone out of the back door to attend to her dairy.
No one was in sight. François leaned forward. “M.
Mercier, you who are a friend of Jacob Leisler’s
cannot be a friend of Nicholas Bayard’s. It is not a
secret that Jacob Leisler desires to place Nicholas
Bayard where his tongue will not run away with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[137]</span>
him. He is in hiding, this Bayard, and you who are
for the people would like to discover him I suppose.”</p>
<p>Papa Louis gently patted one knee, but did not
commit himself by so much as a word. The back
door softly opened and shut again. François looked
around impatiently. No one was visible. “This
Verplanck,” he continued, “it is at the house of his
relatives that you will find Bayard, or at least he
was there, and ten to one some one there can be
bought over to tell where he can be found if he
chance to have left. You have but to escort M. Verplanck
to this house, where he will probably go first,
and behold who is likely to come out to welcome
him back but Nicholas Bayard. You say nothing;
you ride away; at night you return and capture one
or both.”</p>
<p>“At the expense of doing wrong to our guest,
who delivered our daughter from danger.”</p>
<p>“Danger! I tell you not danger, a misunderstanding,
a misconstruction. What do you know of this
stranger? Whither was he taking her? What
cause have you for thinking you would have had her
restored to you by his hands? I, for myself, I have
only her good at heart. I pray you, M. Mercier,
think of your leader who would deliver you from a
papistical king. Is Bayard not one of those whom
you call aristocrats and papists? This fellow, too, is
one of the same stamp. If you will I can arrange
as pretty a plot as you could wish, and the people,
the people whom Leisler leads, will be free of one<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[138]</span>
Romanist in disguise.” He watched his listener
narrowly.</p>
<p>Papa Louis did not change expression, but sat
absorbed in thought. “One does not send away a
guest to follow him with disaster,” he replied, after
a time.</p>
<p>“Guest! A guest perforce. Who asks you to
bring disaster upon a guest? He is one no longer
when he leaves your roof, and it is of the man
Bayard of whom we chiefly speak. Well, you do
not care to prove your friendship for your cause.
You are not a very stanch champion, M. Mercier.
Perhaps you, too, are a Jacobite, and are not without
ambition to show yourself a partisan of these aristocrats.
A man of your intellect might well expect to
be admitted into what the adherents of Leisler call
the court circle.”</p>
<p>“No, no, that is no ambition of mine!” cried Papa
Louis, vehemently. “I assure you I am not of that
party at all. I will consult with my friends, monsieur.
I will go to Manhatte to-morrow.”</p>
<p>“And when does M. Verplanck depart?”</p>
<p>“He will not be strong enough for some days to
come. There is nothing to be gained by haste,
monsieur. I will consider what you have said,
meanwhile remembering that you are no friend of the
young man who has shared our attentions with you.
Sit there and rest. For myself I have remained too
long; I must go to my work. Without Gerard my
hands are full.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[139]</span>“I could go a step farther, I think,” returned
François. “Why may I not sit outside as well as
yon indolent churl? I’ll warrant he has not an idea
in his head as he sits there like a blinking owl.
Your shoulder again, M. Mercier, and I can creep
along.”</p>
<p>As the two figures disappeared out of the door,
from behind the curtains peeped Alaine’s face. She
shook her finger at the two. “Plots, Papa Louis,
plots. I will not have you mixed up in them,
neither will I allow good M. Bayard to suffer; and as
for you, you scheming monster, I am not sure what is
bad enough for you. Go to Manhatte if you must,
go to-morrow, Papa Louis, we can manage without
you. Adieu!” And she lightly blew him a kiss
from the ends of her fingers.</p>
<p>“To Manhatte!” cried Mère Michelle, when her
husband announced his intention of an early start.
“And for why? Politics? Many a better man has
been ruined by them. For my part I advise you to
remain at home and watch your garden, your fields,
your family. It is here you are needed and not in
Manhatte. I pray you do not mix yourself up in
affairs. It is better to be the small, the undistinguished,
so you are overlooked, otherwise place
yourself in the way, at a turn of the wheel, lo! you
are crushed.”</p>
<p>Papa Louis shook his head. “I must go,” he
said.</p>
<p>“And who will protect us?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[140]</span>“I trust there will be no need, and even if there
were, there are neighbors besides messieurs our
guests. They have both recovered sufficiently to
handle a gun.”</p>
<p>“To shoot each other? No, no. I will not be
responsible for them.”</p>
<p>“Gerard returns this afternoon. You will be safe
enough then.” Papa Louis spoke rather shortly.
He did not half like his errand, yet was not inclined
to give it up.</p>
<p>Alaine, from the door, watched him depart. She
returned to the big living-room to hear Mère Michelle
expostulating with François. “But, monsieur, I assure
you it is still very early. You will weary before
the day is out. I beg of you to rest till you have
breakfasted.” She emerged from behind the curtains.
“He will wear me to a bone, that one there,”
she made her complaint to Alaine as she stirred
about to prepare the breakfast. “M. Verplanck
arises like a gentleman without discourse. He takes
my advice; if I say, ‘Remain in bed,’ he remains.”</p>
<p>“And this morning?”</p>
<p>“He has already arisen, as you may perceive.”</p>
<p>Alaine ate her breakfast silently; once or twice
she raised her eyes to M. Verplanck, who sat opposite,
and when Mère Michelle went to the buttery,
she said in a quick whisper, “Monsieur, I wish to
speak to you; much depends upon it. I go to the
garden.”</p>
<p>Into Lendert’s sleepy blue eyes came a flash of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[141]</span>
understanding. He was not long in following Alaine
to the garden. She stood waiting for him with
something like impatience. “Monsieur Verplanck,”
she began, “you must leave us to-day.”</p>
<p>“So?” he said, with a smile.</p>
<p>“Yes, they are plotting against you; they will
follow you. M. Bayard will be discovered if you
wait.”</p>
<p>“Who will do this?”</p>
<p>Alaine was silent for a moment, then she raised
her truthful eyes. “I overheard that one in there
talking to Papa Louis. He, dear man, does not
understand, or at least he is, you perceive, upon the
other side, and—and—— Oh, monsieur, you will
keep my secret as I do yours? You will not inform?”</p>
<p>“I should be base to do such a thing when I have
been sheltered and cared for as a son or a brother.
No, I could not do other than keep your secret, and
again I would defend any one of this family if my
opportunity came. I will go at once if it will please
you.”</p>
<p>“Your horse is in the stable; I will help you to
get him. I wish you were altogether strong, monsieur.”</p>
<p>“I am well enough; there is nothing to fear. I
will not say which road I take lest your good conscience
trouble you if you are asked. We must
meet again; I go with regret. May I kiss your
hand?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[142]</span>Alaine with a blush extended her little brown
fingers. He pressed them fervently, raised them to
his lips and murmured, “We meet again; yes, we
meet again.”</p>
<p>“Adieu, monsieur,” Alaine whispered, her eyes
dropping before his gaze. “You—you are not an ox
nor a stupid,” she laughed, “though that one in
there does call you so.”</p>
<p>He laughed. “I thank you, gracious little lady;
I cannot find words to say what you are; it would
take a life in which to find words to praise you as I
ought.”</p>
<p>“Ah!” Alaine sighed. There was a kindling up
of the smouldering fire in the blue eyes which did
not remove their gaze from her face. This young
man was something different from the sombre Pierre
or the bold François. The very difference pleased
the girl; this calmness attracted her, and for an instant
she allowed her hand to rest in the big fingers
of the young Dutchman, then she withdrew it and
repeated, “Adieu, monsieur; I must not stay.”</p>
<p>He only nodded in reply, still keeping his eyes
fixed upon her.</p>
<p>“Shall I help you to get your horse?”</p>
<p>“No, I can get him.”</p>
<p>“Then—adieu, monsieur.”</p>
<p>She retreated a step; he followed her, that light
in his eyes gathering strength and fascinating her so
that a little grieving sigh she breathed as his arms
enfolded her closer, closer, and his lips pressed hers.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[143]</span>
“Too sweet thou art for me to leave thee,” he murmured.</p>
<p>Trembling, half crying, her heart beating tumultuously,
Alaine thrust him from her. “This is very
wrong, monsieur. I should not—— Oh, what is it
I have done?” The tears had their way, and she
leaned against the side of the barn, hiding her face.</p>
<p>But again she felt those enfolding arms and kisses
showered on her brow, her hair. “Thou dost not
love me?” Lendert whispered.</p>
<p>“I must not, I must not.”</p>
<p>“But I love thee, so brave, so beautiful. Where
would Lendert Verplanck be but for thee?”</p>
<p>“In heaven, I hope,” returned Alaine, with an
irresistible impulse.</p>
<p>He held her off and regarded her gravely. The
autumn sunlight found the ruddy golds and browns
of her hair, a soft peach-like hue bloomed on her
cheek, her sweet red lips were parted. “Thou dost
love me as I love thee, as I love thee, so beautiful?”</p>
<p>This time Alaine allowed her head to rest on the
broad shoulder. “I love thee; I will be true in
saying it, monsieur,” she whispered.</p>
<p>“Not that, but Lendert.”</p>
<p>“Then listen, Lendert. I must not love thee, for,
alas! I am half promised to another, I do not know
but to two others. You must go, Lendert, but first
I will tell thee how it is. Those two, my adopted
parents, wish me to marry Gerard, and there is another
who has loved me this year past. Gerard<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[144]</span>
loves Mathilde, but Pierre, poor Pierre, so good, so
true, he has none but me. He has suffered much,
and to him I have promised my hand if he can find
a way to restore my father to me, and if my father
desires me to marry him.”</p>
<p>Lendert softly stroked her hair back from her
forehead while he listened, but he made no comment.</p>
<p>“And therefore, you see, Lendert, I should not
love you,” she continued.</p>
<p>He lifted her arms to clasp his neck and looked
down with that compelling glance. “I love thee,
Alaine, and thou lovest me; there is nothing else in
the world to remember. It is not wrong to love,
and we have not been able to do else than choose
each other from out of the entire universe, then
what? We love, and that is all. I will tell thee a
confession, too; my mother wishes me to marry one
of her choosing, the daughter of a friend and distant
relative. I was content to consider her wishes,
although I made no promise, but now I have seen
thee, sweet Alaine, I cannot do it. As I lay in bed
and heard thy voice, and saw thy face day after day,
it grew, this love, and I thought, If she can love this
big clumsy ox, as the Frenchman calls him, I will
love her forever; I will marry none other; but I did
not hope as yet, Alaine, that thou couldst love Lendert
Verplanck, who loves thee so dearly.”</p>
<p>“I did not know, either,” sighed Alaine; “I did
not know till now when thou must leave me.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[145]</span>“When I will not leave thee. I do not go to-day.”</p>
<p>“Oh, but thou must.”</p>
<p>“Not at all; it is all a needless alarm. When I
go I shall take another road, and shall go where I
select. I have nothing to take me directly home,
nor even to those my relatives. None will wonder
at my delay. The good Mother Mercier has sent
messages more than once by a safe hand, and they
know I am faring well. I will not leave thee to-day,
Alaine; I wish to say more, to hear more.”</p>
<p>“But I must not stay here so long; Mère Michelle
will wonder, though she knows I am taking some of
Gerard’s duties. Since he and Papa Louis are away,
I must do more.”</p>
<p>“And I will help thee.”</p>
<p>“She would be shocked, that good mother, so
shocked if she knew what I have been doing. I am
a very wicked girl.”</p>
<p>He laughed softly. “Wicked is it to love?”</p>
<p>“No, but I should not have told it. Thou
shouldst have gone to Papa Louis very properly, and
I should have been surprised when he told me and
have behaved with great decorum. Perhaps they
would not have told me at all; they might have said,
You cannot have her, M. Verplanck; she is to be
betrothed to Gerard.”</p>
<p>“And then this hour would have been lost to us.
We would never have lived it. Art sorry, Alaine,
sorry that it was not as thou hast described? Art
sorry, sweet Alaine?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[146]</span>“No,” she confessed, “I am not, for, Lendert, I,
too, have been learning to love ever since that
moment when thou wast wounded in the wood.”</p>
<p>They stood looking into each other’s eyes, overcome
by the remembrance of the fateful hour; then
a cloud came over Alaine’s face; “Poor Pierre,”
she murmured, as she moved away to finish the
tasks left for her to do. Lendert kept by her side
and was able to give her such aid that it was not
long before she returned to Mère Michelle, who more
than once had gone to the door to look after the
delinquents.</p>
<p>“You have been long, Alaine,” she said, sharply.</p>
<p>“I know,” replied Alaine, meekly. “We were
talking, M. Verplanck and I, and then he helped
me.”</p>
<p>“You must not allow it again. It is not proper,
nor a maidenly thing to permit.” Mère Michelle
spoke in her most reproving tones. “Where did
you leave M. Verplanck?”</p>
<p>“In the barn, attending to his horse.”</p>
<p>“They will soon be gone, those two,” Michelle
went on, in a less severe voice, “and I shall not be
sorry. I do not regret that we have been able, with
God’s help, to mend their wounds, though the one is
as if he were a child of the evil one; the other,
stolid Dutchman though he is, cannot be disliked.”</p>
<p>Alaine smiled at the word stolid; if Michelle could
have seen her stolid Dutchman an hour ago! She<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[147]</span>
drew so long and quivering a sigh that Michelle
stopped her spinning and looked at her sharply.</p>
<p>“I would you and Gerard were safely married,”
she said; “another year and you should be.”</p>
<p>“He is too young, that brother of mine,” Alaine
answered, “not yet twenty, Mère Michelle, and it
would be wiser if he were possessed of more before
he takes to himself a wife.”</p>
<p>“So Louis says, and so would I say were it not
for the eyes of young men who trouble me by looking
too long at you.”</p>
<p>“Whose eyes?”</p>
<p>“Pierre Boutillier’s and that evil creature’s yonder,
out of doors there, not to mention this mynheer’s.”</p>
<p>Alaine was silent, but she gave a quick glance to
where François sat under the tree. She, too, would
feel more comfortable when he had departed. How
was it that, openly culpable as he had been, he had
yet almost persuaded them all that he had contrived
no ill again her? “Yet a wicked, deceitful maid am
I,” she reflected. “I am this moment posing as an
innocent before Michelle; I have let Pierre go with
my promise, while out there is a man I have known
only a few weeks, and to whom I have given my inconstant
heart. No, no, Lendert, it is my constant
heart which I give you.” Mère Michelle had left
her alone, and she had taken up the spinning.
With the whir of the wheel her thoughts kept time.
“I love you, love you, love you, Lendert Verplanck.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[148]</span>
I see you out there with the sun shining on your
yellow hair, under the blue sky, blue like your eyes.
Lendert, who loves me, who kissed me, who held me
in his strong arms. I feel so safe, so happy, Lendert,
with you near. I wish you might never go,
Lendert Verplanck, with your yellow hair, your
beautiful smile, and your broad shoulders. Monkey
under the tree, if you but knew how insignificant
you look beside him you would cease your mowing
and grimacing.”</p>
<p>François was beckoning to Lendert, who viewed
him imperturbably from his point of vantage within
the stable-yard. “Here, oaf, boor, ox, stolid ox!
By St. Michael! it is as much as one’s life is worth
to bring an idea into that thick skull. He does well
out there with the cattle in the barn-yard, for he
looks at me as if he had no notion of what I am. I
might be a stick or a stone for all the intelligence in
his perception of me. The devil! I cannot rise
without assistance and he does not budge. Here,
you, I want your arm.”</p>
<p>Lendert, over the fence, looked at him composedly.
“I want both my arms myself,” he said. “You’d
better get the man who deprived you of the use of
yours to supply you with what you want.”</p>
<p>François laughed grimly. “He actually tries to
display a sense of humor, the elephant; he would be
light of speech. Eh bien, monsieur, stay where you
are; mademoiselle there must help me, for go indoors
will I.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[149]</span>At this Lendert came forward.</p>
<p>François laughed maliciously. “It is because you
fear the word to mademoiselle, I see, and not of
compassion for me. Well, monsieur, it will not be
long that the occasion for rivalry exists; you leave
us, and then——”</p>
<p>“And then?” said Lendert, a heavier set to his
mouth.</p>
<p>“And then—she is mine.”</p>
<p>“You lie,” returned Lendert, quietly.</p>
<p>“Ox! I would fell you to the earth were I able.
As it is, you shall see. I owe you something, but
not thanks, and I will have my payment for the
pains I have endured, and the payment I shall take
will be mademoiselle herself.”</p>
<p>Lendert made a sudden movement, at which François
gave a cry of pain. “Stupid ox! to make a misstep!
However, it goes in with the rest, but the
payment is sure; digest that with your grass and
hay and stubble, ox.” He sank heavily into the
chair ready for him inside. The hum of the wheel
was scarcely stilled, but Alaine had vanished. Lendert
smiled to himself and went out.</p>
<p>“Good mother,” he said, when he had found
Michelle, “your patient yonder needs you.”</p>
<p>“And you?” she asked.</p>
<p>“I am beyond the necessity of your kind ministrations.
I depart. I may not return for some
time, but I take my leave with many thanks, and
I shall never forget. Remember, good Mother Mercier,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[150]</span>
that here is a friend if you ever have need of
one.”</p>
<p>“And you go at once?”</p>
<p>“Before night.”</p>
<p>Michelle kissed him on each cheek. “Adieu then,
my friend, may good fortune attend you.”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[151]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER IX<br>
<small>THREE PARTINGS</small></h2>
</div>
<p><span class="smcap">Alaine</span>, singing in the garden where she was
gathering some late vegetables, saw Lendert coming.
She had longed, yet dreaded to see him again. The
color flew to her face as he drew near, and she
moved away a few steps. “If you will stay there
and help me with these beans I will tell you more
of myself, some things which you do not know,” she
said.</p>
<p>Lendert took the place assigned him. Michelle,
from the house, watched the pair; Lendert slowly
picking from the vines the pods to fill a basket standing
upon the walk, and Alaine with quick bird-like
movements adding to the store. But Michelle did
not know all that Alaine was saying, that she was
disclosing herself as Alaine Hervieu, that she was
telling of her great hope that her father might still be
living, and of Pierre’s interest in the quest.</p>
<p>To all this Lendert listened mutely. When the
basket was filled the two carried it together to the
barn. Michelle frowned and shook her head, still
keeping an eye upon the barn door. What if she
could have heard Lendert say, “I think I will go, my
Alaine. Thou, my beloved, must believe in me even<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[152]</span>
if thou dost not see me in a long time. We love,
thou and I, but what is best to do I must think, and
I must leave thee, beloved one, for a time, but I leave
my heart behind.”</p>
<p>“And mine thou takest with thee.”</p>
<p>“They will not marry thee to another meanwhile?”</p>
<p>“No, no.”</p>
<p>“Yet thy father?”</p>
<p>“If he returns it will be his right to bestow my
hand; that is what I tell myself and what I have
told Pierre.”</p>
<p>“And this Pierre?”</p>
<p>“He has gone away; when he returns we are to
speak of how to obtain my father’s release. I would
have gone myself,—I meant to,—but now—Lendert,
Lendert, I was ready to do this even a week ago.”</p>
<p>“And now, is it I who keeps thee from it?”</p>
<p>“It is thou,” she whispered.</p>
<p>He kissed her hair, her eyes, her lips. “Now I
know thou dost love me, and thou shalt understand
one day how I value thy love. We must part, my
beloved, but I will come again. In the mean time
be thou patient and constant.”</p>
<p>One last embrace and he was gone, leaving Alaine
with a miserable sort of happiness. It seemed as if
her heart would burst with this new-born love and
with the memory of the parting. All these weeks,
day by day, this flower of love had been growing
and she was scarcely aware of it; now it had burst<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[153]</span>
into bloom, and she was bewildered and faint with
its sweetness. She threw herself down on the hay
and pressed her hands over her burning eyes.</p>
<p>She was aroused by a sudden stealthy sound.
She lifted her head slightly and peeped between the
spears of hay to see the sinuous form of an Indian
skulking past the barn. With almost as secret a
movement she crept to a point where she could
watch his further actions. There was Michelle busy
in the fields husking corn; the house was left for
occupancy to François Dupont. Was this known to
the red-skin? Was it François whom he sought?
She watched him make his way to the house and
insinuate his lithe body in at the door. “He may
be simply one of the friendly creatures come with a
message or to get work in the fields,” she thought;
“but no, he would not have then approached in this
stealthy way.”</p>
<p>At last she determined to busy herself openly in
the garden, where there were still more beans to be
gathered and where Michelle, in the field beyond,
could see her. She was hard at work pulling the
rattling pods when suddenly by her side appeared
the Indian. She had been furtively watching, but
had not seen him leave the house, and his appearance
startled her. He paused only long enough to
slip a paper into her hand, and then, gliding along by
the fence, was lost in the woods beyond.</p>
<p>Wonderingly Alaine unfolded the paper. On it
was written, “If you would say farewell, meet me<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[154]</span>
to-morrow at sunset at the cave where is the old
fireplace. The ship will be ready.—Pierre.”</p>
<p>Alaine held the paper in her shaking hand. To
leave now with Lendert’s love warming her heart;
with this new hope beautifying her life! She gazed
with staring eyes at the words. “Oh, my father,
my father!” she moaned. “But you said, Pierre, it
would do no good, that they would not accept me
in his stead.” She stood very still with the paper
clinched in her hand. “Perhaps,” she thought,
after reflection, “he means that he goes himself to
see what can be done. The good, noble Pierre. I
will meet him; I will give him every sou I have
saved. I will bless you, my good Pierre, but I cannot
reward you as I said I would. No, Lendert, I
cannot, I cannot, even though my father bade me.
I must be honest and tell Pierre that. But oh, my
father, who will then deliver you?” She fell on her
knees and sobbed out the words.</p>
<p>Michelle, beyond in the cornfield, saw her.
“Something disturbs my little one,” she said to herself.
“There are human wolves to be kept from
my lamb. As soon as Louis returns that one in
there must go. I can see that my little one fears
him; I will not have it so.” She raised her basket
of yellow corn and bore it toward the barn, taking
care to pass Alaine on the way. “Tears in your
eyes, my pretty one,” she said, putting down her
basket. “What is this?”</p>
<p>“I was thinking of my father,” faltered Alaine,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[155]</span>
and going to Michelle she put her arms around her.
“Dear mother, comfort me; it is a wide world and
there is much trouble in it.”</p>
<p>“And much goodness.”</p>
<p>“Yes, when I think of Papa Louis and you, and
Gerard and” Pierre she would have added, but she
substituted “our good pastor. Papa Louis returns
to-night?”</p>
<p>“To-morrow; and then adieu to monsieur the
wolf yonder.”</p>
<p>Alaine’s face brightened. “I am glad, glad, Michelle;
he has brought us evil days. Before he
came how peaceful and content I was.”</p>
<p>“And now?”</p>
<p>The girl moved her head wearily. “I am too
distraught by hopes and fears and dreads.”</p>
<p>“We will stop this,” thought Michelle. “She
shall be safely married to Gerard before the winter
is over. There, there, my child,” she said, aloud,
“once we are rid of our wolf your happy days will
come back. God forbid I should commit murder in
my heart, but to you I confess that I would not
grieve if the ship which carries this man back to
France should lose him overboard.”</p>
<p>“Oh, Michelle, Michelle! You wicked?”</p>
<p>“I but spoke what more than one thinks,” returned
Michelle. “You shall not see him again if I
can arrange it. Go to Mathilde Duval, ask there
that they lend me the little Jean, and remain till this
one goes. I with Jean shall be safe till Gerard or<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[156]</span>
Louis returns. We have but one guest now, though
the worst of all he be. Yet, we must be patient,
child, patient.”</p>
<p>Alaine was only too glad of escape. If they
would but wed Mathilde to Gerard instead of to
Pierre; but then what good would that do? Pierre
would still be left. No, she must be patient, patient,
as Papa Louis and Mère Michelle were always telling
her. Patience, the great characteristic of the Huguenots,
she must cultivate it, she would try to do
right when the moment for action came.</p>
<p>François, now that he was rid of his rival, had no
idea of departing too hastily. The next morning he
was groaning on his bed, declaring that he had taken
cold and that he suffered as much as ever. Michelle
submitted to the inevitable with none too good a
grace, and felt obliged to send for Alaine. There
was no help for it, but it was a disappointment, for
she had endured a long season of nursing and felt
that she deserved release. Beyond this, with Papa
Louis and Gerard both away there were added tasks
for the two women, and Michelle’s face wore its
grimmest expression. Whenever she could give
Alaine tasks out of the house she did so, and it was
not often that the girl was seen indoors. François
clamored to have his screen removed, but this Michelle
refused to do. She could not take the time,
she said.</p>
<p>And so it was that when Papa Louis returned the
next day it was to find that François was again on<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[157]</span>
his back, but, to his great relief, that Lendert Verplanck
had departed, therefore the suggestion of
François could not be carried out. “I am no Jacobite,”
he told François, “and I believe in the good
intentions of Jacob Leisler, but he has resorted to
strong measures, and has gone so far that he cannot
retreat. I have talked the matter over with my
good friends, and though one is of one opinion and
one is of another, the good God has settled my part
in the matter by removing temptation. I return, M.
Verplanck has departed, the plot ends. As for yourself,
monsieur——”</p>
<p>“As for me——”</p>
<p>“You remain? To help us if we need to resist
the attacks of your countrymen from Canada?”</p>
<p>François was moodily silent and remained so, in
strange contrast to his former loquacity, so that Michelle’s
fears were aroused and she warned Alaine.
“He is very mute these days, that wolf, but his
white teeth are strong and his eyes have still their
evil gleam. My lamb must not go near him.”</p>
<p>“I will keep out of the way,” replied Alaine. “I
am not anxious to spend my time in the company of
M. Dupont.” And she contrived so well that he
seldom saw her.</p>
<p>She found little difficulty in making her escape the
day of Papa Louis’s return. She ran down to the
well-known spot where Pierre was to meet her.
What plan had he been able to contrive? She found
him standing by the water’s edge gazing out upon<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[158]</span>
the sound. He did not hear her approach, and she
stood for a moment regarding him. His grave face
wore a sadder look than usual; the quiet, firm lips
were pressed together determinedly, but there was a
singularly sweet expression in the face, and Alaine
sighed. Poor Pierre, how sad a fate that had not let
her love him!</p>
<p>At the sound of his name softly spoken he turned,
and a flush of pleasure lighted up his dark eyes.
“Alaine, Alainette,” he said, holding out his hands.</p>
<p>She came and laid hers in them. “Are you going
away, Pierre? Is that why you wished to say farewell?”</p>
<p>“I go, but a longer journey than you thought. I
go for you, Alaine.”</p>
<p>“Oh, no, no; I cannot let you do that.”</p>
<p>“For your father’s deliverance. I shall bring him
back to you if he be alive or I never return.”</p>
<p>“Pierre, Pierre, I cannot have you do this thing for
me. Tell me what you intend. Suppose he, the
one who called himself your master, should discover
you, what then?”</p>
<p>“That is it, but I shall first have gained your
father’s release.”</p>
<p>“No, no, I cannot consent; even for that I could
not let you take such risks.”</p>
<p>“What matters it? A little longer, a little shorter
time and all is over. And life to me without Alaine,
what would it be anywhere? The supreme joy, the
wonder of happiness if I should succeed and return to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[159]</span>
find you mine, Alaine, it is worth the deepest misery
I could suffer. To see you happy, even if I miss a
supreme joy myself, is enough.”</p>
<p>“Do not, do not say that,” she murmured. “Ah,
Pierre, if you but knew how unworthy I am of such
love.”</p>
<p>“It is how I must love. Your happiness at any
cost. I have seen tears in your eyes because of
your father’s condition, and could I hesitate if mine
might be the hand to wipe them away? No, no,
beloved, I would be a slave forever for your sweet
sake; it would glorify my days to wake in the morning
and say, She is happy there in her home, my
Alaine; she smiles, she sings, and God has let me
give her this happiness. Whatever my body might
suffer, my heart would sing with yours.”</p>
<p>Alaine’s tears fell softly. “Oh, Pierre, Pierre,
such great love, and I——”</p>
<p>He interrupted her hastily. “I do not ask yours.
I ask only to do this for you.” He laid his hand on
her head and smoothed back the curling locks that
strayed from under her little cap. “Sweet eyes, dear
lips.” He gave a long, shivering sigh. “I ask no
promise, sweet.”</p>
<p>Alaine lifted her tearful eyes. “I ought to give
it, Pierre, for I do not forget that I told you I would
marry whom my father should desire.”</p>
<p>“I know that, but I would not have you bound
even so much, for if he returned without me, or if
neither returned, it would be a sad waiting. A<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[160]</span>
year, Alaine; if at the end of a year you do not see
your father, or if you do not hear from him or from
me, you must be free to do whatever seems well and
good.”</p>
<p>“But your plan, Pierre, tell me more of it.”</p>
<p>“I go to Manhatte to-morrow to sail by a vessel
going to Guadaloupa.” He did not tell her that he
had shipped as a common sailor and would thus
work his passage, saving his own earnings for the
use of Alaine’s father, should he need them.</p>
<p>“And there, Pierre, you will be sure to find
him.”</p>
<p>“I will find him if he be alive.”</p>
<p>She put both hands in his. “Oh, my good Pierre,
so good. I cannot thank you enough. I feel that I
ought not to allow this, but——”</p>
<p>He shook his head. “It would be no use to refuse,
Alaine, I should go; if not now, at some other
time. You cannot keep me. I desire to do this
thing for you. Do not forbid it and destroy my only
joy in life.”</p>
<p>“Then I will not, but I will do my best while you
are away. I will think of you and pray for you
always, night and day.”</p>
<p>“And if I do not return, think of me then sometimes,
even then, Alaine.”</p>
<p>“I will. I will always think of you, Pierre, so
noble, so brave, so unselfish.”</p>
<p>“Hush, hush, dear one, it is for my own pleasure
that I go. I ask but this: one kiss to bear with me<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[161]</span>
as a remembrance, perhaps all I shall ever ask of
you.”</p>
<p>Alaine almost quailed at the request. She had
promised to be true to one lover; the remembrance
of his caresses, his kisses, still haunted her day and
night. But this man, ready to lay down his life for
her, could she refuse him? It was a sacred duty
that she should send him away with all of happiness
and hope that she could offer. She mutely raised
her face to his, and he kissed her as it were a sacrament
he took. “Adieu, my star. Alaine, I am yours,
living or dead. I love you forever. A long adieu,
sweet Alaine; it grows late and you will be missed.
Leave me here. Once more, adieu!”</p>
<p>She gave him her hands again and looked long
and wistfully into his face. “Adieu, Pierre,” she
said at last and turned away. Once she looked
back and he smiled; but as she passed out of sight,
he staggered back against the rocky ledge and leaned
there white to the lips. And Alaine, as she went
on her way with bowed head, struggled to keep
down the rising cry of her heart, “Lendert, Lendert,
I must be false to you; I must put you forever
from my thoughts. If Pierre, for love of me, can
do this great thing, ought I, for my father’s sake,—for
Pierre’s sake,—to do less? Forgive me, Lendert,
God knows I love you.”</p>
<p>And so it was that Pierre sailed away, and in time
François recovered, so that before the trees were
bare he was well enough to take his departure too.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[162]</span>
“It is but for a time, mademoiselle,” he said before
parting. “I do not go far, and you shall see me
again; believe me, it will not be so very long before
you see me again. I have an acute perception and I
watch; that Pierre has gone, no one seems to know
why or where, and that other, our friend of large
proportions, does not appear, therefore I feel that I
need have no fear. The boy Gerard has eyes and
ears for no one but the saucy damsel across the way,
and you and he will not marry yet, in spite of Michelle.
So ’tis but au revoir, mademoiselle, and I
shall see you before we see these trees again bare.
I trust that I shall some day prove to you all that I
am not ungrateful for your care of me, and to Michelle
most of all.” He bowed in the direction of
Michelle, who had come forward and now stood stiff
and uncompromising.</p>
<p>“You owe us nothing, monsieur, but the consideration
that will leave us to ourselves,” she said.
“Show us your good will so much as to do that,
and we are content.”</p>
<p>He laughed. “I should be as impolite as that
other patient of yours who has never had the grace
to come back for a friendly call.” He glanced at
Alaine as he spoke, and the color forsook the girl’s
face.</p>
<p>But Michelle took up the cudgels. “He was in
no way under obligation to do that, M. Dupont.
This is not the city of Paris nor of Rouen, where to
make a call is a small business. These are troublous<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[163]</span>
times, and our guest does us greater favor by protecting
us from an invading foe than he could by his
presence here.”</p>
<p>“Oho! so that is what you think,” returned François.
“M. Mercier here could tell you another tale.
He is busy, that friend of yours, in helping M.
Bayard and others of the same stripe to keep secure.
He is not fond of the Black People, nor is M.
Bayard, you know.” He watched Alaine narrowly,
but she had gone around to Michelle’s side and stood
leaning upon the good woman’s broad shoulder.</p>
<p>“Well, well,” put in Papa Louis, cheerfully, “we
will not quarrel when our parting is so near. Whatever
the times bring forth, the condition of affairs is
due neither to us nor to our visitors. We have a
common foe to fight and must make common cause
at last. You, monsieur, have given us reason to
believe that you are with us in that, and why dispute
anything else.”</p>
<p>“In faith, what else could I do?” returned François,
shrugging his shoulders. “When one is on his
back and scarce able to lift a finger, he must promise
anything that will save his scalp, be it from Iroquois
or Mohawk. I am out of any sort of a fight, as you
see, not yet being able to hold sword or pistol.”</p>
<p>For all that, Michelle warned Papa Louis not to
let monsieur escape without being sure of his destination,
and to be careful that he did not at once
join the French to discover to them something which
might be detrimental to the colony. But François<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[164]</span>
either suspected or else had his own reasons for
slipping away quietly, for one night, after making
something of a display of his plans for leaving the
next day, he went out, ostensibly to see one of the
neighbors, and did not return. Just when and how
he left the village no one seemed to know.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[165]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER X<br>
<small>ON SHIPBOARD</small></h2>
</div>
<p><span class="smcap">As</span> the weeks passed Alaine counted them, and as to
one month was added two, three, and at last six
months had gone by, she began to watch and listen
and hope for a word from Pierre. If he had succeeded,
at any day now she might hope to see her
father. She resolutely determined to put from her
all thought of Lendert Verplanck, for not a word
nor sign had come from him. “He loved me and
left me,” she sighed. “It will be hard to forget,
but he marries that other whom his mother has
chosen, and for me, I marry Pierre, God willing.”</p>
<p>More than once Mère Michelle brought up her
darling project. “There is no reason, Alaine, why
you and Gerard should not marry, or at least be
acknowledged fiancée,” she would say.</p>
<p>“But the spring will soon be here, and we shall
all be busy.”</p>
<p>“That evil wolf may return, and finding you still
unmarried, will seek to devour you. Pierre has left
to seek his fortune elsewhere,—see Mathilde deserted,—and
if Gerard in the heat of his youth
should become fretful of the quiet life here, he might
do the same; but with a wife and home interests he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[166]</span>
would be so bound by silken chains that he would
not desire to leave us.”</p>
<p>“Ah, but, maman, these are uncertain times; look
how the colony is rent by strife; and suppose the
Jacobites once more rise into power, we might again
find it necessary to take flight, and what then? No,
no, neither Gerard nor I wish to leave you, and on
that score you need have no fear. When this question
of government and war is settled it will be time
enough to think of marriage.” And Michelle, for
the time being, would be silenced.</p>
<p>The destruction of Schenectady by the French and
Indians, the arrival of Frontenac as governor of
Canada, and the alarming prospect suggested absorbed
the attention of even those in the little French
settlement of New Rochelle. These who threatened
them were their own countrymen, and to them this
was civil war, yet they believed in Jacob Leisler.
Had he not conveyed these lands to them, and was
he not the friend of the people? And did not this
Frontenac come armed with terrible orders? It
would require one of whose religious beliefs there
could be no doubt to be leader for those who shuddered
at a possibility of a return of the persecutions
from which they had fled.</p>
<p>“Alas! Alas!” cried Michelle, striking her hands
together, when Papa Louis, with a grave face, told her
of the disputes among the different factions. “It is
from bad to worse. Be content to remain at home,
Louis, and mix not up with affairs of government.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[167]</span>
Your head may yet be placed on a pike, and how will
you be better off than in that France from which
you have escaped? Till your fields, say your
prayers, and keep out of this.”</p>
<p>Papa Louis decided to follow this advice, and, in
spite of the ferment in the city, affairs went on
quietly enough at home while summer came and
went.</p>
<p>“Months since Pierre left and no news of him,”
Alaine said to Gerard, as the summer waned. “I
fear I shall never see my father again. You, who
alone know why Pierre has gone, can give me no
comfort. I have sent him into slavery, and perhaps
to his death.”</p>
<p>“No, no, Alaine, that is a foolish way to look at it.
He went of his own accord, so he told me, and, the
good Pierre, he bade me try to comfort you. It may
take a long time to effect his purpose. There is no
reason for despair as yet. The vessels are slow in
going and coming, and who knows what time and
caution he must use in seeking your father? Even
to-day a message may be on its way to you.”</p>
<p>Alaine plucked up courage, and with better heart
went singing to her work. Michelle and Papa Louis
were in the fields, and Gerard had just come to the
pump to quench his thirst. “Even now he may be
on his way to me,” Alaine repeated. “If he returns
it means—what may it not mean?” The blood
rushed to her face and brow. “Alas, my Lendert,”
she murmured, but instantly she shook her head as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[168]</span>
if to put away too intrusive a thought and continued
her spinning.</p>
<p>She had hardly recommenced her song when the
latch of the door was lifted, and she saw before her
a tall Indian. He gravely unrolled from a piece of
deer-skin a small packet and handed it to her, then
turned and walked out without a word. With trembling
fingers Alaine undid the packet. On a bit of
bark a few words were written: “Meet me at the
cave at sunset. I have news for you. Tell no one,
but come alone, or there may be danger for one you
love.—Pierre.”</p>
<p>Alaine stared at the bark, turned it over, and then
hid it away. It was as Gerard had said; a message
was truly on its way to her; one would almost think
it a prophecy. It seemed as if the moments were
doubly long that day, but at last the hours of labor
were over, and the girl, all impatient expectation,
stole down to the well-known spot. She wondered
why the secrecy. What had happened? Why did
not Pierre approach boldly, there in the village
where all his friends were? She was anxious, apprehensive,
yet so eager that she ran all the way to
the shore, hoping no one else would be there. She
glanced around; all was still; the place was deserted,
for the weary workers in the fields did not care to do
other than rest from their labors. Upon the water
a little way out rocked a large sailing-vessel, its white
sails catching the evening light. Perhaps—she hardly
dared think it—her father was on board; it might<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[169]</span>
be that it was on his account there was need of
secrecy. She looked around; no one was near; but
presently from the vessel a little boat put out, and
when it touched the shore a man leaped ashore.</p>
<p>“You await Pierre Boutillier?” he asked, in good
French.</p>
<p>“Yes,” Alaine replied, eagerly.</p>
<p>“He asks if you will let me conduct you to yonder
ship, where he can confer with you without
observation.”</p>
<p>“Why did he not come himself?” Alaine asked,
drawing back.</p>
<p>“He had the misfortune to trip over a coil of rope
and sprain his ankle. He is clumsy, that Pierre.”
The man looked at her with a bright, quizzical
smile.</p>
<p>Alaine drew herself up. “He is not, then, but he
is no sailor, rather a husbandman. Lead the way.
I follow.” She spoke with a haughty air, and the
man started on ahead, but cast frequent glances over
his shoulder to see if she were yet behind him. She
came on with a light tread and stepped without hesitation
into the little boat, which quickly took her out
to the larger vessel anchored beyond. She was then
helped on board and conducted to a cabin, seeing no
one on her way but a few sailors lounging on deck.</p>
<p>“I will tell monsieur that you have arrived,” said
her conductor, “and myself will assist him hither.”
He then withdrew.</p>
<p>“It is strange,” thought Alaine, “that Pierre was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[170]</span>
not on deck to meet me. He is perhaps badly hurt;
he is unfortunate, poor Pierre. Only for my father
would I have consented to come. Why does he not
arrive, that Pierre?” She grew impatient as the
moments passed, and at last determined to go herself
and seek her friend. She tried the door of the
little room; it was fast. “Pierre! Pierre!” she
called. There was no response. Overhead she
could hear the tread of the sailors or the dragging
of ropes across the deck. “Pierre! Pierre!” Outside
the sea-gulls dipped their free wings in the
dancing waves. She could see their white breasts
as they swept past the open port-hole. “He cannot
have forgotten me,” she murmured. “What
does this mean?”</p>
<p>Suddenly she raised her hands above her head
with a great cry. This was a plot, and who had
designed it? She sank moaning to the floor, and
sat there, her hands tightly clasped, till the glory of
the golden sky paled to gray, then the soft twilight
descended; night came on. The girl did not move
except once in a while to ease her position. The
sound of sailors singing, the shuffle of feet, the rattle
of chains, the splash of the water against the sides of
the vessel, these were what reached her ears strained
to catch the least sound. Darkness had settled
down, when, by the tossing of the ship and the
increased movement overhead, she discovered that
the vessel was moving. She started up with a
great cry and then a fury of despair seized her. She<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[171]</span>
beat on the door, shrieking, “Poltroons! Knaves!
Thieves! Thieves! Is there no one here to listen?
I go mad! I kill myself, you there, who will not
rescue me!”</p>
<p>The door opened at last; a lantern swung before
her; its rays flashed on the face of the man she
feared; François Dupont stood before her. She
gave one wild cry of fear and horror, but the next
moment bravely faced him. “You!” she said, in
such scorn that he made a step back. In a moment
he drew nearer, and she saw his face wore its usual
smile of assurance and audacity.</p>
<p>“It is I in truth, Mademoiselle Alaine. You remember
I vowed that we should not be separated
long. ‘Whither thou goest,’ I said. I am forced to
travel, behold you are here to accompany me.
Since you would not have come by invitation from
me, I was obliged to consider myself the proxy of
M. Boutillier, for all is fair in a case of this kind.
I am not ungenerous, fair Alaine, as you will see;
I give you the key to your cabin; you shall not be
disturbed. I regret the voyage is not to your liking,
but that is all I regret. I desire to take you to
Canada with me as my wife. We have a good priest
aboard who can unite us. You refuse?”</p>
<p>“I refuse,” Alaine replied, curtly, but with trembling
lips.</p>
<p>“I feared that you would not accept me at once,
nor even upon two or three urgings. We go to
Canada, as I said; if by the time we reach that place<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[172]</span>
you still consider my suit unfavorably, we can extend
the voyage; we can go to France, to Rouen;
there you have the opportunity of choosing between
your cousin Étienne and myself. I am generous,
yes? They would say, our friends there in our beloved
France, how he has worked for the good of
this obstinate little lady! How he has suffered, that
poor François, that he might bring her back to her
own, to those to whom she rightly belongs, the perverse
little one! But they will forgive, yes, they will
forgive; the good Father Bisset says so.”</p>
<p>“Father Bisset?” The words came in whispered
surprise.</p>
<p>“The same; it is he of whom I spoke a moment
ago. He is here. If you would like to see him, he
awaits us. We will have a little supper together.
Permit me to escort you, mademoiselle.” He held
the lantern high and looked questioningly at the
girl’s pale face. She refused his proffered hand, but
mechanically walked with him to the larger cabin,
where the kindly face of her old friend met her
vision.</p>
<p>With a cry of mingled grief and pleasure she ran
forward. Here was one who had never failed in his
gentle consideration, in his mild guidance, his loving
reproof. At once she fell under the spell of his
presence. “Oh, my good father, save me!” she
begged.</p>
<p>He looked down at her with a loving smile. “I
ought not to have a word to say to you, little runaway;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[173]</span>
yet must we forgive when forgiveness is sought,
and you are my spiritual child.”</p>
<p>Alaine made no response, but clung to him. The
old man nodded assurance as she mutely searched
his face. “Be not troubled, my child. You are
safe. And when did Father Bisset ever do you a
wrong? Come, you are weary. M. Dupont has
provided a good supper for us. Dry your eyes, my
daughter, and join us at table. One may as well
partake of good things when they are set before
him.”</p>
<p>Alaine suffered herself to be led to the table, and
made a light supper, while her two companions kept
up a race of trivial talk, full of lively anecdote, by
which the girl was entertained in spite of herself.
They sat a long time at table, and when he arose
François said, “Marie shall attend you whenever
you wish to go to your room; meanwhile, I will
leave you to the company of Father Bisset, who, I
doubt not, will be more agreeable to you than myself.
Pleasant dreams, Mademoiselle Alaine. Before
we part for the night, I drink to our future.”
He took up a cup of wine and tossed it off, then,
with a bow and a good-night, left them.</p>
<p>Father Bisset sat silently, leaning one arm on
the table, and looked long and earnestly at the
sad face before him. After a time he came over
and drew a seat close to her side. “My daughter,”
he said, “you can trust Jacques Bisset. He
is old, he is weak in body, and he has not a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[174]</span>
great mind, but he can endure, he can suffer; he
can perhaps use a little strategy.” He bent nearer
and whispered, “Do not seem surprised; he is also
Protestant, this old man. Hush! we must dissemble.”
Then louder: “Yes, my child, it seems
good to have you again under my guidance.” Again
his voice dropped. “This François Dupont,”—he
glanced cautiously around,—“he believes me to be
still a papist; he had not heard otherwise, it seems,
and, as it happened, he was the first to meet me as
I landed in New York a day or two ago. ‘Ho,
Father Bisset,’ he cried, ‘you have come to the
wrong port. If, as I suppose, you are come on a
mission to this wild land, you should have been
better informed. They are all loud-mouthed for the
Protestant William and Mary, and you’ll stand a
poor showing here. I would advise you to get out
of the colony as soon as possible. I have it,’ he
cried, after a moment’s thought, ‘I will direct you
to a safe retreat.’ ‘Thanks, monsieur,’ I answered, ‘I
think I can find my way.’ ‘At all events,’ he said,
‘I will send some one to guide you to a fair lodging.’
A stranger and acquainted with little Dutch and no
English, I was not averse to accepting the offer, and
I have not a great headpiece, my child, so I followed
my guide, who brought me to a lonely spot by a running
river and bade me step aboard a little boat that
I might be ferried across stream. Ferried I was, but
no farther than to mid-stream, when I was seized
bodily and brought aboard this ship.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[175]</span>He gave a little low chuckle. “I have not protested
as yet, for I am well fed and comfortably
lodged, and my religious beliefs have not been questioned.
I do not announce them, but allow them to
be taken for granted. So, my child, let us be watchful
and wary and we shall yet find that this adventure
will work to our benefit. I am supposed to
take you under my instruction, and I do not object.”
Again the familiar chuckle rejoiced Alaine’s heart.
“We will outwit François Dupont, and he will be
none the wiser of our intent.”</p>
<p>Alaine listened eagerly to all this, and her spirits
rose as the genial old priest went on: “François
warned me, just after we set sail, that I should see
you, and I was prepared, therefore I showed no surprise.
He is not a religious enthusiast, and will
not notice what my devotions may be. It will not
harm any one if I say my Pater Noster in Latin, and
the good God will hear it just the same. Therefore
observe me without disapproval if you can. The
end sometimes justifies the means, and I pray I may
be forgiven if I use covert means for your sake as
well as my own. ‘Wise as a serpent and harmless
as a dove,’ that is what one should be, and to wisdom
we must add patience.”</p>
<p>“You will tell me some day of how you made
your escape from France, dear Father Bisset? There
is much that I wish to hear.”</p>
<p>“You shall hear it at some convenient time.
Meanwhile, we must be careful of our conversation;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[176]</span>
there are sharp ears about,” he added, significantly.</p>
<p>Alaine looked up quickly and saw the dark face
of Marie looking at her from a dim corner. She
started, for it brought to mind the fact that she was
again a prisoner, and although seemingly free, the
blue waters encircling her were safer bonds than
fetters of steel.</p>
<p>“‘Let not your heart be troubled,’” murmured
Father Bisset. “May the good angel guard you, my
child.”</p>
<p>Alaine made the same respectful obeisance she
had been wont to use as a child, and then turned to
Marie. “I am ready to retire,” she said. And the
last thing of which she was conscious before she
dropped off to sleep was that Marie’s vigilant eyes
seemed to watch her even there in the darkness.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[177]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XI<br>
<small>FROM SHIP TO SHORE</small></h2>
</div>
<p><span class="smcap">To</span> get rid of Marie and to escape,—the thought
recurred to Alaine over and over again for the next
few days. She had nothing to do but to watch the
sea-birds, and, when she was not talking to Father
Bisset, the time hung heavily on her hands. The
good old man, be it said, had given no cause for
suspicion of his being a renegade priest, and, indeed,
his lifelong manner of speech and his pious ejaculations
were too much a matter of habit to evidence
any change in his opinions. François, on his part,
exercised quite as much acumen in treating Alaine
with deference and in seldom forcing his society
upon her.</p>
<p>“She will more readily accept the inevitable if I
leave her to your persuasive arguments,” he said to
the ex-priest, confidentially. “Ma foi! but she has
a fine temper. Yet it is not a bad alternative. I
am not so evil nor so cruel as I seem, good father,
despite my having small interest in religious matters.
I prefer the Church to no church, naturally, but I do
not trouble myself to go further. I hear Mass; I
make my confession; it is enough. You may not
consider that as sufficient for the husband of Alaine,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[178]</span>
yet better that than a Huguenot, you will say. We
will return to France after a time, and I keep my
promise; yes, I am not all evil, for I swear I shall try
to deliver M. Hervieu. That may not agree with
what you approve; you may believe he should suffer
his punishment, but I am not so tenacious. Do not
shake your head, good father, you too will use your
good offices for him; for if Alaine prefers to remain
in a convent for a year, I shall take you to Guadaloupa
and on the return voyage an opportunity is
afforded you to deal artfully yet gently with the
erring man, who by this will probably be glad enough
to escape the experiences of an engagé. And so all
goes well.”</p>
<p>“But, my son,” expostulated Father Bisset, “my
mission is not to accompany you upon your travels.”</p>
<p>“But, good Father, consider the reward. You
come to America upon mission work. What is
better than such an opportunity? And I promise
you afterwards you shall go your ways and I will do
my utmost for you. I will give you a heavy purse
to further your good works. In the long run you
will gain.”</p>
<p>“But, my son, I cannot see why this little Alaine
should be so great a prize that you take all this
trouble. Is it not rather Étienne who should marry
her?”</p>
<p>“Étienne!” François clinched his fist. “He
shall never have her. At first—but I will not go
into that,—it is sufficient that now I wish to marry<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[179]</span>
her, and I shall move heaven and earth to accomplish
my object.”</p>
<p>“Softly, softly, my son. Heaven is not to be
moved for the accomplishment of human desires.”</p>
<p>François laughed. “Then I will say that I mean
to use every human endeavor to make it possible to
marry Alaine Hervieu, and when a resolution takes
possession of me I am not one to give it up
easily.”</p>
<p>The old man softly patted together the outstretched
tips of his fingers and thoughtfully looked
out upon the water. “Alaine was never a child to
be coerced,” he said.</p>
<p>“In matters of religion, perhaps not, but in matters
of the heart a woman yields to him who proves
himself her master, who does not cringe nor sue,
but who gives her no chance to say no to him.
For that reason, Father Bisset, I leave you to do your
part by moral suasion while I direct the other matter
with a high hand. It was through her affections
entirely that she was won over to the Huguenots,
and through her affections it is for you to win her
back, first by mild discourse, and secondly by producing
a father who has conformed to your belief.
I think by playing your cards properly—I beg your
pardon, by using the gentle means you know so
well how to employ, that you will soon win her to
your way of thinking. That is all I ask of you.”</p>
<p>“And you will not be disappointed,” returned the
wily old man. “I feel sure that we shall both be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[180]</span>
of one mind, Alaine and I, when we leave the ship,
Monsieur Dupont.”</p>
<p>“So soon?” François struck his hands together in
satisfied approval. “As soon as this? You are
doing well, Father.” He laughed. “How sweet is
revenge! There is nothing so sweet.”</p>
<p>“Except forgiveness,” returned the other, gently.</p>
<p>François got up and walked the deck excitedly.
“I say revenge. By the saints, but I shall have
won, if not in all directions, at least in one.” He
stepped closer to the old man. “And I reckon on
you, Father Bisset, to make it possible for me to win
in both. Alaine vows she will marry no one whom
her father does not favor; the inference is obvious.
Behold your son-in-law, good Monsieur Hervieu,
bondman over there in Guadaloupa. I come to your
assistance.” He blew a kiss from his finger-tips.
“You are grateful, monsieur, and with our good
priest’s help I shall endeavor to find a way to persuade
you to agree with me, when I endeavor to
show you why I should prove to be an acceptable
husband for your daughter. I have come far to
satisfy my desires; I shall not return ungratified.”</p>
<p>“And your destination on this voyage?” inquired
Father Bisset.</p>
<p>“Is Canada. We place Alaine with the good
sisters, who will complete the work you have so well
begun.”</p>
<p>Father Bisset’s eyelids drooped over his eyes to
hide the sudden anxiety which leaped up into them.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[181]</span>
“But suppose, my good sir, that Alaine should
prefer the life of a religious to the name of Madame
Dupont.”</p>
<p>“Ah-h, that she must not do!” François paused
in his walk.</p>
<p>Father Bisset watched him. “Would it not be
well, then, that they be warned that she is fiancée,
and that all we require is good guidance, and not
that she enter the convent to become one of them?
You, of course, will know what line of argument
to use, and how best to incline them toward this
result.”</p>
<p>François looked thoughtfully seaward. “I? No,
I do not. As I have told you, I was never an
enthusiast in matters of religion. What shall I
say?”</p>
<p>“More depends upon the manner of saying than
upon the words,” replied Father Bisset, astutely.
“One should know well how to choose his words.
It is a pity that you are not a more saintly man,” he
added, as it were, regretfully.</p>
<p>“Then, my dear Father, I must rely upon you,
and shall commit the matter into your hands, first
exacting a promise from you that you will not lose
sight of Alaine a moment till she is safely established.”</p>
<p>“I can give you my word that I shall not allow
her to leave my presence for a single instant till she
is safely established,” Father Bisset returned, with
emphasis, and the eyes, which a moment before<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[182]</span>
were downcast to hide their anxiety, were again
dropped to hide their triumph.</p>
<p>“She can be very obstinate, that demoiselle,” said
François, after a pause. “It must be for you to
persuade her to go. In this instance a hint from
me would cause rebellion.”</p>
<p>“I think I shall have no difficulty in persuading
her. She has obeyed me from infancy, and the
habit of a lifetime, albeit but a short life, is not easily
broken.”</p>
<p>“Good!” cried François. “It was a lucky day
when I ran across you there in New York. The
saints be praised that I did. I have not made our
voyage altogether distasteful to you, I hope, although
I forced it upon you. Mademoiselle there grows
triste. What is she reading?”</p>
<p>“A little book of devotion which I happened to
have with me,” returned Father Bisset; but he gave
a quick look at Alaine, who, in a sunny corner, had
been reading intently.</p>
<p>The old man walked nonchalantly toward her.
She looked up with a smile and put into his hand
the book, which he slipped into an inner pocket. “I
trust you have found it profitable reading, my daughter,”
he said, seriously.</p>
<p>“I think so, Father.”</p>
<p>François did not see the sudden amused expression
which played around Father Bisset’s mouth as
he saw the satisfied look upon the young man’s face
when he turned away.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[183]</span>Alaine made room by her side for her old friend.
“Well?” she said, eagerly, when François was out
of hearing.</p>
<p>“All is well,” she was told. “I think we may
hope to escape once we reach Canada. You, of
course, refuse to marry here on shipboard.”</p>
<p>“Of course.”</p>
<p>“Then you go to a nunnery.”</p>
<p>“Oh!”</p>
<p>“I go with you to prepare the nuns for the part
they are to act toward you. That will be our
opportunity. Do not look so glad. You must assume
a pensive and troubled air. That is better.
As we near land you must seem distressed, uncertain,
shy, even of me, and at times silent and thoughtful.
M. Dupont will urge you at the last to marry
him, and you say you will refuse. Very good.”
The old man hesitated a moment, then said. “But,
my daughter, it is a true intention of his to try for the
release of your father. Will you, then, remain in the
convent to await his return?”</p>
<p>“Oh, Father, that is a hard question. How shall
I answer it?”</p>
<p>“As your conscience dictates. Can you stand
steadfast till our return? There will be much pressure
brought to bear upon you. And will you run
the risk of our finding your father no longer alive
and of a forced return to France for you with François
Dupont?”</p>
<p>“But my father, if he should be living? Advise<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[184]</span>
me, I beg of you, for I cannot see what is
right.”</p>
<p>“Could you stand the privations, the experiences
you would have to endure in a flight to the colonies
with only this old man as your protector?”</p>
<p>“I should not be afraid to risk it.”</p>
<p>“Then, my beloved daughter, I advise you to
escape while you can. We cannot tell how the
bonds may tighten around you, and it may be too
late a year, or even six months, from now. We
would best seize the opportunity while we may. I
know your father would so desire it, and you tell me
there is another working for his deliverance. We
will trust God for that to be accomplished and get
away when we can.”</p>
<p>“Ah, Father, how fortunate a day when I chanced
upon you!” sighed Alaine.</p>
<p>He smiled as he remembered that François had
said the same words a few minutes before. “One
must sometimes dissemble when it is for good,” the
old man told himself. “I am no longer a Jesuit, but
I have not been one without learning that stratagem
is often better than open rebellion.”</p>
<p>Under her friend’s advice and leadership Alaine
so comforted herself that François with satisfaction
viewed the quiet, somewhat pensive mien. “We
are taming the wild bird. I shall yet see you come
at my bidding, Alaine, with the fluttering wings, and
when we return to France and I face Étienne Villeneau,
what joy!” He laughed to himself as he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[185]</span>
leaned over the side of the vessel. But after a
moment he raised his eyes to the blue sky. “Thou
up there wilt understand that I do this for thee, for
thee,” he murmured.</p>
<p>In the dim distance a faint line of shore indicated
that they were nearing the great river. Alaine by
Father Bisset’s side watched it grow more and more
distinct. For many days she had felt comparatively
safe, but now would soon come a crisis. If at the
last moment the plot failed; if François should insist
upon accompanying them himself, or should
send Marie to see that she reached the destination he
intended for her, what then? Marie, herself, silent,
vigilant, unapproachable, might be suspicious and
might follow them. Alaine confided her fears to
Father Bisset.</p>
<p>“I have thought of all that,” he replied. “I,
myself, am not sure of the woman, the other I can
manage. I am prepared for that. We must put
our trust in the Lord, my daughter, he will deliver
us from the snare of the fowler. ‘Many sorrows
shall be to the wicked, but he that trusteth in the
Lord, mercy shall compass him about.’”</p>
<p>A roundabout way it was, this by water all the
way to Quebec by the outside route, but François
had his reasons for selecting it. His prisoners had
no means of escape, and Alaine would be the longer
under the tutelage of Father Bisset. It was some
time after they had entered upon the voyage that the
young man approached Alaine. “Mademoiselle,”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[186]</span>
he began, “we are going to Quebec. You will not
find it a bad place. Will you enter it as Madame
François Dupont?” He stood regarding her with a
grave courtesy.</p>
<p>“Monsieur,” returned Alaine, sweetly, “I am not
indifferent to the compliment you pay me, but I
cannot accept your name.”</p>
<p>“You prefer the convent? Then, mademoiselle,
if in six months or a year hence I return with your
father as my companion I may claim you from the
good nuns, who will guard you well I feel assured.”</p>
<p>Alaine made no reply, and he went on. “I understand
that you are willing to accept him whom your
father shall desire to receive as his son-in-law. Am
I not right?”</p>
<p>Alaine gave a hasty glance at Father Bisset. The
question was a hard one to answer evasively. “Six
months, a year is a long time,” she at length replied,
after some hesitation. “How can one promise what
one may do in that time?”</p>
<p>“Then we will leave it so, and I will rest content
that you will bide by your father’s selection and do
his bidding.”</p>
<p>“I think I can promise that.”</p>
<p>“That gives me hope sufficient, my fiancée. Soon
we must part for a season. Father Bisset will parley
with the good sisters better than I. He will
conduct you to them, and then he will return to me.
Is it no consolation to you, mademoiselle, that this<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[187]</span>
same genial father goes with me to Guadaloupa to
help me in my quest of releasing your father?”</p>
<p>“Whoever has the good fortune to be under the
guardianship of Father Bisset is indeed fortunate,”
replied Alaine. “If monsieur is to be honored by
such company, he is indeed blest.”</p>
<p>François bowed, and then, with a laugh, said,
“This time I am not able to say, ‘Whither thou
goest,’ is it not so? I do not keep my word in this
instance, but it is because I cannot.”</p>
<p>“No, monsieur, you cannot say that, since it will
probably be many days before we meet, and there
will soon be many miles between us.”</p>
<p>“Can you lay any discourtesy to my charge since
you have been taken this enforced journey?”</p>
<p>“No, M. Dupont; I have been treated with every
consideration. I might have preferred a more agreeable
maid, but not a more faithful one could I have
selected, and of your own conduct, of that of your
sailing-master and his men, I have no complaint to
make.”</p>
<p>“For that much grace my thanks. I trust that
mademoiselle when she is established in the convent
will remember me with a little less aversion, and
will reflect that, though I may seem at times to
have been discourteous, my rudenesses have never
been directed to her, and, despite the fact that I
have more than once given her no choice in the
matter of travel, I have had her own good in view.
Perish her enemies! I have taken for my watchword.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[188]</span>
Father Bisset there tells me that forgiveness is
sweeter than revenge.” He looked at her with a
little inquiring smile.</p>
<p>Alaine smiled in return. “When I see you again,
monsieur, after this long parting, I may be better
able to extend my forgiveness, at present——”</p>
<p>“You withhold it. That is not unexpected.
Ah-h, France! See, there flies her flag. Does it
not thrill your heart to look upon it, Alaine Hervieu?”</p>
<p>She looked up and saw flying from the fort the
flag of her native country. For a moment her heart
did indeed swell and tears came to her eyes. “Dear
France!” she sighed.</p>
<p>“This will seem quite like home to you,” said
Father Bisset, diplomatically. “We shall all feel as
if we were again under the skies of France. I regret,
M. Dupont, that we do not tarry longer. When
did I understand you to say that we set sail for the
return trip?”</p>
<p>“As soon as possible,” replied François.</p>
<p>“I should like to see something of the town, now
we are here,” the old man remarked, with a pensive
air.</p>
<p>“We can grant you time enough for that,” returned
François.</p>
<p>Alaine watched the frowning cliff grow nearer
and nearer. The Château of St. Louis upon the
terrace of the Upper Town rose before her; below
twisted the streets of the Lower Town, its gray<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[189]</span>
wharves stretching along the river. She gazed at
the clusters of spires and of buildings. Under
which roof might be those nuns of whom M. Dupont
had spoken? Darkness had settled down
when the vessel at last dropped her anchor, and
Alaine went to sleep with a feeling half dread, half
joy, for what the morrow might bring.</p>
<p>She was out upon deck early the next morning.
The town stretched out before her in all its outline
of spire and roof, of postern and bastion; a French
city, and she, a French girl, there a prisoner before
it. Father Bisset noted her sigh before he made his
presence known. “Art sorrowful at leaving the
ship?” he whispered, smiling.</p>
<p>“No, Father, but one has many thoughts. All
this,” she waved her hand, “does it not bring back
thoughts of home to you?”</p>
<p>“Of wrong and persecution, of oppression and
death?” he asked.</p>
<p>“Yes, for us it includes that. Oh, Father, shall
we surely escape?”</p>
<p>He nodded. “I have the clue I missed. If Marie
should follow us I can manage her. As for the other,
he will take a nap this afternoon, I fancy.”</p>
<p>“Sh! here he comes.”</p>
<p>François approached, debonair and confident.
“We will breakfast a little late. I have sent ashore
for some provisions, and we will have such a feast
as we have not had for many a long day. Now that
our voyage is ended, I will admit that it was not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[190]</span>
without danger. With England at war with us, and
her ships upon the seas, besides the possibility of
heavy storms at this time of year, we might have
fared hardly; yet all has gone well and we will
celebrate the event. Mademoiselle will not refuse a
glass of good old wine, and you, Father Bisset, will
not object to drinking her health. I would see you
first in my cabin; I have a few words for your ear.”</p>
<p>Father Bisset followed him, and when they were
alone François said, “Mademoiselle will need a
better wardrobe than she is at present provided
with;” he handed him a purse; “this for the purpose.”</p>
<p>Father Bisset recoiled. “My dear sir, I am not
versed in the art of selecting toilettes for a lady; I
pray you commission some one else.”</p>
<p>François tossed the purse from one hand to the
other. “Then hand it over to the good sisters and
let them attend to it. I may count on your return,
Father Bisset. You will give me your word that
when you leave mademoiselle at the convent you
will return to the ship.”</p>
<p>“I do not know why I should,” returned the old
man, reflectively. “I do not know on what grounds
you have a right to exact it from me.”</p>
<p>“Only because of mademoiselle; if she is assured
that you accompany me on my search for her father
she will feel more content.”</p>
<p>“You are suddenly very considerate.” Father
Bisset’s lip curled slightly.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[191]</span>“It is circumstance that has made me ever seem
otherwise, and in this instance, if I have not your
promise, I must feel compelled to detain you and
send mademoiselle under other escort.”</p>
<p>“I promise you that when I leave mademoiselle
it will be to return to you.”</p>
<p>“Good; that is sufficient.”</p>
<p>“But I shall take a little time to examine the
city, and if I am not back at once——”</p>
<p>“I will wait for you; we understood that before.”</p>
<p>It was, indeed, quite an elaborate meal which
François provided for his guests, and Father Bisset
warmed to the occasion, so that when François, with
a flourish, proposed the health of the future Madame
Dupont, the old man tossed off his wine gayly. “To
the future Madame Dupont,” he repeated; “a good
toast that. You do not drink, Alaine;” and he
laughed.</p>
<p>Alaine looked coldly disapproving; then suddenly
it dawned upon her that it was not she of whom
Father Bisset thought, for she remembered that he
intended to make it impossible that she should ever
bear that name. She smiled faintly. He was so
sly, so like a crafty old fox, that Father Bisset.</p>
<p>“Mademoiselle is too modest to drink her own
health,” cried François. “Another bottle, Father.
It is good wine, is it not? None too heady, and
smooth and soft as silk.”</p>
<p>“Should you not like to try this other?” asked
Father Bisset, drawing a bottle from under the table,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[192]</span>
removing the cork, and pouring out a glassful, which
he handed to François. “Also good, is it not?”</p>
<p>“Also good; if anything, better than the other.”</p>
<p>Father Bisset laughed. “I bribed your man to
get it for me; I fancied it was to be had here; it is
an old favorite of mine.” He set the bottle by his
side, and from time to time refilled François’s glass.</p>
<p>“A bit heady,” remarked François, after a time.
“I think I have had enough.” He staggered slightly
as he rose from his chair.</p>
<p>“We would best depart, Alaine and I; it is later
than we realized,” said Father Bisset, “and a walk
will do us good after this heavy meal. Will you
order that we be set ashore?”</p>
<p>François looked at him with dimly seeing eyes.
“I will order,” he mumbled.</p>
<p>Father Bisset led him by the arm on deck; the
fresh air revived him somewhat. “What was it you
wanted?” he asked.</p>
<p>“That you order a boat to take us ashore.”</p>
<p>“Yes, yes. See to it, my man,” he said to a
passing sailor. “Send the skipper to me.”</p>
<p>But when the skipper appeared François was beyond
the ability of giving orders. “A boat was to
take mademoiselle and myself ashore,” explained
Father Bisset, blandly. “Monsieur has been testing
too many of the good wines; I will assist him to
his room.” Still grasping François’s arm, he led him
to his cabin and saw him safely abed. “It was too
heady,” murmured François, drowsily.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[193]</span>Leaving him in a heavy slumber, Father Bisset
sought Alaine. “The moment has arrived,” he told
her; “the boat is ready to go.”</p>
<p>Marie stood watching them.</p>
<p>“Adieu, Marie,” said Alaine.</p>
<p>The woman did not move, but simply returned,
“Adieu, mademoiselle.”</p>
<p>Up the narrow, crooked streets of the town the
fugitives went, their faces set in the direction of the
convent. They walked rapidly, and Alaine nearly
lost breath as she climbed the steep rocky way, her
companion panting beside her. They paused near
the market-place. “Now we are here, the next
thing is to get out,” said Father Bisset. “We will
not linger long, my child, for we are safe only for so
many hours, and we must make the most of them.”
And he stalked on with increasing speed, looking
anxiously around as he turned from one crooked
street to another. From time to time he looked at
Alaine thoughtfully, as if puzzling over some question.
At last he entered a shop, bidding the girl to
follow him, and saying, “I would have you remember,
my daughter, that your brother, though younger,
is about your height.” The solution to these enigmatical
words was evident when he purchased a suit
of rough clothes, which he had made up into a bundle
and took under his arm. He paused at the door
of the shop as he was going out, and addressed the
shopkeeper. “Could monsieur recommend a cheap
and comfortable lodging where two could rest and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[194]</span>
await the arrival of the lad just mentioned?” Monsieur
could and did, with voluble directions pointing
the way.</p>
<p>A few minutes of chaffering and the bargain with
a sturdy Frenchwoman was made; but this done,
they were established for the nonce in a by-street
out of the way of general traffic.</p>
<p>About dawn there issued from the house two
figures; one of a lad in coarse clothing and the other
of the priest who had long ago exchanged his soutane
for a peasant’s dress. Down toward the water
front they took their way among the groups of singing
boatmen and coureurs de bois; farther and farther
along till the spars of the vessel in which François
Dupont still lay asleep were lost to sight, and
the waters of the St. Lawrence before them were
free of any craft save some light canoes. Yet farther
out, nearer the sea, the ships of a fleet were
sailing toward Quebec, the commander unconscious
that one victory to result from his attack would be
that affecting a girl fleeing from a persistent suitor.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[195]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XII<br>
<small>GENERAL JACQUES</small></h2>
</div>
<p><span class="smcap">Father Bisset</span> stood by the brink of the rushing
stream and looked up and down its banks. “Let
us reflect,” he said. “He will sleep late, till daylight,
perhaps, and he will not at once realize that I do
not intend to return. As for Marie, I think she will
say nothing, for it would do no good, and but bring
blame upon her. I think he will begin to suspect
when he receives the packet I left for him, a purse
which he handed to me for your use.”</p>
<p>“He dared to do that!”</p>
<p>“Yes; but it was kindly meant, and I was obliged
to receive it, but not to retain it. Very well, then,
he discovers the purse, and after a time he comes to
himself, and will immediately set out to make inquiry
at the convent. We have not been there,
then we have outwitted him and have escaped,
though perhaps he will not think I have taken you
out of the town, and he will search there first. All
this will take time, and we have a good start. I
think we are safe.”</p>
<p>Alaine’s hand on his arm tightened. “And you
think there is no danger from him? He will not
follow?”</p>
<p>“He may eventually, but we have some hours’<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[196]</span>
start. He must first satisfy himself that I do not
intend to return, and that you are at none of the
convents or anywhere in Quebec. The sleeping
potion which I put in the wine will not lose its effect
at once, and he will be stupid all day.”</p>
<p>“I cannot imagine how you were able to do this,”
Alaine said, thoughtfully. “Where did you get the
potion?”</p>
<p>“I took care to provide myself with several necessities
when I left France, and in case of emergency
I brought with me one or two weapons quite
as useful as a sword or a pistol. I know how to
use certain drugs, but I know little about wielding
implements of war. My little possessions, you may
remember, were brought aboard the vessel with me;
some of them remain there, the rest I have here.”</p>
<p>The soft purple light of an early October morning
hovered over the lofty bluffs of Point Levi, and a
delicate mist floated above plain and river. The
boatmen were beginning to gather, and their songs
were wafted upon the morning air. Silent and sleeping
the town still lay, its people unaware of the approach
of a little fleet, and not dreaming that the
guns of the fort would soon bellow forth a savage
greeting to Sir William Phipps.</p>
<p>To the fact of their being neither Dutch nor English
was now due the safety of Alaine and her companion.
A renegade priest might receive some sufferance
from the friends of Frontenac, himself none
too fond of the Jesuits, but with war upon them,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[197]</span>
the French would have shown small mercy to one
from the British colony of New York. Therefore
Father Bisset impressed it upon Alaine, “We are
French; we are from Rouen; we have come to
make our fortunes. Henceforth I am your uncle
Jacques, and thus you must address me. A boy
and his uncle will not be so easily traced as a girl
and the man she calls father. We will trudge along,
my nephew, and get a little beyond the town; we
shall not be very long in meeting some of those wild
woodmen of whom we both have heard much; we
shall in all probability have to spend some time
with them, therefore prepare yourself for a rough
life. For you, my child, it will be a hard experience;
for me, well, he must expect it who flees his country.
Fugitives from justice are many of these coureurs
de bois, and a fellow feeling will do much toward
establishing a good understanding.”</p>
<p>Through the woods, brilliant with the autumn
coloring in the keen Canadian air, they wandered,
pursuing the track of the river, and at last they
came upon a group of rough voyageurs intent upon
their noonday meal. “Does there happen to be one
Antoine Crepin among you?” asked Jacques Bisset
as he approached. “I am in search of him; a fugitive
from France am I, and I seek this Antoine, whom
I well knew in my youth.”</p>
<p>The men eyed him and looked askance at the delicate
features of this questioner’s companion. “Antoine
Crepin?” at last one spoke up. “I know him;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[198]</span>
he has gone farther along; he winters near Trois
Rivières always.”</p>
<p>“And do you go that way?”</p>
<p>“We go, yes, there or somewhere.”</p>
<p>“Have you room for two more in your party? I
have—what have I? Not much; a little of the silver
of France for our passage.” He carefully drew
some coins from his pouch.</p>
<p>The men conferred together. “We will take you.
Keep your money. It is share and share alike.
You and the boy there will need something to begin
life with, my friend. You have chosen a bad time
for your travels, with the country alive with disputes.
Up and down the river it is the same; they say the
English may approach. For ourselves we get out,
but we may fall into the hands of the Iroquois before
night. However, that is the life; one cannot
tell when one is in danger; one may be drowned or
be torn by a wild beast, or be scalped by an Indian;
one thing is as likely as another; it is all chance; if
you wish to take yours with us, very well.”</p>
<p>That wild journey, would Alaine ever forget it?
the frail canoes shooting through the whirling rapids
and borne on and on; the night beneath the bright
stars, with the cries of prowling beasts in her ears,
and the haunting dread of an Indian war-whoop
disturbing her dreams; those days when weird
songs and rude jests awoke the echoes in silent
places. She had not labored in field and garden
to be other than free of movement, and her skill<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[199]</span>
in cooking won her the approval of her rough companions.
It was even harder for Jacques Bisset to
hide the fact of his former calling than it was for
Alaine to disguise her sex, and many a laugh arose at
the old man’s expense. “He is schoolmaster; he is
scrivener; he is—what is he?” they cried. “And
he guards the lad as if he were taking him to a
monastery. Here, Alain, boy, leave that mother-man
of yours and we’ll give you a chance to kill a
deer, a chance you’ll not have had back there in
France.”</p>
<p>And Alaine would laugh and say, “I’d rather
cook your deer than kill him, and this uncle, he will
learn one day, though he is not young. Leave us
here to keep up the fire and cook your food; we
will sit and fish, and if you come home empty-handed
we maybe will have something for you.”
So they would troop off and leave them to watch
the camp till they returned with their game and
were ready to launch again upon the river, each day
bearing them farther from Quebec, where the guns
of the fort were growling out their defiance of the
doughty Phipps and where François Dupont had
awakened from his long sleep to one predominant
fact: the city was threatened; it was French, above
all it was French, and to arms he flew, remembering
for a time only dimly that there were such persons as
Father Bisset or Alaine Hervieu, or, if he remembered,
it was to feel a grim satisfaction that they were there
on his side. It was only after Frontenac’s valiant<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[200]</span>
defence, and when the bumptious Phipps sailed away
the worse off by eight vessels and many men, that
François began to think of his own affairs. “I
promised the old priest that I would wait for him.
Very well, I have waited. I shall find him, no doubt,
somewhere with the monks at the college or the
seminary. He may be assisting them at Notre Dame
des Victoires to decorate with trophies after this our
victory. Vive La France!” he shouted aloud at the
remembrance. “I, too, share in that victory.
Good! I first find Father Bisset, and then my vessel,
if she is not blown up. We shall set sail rather
later than we intended, but it is better than a few
days too soon, for we might by this time be prisoners
of that Phipps.”</p>
<p>To the convent he went. No priest and no
Mademoiselle Hervieu had ever been there. François
looked mystified. “It was uncommonly heady,
that wine,” he remarked to himself. “I scarcely
remember ever to have been so muddled by a little
bout; yet—ah, yes, he has taken alarm. He learned
that the English were coming and he removed himself
and mademoiselle to a safer place. He will
return. I sit here and wait; it is all that I can do.
He learns of victory and he returns. I said I would
wait, and I wait.”</p>
<p>More than once Alaine had seen Father Bisset take
from his pocket a paper which he studied carefully
and then seemed lost in thought, a proceeding which
brought forth jests from the rollicking voyageurs.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[201]</span>
“An order for good living, is it, Jacques Bisset?”
one would cry. “A letter from the king himself,
very likely,” put in a big fellow with an immense
voice to match his proportions. “We have here,
my friends, one carrying orders for Louis XIV.; he
will lead us against the English.” He bowed low,
sweeping the ground with his fur cap. “I have
discovered you, Monsieur le General Jacques Bisset.”
Every one joined in the laugh that followed, and
from that time he was dubbed General Jacques.</p>
<p>They had halted for their evening meal. Trois
Rivières was not a day’s journey from them. Squatting
around their fire they were preparing their meat
for spitting before the cheerful blaze; the nights
were waxing cold, and they huddled blinking in
close range of the acceptable heat. Suddenly Petit
Marc—so-called in sheer contrariness—slapped his
knee. “Son of a donkey! Senseless hooting owl!”
he cried. “I forget that it is near here that Antoine
Crepin has his lodge. It is near an Indian village
beyond the woods there. Come, General Jacques,
we can make it before it grows too late. If it is
Antoine you want, Antoine you shall have, though
how one can prefer the surly fellow to any of us
passes my comprehension. Here, boy, up with you,
for from the alacrity with which the general stirs his
bones it is good-by to us and how are you, Antoine?
We shall find him, I think; these last nights
have been cold enough to drive him in. Who’ll go
with us? You, Gros Edouard? You, Richard?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[202]</span>Two or three scrambled to their feet, and they set
out without further ado through the dim forest, their
torches aflare and their guns ready. “It is a little
more than a mile westward,” Petit Marc told them.
“We can trot it in no time and back again. Antoine
would rather have Indians for neighbors than
whites, and he is half right,” he added, in an aside.
“We’ll jog right on.” They proceeded Indian-file
through the leaf-carpeted wood, Petit Marc marching
ahead, and Richard with Gros Edouard bringing up
the rear. At last they came to a creek swollen with
the autumn rains; it was a turbulent little stream,
but it did not daunt the voyageurs. “We shall have
to swim it,” said Petit Marc, calmly looking up and
down the rising stream. “You, General Jacques, can
you use your fins? I’ll take the boy on my back,
for I’ll swear he can’t swim.” He looked Alaine up
and down. “How is it, son?”</p>
<p>Alaine shook her head.</p>
<p>“I thought so. Here, then, take me around the
neck, so, first, then slip your hands to my shoulders,
and hold hard. You needn’t be scared; I have carried
heavier bodies than yours across worse floods.
Here we go.” And he landed Alaine on the muddy
bank at the other side. Shaking himself like a huge
dog, he stood up to watch the progress of the remaining
members of the party. “Keep it up, general,”
he shouted, “you’ll soon make it. Help him,
boys; he hasn’t the muscle of the rest of us.” And,
indeed, the old man’s strength was nearly spent, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[203]</span>
after being dragged up the bank he dropped trembling
to the ground. Petit Marc pulled out a flask.
“Tickle your throat with that and you’ll be able to
come on, general,” he said.</p>
<p>A few minutes of rest sufficed to give breath to
the old man, and they continued their way to the
cabin, which stood but a short distance farther on.
With a ponderous rap Petit Marc beat on the door.
“Awake, there, Antoine,” he called. “Here is General
Jacques and a section of his army. Awake and
open in the name of the king.”</p>
<p>In an instant the door was opened and a face
peered out, showing in the flame of the torches suspicious
eyes and a grim, unsmiling mouth. “The
general here insisted upon making your house his
head-quarters,” said Petit Marc, grinning; “he has
written orders from the king to press us all into
service, and you are to provision the whole army.
We will have pity on you to-night, having supped
fairly well, and we’ll go back, but you’ll have to keep
him and the boy.” He gave the dripping figure of
Father Bisset none too gentle a push toward the
door.</p>
<p>“Antoine Crepin?” said the shivering old man.</p>
<p>“That is my name.”</p>
<p>“And Jeanne?”</p>
<p>Antoine looked closer, gave an exclamation of surprise,
and opened wide the door. Father Bisset entered
followed by Alaine. “It’s all right, boys,” said
Petit Marc; “the general is safe, and we return.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[204]</span>
Good-night, general; we shall expect to receive our
promotions in short order.” And with a loud laugh
Petit Marc and his companions turned back.</p>
<p>“He is very wet; he will take cold, I am afraid,”
said Alaine to the man, who was looking at her
curiously. “As for me,” she continued, “on that
broad back I scarcely touched the water enough to
hurt me.”</p>
<p>“But Jeanne?” Father Bisset interrupted.</p>
<p>Antoine placed his hand on the questioner’s
shoulder and conducted him across the floor to
where an inner room was roughly separated from
the larger apartment. Alaine did not follow, but
drew nearer the fire and crouched on the hearth to
wring the water from her damp moccasins and to
dry her sleeves. By the dim, flickering light she
saw that here was a dwelling of the rudest kind; a
roughly fashioned bench, a table, a pile of skins in
one corner, a few cooking-utensils, were all that she
could discern. From the inner room had come a
quick exclamation, a surprised scream of delight,
laughter and sobs mingled, and then voluble words
expressive of astonishment, commiseration, and inquiry.
Presently reappeared Antoine bearing a
light, and behind him came two figures. At first
sight these were so exactly alike that Alaine stared.
Were there two Father Bissets, one many years
younger than the other? She rubbed her eyes and
looked again. A red kerchief was tied around each
of these two heads; each wore a fringed deer-skin<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[205]</span>
jacket, below which was wrapped an Indian blanket.
The two faces showed alike kindly eyes, expansive
lips, and the same genial smile. Then the older
spoke. “This is Jeanne Crepin, my sister Jeanne,
who remembers well little Alaine Hervieu in her
babyhood.”</p>
<p>Alaine at once comprehended; this was the sister
of her old friend, the young sister of whom Michelle
had often told her, who had married a gay young
Parisian and had followed him overseas. There
was some difficulty, some crime which affected these
two, Alaine remembered, and they had not remained
to take any risks. It was said that Father Bisset
had covered the retreat, but of this no one could be
positive, but it seemed that all these years he had
kept track of the fugitives. It was all true, then,
and here they were.</p>
<p>“Alaine Hervieu resembles her mother,” came
Jeanne Crepin’s deep voice. “She is very welcome.”</p>
<p>“And now you know,” said Father Bisset, “why
I was not so concerned when I learned that our
destination would be Canada, for Canada I intended
to reach, whether by Hudson, by sea, or by land, it
mattered not, and I laughed in my sleeve that François
Dupont should be helping me on my way.”</p>
<p>Alaine smiled. She feared François no longer.
“And all these years you have been living in these
woods?” she asked of Jeanne.</p>
<p>“In these woods; they are kinder than cities.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[206]</span>
One can learn how to face open foes; it is those who
approach us as friends that are most to be feared.”</p>
<p>Antoine nodded gravely. Alaine looked at him
with some curiosity. Michelle had described him as
a handsome young cavalier, gay and full of life; this
serious, reticent old man did not answer to her
description. Was he really guilty of that mysterious
crime, and so bowed under the weight of it, or was
it the injustice of being considered guilty while he
was innocent that had embittered him? Alaine
wondered over it. But she was tired, and the
warmth of the room and the effect of a warm herby
drink given her soon made her drowsy, so that her
head began to droop, and she threw herself down
on the pile of skins in the corner, dimly conscious
that a low-voiced conversation went on for hours.
Although she felt more secure than she had for
weeks, she felt singularly lonely, and she slipped
into a sleep to dream that she struggled alone through
a sea whose waves ever beat her from the shore.</p>
<p>Having cast in his lot with these children of the
wood, Jacques Bisset followed as closely as possible
their manner of living, sallying forth into the crisp
cold air with gun on shoulder, joining in with the
mirth of Jeanne, holding friendly one-sided conversations
with such Indians as they met, and teaching
Alaine such woodcraft as he thought might be
useful to her. Antoine, himself grave and silent,
had a smile for no one but the cheerful Jeanne, yet
he showed his brother-in-law more graciousness of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[207]</span>
manner than he did any other. During the long
evenings there was time enough for talk, at least it
was Father Bisset who chiefly did the talking; Jeanne
would put in her eager, saucy questions, and Alaine,
well wrapped in furs, would crouch in a warm corner
and listen, yet often letting her thoughts wander.
Where were they, her father and Pierre, and—Lendert?
Yes, Lendert. Even here, and in spite of
all these changing scenes, she could not forget him.
The devotion of Jeanne and her husband touched
her deeply, and Antoine reminded her of Pierre.
Poor Pierre, if he had returned he would wait and
watch for her the rest of his days. But Lendert,
had he forgotten? Yet it was of Lendert she thought
the most frequently; it was Lendert she loved. There
had been moments of peril, moments of solemn
night when truth must be answered by truth; she
had tried to retreat, but truth had held her and
would be answered, and she, trembling, had confessed
to Danger and to Night, “There is one I love.
I cannot help it; I have tried with all my strength,
but Love is mightier than I, and I am slave to love.”
Then, as some red embers dropped with a soft brustle
from the burning logs, she would start from her
revery and come back to hear what Father Bisset
was saying. Now he spoke of Holland, then of
England. He had been in both places. Were they
surprised, Jeanne and Antoine, that he was Huguenot?
They had suffered; they would understand
that a matter of conscience,—well, that was it.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[208]</span>“A matter of conscience, yes, when one has fled
because of that there is nothing to say,” Jeanne
would say. “We owe it to you, Jacques, my brother,
that we have escaped to a place where the arm of law
does not touch us. We do not criticise you, he and
I; we have suffered too much from France ever to
wish to see that country again. We live a wild life;
there is not much religion in it, yet if one can believe
in God and in his justice, not man’s, he is not
altogether bad. I tell my beads; I say my prayers;
I have respected the priests because you were one.
Now, I hate the France that has persecuted you and
the Jesuits who would curse you.”</p>
<p>Alaine heard this, then slept, awaking to hear,
“The child Alaine must be returned to her friends.
I ask that of you, Antoine and Jeanne. I am an old
man, and of late I realize that I am not as strong as
I used to be. If I am removed I leave her to your
sacred charge. She must be taken to one of the
English or Dutch settlements in New York. I was
God’s instrument to save her from the pit digged
for her, and I have guarded her from all the evil that
I could. I may have been mistaken to bring her in
this disguise, but it seemed better so, and it was not
for long.”</p>
<p>“She is not much hurt,” laughed Jeanne. “Ma
foi! if I could stand it for all these years she could
stand it for two or three days. They are not so
desperately wicked, those that brought you here.
One may have been something worse than any<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[209]</span>
of them and still have remained respected in
France.”</p>
<p>“True, Jeanne, true,” growled Antoine.</p>
<p>“At all events,” continued Jeanne, “you need give
yourself no uneasiness; we will start forth as soon
as the weather permits and see her safe in one of
the settlements, and then we return here to live and
die together. As for the girl’s dress, it is a good one,
and warm at that. I wear much the same, and if I
had to travel about more than I do, I should not
cumber myself with anything more. It is quiet
enough and cold enough here to wear anything one
chooses.”</p>
<p>Alaine lifted her head and stretched out her feet
towards the blaze. “I am very comfortable,” she
said, “and I do not think I am likely to remember
or repeat all that patois of the crew which brought
us here, so give yourself no uneasiness, Uncle Jacques;
I am grateful to the very tip of my moccasins for
all that you have done for me. I want to go home,
yes, but I want to take you all with me.” The wave
of her hand included even the gloomy Antoine.</p>
<p>Jeanne laughed. “She would take us all, you
hear. Very well, let us go and see what Michelle
will do.”</p>
<p>“She will be very glad, I can assure you,” Alaine
returned, gravely.</p>
<p>“I am not so sure of that,” Jeanne responded.
“However, there is bitter weather before us, and
who shall say what may happen before spring?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[210]</span>Who, indeed, can say what may happen anywhere
while human passions are allowed to slip from their
leash? The wildest of solitary places is yet too
narrow to prevent the lifting of Cain’s hand against
his brother. And because of this, one day along
the snow-covered ground toward the lodge there
came a file of men led by Petit Marc, who carried
in his arms a burden. At every step there were red
stains to be seen marking the snowy path. Behind
Marc came Antoine, his arms held about the necks
of two others; he stepped feebly, as one not sure of
his way. At the door of the lodge the little company
paused, and Jeanne, hearing the shuffling feet,
opened to them.</p>
<p>“Mother of God!” she cried, “what is this?”</p>
<p>Petit Marc, without a word, entered and deposited
his burden in the clumsy chair which, covered with
furs, stood before the fire.</p>
<p>“Jacques!” cried Jeanne. “Antoine!” For a
moment she was helpless, looking from one to the
other.</p>
<p>“I am beyond remedy,” whispered her brother;
“go to Antoine.”</p>
<p>His friends had placed Antoine on the pile of
skins in the corner; and he lay there pressing his
hand to his side.</p>
<p>“You are hurt, my Antoine,” said Jeanne, the
moan of a woman entering into the deep tones of
her voice. She knelt beside him, touching him with
tender fingers.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[211]</span>Alaine, like one dazed, looked on. “How did it
happen? What is it?” she asked, turning to Petit
Marc.</p>
<p>Antoine half raised himself. “I will tell. He
called me a murderer, he, that wretched outlaw.
He recognized me, called me by name, taunted me.
I drew my pistol, but it was he who fired. Jacques
rushed between. ‘Jeanne cannot spare you,’ he
cried. He fell, and could I endure it? I rushed
upon him with my knife, but he was ready, I was
wounded and he has escaped.”</p>
<p>“Now God’s vengeance follow him!” Jeanne exclaimed.
“Who was it? Who, who, Antoine?”</p>
<p>“Victor Le Roux,” he whispered; “it was he. I
recognized him, as he did me, after all these years.
‘Hold there, Olivier Herault,’ he said; ‘murderer art
thou, and liar as well, if thou sayest I cheat.’”</p>
<p>Petit Marc lifted his head. He was chafing the
hands of the old man over whom he was bending.
“Olivier Herault!” he exclaimed. “And what of
him?”</p>
<p>“I am he,” said Antoine, faintly. He gently
pushed away the hand with which Jeanne would
have arrested the words.</p>
<p>Father Bisset opened his eyes and smiled. “Olivier
Antoine Crepin Herault, Jeanne’s husband,” he
said.</p>
<p>Petit Marc stood up, his giant form towering above
them all. “Olivier Herault? then an innocent man,”
he said, slowly.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[212]</span>“And why? Why?” Jeanne turned her rugged
face toward him, and Antoine essayed to stagger to
his feet.</p>
<p>Petit Marc looked toward the other men grouped
together by the door. “Here, my friends, this one,
Antoine here, I know him to be innocent of any
crime. Among us here in the woods it matters little
what a man has been, but there are some of us who
carry about with us the poison of an unjust charge.
Most of us make the best of it; we care but little;
we would rather be more free here than less free
there, and we would not go back to the old life, but
we do not tell of what is behind us; the present is
enough for us to live for. Yet when one may clear
a man, one may as well do it. More than ten years
ago one of my comrades, hurt by a falling tree, died
in my arms. He wished to confess his sins before
he departed, and he told me that he had fled from
France because of having murdered a man in a
quarrel. ‘For this crime,’ he said, ‘one Olivier
Herault is accused. I have heard that he escaped
on the eve of his arrest, and that there was a hue-and-cry
raised because of it. If you ever find him
give him my confession; write it out as I tell you.’
And I did; here it is.” He drew forth a torn,
stained bit of paper. “I sent word to France, but I
have never heard whether the message reached there.
I thought some day to find out, for I, too, Marc
Lenoir, know what it is to be falsely accused. The
law is not always so sure nor so just. Your innocence<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[213]</span>
is proved, Olivier Herault; no one believes in
mine.” He spoke simply, as one who long ago had
accepted a fact and made the best of it.</p>
<p>“Antoine! Antoine! do your hear?” cried Jeanne.
“Jacques, my brother Jacques, you, who believed in
him, who let him escape and said nothing, do you
not hear? You have saved him for this great
moment, my Jacques.”</p>
<p>There was a far-away look in the old man’s eyes;
he seemed not to know what was going on; he
gasped painfully. “Little Alaine,” he murmured,
“come here, little Alaine, and say your prayers before
I go. The angelus is ringing and it will soon be
your bedtime.”</p>
<p>Alaine with clasped hands and streaming eyes
crept to his knees and bowed there as a child before
its mother. He held her warm hands in his nerveless
ones, now growing so sadly cold. “Pater
Noster,” he began faintly, and Alaine sobbingly repeated,
“Pater Noster.”</p>
<p>“Qui es in cœlis.”</p>
<p>“Qui es in cœlis.”</p>
<p>“Sanctificetur nomen tuum;” the voice was growing
very faint.</p>
<p>“Sanctificetur nomen tuum;” the girl gathered
strength and repeated the words distinctly, following
the whispered sentences till one could no longer
hear them, and she finished the prayer alone.</p>
<p>Every one was kneeling. The cold light of a winter’s
sun touched the white hair of the old man with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[214]</span>
faint gold like a halo of glory. Alaine with bowed
head now sobbed unrestrainedly, not yet aware that
upon the lips of Father Bisset the Angel of Death
had set his seal.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[215]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XIII<br>
<small>A DAUGHTER OF THE WOODS</small></h2>
</div>
<p><span class="smcap">For</span> some moments no one spoke, then there was
a stir among the men, who, one by one, filed out,
until of them only Petit Marc was left. He, with
the half-dozen others, had made their winter quarters
near by, too indifferent to the affairs of war to
care to mix with the more zealous community, yet
ready to take up a cause at any time when there
seemed sufficient promise for adventure. A short
time before they had been joined by the man Victor
Le Roux, who had the name of being a hot-headed,
quarrelsome fellow, and a reckless one. Over some
matter concerning the division of the spoils of a
day’s hunt had begun the quarrel with Antoine.
Victor had recognized in Antoine an early acquaintance
with whom he had never been upon very good
terms, even in the old days of their youth, and he
lost no opportunity of showing his feeling. So little
value was set upon life in these wilds of America
that a touch, a word, and the swords would fly out,
the pistols would be drawn, and the man least on
his guard would come off worst.</p>
<p>Petit Marc reflected upon this as he stood regarding
Antoine, who, with burning gaze, did not remove<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[216]</span>
his eyes from the peaceful face of Father Bisset.
“He shall die,” at last said Marc.</p>
<p>Antoine looked up. “He shall die,” he repeated.</p>
<p>Marc held his pistol in his hand; he turned it
over and looked at it critically. “I promise you
that,” he said. “As for you, Antoine.”</p>
<p>“I must live to return to France to face them
there.”</p>
<p>Marc looked at him reflectively. “Is it worth
while?” he asked. “Life is short at best. We are
forgotten there; we may as well not stir up dead
embers from which no fire can again be kindled.
Who lives now that would care? I advise you to
remain and live out the life you have begun here; it
is a good life.”</p>
<p>“If I live, I will go back, but first I wish to know
that Victor Le Roux no longer lives. I wish first to
kill him.”</p>
<p>“And return with the stain upon your hands of
which they were clean when you left?” Marc continued.</p>
<p>Antoine fell back upon his uncouth bed. “One
does not expect moralizing from you, Marc Lenoir,”
he said.</p>
<p>Marc smiled. “No, I profess nothing. I am become
a coureur de bois; I do not belie my character.
I do not pretend to be anything else than a
lawless runner of the woods, a man who cares for
neither God, man, nor the devil. I have no wish to
vaunt a claim to respectability, even, grant you, a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[217]</span>
right to do so is accorded me. I escaped the country
after a charge of robbery, a political robbery at that.”
He laughed. “As if that were an uncommon thing.
Ma foi! if every political robber were transported to
the colonies, what an immense increase there would
be in the population! I never wronged a man in my
life, unless the sending of a half-dozen Iroquois to
the Happy Hunting-Grounds be considered a wrong
to them. I do not go now to France for justice; I
work it out for myself here, and I say that Victor Le
Roux must die. I constitute myself judge, and I
shall not find it hard to discover the executioner.”
He turned and left the room, closing the door very
gently.</p>
<p>It was days before he returned, and then it was
to find that for Father Bisset had been made a grave
in a sheltered spot in the forest, and that by his side
lay Antoine Crepin, who never again saw France,
but who hugged to himself the promise of his return
even up to the last moment. “We will go in
the spring, Jeanne,” he said over and over. “In
the spring, when I am well and strong, and the
leaves are coming out. We will take the child to
Manhatte, and will sail from there.” But it was to
an eternal spring that he went home.</p>
<p>In these years Jeanne Crepin, always cheerful,
humorous, vivacious, had enlarged these qualities by
adding a devil-may-care manner. Spontaneously
free and easy by nature, she had found no curb
necessary in this life of unrestrained wildness, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[218]</span>
it suited her. Her husband’s bitterness of spirit
caused him to grow taciturn and grim, making him
look a much older man than he was, and, to offset
this, Jeanne, at first in desperation, and later in
natural response to her limitless environment, was
always ready with jest, with smile, with song. The
coquetries of her girlhood were exchanged for a
certain audacity which stood her in good stead with
the rough voyageurs, who were about her only
friends, unless one excepted the Indian squaws and
their braves. Deeply as she loved her brother and
her husband, and faithfully as she mourned them,
hers was not a nature to brood, and she simply
checked off her grief as one more wrong to lay to
the charge of France, and accounted it no treachery to
say that she abjured her country.</p>
<p>“For me what has France done? Sent us here,
Antoine and I. Not so bad, you say? No, but one
suffers before one gets used to it, and now Jacques
lies there in the forest. God knows I am thankful
he had not more to endure, yet, for all that, I lay
his death to the charge of those who haled him out
of his quiet corner. And Antoine, was he not
hounded and pursued by vindictive wretches who
took on hearsay his guilt when he was innocent?
Do I forgive France the bitterness of his life, the putting
out of the light of his youth? No, long ago
Antoine and I decided that we owed France nothing.”</p>
<p>She was talking to Petit Marc, who had stopped
to tell her the news from the settlements and to ask<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[219]</span>
how the boy fared. He had just returned from a
long journey. What he had accomplished he did
not tell, save that Victor Le Roux had come to his
end at the hands of two Indians. “He deserved
what he got,” Marc said, laconically, and Jeanne did
not question further.</p>
<p>“The boy?” Jeanne in her half-mannish attire
stood in the doorway of her lodge; she looked
quizzically at Petit Marc. “The boy is well enough.”
She laughed softly. “I shall keep him here till the
snows are gone.”</p>
<p>“And then?” Petit Marc asked.</p>
<p>“Time enough to tell when the time comes.”
Jeanne snapped her fingers as if to dismiss the
subject.</p>
<p>Petit Marc stood shifting his cap from hand to
hand. “Can’t I see him? You keep him as close
as if he were a week’s old baby.”</p>
<p>Jeanne laughed again. “If you can keep a secret,
Marc Lenoir, you may see my baby.”</p>
<p>“If it is a secret that has the boy in it, you may
trust me.”</p>
<p>Jeanne gave an assenting nod which invited Marc
to follow her indoors, and he saw, sitting demurely
by the open fire, Alaine deftly sewing together bits
of doeskin. She wore a little cap set upon her
brown curls, and despite her furry jacket and leather
leggings, there was such an unmistakable air of
femininity in her attitude and employment that Marc
at first stared, and then exclaimed, “A girl!”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[220]</span>“Surely. A young lady of good birth, Mademoiselle
Hervieu, of Rouen, now in flight from a
would-be lover, who more than once has carried her
off, and from whom she has as often miraculously
escaped. On this account she has disguised herself,
for she wishes to elude discovery till she is safe at
home again.”</p>
<p>Petit Marc stood abashed before the young lady,
but Alaine smiled and dimpled. “You need not be
afraid of me, Petit Marc,” she said. “I am as good
a friend as when you taught me how to trap a
beaver. Sit down and tell me about them all, Gros
Edouard, Ricard of the big nose, and all the rest.
I shall never forget how good you all were to me on
that wild journey from Quebec.”</p>
<p>Petit Marc dropped his big hulk on a bench and
sat looking at the fire; then he turned to Alaine
with a dawning smile. “No wonder that General
Jacques stood guard over you, and looked as if he
would skin and devour us one after another if we
so much as said ‘the devil!’ in your presence. He
had a way, that General Jacques, and we all wondered
afterwards why on that trip we kept our
mouths so uncommonly sweet. Yet, mademoiselle,
I think you must have heard some things you never
heard before.”</p>
<p>Jeanne spoke up sharply. “You need not remind
her of that, Petit Marc. It is I who now stand
guard.”</p>
<p>“You!” Petit Marc burst into a rousing laugh.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[221]</span>
“My faith, Jeanne, you will have to walk backward
for more than one year before you come to where
you left off being a lady.”</p>
<p>Jeanne glowered at him. “I have not forgotten
how,” she returned; “but you, Petit Marc, could
never have been a gentleman even at your best, and
when you were there in Paris, of which you pretend
to know so much. Circumstances did not need to
change you so noticeably. For me, I repeat, I do
not forget, and one need not wear court manners to
be called a good woman.”</p>
<p>Petit Marc became suddenly sober, although he
said, lightly enough, “Ta, ta, Jeanne, it was but a
rough joke, the like you have heard dozens of times.
You are become suddenly touchy, and no wonder.
You shall not complain of me again, and if you need
me, I, too, will remember that it does not take court
manners to make one a good man. I will remember
that—if I can.” He laughed again. Nothing long
disturbed his gay humor. He would be ready for a
jocular remark a moment after he had killed his
worst enemy or buried his best friend. He stretched
his huge length along the bench and looked good-naturedly
at Jeanne, who responded with a half-smile.
“I pray you keep to that,” she said. “If I
want you, I shall expect you to come.”</p>
<p>“I will come.” He rose to his feet. “But at
present I go. I will look in to-morrow, Jeanne.
Adieu, mademoiselle.” He bowed with a grace not
learned from savages and went out.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[222]</span>“Ta, ta, ta,” said Jeanne. “He is not so bad,
after all, and we shall need him some day. I shall
not soon forget what he has done for us all, poor
Petit Marc.” She sighed, but recovered herself at
once. She was stoically gay with Alaine, who, nervous
and overwrought, was none too amiable these
days. It seemed that the association with Jeanne
had given back some of the petulance of her childhood.</p>
<p>“You are so big, so like a man, Jeanne,” she
would say. “How can you pretend to know what
a girl feels? You keep me shut up here like a rabbit
in a hutch, and I want to go; I must go. I am
weary of this life. How long do we stay?”</p>
<p>“Till I learn to remember the graces of my youth,”
Jeanne would reply, laughing. “You will be ashamed
of me there among your friends. How does one
carry a train, for example?” And she would give
her blanket a sweep across the floor with the air of
a court lady.</p>
<p>“So foolish you are, Jeanne. We do not wear
court clothes at New Rochelle, and besides, you
know they do not countenance the papists there.
So, what are you going to do about that?”</p>
<p>“Am I, then, a papist?” Jeanne looked meditative.
“I think I buried all that with Jacques. I
am whatever is convenient, Alaine. I am like those
fish which are one thing up here among the French
and another down there with the Dutch. Call me
whichever you will, I am to the taste of whoever<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[223]</span>
likes me. I am a man, am I? Then come sit on
my knee and be my sweetheart.” And she would
seize Alaine bodily, giving her a sounding smack,
and jolt her up and down till she begged for mercy.</p>
<p>It was worth while to see this daughter of the
woods go stalking off, gun in hand, in the direction
of the Indian village, where she was well known
and liked for her fearlessness, her kindliness, and
her skill. The Man-Wife they called her, or Jeanne
the white brave. Whistling she would go, her great
snow-shoes planted dexterously at every step, and
returning, would bring such game as she had shot
or trapped or could barter for. More than once
Alaine had begged the life of a wounded squirrel or
a timid rabbit, till the lodge by degrees became the
home of several of these pets, these serving as company
for Alaine, who, in Jeanne’s absence, bolted
and barred in, passed long solitary hours.</p>
<p>For all Jeanne’s brave front, Alaine would sometimes
find her sitting on the floor of the inner room,
in her eyes the agony of love and longing as she
held hugged to her the old leathern jacket Antoine
had worn, or pressed to her cheek the dingy fur cap
which had dropped from his head that day when
they brought him home. Therefore Jeanne did not
forget, but made her moan silently. Under the indifferent
manner toward matters religious Alaine
discovered, too, a conscience as that of a Puritan,
an unswerving fidelity to truth, to purity, and righteous
dealing. Jacques Bisset spoke the truth when<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[224]</span>
he called his sister a good woman. The men might
laugh and joke with her, but only to a certain point,
beyond that she was as prim as a Quaker, and they
knew the limit. With the Indians she was uniformly
frank and considerate, never failing to be generous
in her trades with them. Therefore the forest could
not hold a better guardian for a wandering maid
than Jeanne Crepin.</p>
<p>In her fur cap and jacket, her leathern breeches
and short skirt, with her gruff voice and her great
height, one could scarce discern that she was not
a man, a fact which she rather enjoyed. “Who
cares what I am?” she would say. “So long as I
know how to make my way and am comfortable so,
I do not care.” She had made Alaine a similar costume.
“We will travel in this dress,” she told her,
“and while they are puzzling over whether we are
men or women, it will give us the advantage. We
will start before the Iroquois begin their raids. I
know the language of some of their tribes, and I
think I can manage to get on, yet it is not altogether
a pleasure jaunt we will take. At first I thought we
would best go alone, but I think we will let Petit
Marc go with us, at least part of the way, till we
cross into the Dutch country. You know a little of
their language?”</p>
<p>“A little, and some English.”</p>
<p>“We shall do, I think. Down the river to the
Richelieu, through the lake to the carrying-place,
and then down the Hudson. I have studied it all<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[225]</span>
out. Petit Marc has been there to Orange, and he
knows. Now, teach me the English words you
know, and see if I can remember some of the manners
I had when I was a girl. Does one courtesy so?
And what does a woman say when a man praises
her beauty?”</p>
<p>Alaine laughed at the simper upon Jeanne’s face
and the awkward dip of her gaunt figure.</p>
<p>“I shall want to overpower Michelle with my
elegance,” Jeanne rattled on. “Michelle the housekeeper,
the nurse of the Hervieus, and I the wife of
as gay a cavalier as one could find in all Paris, and
now——” She stretched out her hands, knotted
and browned. “Where is the Jeanne Bisset who
could grace a silken robe, and whose hands were as
soft as the laces which covered them? She is gone,
and Michelle rises, the wife of a man of education
and good blood. I am a daughter of the woods,
the wife of an outcast. So it goes. Yet I would
not have it otherwise; it was for you, Antoine,” she
murmured. Then with a twirl of her body she cut
such a caper as set Alaine laughing. “How does
one dance a figure?” she asked.</p>
<p>“We shall probably find you do not forget the
dancing,” the girl returned. “I think we can spare
you that lesson, Jeanne.”</p>
<p>“Then be you Michelle and I the grande dame
of her remembrance.” Jeanne’s quick fingers fashioned
a turban from her kerchief. She spread a fur
robe across her knees, picked up the turkey-tail they<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[226]</span>
used for sweeping up the hearth, and assumed a
languishing air.</p>
<p>“Madame Herault.” Alaine swept her a courtesy.</p>
<p>“Ah, my good Michelle, I remember you quite
well. You used to give me curds and whey in your
dairy. Do you still manage a dairy, Michelle?”</p>
<p>“Yes, madame, but a small affair, not to be compared
to that which you remember.”</p>
<p>“And your good husband? I hear he is something
of a student. Do you find time to assist him
in his studies?”</p>
<p>“No, madame; on the contrary, he assists me to
plough a furrow to make the garden, to gather in our
crops.”</p>
<p>“Indeed?” Jeanne raised her eyebrows in such
supercilious surprise that Alaine clapped her hands.</p>
<p>“You have not forgotten, Jeanne. You will do!
I feel myself quite crushed by your elegance.”</p>
<p>Jeanne threw aside her robe and the turkey-tail
she carried for a fan and jumped to her feet. “But
it would weary me, it would weary me. Ciel! when
I remember the hours one must sit trussed up in
tight clothes!” She gave her shoulders a hitch.
“It wearies me but to remember it. No, I will not
return to civilization, Alaine.”</p>
<p>“Then what will you do?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know. As my brother would say, I
will do the Lord’s will.” The light was sinking in
the sky. Outside howled the wolves and the wintry
winds; it was desolate, desolate. But with the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[227]</span>
touch of spring would come the Iroquois roused to
action, and those who ventured from their fortified
places might never expect to see home again. Better,
safer, to go farther up the country away from the
bordering river lands, to fear no worse foe than the
beasts of the forests, thought Jeanne. She sank into
the big chair and rested her chin in her hands.
“Life is sweet; it is strange that it is so; and if we
go away yonder we may face terrible death. Better
to slip out of the world and die by wasting disease
than to be captured and tortured. Shall we not
stay, Alaine? We can go far from the dangers of
war. Who cares for the glory of France or England
now?” She sat gazing into the fire, her dark hair,
which she had unbound to play the lady, falling about
her face. “Petit Marc says there will be war-parties
everywhere when the spring opens,” she continued.
“One cannot be safe anywhere along the
border.”</p>
<p>“I would rather die by the way,” Alaine cried
out. “I will go, Jeanne; I must.” Then, after a
pause, “I am selfish, Jeanne. I will not have you
go with me. I will not allow you to take the risk
of capture or a worse death. I will find the way
somehow.”</p>
<p>Jeanne sat up straight. “We will go together.
Enough said. As well one way as another. Would
it be worth my while to stay alone? If death, the
sooner I meet Antoine. If capture, I can bear it. I
am used to the ways of the Indians; it might not be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[228]</span>
so hard to me, after all. Yes, we will go, Alaine. I
fear more for you than for myself, that is all.”</p>
<p>Therefore, before the last snows had melted or
the first bluebird had come, Alaine set free her pets:
the squirrel which had become so tame that he would
hide his nuts in her hair; the rabbit which hopped
after her everywhere she went, and which now
scurried off into the nearest brush; the cunning fox-cub
with his bright, sharp eyes, which had been wont
to curl himself up into a sleepy ball in her lap, but
which now pricked up his ears and set out jauntily
to seek adventures. “Adieu, my little friends,”
sighed Alaine; “you go into the woods where are
enemies you know not of, and I go my way into like
dangers. We shall never see each other again.”
She watched them disappear. Into what perils
were they going who seemed to be so glad of freedom?
The talons of an eagle, the fangs of a wolf,
the bullet from a hunter’s rifle, might end the existence
of any or all of them before night.</p>
<p>She turned sadly away to join Petit Marc and
Jeanne, who, standing side by side, seemed as if they
might be the children of a giant race. As they
passed by the two graves under a sombre pine they
all paused; Jeanne knelt, the other two walked on.
A few moments later Jeanne joined them; she did
not look back, nor did she have jest or word for
either of her companions until they reached the
water’s edge, where Marc made ready to launch his
canoe.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[229]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XIV<br>
<small>PIERRE, THE ENGAGÉ</small></h2>
</div>
<p><span class="smcap">During</span> all these months it had not fared well with
Pierre Boutillier. A baleful star seemed to control
his life. Of a poetic, morbidly religious temperament,
he was of the stuff of which martyrs are
made. His love for Alaine represented the poetry
of his nature; his voluntary sacrifice the depth of
his religious fervor. Had he remained in the Roman
Church he would probably have entered some austere
order of monks, and, by repeated scourgings and
penances, would have become a saintly father; as it
was, he was resolved that his love demanded a consecration
of his life, and he sailed away in search of
a battle to fight or a martyrdom to endure.</p>
<p>The martyrdom was in sight when he approached
the shores of Guadaloupa. It had been but two or
three years since he had escaped from that place, a
slave running away from a cruel master. It was the
policy of those who led the persecution of the Huguenots
to make the life of the engagé as hard as
possible, as a warning to those uncertainly arrayed
upon the side of the Protestants and as a means
of compelling any to conform. Therefore, half-starved,
beaten, hard worked, the poor engagé lived
till his strength failed under the burning suns and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[230]</span>
he died, less considered than the beasts of the
field.</p>
<p>It was with a momentary feeling of weakness, of
heart-sickness, and desire to retreat that Pierre set
foot on shore. He could feel the lash of the whip,
he could hear the coarse jeers, the taunts, the curses.
He could see the face of his master, insolently cruel.
He stood a moment irresolutely looking about him,
and then slowly proceeded toward a building the
use of which he seemed to know. Here were various
offices, and here he would find the ship’s lists.
Was there one Theodore Hervieu upon them? If
so, where could he be found? A man with keen
eyes rapidly examined the lists. No, there was no
one of that name. Still, one could not tell; there
were those who were sent out as convicts under
assumed names. It might not be impossible to find
such a one. Yet, it took time and money. A
good ransom offered, and there would probably be
a response if the man were still alive. Was there
anything in it for one who knew the methods? if
so—— Pierre shook his head. No, not much; the
man was an engagé, Huguenot, he had promised
friends to make inquiry.</p>
<p>“Pouf!” A wave of the hand dismissed all interest
in the subject. “Let him go. He is dead, in
all probability, and a good riddance. It would take
weeks to follow it up, unless one had a certain
clue?” And the official settled himself back, while
Pierre went out and gazed up the long road. He<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[231]</span>
stood for a moment thinking, and then slowly advanced
up the dusty way leading to the plantation
he best knew.</p>
<p>He had no need to travel far. His was not a face
to forget; he had not walked far when he came face
to face with the man who called himself his master,
and from whom he had escaped three years before.
The recognition was mutual; the red-faced, testy
man who confronted the pale young Huguenot raised
his heavy stick. “Dog of a Huguenot! Knave!
Vile renegade! You dare to return and face me!”
The stick descended upon Pierre’s head and
shoulders, blow after blow fell until, bruised and unconscious,
he lay at his master’s feet, to remain there
till some one could be sent to take him up and bear
him to the slave’s quarters on the plantation, there
to lie, bereft of reason, for days. “He shall have
the full benefit of the lash when he is able to stand
up!” roared the planter. “Did he think to fool
me? I do not forget faces, and he shall serve his
time and then double it, the impudent whelp. Let
me know when he is on his feet.” And to this prospect
Pierre was to awaken.</p>
<p>Meanwhile, from the port of New York had set
out a vessel laden with merchandise for the Carriby
Islands. The cargo, carefully selected, was looked
after by one of the owners of the vessel, who, sailing
southward, would carry his goods to be exchanged
for sugar, molasses, and rum, with such articles as
could readily find a sale in the burgh of New York.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[232]</span>
He was a tall, well-formed young fellow, this trader,
who talked little, thought much, and saw a great
deal. He had made his journey into the wilds of
the country, and had proved himself a good man in
the matter of bringing home pelts, and this being
his first venture in foreign fields, he was more than
usually concerned. Beyond this, another matter
lay very near his heart, for, with practical forethought,
along with this expedition, which he hoped
would benefit him financially, he was bent upon
carrying out a plan over which he had spent many
hours of thought. This was nothing more nor less
than the release of one Theodore Hervieu, who, he
had heard, was bondman in Guadaloupa, for Lendert
Verplanck was setting about his errand in a very
different way from that which suggested itself to the
less practical Pierre. He would hunt up Pierre, and
the two would proceed to discover M. Hervieu.
They would return and let Alaine’s father decide
which was the better man of the two.</p>
<p>Lendert measured Pierre by his own standards,
and had not much faith in the young Huguenot’s
efforts at liberating M. Hervieu. In his quiet way
Lendert had observed a great deal, and he felt sure
that, ardent and zealous as Pierre might be, his plans
would lack system, and so fall short of their object.
The matter had been given careful thought by the
young Dutchman. He knew the laws of the colony
forbade a marriage without the consent of parents,
and the thing, therefore, was to obtain M. Hervieu’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[233]</span>
consent, and then his own mother’s approval. Lendert
realized that he had set himself something of a
task, but his slow persistence in overcoming difficulties
would avail him much, and he would take
time. Yes, he would not go about it with a rush, as
Pierre did; he would take time.</p>
<p>And so he sailed to Guadaloupa, sold his cargo,
made his inquiries, learned next to nothing, and then
sailed home again to think it over and to decide
what to do next. He returned to find Alaine lost,
Pierre still absent, and no light anywhere to guide
him. But true to his usual method of proceeding,
he resolved to take time to think about what to do
next, not counting Alaine lost to him till it were
proved so, and not believing Pierre dead till he
found out that there was no possibility of his being
alive. Then he decided that the next thing to do
was to make another trip and find Pierre, about
whose movements he had further satisfied himself,
and had evidence that he had shipped for Guadaloupa
and had landed there. Before he should go
Lendert determined that he would first see Michelle
and Papa Louis to discover if they had anything to
add to their first news of Alaine’s disappearance.
Next he would see his mother, and then he would
make his second trip, having a little more now to
put into his next cargo. Having arranged this business,
he set out for New Rochelle.</p>
<p>It was with some moderate excitement that Trynje
Van der Deen ran up to the goede vrow De Vries<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[234]</span>
one morning in May. Two Frenchmen were below
asking shelter. Were they to be admitted? Might
they not be spies? The lad, to be sure, had a
pretty face and the man looked pleasant, and both
were dressed rather oddly. Trynje was suspicious,
and would the mistress of the house say what was
to be done?</p>
<p>In all her breadth of petticoats the lady descended
to the yard where stood the two wayfarers. The
elder could speak no Dutch and knew but little
English; the other could speak a little of both, and
assured the goede vrow that they but wanted shelter
and directions for reaching New York. “We are Huguenots,”
was announced, “and have escaped many
perils and have gone through many adventures.”</p>
<p>Madam De Vries looked the little figure over, and
saw that the tanned, roughened hands were slender
and the brown eyes wistful and full of intelligence.</p>
<p>“We are not beggars; we are but unfortunates
who escape from our enemies,” said the lad, in broken
English.</p>
<p>“Take them to Maria,” said Madam, turning to
Trynje; “she can see that they are lodged and fed.
When they are satisfied and are rested, fetch the
boy to me.”</p>
<p>Trynje obeyed and cast many curious looks at the
graceful lad, who ate heartily enough, but seemed ill
at ease under the girl’s scrutiny. Yet he followed
her willingly when summoned to return to the
house.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[235]</span>Trynje ushered her charge into Madam’s presence,
and stood waiting to hear what was to be said next.
“You need not stay, Trynje,” said Madam. “Go
and look after the looms for me like a good child.”
Trynje smiled and obeyed. She rather liked this
intimacy which the treatment of her as a daughter
of the house implied.</p>
<p>Madam sat silent for a few moments after Trynje
left, her eyes observing closely the figure before her.
“I want a boy about the place,” she said in French.
“Will you stay and work for me? My son is away,
gone on some mysterious errand, and I am much
alone. Were it not for my little friend who gives
me her frequent presence, I should be left with only
my servants. Can you read and write?”</p>
<p>“In French, yes. A little, also, in both Dutch
and English.”</p>
<p>Madam nodded with a satisfied air. “Better and
better. Will you stay? I will pay you well.”</p>
<p>Alaine’s lips twitched. It seemed an amusing
situation. Should she disclose her sex? She would
not without first speaking to Jeanne. “I must consult
my uncle,” she replied.</p>
<p>“Ah, yes; he is your uncle?”</p>
<p>“Not really, but the same as one; but for him I
should be farther from home than I am now.”</p>
<p>“At all events, then, you can stay awhile. I can
find plenty for both of you to do. My overseer has
fallen ill, and there is not any one who can take his
place; perhaps your uncle would help me there,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[236]</span>
and for you I can find writing to do. I have need
of a secretary, being given to other employments
which I like better than that of writing letters. Let
me see, you must be better clad. My son’s clothes
would be much too large for you. We will see what
can be done. Call Trynje for me; you will find her
in the sitting-room by this time.”</p>
<p>Alaine withdrew and summoned the girl, who ran
ahead, Alaine slowly following.</p>
<p>From her chatelaine, from which depended many
articles, Madam took a big key. “Go to the large
chest, the oak one on the west side of the upper
hall, and bring me a roll of linen,” she bade Trynje.
“We must contrive a shirt for this boy, whom I
shall take into the house.”</p>
<p>A red flush mounted to Alaine’s cheek, but she
stood watching Trynje’s movements. As the girl
knelt before the chest the sun shone on her yellow
hair and smote the red of her cheek. She was a
pleasant-looking little Dutch maid, round-faced and
blue-eyed, slow of movement and of speech. Alaine
waited while she brought the roll of linen and
dropped it into Madam’s lap.</p>
<p>“This will do,” said that lady. “Here, boy, kneel
here and I will measure you. Truly he has a pretty
face,” she said aside to Trynje, and Trynje smiled at
Alaine, who in good fellowship smiled back, and
then Trynje dropped her eyes.</p>
<p>“Roll up the sleeve of that jerkin you wear,”
Madam commanded, and Alaine obeyed. The firm,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[237]</span>
smooth arm, muscular and strong as it was, seemed
too shapely and delicate for a boy, and Madam
dropped the linen, looking searchingly into the girl’s
face. “Stand up,” she said, and she herself arose,
laying her hand lightly upon the girl’s shoulder.
Then she laughed. “Here, Trynje,” she cried, “your
blushes were for naught; ’tis not a boy at all, but a
girl. Tell us your story, little maid. I might have
known from the first.” And Alaine, smiling and
blushing, gave an account of herself, but said nothing
of her companion.</p>
<p>“So! So!” cried Madam. “Such a romance,
and your lover is probably there waiting for you.”</p>
<p>“My lover?” Alaine gasped.</p>
<p>“Yes; not that kidnapping Frenchman, but the
one you say has gone to rescue your father. He
will have returned. Yes, yes, I see, we must not
detain you too long. Go now with Trynje and let
her dress you up. I would see how you look in the
dress that best becomes a maid.” She gave her a
gentle push toward Trynje’s outstretched hand of
invitation. “She has a romance too, has Trynje,”
Madam continued, playfully. “Let her tell it you.”</p>
<p>Alaine followed the sturdy little Dutch girl, and
was herself soon petticoated and pranked out to
Trynje’s delight. Alaine regarded herself in the
glass. “It does not so become me as you,” she remarked,
“for I have not your fair skin and yellow
hair. I do not look like a Dutch girl with my crop
of curls instead of those long yellow braids.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[238]</span>Trynje laughed. “No, but you will do. Come,
I will take you down to Madam.”</p>
<p>“And the romance?” Alaine paused to ask.</p>
<p>Trynje looked down. “It is that Madam desires
me for her daughter-in-law.”</p>
<p>“And you?”</p>
<p>“My parents do not know this; they have another
in view.”</p>
<p>“But you prefer this one?”</p>
<p>Trynje shook her head. “I do not tell that,” she
replied, laughing.</p>
<p>Madam struck her hands softly together as the two
reappeared. “A better maid than man,” she cried.
“Go fetch the Frenchman, Trynje; we will surprise
him. Hurry back and let us see you both together.”
She laughed as she looked again at Alaine’s curly
head. “Yes, one can see that you are not a Dutch
girl,” she said. “There, place yourself in that corner
and Trynje by your side.” She turned them from
the light when Trynje returned to take her place,
and then at Jeanne’s entrance she went forward to
meet her. “I am glad to receive and entertain
travellers,” she said, graciously. “M. Crepin, let
me present you to Trynje van der Deen and——”
But Jeanne perceived and joined in the laugh.
“Alaine!” she cried. “Thou, little one, art discovered.”</p>
<p>“Madam wished to employ me,” said Alaine, “but
now she understands——”</p>
<p>“She still wishes you to remain as long as you<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[239]</span>
will if you will do her the service of helping her to
manage her affairs.” She looked at Jeanne.</p>
<p>“We thank you, madam,” said Jeanne, with a
bow which would have done François Dupont credit.
“My niece there is greatly wearied. It is no small
journey to take, and when there is war in the land
there is more danger to be looked for than that of
rapid streams and wild beasts.”</p>
<p>“He who led you thither, where is he?”</p>
<p>“He left us when we were safe in English possessions.”</p>
<p>“I would have had him here also, for he must be
as brave as yourself. I am alone, save for my servants,
and I stand in continual fear of a raid from
some of your Indians. Yet, I do not wish to leave.
I expect my son at any time, and hope I can persuade
him to remain. I manage this place with the
help of an overseer and the servants, but one needs
also a man of one’s own family. When he marries,”
she glanced at Trynje, “I can hope to keep
him at home.”</p>
<p>The two girls had retired to the window. Jeanne
noted the direction of Madam’s glance. “It is, then,
your future daughter-in-law that we see?”</p>
<p>“It is my future daughter-in-law,” replied Madam,
compressing her lips. “My son must obey my desire
in such a matter. You will remain, M. Crepin?”</p>
<p>“Till chance favors our journey farther.”</p>
<p>“A few days more or less can make no difference.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[240]</span>“Delays are dangerous, and hope deferred maketh
the heart sick. The child there has friends who
mourn for her, who sicken with doubt and dread.”</p>
<p>“I understand that, yet I would fain detain you
till my son returns. He can give you the best information
about reaching your home, and will see that
you have safe conduct down the river to Albany. The
girl has led too rough a life, I fear, but I would like to
give Trynje a young companion, yet I wonder would
it be safe for her.” She spoke reflectively, as if
not addressing any one, but upon Jeanne’s face came
a look such as her brother wore upon occasions.</p>
<p>She controlled herself, however, and said, simply,
“The girl is a good child, madam. I have guarded
her as my own daughter. She is as pure and sweet
as yonder maiden could possibly be.”</p>
<p>“But she has spent days in the company of rough
men, has heard their ribald jests, their low songs.”</p>
<p>“She has not, for in her presence, boy though
they supposed her to be, they dared not say or sing
anything she might not hear.”</p>
<p>Madam smiled. “The fact does you credit.”
She waved her hand as if to dismiss the subject.</p>
<p>Jeanne bowed. After the storm and stress of the
past few weeks it would not be unpleasant to take a
little rest. “Meanwhile,” continued Madam, with a
bright glance at Alaine, “we will contrive to get
word to the girl’s friends. It will be enough that
they know she is safe and will return when opportunity
allows. Yes, that is how we must manage it,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[241]</span>
and then you need be in no haste to depart. I will
myself send letters to Orange.” She leaned her
head on her hand and looked out and beyond the
tall figure before her into the light of spring. Jeanne
felt herself dismissed, but Madam recalled her.
“You will not refuse to join us at meals, M. Crepin?
and if I need the girl’s quick fingers with my letters,
you will not disallow it?”</p>
<p>“We shall both be grateful, madam.”</p>
<p>Madam leaned nearer and asked, “She inherits
estates in France?”</p>
<p>“She would if she were disposed to relinquish
her religion, otherwise they are confiscate.”</p>
<p>“Ah! They are fair estates?”</p>
<p>“Very fair. Her father possessed wealth and
position, now both will be transferred to the eldest
son of his sister, one Étienne Villeneau.”</p>
<p>“Whom the girl does not fancy?”</p>
<p>“As cousins they were good friends, but as husband
and wife, that is another thing.”</p>
<p>“This other, the wild, piratical Dupont, of whom
the girl told me, what is his object?”</p>
<p>“That, madam, I have yet to learn. He desires
to marry mademoiselle, it would seem.”</p>
<p>“For her possible wealth?”</p>
<p>“I think not.”</p>
<p>“For love of her?”</p>
<p>“Again, I think not.”</p>
<p>“Then, why? I wish I might play the spy on
him. It is a pretty tale of romance of which I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[242]</span>
would fain see the end. And this Pierre who has
gone in search of the child’s father?”</p>
<p>Jeanne did not show her surprise. She had not
heard of Pierre and did not know that Alaine’s sudden
confidence had been given because the presence
of a girl of her own age had invited it. “Of Pierre
I cannot say,” returned Jeanne, after a silence. “It
has been some time, you see,” she added, diplomatically.</p>
<p>“And all these months the girl has worn this
strange garb. I wonder she could so endure it.
Twice, she tells me, she has been obliged to don
such a costume for purposes of escape.”</p>
<p>“Evil lines have been hers, but the Lord has
delivered her,” replied Jeanne, piously.</p>
<p>Madam smiled at the incongruity of the speech
with the appearance of the speaker. “You do not
disguise yourself, good sir,” she remarked. “There
would be little use in your appearing in the dress of
a woman once you spoke. Yet your face is smooth
of beard, and I have seen women as tall.”</p>
<p>“I have been for many years a companion of the
coureurs de bois,” returned Jeanne, calmly. “I am
not unversed in matters of the hunt, in trapping
beasts, and in those manly accomplishments which
are known to the voyageurs.”</p>
<p>“A voyageur? Then sing me one of their songs,”
said Madam, laughing. And the good Jeanne, with
a twinkle in her eye, trolled out a boatman’s ditty,
at the sound of which Alaine and Trynje started<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[243]</span>
from their place by the window and came toward
them.</p>
<p>“Good!” cried Madam, clapping her hands when
Jeanne had finished. “It was a well-answered test,
monsieur. I trust that you will pardon me for putting
you to it. Strange and doubtful as your story
may have seemed, I believe it, and that you are in
very truth what you seem.”</p>
<p>Jeanne burst into a laugh. “For once, madam,
your penetration is at fault, for I must contradict
you. I, also, am a woman.”</p>
<p>“Impossible!” Madam drew herself away a little.</p>
<p>“Even so, and my own story, though not in the
same way romantic, may not be uninteresting to
you.”</p>
<p>“Will you tell it?”</p>
<p>Jeanne began monotonously, but by degrees her
natural dramatic fire crept into it, and at the end
the tears were dropping from Madam’s eyes. She
caught Jeanne’s hand in hers. “Stay with me,”
she cried; “I, too, have been bereft. I will not constrain
you, but stay with me as my guest.”</p>
<p>“As your servitor, for a season; but I have promised,
and I must perform. I must see the girl safe
at home, and then what is ordered will come next.
I am all unused to delicate living, and I pray you
house me among those who work in your fields.”</p>
<p>“As you like; I will give you quarters to yourself,
and hope you may be comfortable, but you are my
guest, none the less.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[244]</span>She could be very gracious, this Madam De Vries,
but she could be none the less haughty, imperious,
and obstinate, as Alaine found before two days
were over. The servants stood in awe of her, yet
grumbled over the insistence with which an unimportant
point was often carried. Uncompromising
and unyielding as she was when angered or crossed,
she was uniformly gentle to Trynje, whom she did
not hesitate to call daughter. She was impulsive
and changeable, too, and impatient of those who disagreed
with her. Just now it pleased her to make
much of these uninvited visitors who appealed to
her imagination and love of excitement.</p>
<p>The plantation, some miles from Albany, was one
of those comfortable Dutch estates which thrift and
industry had secured to its owner, who, dying, left
it to his widow to carry on in the same competent
way, and it was by no means a bad place to live.</p>
<p>After a discussion of the matter, Madam agreed
that both Jeanne and Alaine should retain the dress
in which they had arrived. “It will cause less
comment,” she said, “and until she is safe in her
home I do not feel that the girl may not be tracked
by the Dupont.”</p>
<p>“Which is my own opinion,” agreed Jeanne.
“He is indefatigable; he is a born intriguer; he
stands at nothing, and he may yet find a way to discover
us, once she assumes her own dress.”</p>
<p>“It is like a play,” said Madam, “and it is vastly
exciting. To protect the girl, then, I agree, and if<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[245]</span>
any come prowling around the place questioning the
servants, they will have no tales to tell.”</p>
<p>And therefore Alaine changed the short gown and
petticoat for a linen shirt and breeches. Yet she
was kept indoors, and, amid much laughter from
Trynje, would sew or spin when no one else was
nigh to observe her. Out of doors both she and
Jeanne occupied themselves in such employment as
was agreeable to them and which would keep them
apart from the other workers, and Madam’s private
garden promised to thrive well in consequence. It
pleased Madam’s fancy not to let them go, and day
after day some excuse was made to detain them
longer. It is not improbable that she would have
enjoyed somewhat a descent upon them by François
Dupont, and that she was not without hope that it
would take place; then she, at the head of her
retainers, would drive him off, and it would be a
pleasant and exciting diversion without the danger
included in another incursion, such as those by the
Indians.</p>
<p>Trynje attached herself devotedly to this new
friend, for she was not without her love of romance
either, amiable and prosaic as she appeared. But it
was romance in which others, rather than herself,
were concerned, which most interested her. These
affairs required no puzzling solutions, no sleepless
nights, nor uncomfortable situations. So far as she
was concerned she was satisfied that others should
direct her way, and what was nearest and easiest<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[246]</span>
would receive her endorsement. So the two worked
side by side, Trynje laughing at the attempts to
speak Dutch which Alaine strenuously made, and
the latter trying to drum into Trynje’s stupid little
head a few French phrases. They could be seen
almost any afternoon busy in one corner of the big
sitting-room, while at the other end Madam’s head
could be observed bending over her letters and accounts.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[247]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XV<br>
<small>MADAM, MY MOTHER</small></h2>
</div>
<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was one day a week or so later that Alaine
came upon Madam pacing the floor in deep thought.
She looked up as the girl came in. “My son arrives
to-night,” she said, abruptly, “and I have been
thinking will it be best that he meet you as girl or
boy. If as boy, you would best not appear at table;
if as girl, we must announce the cause of the masquerade
to him and to the rest of the household.”</p>
<p>“Oh, madam, permit me to keep in the background,”
returned the girl. “I would much rather
it should be so; and if we take up our journey again,
it will be best that I do not alter my dress till I am
safe at home; you remember that we decided so.”</p>
<p>Madam stood considering; then she smiled.
“Taking all things into consideration, I think it will
be best; and you need not neglect Trynje, but
leave her only when my son seems to desire to be
with her. I think,” she smiled again, “he will desire
it the more because of the presence of a handsome
lad. Yes, that is it; we will make him jealous.
So, put on your most devoted air; you are a head
taller than Trynje, and will seem quite a possible
rival.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[248]</span>Alaine laughed. She rather enjoyed the humor
of the situation.</p>
<p>“I do not know much about your son,” she ventured
to say. “Trynje will not talk of him, and
when I try to bring the conversation that way she
only laughs and changes the subject.”</p>
<p>“He is very triste these days,” continued Madam.
“I do not know why, though he is never very communicative,
this son of mine. He says little of his
affairs, and I shall not tell him all of mine. He and
Trynje have been playmates from youth, and she
still calls him Bo, as she did when a tiny child and
he tried to teach her the English for boy.”</p>
<p>“Must I take my meals with you, madam?”</p>
<p>“You would rather not? I can understand that
it might be awkward; then Maria and Johannes
shall have your company if you do not mind.”</p>
<p>“I do not mind at all.”</p>
<p>“Then it is settled, and perhaps we shall have a
wedding before June, who knows? Trynje has deep
affections once they are given, but she has pride as
well. Now, then, let us see how well you can act
your part in this pretty play.”</p>
<p>In the dusk of the evening there was the sound
of trampling of hoofs outside by the porch. Madam
arose. “Come, Trynje,” she called, and Trynje ran
forward, leaving Alaine in the shadowy corner where
they had been sitting. The door opened, and by the
waning light Alaine saw a tall form embrace Madam,
saw Trynje’s little plump hand carried to a man’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[249]</span>
lips, then as the waning light fell upon the man’s
face she saw the smile of Lendert Verplanck.</p>
<p>“Lendert!” she whispered, and then she dropped
back again upon the settle. “Lendert!” She sat
there staring for a moment before she made her
escape to her little room above-stairs which Madam
had insisted upon her occupying. Her heart was
beating tumultuously, her head throbbing. She
threw herself face down on the floor. “My Lendert!
My Lendert!” she whispered. “He has forgotten
me. I dare not make myself known. I must try
to get away without his knowledge, for there is
Pierre and here is Trynje, who love me. Jeanne
must know, and she will help me.” She lay there
sobbing convulsively till her first tumult of grief
was spent, and then she arose and knelt by the
window, her elbows on the sill. The little latticed
casement was open, and through it was wafted the
mysterious sweetness of May, the sweetness of new-born
leaves, of blossoms shaking out their perfume
to the winds. So perilously sweet the season to
those who love, for the promise of bliss, of beauty,
the expectant hush covering things as yet wrapped
in mystery, the almost answer to everlasting questions,
these are conveyed to the heart of youth on a
May night. Unutterable thoughts came to the girl
as she leaned out and felt the breath of evening on
her hot face. Her yearning heart mounted to the
skies bearing the enduring “Why?” and again her
eyes overflowed.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[250]</span>A light step along the hall was followed by a tap
on the door. “Where are you, little runaway?”
came from Madam in a bantering tone. “This is
not keeping your word. My son has gone to smoke
his pipe on the stoop with our manly Jeanne, who
has actually joined him. Did she learn to smoke
from the Indians? Trynje is watching for you. It
is all very good, for I have had a word with my son,
and he has said, ‘We will talk of it after a while; if
it be so great a desire with you, madam, my mother,
I will try to yield to your wishes. One must marry,
I suppose, and why not Trynje as well as another?
She is an amiable little girl.’ So, you see, it is as
good as settled. Now to make him jealous, and he
will think she wears many more virtues than the
one of amiability.” She had come in and stood by
Alaine’s side. “You have had your supper?”</p>
<p>“No, not yet.”</p>
<p>“And so late. Fie upon you for a bashful child!
Go along and get it at once, and then come to us.”
And she swept out, leaving Alaine with hands nervously
clinched and trembling with overwrought
feelings.</p>
<p>“Why do I not die?” she moaned. “God knows
I have tried to do my duty. I have tried,—I want
to do it. O God, why are the hearts of women so
weak and their love so strong? My heart will break,—it
will break! He has forgotten me!” She leaned
her face against the casement. Hark! it was his
voice there below. He spoke to Jeanne. She could<span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[251]</span>
hear distinctly the slow, deliberate tones. Oh, let
her not lose this one happiness before she accepted
the inevitable misery of flying from him!</p>
<p>He spoke slowly in halting French. It was evident
that he had heard something of Jeanne from
his mother, and believed her to be simply a sort of
upper gardener. “You are Rouennaise, I think you
say,” Alaine heard him remark.</p>
<p>“From near Rouen, but I left there many years
ago.”</p>
<p>“Perhaps you knew a family of the name Hervieu.”</p>
<p>“I knew them well; they were among those who
stood high in the parish of my brother.”</p>
<p>There was silence for a moment while Lendert
puffed at his great pipe. “This family, I have met
a member of it. They became Protestant.”</p>
<p>“A part of the family did and fled the country.”</p>
<p>“Yes, but one has since returned, I have been
told.”</p>
<p>“I had not heard of it. M. Theodore Hervieu,
I suppose.”</p>
<p>“No, his daughter.”</p>
<p>Jeanne leaned forward and peered into the other’s
face. “I think you are mistaken,” she said.</p>
<p>“I know it to be true,” Lendert continued.</p>
<p>Jeanne laughed and leaned back again against the
railing of the porch. “Then we do not speak of the
same family. There are several of the name.”</p>
<p>There was silence again. Alaine above there, with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[252]</span>
the whispering leaves saying a hundred things to her,
leaned farther out.</p>
<p>After a long pause Lendert spoke again, as with
difficulty. “This young lady’s name was Alaine
Hervieu, the adopted daughter of one Louis Mercier
and his wife Michelle. I know them all. She saved
my life, and—I was ill at their house there in New
Rochelle. She disappeared. They mourned her as
dead, but she is married, they afterwards learned.
I have seen them; they told me. They had just
received word from France. She was there, the
wife of François Dupont. I would rather she were
dead. She is dead to me. She has abjured her
faith and will remain among her relatives in France.”</p>
<p>“It is all a lie,” said Jeanne, quietly.</p>
<p>“It cannot be. I saw the letter myself.”</p>
<p>There was a swift running of feet along the hall
and down the stair. In the doorway appeared a
slight figure, and a voice cried, “Lendert! Lendert!
I am not dead! I am not married! I am
here!”</p>
<p>Down went the great pipe with a clatter to the
ground. The sweet, shrill, imploring tones rang out
upon the May night. With one stride Lendert
reached her where she stood poised upon the door-sill.
“Alaine!” he cried. “Oh, thou good God!
It is Alaine!” And then Jeanne stepped in between
them, but Lendert swept her aside.</p>
<p>“Shame upon you, girl!” The words came from
Madam De Vries, who, shaking with anger, saw the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[253]</span>
two standing as one before her. “Lendert, what
does this mean? Girl, go to your room!”</p>
<p>But Lendert held her fast. “It means, madam,
that this Alaine Hervieu is the woman to whom before
God I have pledged myself. I have vowed to
marry no other, and I will not.”</p>
<p>“An outcast, a beggar, a creature of my bounty,
a companion of coureurs de bois and of wandering
women! You would take such to your home, present
her to your mother, smirch your honest
name——”</p>
<p>“Stop!” Jeanne strode forward, anger on her
face and blazing from her eyes. “You, who are a
woman, dare to say that to one who has been
afflicted so sorely! You, a mother, can dare to cast
your venomous slurs at an innocent, motherless girl,
who but yesterday roused your compassion and
drew tears from your eyes by the recital of her
wrongs! Beware, lest Heaven’s curse——” She
paused and dropped her hand raised in malediction.
“Monsieur,” she said, turning to Lendert, “the girl
is now my charge, and has been under the protection
of my brother, a holy man, from her birth up,
with the exception of the few years with the Merciers.
I am ready to vouch for her innocence and
goodness as for an angel’s.”</p>
<p>Lendert leaned his head down till his cheek
touched Alaine’s curly head resting against his encircling
arm. “I should never question it,” he answered.
“She is Alaine, and that is enough. I love<span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[254]</span>
her. I could never doubt her, having once known
her. There is no need of your defence of her, yet
I thank you for it.”</p>
<p>“Come to me, my child,” Jeanne ordered, and
Alaine slipped from Lendert’s hold to hers.</p>
<p>“Tell your story, monsieur,” Jeanne continued.
“Though I do not doubt your faithfulness, I must be
as particular in my knowledge of who you are as
Madam would be of her son’s wife. You are
Madam’s son, yet your name is Verplanck.”</p>
<p>“My mother has been twice married,” said Lendert.
“I am her son by her first marriage. Some
months ago I met Mademoiselle Hervieu. She interposed
herself between me and death. She and
her adopted parents took me in, a stranger, and for
weeks cared for me as for one of their own flesh
and blood. I saw and loved Alaine. I gave her
my vows and my promise to return and marry her.
We parted. I had a mission to perform; it is not
yet done, but I determined when it proved successful
to return and claim her, trusting to my mother’s
good sense and affection not to oppose my happiness.
I went to New Rochelle. I saw Michelle and
Louis Mercier. They showed me a letter they had
received from François Dupont, he who stole their
child away; it was written in Canada; it assured
them that Alaine was safe, was well and happy;
that she was married to him, and that they were
about to depart for France. There were messages
from Alaine, and it all seemed as if true.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[255]</span>“That evil-doer,” muttered Jeanne. “It was all
a ruse, monsieur, to prevent further action on the
part of her friends. I do not know what he hoped
to gain by it. Mademoiselle Hervieu left Quebec in
the company of my brother six months ago. She
has not seen François Dupont since that time. It is
quite true that he carried mademoiselle off and
would have married her, but, fortunately, my brother
was the instrument in God’s hands to prevent it. It
is a long story; we will discuss it later. At present
our entire desire is to leave here and reach Manhatte.”</p>
<p>“Which you shall do, and the sooner the better.
My roof no longer affords you shelter,” said Madam,
bitterly.</p>
<p>Lendert’s sleepy eyes half closed. “Mademoiselle
Hervieu is under no obligation to you, madam,
my mother, for your son is alive through her defence
and her protection. The obligation is upon the
other side.”</p>
<p>“There is no obligation where there is a graceless,
disobedient son who perjures himself and defies his
mother.”</p>
<p>“Perjures himself?”</p>
<p>“Did you not, an hour since, promise to marry
Trynje van der Deen?”</p>
<p>“I said I would consider it after a while, but there
was then nothing of all this. My troth to Alaine I
believed severed by her marriage. Now it is different.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">[256]</span>“You cannot marry without my consent; the
laws of our colony forbid.”</p>
<p>“Then I will not marry while Alaine is free.”</p>
<p>“And Trynje?”</p>
<p>Trynje had come out and was listening wonderingly.
She nestled her hand in Alaine’s and spoke
up. “Trynje, madam, does not desire to marry
Lendert Verplanck. She prefers to let her parents
select for her. You have shown her how very unpleasant
a mother can be, and Trynje does not like
discord. Lendert Verplanck, I am Alaine’s friend; I
love her. I wish her happiness, and my own will
not suffer by reason of you, be sure of that.”</p>
<p>Madam standing alone in the doorway with all
arrayed against her awoke Trynje’s pity, and she
went over to her. “Dear Madam De Vries,” she
said, “it would be a very pleasant thing if you would
agree with the rest of us and let us be merry over
this instead of angry. It was but this morning that
you spoke very sweetly of Alaine, and she is the
same now as then.”</p>
<p>Madam withdrew the hand Trynje had taken.
“Little fool,” she muttered, “if you had but claimed
your own we could yet have our own way.”</p>
<p>“I am having my way,” returned Trynje, “only
it isn’t your way, madam.”</p>
<p>“She is not the fool she would seem,” remarked
Jeanne, in an aside.</p>
<p>“Good little Trynje!” cried Lendert.</p>
<p>Trynje stood a moment looking wistfully from one<span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">[257]</span>
to the other. She did not enjoy this disturbance,
but she had a happy consciousness of having done
what made it easier for all but Madam.</p>
<p>“Go, girl!” Madam commanded Alaine in a hard
tone. “Go, take off the clothes my bounty has
provided for you. Your rags Maria will return to
you. I want never to see your face again.”</p>
<p>“Nor your son’s?” asked Lendert.</p>
<p>“Nor his, unless he agrees to bring Trynje home
to me. All this would then be his. Otherwise he
can leave my roof; his disobedience casts him
out.”</p>
<p>“It is not the first time I have been cast out,”
replied Lendert, with some bitterness. “My first
opposition to your wishes brought me that.”</p>
<p>“You will not find it necessary to repeat the experience,”
responded Madam. “These lands belong
to the widow of Pieter De Vries, and not to the son
of Kilian Verplanck. Come, Trynje, we will go in.
I do not turn you away.”</p>
<p>Trynje did not budge, but held Alaine’s hand
tightly in hers. “I am sorry not to oblige you,
madam, but I can’t let Alaine sleep in the woods
to-night. I shall take her to my mother.”</p>
<p>“The wench has slept often enough in the woods,”
sneered Madam. “You do not need to spare her;
she is not used to a delicate life, we know that.”</p>
<p>“The more that she should be spared further
privation,” spoke up the spunky little Trynje. “If
you will get my horse and your own, Lendert Verplanck,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">[258]</span>
we can all travel together, and can reach
home in an hour.”</p>
<p>“No, no, Trynje, dear little Trynje,” whispered
Alaine. “I will not take you away; it is not safe
going at night through the woods.”</p>
<p>“As safe for me as for you, and perhaps safer
than a settlement. Then, I wish to go. I want my
mother.”</p>
<p>Tears came to Alaine’s eyes, and she bent over
and kissed the girl’s soft cheek. This loyalty of
Trynje’s touched her deeply.</p>
<p>It was not long before the little party was ready
to start, Alaine and Jeanne mounted on Trynje’s
horse, and Trynje behind Lendert upon his own
steed. They left a silent house, from the windows
of which not a light gleamed, but within whose
walls sat a disappointed, obdurate woman with rage
and self-pity gnawing at her heart.</p>
<p>The travellers rode along quietly enough through
the woods. The leaves were yet too sparsely green
to shut out the light of the sky, and the bridle-path
was easily followed. Lendert’s watchful eyes kept
a sharp lookout right and left, and his hand upon
his gun was ready. Neither he nor Trynje were
great talkers, and they said little. Alaine, on the
contrary, kept up a low-voiced conversation with
Jeanne. Neither Madam’s sharp words nor the
painfulness of the entire situation could take the joy
from Alaine’s heart. Above all else arose the one
thought: Lendert loved her; he had not forgotten<span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">[259]</span>
her. Once or twice she lifted her face to the twinkling
stars whose beams sifted down between the
tender twigs and the little new leaves, and she repeated
softly one of the dear old psalms, “The
heavens declare the glory of God.” It had been a
long time since she had heard any one sing them,
but soon, soon she would be at home and free.
There was so much she desired to ask Lendert, so
much, for he had seen those dear ones not long
ago, and she busied herself with this or that surmise
as she chattered to Jeanne, and at last she sobered
down into pensive recollections of her old life.
What of all her resolves? What of the promise
she had made to herself that she would forget Lendert
and remember Pierre? These had vanished
utterly at sight of him to whom her heart was
given.</p>
<p>So presently she spoke very gravely. “Dear
Jeanne, in those old days in France I used to go to
Father Bisset with all my puzzling questions, and he
always set me right. Now here am I in a sorry
uncertainty. Listen, Jeanne, and tell me what I
should do. I have not told you all this, because I
thought I ought to try to overcome my love and
think only of Pierre and his great sacrifice for my
sake. Yet, here is another who loves me so well
that he forsakes all else for me, and him I love. I
have tried not to. I have sought to let my thoughts
dwell on Pierre. And then, at home, Michelle and
Papa Louis would have me marry Gerard, yet I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">[260]</span>
think when my father returns they will see that it is
he who should order my goings. What must I do,
dear Jeanne? You saw that my heart outran my
resolve, and I have again confessed my love for Lendert.
Am I not a deceitful wicked thing? I am
miserable when I think of it.”</p>
<p>“What have you promised Pierre?”</p>
<p>“I promised him nothing, for he would not allow
it; and furthermore he told me that I must not be
bound, and if in a year he or my father had not
returned, that I must be free to do what seemed
best. Before then I told him I would marry him or
whomsoever should be my father’s choice.”</p>
<p>“Then await the end of the year, and if your
father returns let him settle it.”</p>
<p>“But Lendert, my whole heart goes out to him,
and if he loves me he offends his mother, and if I
love him I may offend my father, yet each of us
loves only the other.”</p>
<p>Jeanne sighed. “Earthly love is very strong; one
cannot always conquer that at once; yet, my dear,
if you ought not to marry Lendert you must not.”</p>
<p>“You think I ought not to marry him even if his
mother should at last consent?”</p>
<p>“If you gave your promise first to Pierre, and if
your father orders it, you should marry Pierre.”</p>
<p>Alaine’s head drooped lower and lower. Ahead
rode Lendert; she could see his stalwart figure outlined
against the dimly soft sky. She felt that she
could leap from her horse, fly to him, beg him to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">[261]</span>
take her away, away from all her confusing and conflicting
problems.</p>
<p>The piteous sigh she gave aroused Jeanne’s compassion.
“I am telling you what is right, my child,
as you asked me to do, but remember, when the
year is at an end you will be free to do what your
heart dictates. I think there is no doubt of that.”</p>
<p>“Then you think I shall not see my father
again?”</p>
<p>“Or Pierre? I think it is very doubtful.”</p>
<p>“It is terrible, terrible, that I should build any
happiness on that. I will not. I will think they are
both to return, and will be patient. Will you tell
Lendert what you have told me it is right to do?
Will you let him know that I must abide by the right
at any cost? I am so weak-hearted that I should
yield up my love again to him if he asked it. When
I think of it, Jeanne, I know that love is mightier
than death, for I wish we could die together, he and
I, this minute. Is it not pitiful that love is so strong
and will is so weak? I want to do right. I mean
to do right, while every fibre of my being throbs for
Lendert. If I am to be the wife of another I must
not let him even look at me, with the lovelight in
his eyes, for mine will surely answer. Twice in my
life for a few moments I have been so happy that I
can believe what heaven is like. It is not given to
all of us to be so happy, even for a few moments,
in this world, therefore I must be satisfied with that
and believe that I am more favored than many<span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">[262]</span>
women.” Her voice shook, and Jeanne knew without
seeing it that her tears were falling fast.</p>
<p>“Do I not know? Can I not understand?” Into
Jeanne’s voice crept a note of love and longing akin
to Alaine’s. “We have been sorely afflicted. The
waves and the billows have gone over us both. It
is a wonderful thing this love of woman for man.
None knows how wonderful or how great but those
who have felt it. And none but they can tell how
much a human soul can suffer. I will speak to M.
Verplanck, and I think he will understand and will be
patient also. It is very hard for youth to be patient,”
she continued, half to herself. “One must
think of the things for which one must be thankful,
then it will not be so hard. You have been wonderfully
delivered more than once, and surely you should
believe that you will be again.”</p>
<p>“I will believe that, dear Jeanne.” Alaine’s arm
around Jeanne’s waist gave her a gentle pressure,
and they rode on silently till the twinkling lights
ahead of them showed that they were approaching
a small settlement. In a few minutes a stockade
was reached, this enclosed the fort and blockhouse
where dwelt Joachim van der Deen and his tenant
farmers. To the query, “Who goes there?”
Trynje answered, “I, Trynje van der Deen, with
friends.” And an immediate admittance was vouchsafed.</p>
<p>Trynje, helped from her horse by Lendert, went at
once toward the door which was flung wide open in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">[263]</span>
answer to her summons. “Whom have we here?”
asked a stout, red-faced Dutchman. “What is my
daughter doing travelling about this time of night,
and who are these in her company?”</p>
<p>“Lendert Verplanck, whom you know, Mademoiselle
Hervieu, whom you do not know, and Jeanne
Crepin.”</p>
<p>“They are French?” Joachim van der Deen
looked suspicious, and pulled the door together a
little.</p>
<p>“We are Huguenots and refugees, good sir,” interposed
Alaine, “and as your generous Holland
has sheltered so many of our faith, we hope we do
not ask in vain for shelter here. I have travelled in
this dress for some months past that I might the
more readily escape detection of my enemies.”</p>
<p>Joachim van der Deen smiled, and, taking Alaine’s
hand, he led her to an inner room where sat his
buxom wife. “We have visitors, Johanna,” he said.
“Trynje returns with them. Let her tell her tale
while I see to this gentleman. It is past bedtime
and we will retire at once, my friends, unless you
have good reason to remain without a good night’s
rest.”</p>
<p>Trynje poured forth her story into her mother’s
ears. The goede vrow listened attentively, and at
the close remarked, triumphantly, “I always said
you would find Madam De Vries a hard mother, and
you are well awake to it now. We shall have no
more objections to Adriaen Vrooman hereafter.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">[264]</span>Trynje blushed and snuggled up to her mother’s
side. It was very clear that she agreed with her,
and that when Adriaen returned from his journey
into the distant forests he would receive a smiling
reception from Trynje.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">[265]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XVI<br>
<small>ONE NIGHT IN MAY</small></h2>
</div>
<p><span class="smcap">Alaine</span> found herself comfortably lodged, with
Trynje’s little negro maid in attendance on the two
girls. Before long they were nestled in an immense
feather-bed which billowed up around them and
almost hid them from sight. Alaine, however, did
not sleep. She listened to the soft breathing of
Trynje, who was not many minutes in dropping off
into slumber; she listened to the gentle whisper of
the new leaves and the trickle of a little stream not
far away. Into her feeling of quiet resignation every
now and then would burst the recollection of the
wild joy she had experienced at seeing her lover,
now lying in a room so near her. Perhaps he did
not sleep. Perhaps Jeanne had found an opportunity
of speaking to him and was even now telling
him that though she loved him she must leave him.</p>
<p>At last, after tossing restlessly on the big feather-bed
for an hour, she softly arose and went to the
window to look out upon the beautiful quiet night.
The moon, now on the wane, had not set, but hung
low in the sky, a luminous crescent of misty silver.
The garrison of the little fort, like herself, were
watching, and the thought of this took away her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">[266]</span>
feeling of loneliness. It was not the first time that
she had been received under the roof of a stranger,
she reflected. Many unlooked-for things had befallen
her, and any day might bring a new danger.
She was so young and so weary. Was there safety
anywhere under that sky’s broad canopy? Was
there rest anywhere under those twinkling stars?</p>
<p>Hark! She started to her feet. Suddenly upon
the midnight air came the horrible war-cry of the
Indians. It seemed to fill the air with a wild
prophecy of death and torture and captivity. In an
instant every one in the fort was awake. There
were sounds of stern orders given, of tramping feet,
of the click of triggers, of the rasp of a sword
dropped into its scabbard. Hastily throwing on
their clothes, the women and children, shaking with
apprehension, weeping with terror, flocked together
in the blockhouse, Alaine with the rest.</p>
<p>“We are none too well garrisoned,” said a man
as he passed her. “Here, boy, can you shoot?”</p>
<p>Alaine turned. “Try me,” she replied, laconically.</p>
<p>“All right, then; come on.”</p>
<p>For an instant Alaine’s fears gave place to an exultant
feeling. If she must die it would be by the
side of Lendert. She heard a shot ring out, and the
cries of the women and children grew fainter as she
followed the covered way which led to the fort from
the blockhouse.</p>
<p>Watchful men were stationed at the loopholes, a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">[267]</span>
stern and determined look upon each face. Alaine
looked around her. Where was Lendert?</p>
<p>“Go, my daughter,” whispered some one at her
side. “Your place is not here.”</p>
<p>“I was ordered to remain,” Alaine answered,
“and I shall stay. Am I so poor a shot that I must
be denied the right to protect myself? Is not this
as much my place as yours, Jeanne Crepin?”</p>
<p>Jeanne smiled grimly. “Very well, then we will
both remain. We may be privileged to die fighting.
Come, we are needed, every man of us.” She
smiled again.</p>
<p>The savages now were rushing violently at the
palisades to be met by a deadly fire from those
within. Each time the besiegers fell back to devise
a new method of attack. Once came a glare of
torches flaring up into the night and hurled like fiery
rockets at the palisades, but one after another fell
harmlessly to the ground, feebly flickered a moment
and then went out, as the spark of life likewise fled
from their bearers stretched on the ground by the
unerring shots from the little fort.</p>
<p>Alaine had discovered Lendert and had crept to
his side. He did not see her; he was mechanically
loading and reloading his musket. On the other
side of the girl Joachim stationed himself to see her
do as good service as any. At last the foe retreated
for a brief rest, and Lendert withdrew his gaze from
the loophole to see Alaine standing by him. “Here?
Why are you not safe in the blockhouse, Alaine?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">[268]</span>“I am of more use here,” she replied, “and I
would rather be with Jeanne and—you.” She
whispered the last word. “I thought, perhaps God
would let us die together, Lendert. That would be a
happier fate than if I were taken into captivity. See,
the east begins to warm into a rosy color; it will soon
be day. Will they leave us then, do you think?”</p>
<p>He folded her hand in his own. “Alaine, so
brave thou art. No, they will not, I think. They
are not all Indians.”</p>
<p>The gray light was beginning to steal over the
earth, and they could dimly distinguish the faces
of their enemies. In the party were included a
number of coureurs de bois and a few adventurous
young Frenchmen. Alaine looking out upon them
as they held their parley, grasped Jeanne’s arm with
a quick exclamation. “He is there! Ah, me!
Again, again! Jeanne, Lendert, do you see him? It
is François Dupont!”</p>
<p>“Ah-h!” came a savage growl from Lendert, as
he patted his musket softly. “So, then, I have
double need to fight.”</p>
<p>“It will be my dead body alone that he possesses,”
said Alaine, resolutely.</p>
<p>“And it will be over my dead body that he treads
to reach yours,” returned Lendert.</p>
<p>And now Joachim van der Deen strode up. “We
have very little water,” he said. “The attack was a
surprise and the supply was short. It has given out
before we knew it.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">[269]</span>Some one presently touched Alaine on the shoulder.
It was Jeanne. She drew her aside. “I
shall make the effort to get water. Yonder I see
Ricard Le Nez. If I can escape unhurt at first, I
can make myself known to him and the others.
They will not hurt me, once they see I am
French.”</p>
<p>“Jeanne, Jeanne!” Alaine caught her firm, hard
hand, “you must not go.”</p>
<p>“I shall go.”</p>
<p>Alaine stood for a moment gazing at her, then she
rushed to the blockhouse and found Trynje. “Give
me one of your petticoats!” she exclaimed. Trynje
looked at her in surprise, but obediently slipped off
her upper skirt, which Alaine hastily put on and ran
back. “If I see that she is taken I shall go forth
myself,” she said. “François will not let them
torture me, and so——” She went to the nearest
loophole and looked out. Jeanne had just crept
from the enclosure and was stealthily moving toward
the spring. If she could go and return in this gray
of morning all would be well. Alaine watched her
breathlessly. So far she was safe.</p>
<p>But presently beyond there, coming down the
road from the woods on the other side, she saw a
figure on horseback followed by several men on foot.
She watched eagerly, and presently with a smothered
cry she turned to the man standing by her side.
“Lendert, Lendert, it is your mother, and she does
not know!”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">[270]</span>A groan escaped Lendert’s lips as he looked out
upon the approaching rider.</p>
<p>“See, see,” Alaine whispered, hoarsely, “she
comes perhaps to ask your forgiveness; she comes
to seek you. Lendert, Lendert, I must save her.
No, no, hold me not; I tell you it is I who must go.
Do you not see that one of those out there is François
Dupont? Another is Ricard. I shall not fall
into the hands of enemies, for they will recognize
that I am French and will think me here a prisoner.
I must go. Lendert, if you love me, let me go!”</p>
<p>“I cannot. I will not see you killed before my
very eyes. They will fire before they understand.”</p>
<p>“But thy mother, thy mother!”</p>
<p>“Whom I must try to save.”</p>
<p>“No, no; do you not see for you is the danger,
for me not so much?”</p>
<p>“I see only that I will go, and that I cannot let
you run the risk for my mother, who ill used
thee.”</p>
<p>“No matter, no matter. She has come to seek
us. It is too horrible to see them coming nearer,
nearer. Do you not see that for me is only possible
danger, and that for you it is sure death? If you
go, I will surely follow.”</p>
<p>“Then we go together.”</p>
<p>She would have pushed him from her as she tried
to escape from the place, but he held her hand
firmly. “We die together,” he groaned. Still hand
in hand they crept from the fort. “Quick, run to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">[271]</span>
your mother, while I distract their attention; it is the
only safe way for either of us,” Alaine whispered.</p>
<p>But at this moment Jeanne, on her way from the
spring, spied the figure approaching. With head
bent low, she dropped her bucket and ran swiftly
toward the path at the end of which awaited such
danger for the unconscious rider.</p>
<p>Lendert, taken off his guard for a second, gazed
after her half dazed, and in this moment Alaine
sprang from him and ran, but in an opposite direction
from that which Jeanne was taking. She
reached a little mound and stood there in plain view
of the enemy. “I am here, I, Alaine Hervieu!” she
called out in her native French. “I am here, François
Dupont!” At the first instant of her appearance
a dozen bullets whizzed through the air, but
none touched her, then from the group parleying
there at the edge of the wood rushed two figures.</p>
<p>Not daring to turn her gaze from them lest their
attention be drawn to Madam De Vries, Alaine stood
with face to foe. “She is of us! She is French!”
passed from one to another. “She is perhaps an
escaped prisoner,” and they awaited results.</p>
<p>Meanwhile, Lendert, in an agony of mind over the
safety of his mother and of Alaine, stood, gun in
hand, ready to defend either or both. Madam De
Vries had reined in her horse at Jeanne’s approach,
had gathered her little body-guard around her, and
as yet was not seen by the attacking party.</p>
<p>Alaine waited quietly till the two men came up.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">[272]</span>
“You have been prisoner here?” cried Ricard.
“How happens this? She is of us!” he shouted.
“Not a hair of her head must be touched. It is Alaine
in petticoats. You remember, Henri, you, Robert,
M. Bisset and his companion? Well, then, here is
one of them,” he called to his comrades.</p>
<p>At this instant François caught sight of Lendert
standing at the entrance of the path to the woods.
He gnashed his teeth and shouted. “Again, villain!
At last on equal grounds, face to face and foe to foe.
Take him, you there, Ricard!”</p>
<p>Like a flash Alaine ran from her little hillock and
stood before her lover, who laid about him valiantly
while the girl cried, “Again, monsieur, I am a
shield!” But this time the supple body was no defence,
for a dozen hands tore him from her, and he
was marched off in triumph. Then shot after shot
came ringing from the fort as well as from the little
company hidden in the woods. The air seemed full
of flying bullets. François was struck down at
Alaine’s feet, his hold upon her gone, so that she was
free to run to Ricard, crying, “Save him, save him,
your prisoner there! I beg, I entreat, Ricard,
Henri, you who know me, I fall upon my knees to
implore you to spare him and take me instead!
Where is Jeanne? Where is Jeanne?”</p>
<p>Her friend was not far off. “I will do what I can,”
she whispered, as she dragged the distracted girl with
her to a place of retreat behind a huge tree. “Do
you not see that you must save yourself? I will do<span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">[273]</span>
what I can, I promise you. For yourself, if you
would escape, pretend to have fallen; assume death,
now, at once.” Alaine staggered and fell. Jeanne
bent over her and wrung her hands. “Remain
here,” she whispered. “Lie perfectly still and you
shall not be harmed.”</p>
<p>Lying flat on the ground behind the big tree, the
bullets flying around her, Alaine, faint with suspense,
waited, putting her trust in Jeanne, who, she believed,
would find a way to set Lendert at liberty
and would then return to her.</p>
<p>The moments passed, and at last the sound of
firing ceased. The Indians, believing that those in
the fort had received re-enforcements on account of
the furious firing from the party in the woods, and
finding their number was fast decreasing, began a
retreat. They were followed so closely by a sortie
from the fort that with yells and howls they took
themselves off, leaving their leader for dead and
taking with them their one unhappy prisoner.</p>
<p>At last Alaine ventured to raise her head. The
glory of the May morning showed the woods gold-green;
the rill, which formed the outlet of the spring,
went tinkling on its way as merrily as if its waters,
were unstained by the life-blood of those who lay
dead at its banks. Overhead the birds, startled into
stillness by the din of battle, now began a timid
warbling. Under Alaine’s hand frail anemones
peeped, and around her the springing grasses grew.
So had it been spring after spring. Nature, impassive<span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">[274]</span>
and lovely, smiles upon the agony of earth’s
children and will not tell them the secret of her
peace. Alaine sat up and pushed back the hair from
her eyes. Beyond her lay the bodies of the fallen
foe, among them François Dupont. She turned her
head and shuddered. “Lendert,” she said, piteously,
“Lendert, where are you? Jeanne, you said you
would come.”</p>
<p>She looked around and listened. There was no
answer to her call. Then she wailed, “He is gone,
gone, and I am here!” She stood up and stretched
her hands toward the sky. “Thou God, whom I
implored to let us die together, I am here and he is
not. Thou hast forsaken me!”</p>
<p>A kind hand was laid upon her shoulder. “My
child,” said Joachim van der Deen, “why are you
here alone? God has not forsaken you.”</p>
<p>Alaine dropped her head on the good man’s arm.
“I am desolate, desolate,” she moaned. “If we
had but died together; but now, this moment, he may
be enduring tortures such as I never dreamed of.
Ah-h!” she shrieked in her despair and fell to the
ground, hiding her face, as if she would shut out the
frightful possibilities that her misery suggested to her.</p>
<p>Joachim knelt beside her. “God does not despise
the affliction of the afflicted, my child,” he said,
gently. “Trust thou in him, and thou shalt yet
praise him.”</p>
<p>But now that it seemed certain the enemy had
departed, from the fort came trooping the garrison,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">[275]</span>
and then followed the company of women, little
Trynje running ahead. “Alaine, Alaine!” she called;
“are you hurt, Alaine, Alaine?”</p>
<p>She saw her father approaching carrying in his
arms the drooping figure, and she made haste to reach
him. “She is not dead, not dead?”</p>
<p>“No, but happily unconscious, poor child!” And
in Joachim van der Deen’s strong arms Alaine
was borne indoors, Trynje following, solicitous and
helpful.</p>
<p>Meantime, from out of the woods had issued the
little company, whose coming had served the garrison
well and Lendert so badly, Madam De Vries
riding ahead. She was followed by a dozen of her
retainers, who in the shelter of the wood from behind
trees had done good execution. “Though,”
said Joachim van der Deen, bluntly, “they would all
be roasting now but for the timely warning of that
good Jeanne, whose bravery would have it seem
that we have been entertaining an angel unawares.
Where is she, by the way?” he asked of Trynje, who
was bending over Alaine’s unconscious form. But
this no one could tell. Jeanne had vanished as
completely as the enemy. At this report Joachim
looked grave; this might be the performance of a
spy, but since there was no help for it, there was
nothing to be done. “Where is Madam De Vries?”
he asked his daughter.</p>
<p>“Gone to find my mother. Heaven knows how
she must feel with her only son a captive.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">[276]</span>Her father shook his head. “She has herself to
thank for it. He and the girl ran to her rescue,
though that big Jeanne could have managed it alone.
I must leave this lass to your tender mercies, for
there are others in need of me. She is a brave
creature. I shall not soon forget how I felt to see
her standing there facing that horde.”</p>
<p>After Alaine had been carried in and left to the
ministrations of the women, Joachim returned to find
his wife among the wounded on the ground. She
was bending over a figure lying motionless upon the
tender young grass. “He lives, Joachim,” she said,
looking up, “but I think it is a desperate case. God
have mercy on him.”</p>
<p>“Who is it?” her husband asked, gazing at the
waxen face.</p>
<p>“I do not know. I judge he must have been
the leader of that company of Frenchmen by his
dress.”</p>
<p>“And our prisoner,” returned Joachim, grimly.
“We will take him in with the rest and see what
can be done for him. Here, boys, gently; he is
pretty badly hurt, we shall hardly be able to save
him, but we will do our duty as Christians.” He
watched them bear the man away. “Madam De
Vries expressed a wish to see you, Johanna, but you
can offer her little consolation, I fear.”</p>
<p>Johanna van der Deen stood looking after the men
who bore François Dupont to the fort. She was a
very religious woman, and one who never failed to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">[277]</span>
press home her pious truths. She and Madam De
Vries had never been the best of friends, for the
former’s lack of seriousness was not approved by
the good Johanna. Moreover, she had heard repeated
a remark of Madam De Vries, a remark
which ridiculed her neighbor’s pious attitude. This
was quite enough to determine Madam van der
Deen not to encourage Madam De Vries in her overtures
in a matter of marriage for her son. “Daughter
of mine shall not marry a son of Arianie De
Vries,” she had told her husband.</p>
<p>“Lendert is a good young man,” Joachim had answered
between puffs of his pipe.</p>
<p>“There are others quite as good whose mothers
are better,” Johanna had made reply, and Joachim
had agreed. Nevertheless, they had allowed Trynje
to visit Madam De Vries, wisely believing that in
time she would see for herself that Madam could be
very disagreeable and that her daughter-in-law might
expect to have a stormy time. Thinking of all this
and of how it had come according to their expectations,
Madam van der Deen shook her head. “I
will go to her. Poor soul, I fear I cannot persuade
her that she should kiss the rod. It is hard for one
who has desired her own way to find that our ways
are not the Lord’s ways and that we are but as the
grass of the field, which to-day is and to-morrow
shall be cast into the oven. Look to that poor
creature they have carried in, and I will come to him
later.” And she moved toward the fort, passing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">[278]</span>
on to enter the blockhouse, where Madam De Vries
sat, cold and tearless.</p>
<p>“My son is captive,” were the words that greeted
Johanna van der Deen, “and I have that girl to
thank for it. But for her he would have been safe
at home. Therefore I owe your daughter small
thanks for bringing him here. That is all I wish to
say.” She dismissed Madam van der Deen with a
wave of her hand, and she, without a word, went
back to the fort where François Dupont lay motionless,
save but for a barely perceptible flutter of his breast.</p>
<p>Madam van der Deen stood looking at him. Here
was an end to human hopes, ambitions, and all
revenge. Even resentment must fade into pity before
this awful shadow which seemed to be hovering
over the helpless man. She sent for a stoup of
wine. “It will be of little use, yet one must try to
give him time for repentance,” she murmured. She
went away for bandages and returned to see Madam
De Vries bending over the pallet. There were tears
in her eyes. “Some one’s son,” she whispered, as
if to herself; “young and handsome, yet he has the
privilege of death in this way, while my boy——”
she shuddered and hid her face in her hands.
“Give me the wine,” she said presently. “I will
nurse this man.” She did not seem to notice that
it was Madam van der Deen to whom she spoke.
She moistened the pale lips and stanched the
wounds, and at last the dark eyes opened to look
upon the pitying face of a woman.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">[279]</span>“This is well,” whispered François. “I am glad
you have come, mother. I think I am dying, and I
wanted to die at home in France. I am glad you
are here.”</p>
<p>“Yes, I know,” returned Madam De Vries, soothingly.</p>
<p>“I cannot remember all,” he went on, in a weak
whisper, “but they fled from the British that time in
Quebec. Father Bisset took Alaine and fled. They
must have been taken prisoners somehow. I stayed
there to fight for France, for France. You would not
have had me do otherwise, mother.” He closed his
eyes, but after a time opened them again. “Where
is the Dutch pig?” he asked. “It was to save him
she threw herself between. Once more she made a
shield of her sweet body.”</p>
<p>“Sh!” warned Madam van der Deen, glancing at
Madam De Vries, but François wandered on.</p>
<p>“Is she dead? I did not love her, poor little
Alaine, but listen, this is my confession. I wish to
confess. I am dying, you know, and you are my
mother.” He was quiet again.</p>
<p>After a moment he began anew. “It was the
Dutchman she loved, I know that now. I did not
think so at first; but, though I did not love her, I
hated him.”</p>
<p>“Madam,” said Johanna, in a low voice, “this is
something it were better you did not hear. Will you
go away?” The pity lingered in Madam’s eyes; as
yet she did not understand, and she remained.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">[280]</span>“The Dutch pig,” repeated François, “that Verplanck.
You are safe now, Monsieur Le Bœuf.”</p>
<p>Madam De Vries recoiled, all the softness in her
face giving place to horror. “Beast!” she cried.
“Beast! And I have pitied you.”</p>
<p>“He may be dying, madam,” said Madam van
der Deen, quietly. “Will you leave us?”</p>
<p>Madam De Vries opened her lips as if to speak,
but without another word she walked away.</p>
<p>François kept up his whispering talk. “Poor
little Alaine. I liked the girl. I would have been
kind to her. You who know me, mother, you believe
that. Say that you believe that.”</p>
<p>“Yes.” Madam van der Deen saw that he waited
for a reply.</p>
<p>François closed his eyes; he did not seem to
hear; his voice was very weak. “I stayed there in
Quebec for France, for France. I have lied for her,
I have suffered for her, and now I die for her. For
France.” His voice died away and he could say no
more. He lay very still, and Madam van der Deen
by his side watched him all day. Once or twice
Trynje came to bring word of Alaine, who tossed in
fever and babbled incessantly.</p>
<p>Night came, and still François lived. “It would
almost seem as if he might recover,” Madam van
der Deen said to her husband as they examined
him.</p>
<p>“He may rally a little, but I think he will never
rise from his bed,” was the reply. “We will do all<span class="pagenum" id="Page_281">[281]</span>
we can for him, enemy though he is. He may not
be so bad a man, and he is suffering.”</p>
<p>“And he has made others suffer,” returned his
wife.</p>
<p>“That is true. Blindness and egotism will always
do that.”</p>
<p>Madam van der Deen said nothing. Her narrow
religious view made her behold only a pit of fire for
such as François.</p>
<p>Yet the dawn of another day saw him still alive,
and so it continued day after day, a little better, a
little worse, while above Alaine, exhausted by fever,
was watched over by faithful little Trynje and her
mother.</p>
<p>Madam De Vries did not tarry long, but took her
aching heart back to her home. “I am a lonely,
childless old woman,” she told Trynje, “and I care
not how soon I leave this wretched world. It is
woe and misery on every side.” And when she
disappeared into the forest with her little retinue,
Trynje watched her with eyes full of tears. She
still gave her some love and much pity.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">[282]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XVII<br>
<small>FORGIVENESS</small></h2>
</div>
<p><span class="smcap">At</span> last there came a day when Alaine, though
pitifully weak and pale, was able to creep out into
the open air, supported by the strong arm of Trynje’s
father, solicitously followed by Madam van der Deen
and Trynje, and stared at by a group of tow-headed
little children of various ages.</p>
<p>“I want to go home, Mynheer,” Alaine whispered
to the good man, who so carefully placed her in the
big chair which had been set for her under a spreading
tree.</p>
<p>He nodded. “You shall go.”</p>
<p>Trynje, busying herself in tucking a robe around
her patient’s feet, did not hear. “There,” she exclaimed,
“you are well placed.” She stood off and
looked at her charge with a satisfied air. “It is good
to be out again, is it not? Are you tired? When
you are rested I will tell you something about myself.
I have been keeping it till now to tell you.” She
sat down on the ground by Alaine’s side, her round,
smiling face rosier than ever. “You will get well,”
she went on, “for after a while my wedding will be.”</p>
<p>“What?” Alaine smiled to see the blushes.</p>
<p>Trynje nodded. “Yes, all arranged it is. Last
night he was here.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">[283]</span>Alaine laid her hand, now so frail-looking, on
Trynje’s plump one. “He was? And who is
he?”</p>
<p>“Adriaen Vrooman. He has returned from a long
journey into the woods with his man Isaac, and
they brought many pelts. He is now ready to
marry. Betrothed we are, and married we will be
before the winter comes.”</p>
<p>“And you are happy, Trynje, happy?”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes.” Trynje looked very complacent. She
was quite satisfied.</p>
<p>Alaine patted the hand resting on her knee, but as
she leaned her head back against the soft fur which
hung over the chair the tears welled up into her
eyes. Madam van der Deen, standing behind her,
laid her hand upon the girl’s head. She looked up
and with trembling lips asked, “Is there no hope,
no hope?”</p>
<p>“We have heard nothing, but there is always
hope till worst is proved. Be comforted by that,
my child. One there is in there who has less to
hope for than you, for he is helpless, paralyzed, but
entirely conscious, and there he must lie waiting for
death to release him, and with but a misspent life
to dwell upon. Yet sinned against he has been, and
forgive him you should.”</p>
<p>Alaine turned her dark eyes upon the goede vrouw’s
kind face. “You mean—who is it, Madam?”</p>
<p>“François Dupont it is.”</p>
<p>“He is here? He lives! But for him——”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_284">[284]</span>
She turned her head from side to side as if to deny
any possibility of forgiveness.</p>
<p>“He wishes to see you when you are stronger.
He has a confession to make to you.”</p>
<p>“I cannot hear it; not now,” returned Alaine,
“not now.”</p>
<p>“Then we will not urge it. Very long his time
cannot be. Far beyond what we looked for he has
endured. But I hoped——”</p>
<p>“Hush, hush, mother,” Trynje broke in. “She
is not to be troubled by such things. She her
strength must get, and worry her you must not.”
And Trynje looked as severe as she was capable of
doing. “I must go in now, my mother, and I leave
you here; very cheerful you must be; of dying and
such things you must not speak. Good stories you
must tell of when you were a little girl, and laugh
you must.” She shook her finger at her mother
and ran in.</p>
<p>Alaine sat mournfully gazing around her. Yonder
was the woodland path along which Madam De
Vries had approached; there the little spring to
which Jeanne had gone for water; there—— She
shuddered and hid her eyes, as if still before her
shrieked and yelled the horde of bloodthirsty Indians.
“I want to go home,” she murmured. “I
want to see Michelle and Papa Louis and Gerard. I
am so tired of being away from home. Will you
not take me there?”</p>
<p>“In a little while; as soon as you are able,”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_285">[285]</span>
Madam van der Deen told her, gently. And, indeed,
it seemed while in the midst of scenes connected
with such terrible memories that she was not likely
to entirely recover. Therefore, to Trynje’s disappointment
it was decided that the invalid should be
taken as far as Fort Orange, and, if she were able to
stand the journey, to go from there to New York,
still known as New Amsterdam by these good
people.</p>
<p>“And must I remain?” said François, when he
was told. “I cannot be left here to trouble you.
Prisoner I am, but I shall be free soon, and I would
die among my own people. I, too, must go.”</p>
<p>Madam van der Deen looked puzzled. It was
part of the plan that Alaine should be removed from
his neighborhood, for the mere mention of him
caused the girl such distress that the goede vrouw
had determined to give up a scheme for the meeting
of these two, resolved that if one must be considered
that Alaine should be the one. Yet she made a final
effort in François’s behalf and drew a pitiful picture
of the man’s helplessness, his longing for forgiveness,
his desire to make his peace with the world before
he left it, so that Alaine, moved to pity, no longer
protested, but faintly said, “Could he be taken
away safely? Does he so desire it?”</p>
<p>“He desires it above all things to be taken to the
house of your family there in New Rochelle. He
refers again and again to the goodness of Madame
Mercier, to his own tyrannical spirit, and repeats his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_286">[286]</span>
longing to be allowed to die there. I think my husband
will have no difficulty in persuading the authorities
to allow it when they see his condition.
He is our enemy and a prisoner, but a helpless
one.”</p>
<p>Alaine sat thinking deeply. “I think I am almost
forgetting to be a Christian,” she said. “I am so
weak, so wretched, so grief-worn, but if it can ease
a departing soul to grant his request, and he can be
safely taken, I shall not deny my consent. But do
not let me see him yet.”</p>
<p>“That is the good child. I expected nothing less
of you,” Madam told her. “So then I think we
shall trust him to Adriaen, whose heart is so warm
at thought of his marriage to Trynje that the whole
world he loves. Smiling and staring, he sits there
by François just for the sake of comradeship. They
can go on ahead to Fort Orange, and we will follow.
From there it will not be much of a voyage down
the river to New Amsterdam.” The goede vrouw
had arranged it all to her satisfaction, and sat smiling
over the plan.</p>
<p>“He is better. Better is François Dupont,”
Trynje told Alaine. “Scarce believe it would I, but
he lies there and smiles and chatters at Adriaen, who
smiles at him, and sits and smokes and blinks and
blushes, though not a word he understands of what
is said.” Trynje laughed. “But good care he will
have, and I shall let him go all the way to New
Amsterdam.” She spoke with a pretty air of proprietorship.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_287">[287]</span>
Her little heart had adjusted itself very
readily and there was not any one now like Adriaen.
“And my mother will go,” Trynje added, “and my
father. They will take the time to buy my wedding
finery, though it is little I need, for long ago my
chests were filled.”</p>
<p>One morning, therefore, Alaine bade good-by to
the fort and the blockhouse, to little Trynje and the
flock of flaxen-haired children. Mynheer van der
Deen and his goede vrouw accompanied this party;
the first had gone on. Adriaen and his man Isaac
took charge of François. The young Dutchman’s
face was wreathed in smiles. He gloated over his
charge as a mother over her baby. Trynje had
given him this to do. Very well, it became a pleasure,
and he would do it as faithfully as he could.</p>
<p>François gave a little weak laugh as he was deposited
in the canoe on a pile of skins. “My faith!
but I never expected to travel again, and here I am
still following mademoiselle about. She has not a
word for me, and no wonder.” A shadow passed
over his face, for the pains spent upon him by
Johanna van der Deen were not without result, and
in the weeks of suffering, in the long nights when
she had watched by his side, he had spoken to her
as to a mother. He had lost much of his arrogance,
and acknowledged that he was a mere straw driven
by the wind, a leaf in a storm.</p>
<p>“You have dared to undertake to change the decrees
of the Almighty, little insignificant human<span class="pagenum" id="Page_288">[288]</span>
creature that you are,” Madam van der Deen had
said to him. “You have thought your will stronger
than that of God. Wrapped in your own selfish
desires you have forgotten that the cry of the helpless
is more powerful than the clash of a destroying
sword in the hands of man.”</p>
<p>“You have me here, and I cannot get away,”
François had returned. “Say on, mother. I will
listen, for I cannot help myself. You are as good
a preacher as the old renegade priest.” He had
learned of Father Bisset’s change of belief and of
his plan of escape, and he had laughed. His respect
for the wily Jacques Bisset increased as his anger
against the priest died away. “At least, then, we
are quits,” he had said. “I fooled him and he
fooled me, so that is done with. Now I am here,
shattered and done for. Lendert Verplanck takes
his way out of the world by another road. There
is then left the man Pierre Boutillier, and he is no
doubt as good as dead. All that the work of one
girl.”</p>
<p>“The work of wicked men,” Madam van der Deen
had replied, “of Louis XIV. and François Dupont.”</p>
<p>At that François had laughed. “Thanks for
coupling my name with his majesty’s. He would
feel flattered.”</p>
<p>But all this had been gone over days before, François
reflected, as he lay in the canoe floating down the
river Hudson. A prisoner, with a useless and suffering
body, but with brain alive and strong enough<span class="pagenum" id="Page_289">[289]</span>
to guide his will. They did not want him. They
would fain have thrown him overboard. He would
be received with aversion by Michelle; yet, helpless
as he was, he was having his way, and he could still
smile when he thought of that.</p>
<p>At Fort Orange they learned that Jacob Leisler
had paid the penalty of his mistaken and obdurate
policy, and that by contemptible methods his enemies
had rid themselves of him. The new governor
was in power and the white people were again in
the ascendant. Alaine, overcome with grief, and
full of longing to see her friends again, heard these
matters discussed, but heard indifferently. The time
had passed when they could interest her. She felt
a dull sense of pleasure that the first stage of the
journey was over and that they would soon be
nearing New York. So far she had steadfastly
avoided meeting François, but soon it would be no
longer possible, for they must travel in the same
conveyance from New York to the French settlement.</p>
<p>“It will have to be, my child,” said Madam van
der Deen. “You cannot avoid it, for he will be
under the same roof.”</p>
<p>“So he has been these weeks past and I have not
seen him. He must be there, yes, while he lives,
while he lives. Ah, that I might have been spared
this!”</p>
<p>“It is not so great a matter,” said the good lady,
looking at her serenely.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_290">[290]</span>“He is Lendert’s murderer.”</p>
<p>“Oh, no, that he is not.”</p>
<p>“It was he who ordered them to take him. Shall
I ever forget it? And has he not made my life one
of unutterable misery? Must I forgive him all he
has made me suffer during these years? Did I not
have enough to bear before that? Was it nothing
that I must leave my home, be separated from my
only living parent, and come to a strange land, but
I must be weighted down by these heavier sorrows?”</p>
<p>“Seventy times seven,” returned her friend.</p>
<p>Alaine shook her head. “There are some things
one can never forgive.”</p>
<p>“But he is penitent.”</p>
<p>“How do you know? He can appear to be anything.
He is a vile dissembler.”</p>
<p>“He has confessed to me that he is sorry for his
misdeeds. He wishes to tell you so, and there are
other things he desires you to know.”</p>
<p>“I do not trust him. He would be as bad as
ever if he were strong and well.”</p>
<p>“That he will never be. Will you see him now?”</p>
<p>Alaine arose. They had lodged for the night in
one of the ordinaries of the town. They would
soon be starting upon the second stage of their
journey.</p>
<p>The girl’s face was drawn and white as she followed
Madam van der Deen to another room. She
trembled and was hot by turns. This meeting that
she had dreaded for weeks, that she had put off, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_291">[291]</span>
that Trynje had helped her to defer, must now come
about.</p>
<p>At Madam’s tap upon the door Adriaen opened it.
The two women entered and the door closed behind
them. Where the light from a window fell upon
him François Dupont was propped up in his bed;
he was waiting for them. He was so thin that his
eyes seemed too large and deep set for so pale a
face; his hands were like claws, and his lips were
bloodless. At sight of his utter helplessness Alaine
felt her first wave of pity, but she steeled herself
against it.</p>
<p>He smiled as he saw her, and said, “At last,
mademoiselle. I have long wanted to see you, and
the fault of our not meeting is not mine. Will my
good nurse give mademoiselle a chair?”</p>
<p>Adriaen understood, but Alaine refused to seat
herself.</p>
<p>With a look at Adriaen, Madam retired and the
young Dutchman followed. Alaine, mute, troubled,
a little pitiful for the invalid, wholly resentful toward
the man, stood there.</p>
<p>François regarded her for some moments in silence.
“I have been the cause of much suffering for you,
mademoiselle,” he said at last, “and I wish to tell you
of my sorrow.”</p>
<p>“Sorrow comes too late, monsieur. In return I
can only say that if I despised you before, now that
you are become the worst of creation, a murderer, I
can only look at you with horror and loathing.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_292">[292]</span>He winced but went on speaking. “Let us first
talk of that morning when I saw you last. The
attack was not a personal matter. I was with others
who had long desired to make a raid into the English
colony. The opportunity came and we took it.
I was chosen to lead the little company of Frenchmen
who were allies of the Indians. If the carrying
out of what seems one’s duty in serving one’s
country is a crime, then I am punished. None but
myself can realize how great is this punishment, this
long death. I lie here paralyzed; only my head and
my hands are free to move. I do not say this to
extort pity from you, but to let you know that I have
not come off better than my enemies. M. Verplanck——”</p>
<p>“Hush!” Alaine raised her hand. There was
agony in her eyes and in her voice.</p>
<p>François turned his head away. “I did not understand,”
he said, after a pause. “I thought it was
your sweet womanly pity which made you give your
body as a defence. I thought it was the other one,—that
Pierre. I cannot ask your forgiveness now,
mademoiselle, for I understand. I must tell you
that I employed one who played the spy for me in
those first days of our acquaintance, and when you
came so readily in answer to the supposed word
from Pierre, I believed he was the one you favored.
I thought it was but a friendship and a wish to
oppose me that gave you a kindly attitude toward
any one else. I understand. Holy Mother! yes,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_293">[293]</span>
who better? I wish to tell you; it was Étienne,
and I desired revenge. I loved Constance De Caux
in my student days there in France, but Étienne
she loved. He laughed when I said he had stolen
her from me. He said, ‘If you do not know how
to keep her love, find out, but if you expect me not
to profit by your ignorance, you are a fool.’ And I
vowed I would win her or would have my revenge.
She did not love me, although I swear but for
Étienne she would have done so, and she was all
pity for Étienne, who had lost his cousin Alaine.
He came to me bowed down with grief, and I pretended
to give him my friendship again. But I had
not forgotten. No, I had not forgotten. Will you
give me a drop of that wine? I am very weak.”</p>
<p>Alaine handed him the cup but did not offer to
help him to drink; instead she turned away and
stood looking out the window till he spoke again, then
she took the cup from him and placed it on the table.</p>
<p>He went on with his story. “Then I said, I will
find her, this cousin, and if I can bring her back to
Étienne he will marry her, and after a while Constance
will remember how long I have loved her. I came.
I found Alaine, but she would not marry Étienne,
I saw that, but I did not tell him, for I had then another
plan. He believed Alaine to be dead, and
then he married Constance, and broke her heart by his
indifference. I never told you all this, for I wished
to marry you myself, and returning, I thought to
flaunt my wife in the face of him who had vowed to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_294">[294]</span>
win her, as I had vowed to win Constance. I knew
that your estates would return to you once you became
my wife, and I said I will have them and herself
too; thus will I revenge myself upon Étienne,
who would fain have had both. He crossed me in
my love, and I will show him that I can do the
same. A sweet revenge! A sweet revenge! for
Constance is dead and in heaven; she will know who
it is that loves her, and there she is mine and not
his—not his. I would have won you for my wife,
and so he would have been left with neither one to
bless his days. Now it is all over and I have lost
my last throw.”</p>
<p>He lay very still, his eyes closed, his breath coming
quickly. It was evident that the recital had cost
him all the strength he could summon. Alaine
again took the cup of wine to him. “Will you
drink?” she said. “It has been an effort to tell me
all this.”</p>
<p>He opened his eyes to smile at her. “Thank
you. How kind you are! How good and sweet
you have always been! Even when you have flung
your defiance at me, it was always as a rebuking
angel might speak. If I had never loved Constance—Yet,
I would have been kind to you. I would have
loved you as most men love, or even better. One
does not love madly, with the pain and the depth of
a hundred loves all bound in one, one does not love
so but once. Never but once that comes, and to
few.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_295">[295]</span>“I—know.” The words came painfully from
Alaine’s lips. As she took the cup away, François
seized her hand and turned his face over upon it.
Alaine felt hot tears from the eyes pressing her palm.</p>
<p>“Don’t! Don’t!” she cried, drawing her hand
away.</p>
<p>“At last I understand,” he repeated. “As I cannot
forgive Étienne, so you cannot forgive me. Let
me tell you all. I lured you to the house in the
woods that first summer that we met. The men
whom you believed to be political spies were emissaries
of a Jesuit who is yet working among them
there in Manhatte. He is not known as aught but
a Protestant, and I will not reveal his name, but it
was through him that I was able to carry out the
plan which we meant should result in your being
removed from your home. The questions put to
you were of no importance, and were but to blind
you to the real object. Again I wrote the letter from
Quebec, after I found you had escaped. I hoped
that it might aid me in preventing your marriage to
another, and I hoped to discover your hiding-place
and to prevent any others from seeking you. How I
have planned and plotted and set spies upon you
and dogged your actions! I meant, if you should
find your way back to your friends, to come to you
with a letter purporting to be from your father. I
had meant to do even that, to pretend that I had his
consent to our marriage. I would have done even
that. I think I have told you all now. If I have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_296">[296]</span>
robbed your life of happiness, so you know I am
not less miserable. I carry the burden of love
denied, of revenge untasted, of ambition thwarted,
of a miserable, helpless, suffering body. Mon Dieu!
is it not enough? I ask you, even you, Alaine Hervieu,
whom I have wronged and have hurt as I have
hurt no other creature, is it not enough that with all
this I must yet live and face you, and see your
misery and bear this gnawing misery of knowing I
have broken your heart, and that my own wretchedness
is scarcely greater?”</p>
<p>Alaine dropped on her knees by the bedside.
“Lord be merciful to us!” she cried. “Pray, François
Dupont, pray!”</p>
<p>And François whispered, “Lord be merciful to us!”</p>
<p>Alaine buried her face in her hands. Sobs shook
her slight frame. “Forgive us our trespasses as we
forgive those who trespass against us.” She said
the words brokenly.</p>
<p>François timidly reached out his hand and laid it
on her head. His lips moved, and when Alaine
arose to her feet he looked at her with eyes so full
of entreaty that she bowed her head. “God forgive
you, François Dupont, and I pray that I may.
I cannot yet,—I cannot,—but I pray that I may yet
be able to do so.”</p>
<p>And then Adriaen came in. “We must make
ready to start,” he said.</p>
<p>Alaine turned to go. “Mademoiselle,” said François,
“if I could fall on my knees before you I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_297">[297]</span>
would do it; as it is, my heart is bowed in reverence
for you. God knows it would be a small thing to
die for you, but I shall live, and perhaps by living a
little longer I may yet do something to undo my
great wrong to you. If I might, if I might.”</p>
<p>When she had left the room François spoke to
Adriaen. He had learned enough Dutch in these
weeks to carry on a halting conversation with his
self-instituted nurse. “Adriaen, my good fellow, I
am as full of whims as an egg is of meat. What
would you say if I declared that I had determined
to go back to Canada? Helpless wretch that I am,
there is yet work for me to do and you must help
me to do it. Will you?”</p>
<p>It took some moments for this to get through
Adriaen’s brain, but finally he nodded, “Yes.”</p>
<p>“I am a prisoner. I wish to be exchanged. I
wish to remain here in Orange. I shall not die yet.
I am not worth one able-bodied man, but there is
enough of me, seeing my headpiece is still good,
there is enough to work an exchange. You will
stay with me here?”</p>
<p>“That will I do.”</p>
<p>“Very well, then. I shall go back. One might
suppose I enjoyed travelling about the country in a
canoe.” He laughed mirthlessly. “I ought to die
by the way, but I shall not, I say I shall not. Let
me remain here and see the big-wigs. Get that
managed for me, and let us remain. It is that much
nearer your sweetheart, you see.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_298">[298]</span>Adriaen smiled broadly and regarded François with
a puzzled look. This sudden change of plans was
bewildering, and he felt that he could not adjust
himself to it as rapidly as this keen young Frenchman.</p>
<p>“Will you ask Madam van der Deen and mademoiselle
if they will permit me to make my adieux
to them? I would not force myself upon them
again to-day, but I may not live to see them again.”
He spoke quietly of what long since had become an
accepted fact with him.</p>
<p>Adriaen withdrew and took the message to Madam
van der Deen. “What means this sudden change
of plans?” she asked.</p>
<p>“That I know not.” Adriaen had not recovered
from his surprise of it himself.</p>
<p>“How can he wish to attempt it when he has
been so eager to reach New Rochelle? It passes
my comprehension. I must consult my husband.
The man will die by the way,” Madam declared.</p>
<p>“Perhaps that is what he wishes,” thought Alaine.</p>
<p>The interview with François which Joachim van
der Deen sought did not alter the former’s decision.
“He has a will of iron,” Joachim told his wife. “He
cannot be moved from his intention, and, helpless
though he is, one finds oneself agreeing with whatever
he proposes. A pity so able a man should be
smitten down at this early age. He is our enemy
and could do us much harm, but one cannot remember
that when one is in his presence. He<span class="pagenum" id="Page_299">[299]</span>
means to return to Canada, and when all is said that
is the sum of it.”</p>
<p>“Will you go in to see him?” Madam looked at
Alaine, who followed without a word.</p>
<p>“This is kind, madam,” was the greeting from
François. “And you, mademoiselle, I did not hope
for this added grace from you. I am going. I mean
to do more before I die. If I can, I will do more.
We shall probably not meet again, and therefore I
have asked to make my final adieux. Words are
poor things. I cannot thank you as I would for all
your motherly kindness to a wounded prisoner,
Madam van der Deen, but I shall remember it as
one of the few pleasant things which have come to
me. Mademoiselle Hervieu, adieu. Will you come
nearer?” She came to his side. “You said pray,
and I will pray to the blessed Virgin day and night,
to her and to all the saints, that you may have peace.
If we do not meet again, I shall have tried to make
amends. Will you remember that?”</p>
<p>She bowed her head in assent.</p>
<p>“Adieu, then.”</p>
<p>“Adieu, monsieur.”</p>
<p>They left him, so wreak in body, so strong of will,
so wrong-headed, so weary-hearted, with determination
written in his deep-set eyes, and even indicated
by the nervous clasp of the wasted fingers.
He turned to Adriaen. “Now, then, we remain for
a space, and the saints spare me to do this thing which
is not for revenge, nor for ambition, nor for fame.”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_300">[300]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XVIII<br>
<small>PAPA LOUIS TELLS A STORY</small></h2>
</div>
<p><span class="smcap">Everything</span> was gay and smiling in and around
the home of the Merciers on that day when Alaine
arrived. The door was open and there was the
sound of some one singing as Alaine used to sing.
“How soon one is forgotten!” she whispered to
Madam van der Deen.</p>
<p>The goede vrouw shook her head. “That does
not count. One sometimes sings to cover up a
heartache.”</p>
<p>But in this instance this was not so, for, as Alaine
stopped before the door and looked in, she saw a
brisk little figure stepping back and forth before the
spinning-wheel. Her thread broke short with a
snap as she saw who was arrived. “Nomme de
Dieu!” she cried, turning pale and staring at Alaine
as if she saw a ghost.</p>
<p>“Mathilde!” cried Alaine, holding out her hands.
“Mathilde, and do you not know me?”</p>
<p>Then with a scream Mathilde darted toward her,
kissed her on each cheek, pinched her, patted her,
all the time exclaiming between tears and laughter.</p>
<p>“Michelle, and Papa Louis, and Gerard, where
are they?” at last Alaine, recovering from the embraces,
found voice to ask.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_301">[301]</span>“I will call them. They do not know? Ciel!
but this is a good day. I will not stop to question,
though I am dying to know how it is that you come,
and all of it.” She but stopped to drop a courtesy
to the friends, whom Alaine named, and was off.</p>
<p>Familiar, yet unfamiliar, the place looked to Alaine.
The little table still held the small black books;
there was the big chair on its rollers; yonder the
high-post bedsteads, yet the dim blue hangings had
been exchanged for a soft yellow, with a delicate
tracery of vine bordering them, and they were further
finished by a knitted fringe. A coverlet of the
same linen adorned the bed, and this, too, was embroidered.
Two painted feather fans ornamented
the mantel, and a hand-screen lay on the table near
by. Throughout the room there was a dainty feminine
touch visible which had not been so observable
before. Alaine noticed, too, that one of the doors
led to a room lately added. This she must see.
There stood another high bed and a dressing-table
decked with soft white draperies delicately embroidered.</p>
<p>She had not time to distinguish more, for a clatter
of wooden shoes along the porch and a sound of
voices scolding, protesting, laughing, proclaimed the
coming of the Merciers. Michelle, in advance of
the others, stopped short at sight of strangers, of
Madam van der Deen and the sturdy Joachim; then
she broke forth with a cry, “My child! My child! is
it of her you bring me news? My little lost lamb?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_302">[302]</span>Alaine, half hidden by the curtains of the bed,
sprang out. “Not lost, Michelle, dear Mère Michelle,
but here, here! Look at me, see me, it is
your own Alainette!”</p>
<p>Michelle turned to her husband for support
“What shall I do? What shall I do? She has renounced
her faith and her friends. She has become
French,” and Michelle dropped upon a bench and
covered her face with her hands.</p>
<p>Alaine knelt by her. “That she has not, Michelle.
It was all a wicked lie meant to deceive you. I am
still Alaine Mercier, your daughter and Papa Louis’s,
if you will have it so. I have never returned to
France. I have never become the wife of any one.
I have never renounced my faith. Will you not
welcome me again, Papa Louis and Gerard?”</p>
<p>For answer Papa Louis opened his arms, and
Alaine went to him, resting her head on his shoulder
and holding out her hand to Gerard. “And you, my
brother?”</p>
<p>“Alaine, my sister.” He stooped and kissed her
upon each cheek.</p>
<p>Then Michelle arose. “You claim her, all of you,
when she was mine first, mine. My little baby all
those years ago when my own little one died after
they brought my young husband home to me, dead.
My baby, who comforted me and who crept into my
desolate heart. My girl, whom I cherished and cared
for after her own sainted mother became an angel.
Mine, whom I have cared for and wept over and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_303">[303]</span>
nursed and loved. Go, all of you. Do not touch
her, my little one, my baby, my heart. Come to
me, my Alainette. I was dazed. I was blind. I was
stupefied. Come to me, my baby, my daughter.”</p>
<p>Alaine’s arms went around Michelle’s neck. “God
is good! God is good!” Michelle murmured, the
tears running down her cheeks.</p>
<p>Meantime, Papa Louis turned to Mynheer van der
Deen and his wife. “You will excuse this, my
friends. We are overcome, and we forget to thank
you for bringing us our daughter.”</p>
<p>“I want to know how it happened,” said Mathilde.</p>
<p>Alaine disengaged herself from Michelle’s embrace.
“It is a long, long story. Can you hear it now?
There are many things I, too, would know.” She
looked from one to the other, and saw on the faces
of Mathilde and Gerard a conscious smile. Then
she understood. “You are married, you two!
That is why——” She looked around the room.
These pretty femininities were Mathilde’s work. She
remembered how Mathilde had excelled in the use
of her brush and her needle. She ran up to her
and shook her playfully. “Tell me, is it true?”</p>
<p>“It is true,” laughed Mathilde. “It happened two
weeks ago last Sunday at the church in Manhatte.
We were married there. Tell her, Gerard.” She
turned with a pretty bashful look at her young husband,
who regarded her small self with admiring
eyes.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_304">[304]</span>He in his turn said, “Let Papa Louis tell the
story; he is the best orator.”</p>
<p>“It was last winter that we first began to think
of it; I should say that it was then that Michelle and
I did so, for no doubt but that it had been interfering
with the peace of these young persons long
before that,” Papa Louis began. “Michelle there
fell sick of a rheumatic fever and we all were in
despair. The neighbors were kind, so very kind,
but kindest of all was our little Mathilde, who came
and helped to nurse her night and day. She did
more than that, for she looked after the house so
deftly that our good Michelle herself said that she
could have done no better, and that Mathilde’s dainty
touch was something that she could never hope to
attain. For myself, I did not contradict her; an
invalid must not be contradicted, you know.” His
cheery laugh warmed Alaine’s heart, it was so
pleasantly familiar.</p>
<p>“So, then, when our maman became herself again
she was still too feeble to do all that she had heretofore,
and while she was striving for strength came
the letter from François Dupont, which was like a
death-knell to our hope of seeing our daughter
Alaine again, for not a day but that we had prayed
and longed for her return. So, then, we said, she is
lost to us forever. Then came the young Dutchman.
Ah, said I, when I told him the news, here is one
whose grief is as great as ours, and if it should be
that Alaine returns, it is he who loves her too well<span class="pagenum" id="Page_305">[305]</span>
for us to deny her to him. By this time it had become
very plain to me where Gerard’s heart was
placed, and I am a sentimental old man, I love the
poets, I love the songs of romance, I do not like to
break hearts, and here, I said, we shall make a mistake
if we reserve Gerard for one who will not return,
and even, as I half expected, if the news were
false, even then, I thought, it will still be better, for
it is Mathilde whom Gerard loves. Do not blush so,
little bride, it is quite true. I said that, and I saw—— No,
no, you are safely married; there is no harm in
telling that I perceived that you loved him. It is
quite natural, I said, for he is tall and she is so
little; it is always that way. Observe my inches
and then gaze upon my wife.” Every one laughed.
There was never any resisting Papa Louis’s pleasantries.</p>
<p>“Now I come to the finale. By this time we
were agreed that a daughter was an indispensable
luxury. Since we cannot have Alaine, I say, why
not Mathilde? ‘Why not, indeed,’ agreed Michelle,
as if she had just thought of it, although I know the
idea had kept her awake nights.”</p>
<p>“Ta, ta, Louis,” broke in Michelle, “that is not
so. Mathilde’s nightcaps were always of a sort to
make one sleep. To be sure, I thought of it—in the
daytime.”</p>
<p>Papa Louis laughed. “Very well, then, we proceed.
I approach Gerard with caution. I say, ‘My
son, it would be well if you should marry. We<span class="pagenum" id="Page_306">[306]</span>
suddenly seem old, my wife and I; we need younger
hands, and yours, big as they are, cannot do everything.’
‘Who, then, would you have me marry?’
asked Gerard, all expectant eyes and ears. I consider
a moment. ‘How would Madelaine Theroulde
please you?’ I say. He turned pale. You did,
Gerard, though you shake your head. ‘She is a
good girl,’ he said, ‘certainly, but——’ ‘Ah,’ I remark,
‘you say “but.” Then let us pass on. I think
Michelle and I might be satisfied with some one else.
What do you say to Adrienne Selaine?’ And then
Gerard had no smile nor even a word for a moment
or two. At last he blurted out, ‘And why not Mathilde
Duval?’ I laughed then. I had a good laugh.
‘I have amused myself,’ I cried. ‘I desired to break it
gently to you lest you faint, and I am not strong
enough, Gerard, to carry you in, so I approached the
subject with care. It was Mathilde whom, all the
time, I meant.’ And, will you believe it? the undutiful
son then and there fell upon me and pounded
me, then he embraced me in so bearlike a manner
that I have scarce since been able to breathe as freely
as before, and the only way I could recover myself
from his embrace of me was to gasp, ‘But Mathilde,
Mathilde, we may not be able to receive the consent
of her guardian.’ And then he dropped me and
stood off staring at me. Do not laugh, Mathilde. I
should not perhaps tell all this, for it is not best
always to let a woman know her power. I never
confess to Michelle how I tremble in her presence.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_307">[307]</span>Michelle shook her head at him. “We desire
facts, Louis, and not fancies.”</p>
<p>He nodded at his audience as he would say, You
see how I am ruled. “So, then,” he resumed,
“we digress. He looked crestfallen. I assure him
that I will at once proceed to the uncle of Mathilde.
I go. I return shortly. I do not seem to see that
Gerard has done much work in my absence, for he
sits stupidly by the door listening to Mathilde’s singing.”
Papa Louis put his head back and laughed
again.</p>
<p>“I say as I enter, ‘Will you go to the garden,
Gerard, and see how many chickens the yellow hen
has hatched? Michelle wishes to know.’ ‘But M.
Theroulde?’ says Gerard. ‘I have no message for
you from M. Theroulde,’ I say, looking severe, ‘but I
have one for Mathilde.’ He goes forth slowly as if
his shoes were of iron instead of wood, and I enter
the house. ‘Mathilde,’ I say, ‘Gerard has gone to count
the yellow hen’s chickens. Will you go to him and
tell him that when he has concluded the sum of
them that I am waiting here with Michelle to bestow
a blessing?’ Mathilde looked puzzled. ‘On the
chickens?’ she asked. Ho! ho! she said that.
‘Not on the chickens, but on two geese,’ I reply.
She ran out. I do not know yet if she understood,
but one thing I do know: to this day I have not
been told the number of the yellow hen chickens.”</p>
<p>“There were eleven,” said Michelle, gravely.
And every one else burst into a hearty laugh.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_308">[308]</span>“That is all my part of the story,” Papa Louis
concluded. “Of the rest it better befits Michelle
and Mathilde to tell. We are very well pleased, are
we not, Mathilde?” He pinched her cheek and
looked around with a smile for every one.</p>
<p>And then Michelle, arising to her duty as hostess,
set out to prepare a feast for the visitors, while
Alaine gave a recital of her experiences. That the
dinner was not late was not due to the frequent interruptions
caused by Michelle’s dropping suddenly
in a chair to raise her eyes to heaven and to exclaim
at the wickedness of man.</p>
<p>It was after the meal was over and the guests
departed that Alaine, looking at Mathilde, said, “And
Pierre?”</p>
<p>“He has not sent a word nor a line. We fear he
is no more.”</p>
<p>Alaine sighed. Of her lovers, who were left?
François, a wreck, a man whose days were numbered.
Étienne, who had married another, and who
had never been a possibility in Alaine’s opinion.
The two who had loved her best, who of all had
received affection from her, these were gone. She
leaned back in her chair and slow tears rolled down
her cheeks.</p>
<p>Mathilde came and stood over her. “So pale and
wistful you look, dear Alaine, and I am too happy
to be here before you. What can I do not to have
it seem so great a contrast for you, my sister Alaine?
For you are my sister.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_309">[309]</span>“And I never had one,” sighed Alaine.</p>
<p>“Think, then, now I have father, mother, sister,
and brother, I who lately had no one. Think of
that, Alaine. I, too, a year ago was desolate, and
now how happy I am! If I needed anything to
complete my joy, it was your return, and to-day
brings me that. I can almost say I love France, I
am so at peace. Do you know, my uncle will not
speak French save at home, and he calls his children
by the English names John and Margaret and James.
He says he is not French, that this is his country
and he owes it his allegiance, and so say I. Let us
forget France, I tell Gerard. We have had merry
times here together, and still shall have. Now that
you return there will be occasion for many a frolic.
I shall take you to a little festivity to-morrow, the
fête-day of Suzanne Gombeau. We shall dance and
sing, and you will be at home again among your
friends.”</p>
<p>“Dance? I dance?” Alaine shook her head.
“My heart is too heavy for me to be light-footed. I
will stay at home, Mathilde.”</p>
<p>“We will see what Mère Michelle will say to that.
She is so glad to-day she could dance herself, I
think.”</p>
<p>Michelle stood gazing at her darling. “I cannot
yet believe it,” she told her, “and I would hear
more of those strange journeys of yours, of Father
Bisset and Madame Herault. Well do I remember
her, a handsome young woman so blithe and so<span class="pagenum" id="Page_310">[310]</span>
brilliant.” She shook her head. Alaine’s tale of
Jeanne had greatly moved her. “And you knew
not what became of her? That is strange,” she
remarked at the close of Alaine’s tale of Jeanne’s
disappearance.</p>
<p>“We do not know whether she was taken away
by force or whether she went willingly. I hope the
latter.” This had been the one thought which had
given Alaine comfort. If Jeanne had accompanied
the raiders on their retreat she might be able to lend
some protection to Lendert, she and Ricard. The
Indians, however, might have become enraged at
what they felt to be treachery on Jeanne’s part and
she, too, might be prisoner.</p>
<p>To Alaine it seemed years ago that all those
strange things had happened. In a year she had
travelled far, had suffered the sorrows of a lifetime,
yet here she was again in this quiet corner of the
world. The twittering birds, the soft tinkling of
some musical instrument, treasured by a neighbor
and brought over from France with great care, the
old familiar sounds came in through the open window.
Here was rest for brain and body, for all but
her aching heart. And strange, in the midst of her
prayers that night arose a thought of François.
“Lord have mercy,” she again faltered.</p>
<p>And François? Only his iron will took him
safely through the fatigues of the next few days.
After a night’s rest he had demanded that Adriaen
should see certain officials for him. “I will receive<span class="pagenum" id="Page_311">[311]</span>
them here,” he said. “You will explain why I do
not present myself in person.”</p>
<p>His message was received courteously, and following
Adriaen’s account of him came a visit from two
of the dignitaries of the place. The courage with
which François faced them, his Spartan-like endurance,
and his compelling presence won their attention
and they found themselves interested, so
that before they left they had promised to make
immediate efforts to arrange for an exchange.</p>
<p>Then François dismissed Adriaen. “Go to your
sweetheart,” he said. “I will get you to hire me a
man, and then I will do.” He took the young
man’s hand in his. “You have been a good friend,
Adriaen, and I wish you all the happiness that I
have missed. Tell your little Trynje that I thank
her for lending you to me. I should not have been
able to get through without you. And say to her
that for what I have made her friend suffer I have
no words in which to ask forgiveness. I remember
now; the old priest said it: ‘Forgiveness is sweeter
than revenge.’ I have come to see it. It was Alaine
herself who showed me that. Now get me a good
man, and then adieu, Adriaen.”</p>
<p>There were real tears in the young Dutchman’s
eyes when he finally took his leave of his friend,
and after he had gone François, with a deep sigh,
shut his eyes. Then he set his mind upon what
was to be done next.</p>
<p>What it was transpired not long after. For in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_312">[312]</span>
exchange for a wounded Englishman François’s
paralyzed body was sent on to Montreal. Here he
was not long in setting his friends about his business.
“I want to find,” he said, “a coureur de bois called
Ricard le Nez. If he cannot be found, then one
Edouard le Gros will do.”</p>
<p>And in due time it came to pass that Jeanne
Crepin in her lodge in the wilderness saw borne
past her door on a rude stretcher the body of a
man. “Hold, Ricard!” she cried; “whom have you
there?”</p>
<p>The bearers stopped. “A man who is all head
and no body,” Ricard replied.</p>
<p>“I will see him.” She came and stood over the
man. “Who are you? What do you here?” she
asked.</p>
<p>“One question at a time, good sir or madam, I
know not which,” replied François. “I am François
Dupont, or what is left of that once lively individual.”</p>
<p>“Then you are a child of the Evil One,” returned
Jeanne.</p>
<p>“Softly, softly, my good sir or madam. May I
ask your name in return and how it is that you are
so well acquainted with the family of Monsieur le
Diable? since the putting of double questions seems
to be the fashion in these parts.”</p>
<p>“I am Jeanne Crepin.”</p>
<p>“Ah, yes, to be sure.” He spoke as if searching
his memory for a lost recollection. “I remember, I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_313">[313]</span>
remember. Your brother was a friend of mine.
Father Bisset has perhaps mentioned me to you.
No, I have it, I have it. I recognize you now,
madam; it was you whom I saw during our little
skirmish over in the English colony of New York, as
they call it now. I remember. So, so.”</p>
<p>“What are you doing here?”</p>
<p>“What am I doing here? It is not I who can do
at all; you perceive that I am a passive fact. I
think, however, that it would be as well if we were
to get on. I would doff my hat to you, madam,
did I wear one. As it is, take my adieux in such
courteous manner as may be best suited to the occasion,
and consider that I have made my best obeisance.
Advance, Ricard.”</p>
<p>Jeanne took up the line of march with the others.
“Where do you carry him?” she asked.</p>
<p>“To the Indian village beyond.”</p>
<p>“Why does he go there?”</p>
<p>Ricard looked at her with a sidelong glance.
“You would have to know him to guess why. I
never knew stronger will in weaker body. How he
has made this journey is past telling. He goes because
he has heard that the young Dutchman is
there.”</p>
<p>“Ah-h!” Jeanne compressed her lips and walked
on in silence. From time to time she looked at
François, whose eyes returned her glance with something
of their old mischief.</p>
<p>“I see, madam,” he said at last, “twenty questions<span class="pagenum" id="Page_314">[314]</span>
have risen to your lips, yet none are uttered.
You say, Why does he go to the Indian village?
What does he intend to do if he discovers Lendert
Verplanck there? How much does he know?
How little does he know? What is to be done after
all? and all that. Am I right?”</p>
<p>“You are right,” she returned, gravely.</p>
<p>“Then I will answer without further prelude. I
go to the Indian village because there I have heard
I will find Lendert Verplanck. I wish to see him,
and if possible to set him free. And then I have
really nothing more to do in this life. Love will do
the rest.” He searched Jeanne’s face, over which a
sudden softness spread.</p>
<p>“Ay,” she said, “love will do the rest, if love
meets life.”</p>
<p>“Explain yourself, if you please.”</p>
<p>“Lendert Verplanck has been kept alive from day
to day only on sufferance. At first they would have
despatched him by slow torture without hesitation,
but some interfered, Ricard and some others, and
the Indians agreed to wait till they should reach the
village. Arriving there, he was made to run the
gauntlet, to believe that each day must be his last,
and that the morrow would see the fires of torture
kindled for him. But Petit Marc sits there watching.
He declares that once they glut themselves
with the Dutchman’s death, he, Petit Marc, has
knowledge which will bring them terrible disaster.”</p>
<p>“This is interesting. Then why do they not despatch<span class="pagenum" id="Page_315">[315]</span>
Monsieur Marc first? That would be my
plan.”</p>
<p>Jeanne smiled a little ironically. “They know
better, for Petit Marc has conveyed away one of
them whom he holds as a hostage. They know
that at a word from this big man——”</p>
<p>“Whom you call little——”</p>
<p>“That one of their braves will suffer as they
would make the man Verplanck suffer. He knows
them, this Marc. He knows their ways, their
secrets. He has done them too many favors for
them to regard him lightly. He sits there a guard
over their prisoner, yet they will not give up the
Dutchman.”</p>
<p>“They will, then,” said François. “Proceed a
little more rapidly, Ricard.”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_316">[316]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XIX<br>
<small>THE MARK OF THE RED FEATHER</small></h2>
</div>
<p><span class="smcap">Into</span> the company of Indians gathered around the
imperturbable Marc and the prisoner suddenly walked
Jeanne Crepin, whose coming was received with
grunts of disapproval. She had an unpleasant way
of appearing before these red brethren when she
was least expected. They gave her a certain respect
and even affectionate admiration, but they
were not to be balked by a woman in their revenge.
Lendert’s scalp was a possession not to be despised,
and it had required the combined strategy of Jeanne
and Ricard to prevent its being taken on that homeward
march. Jeanne had insisted that he was Ricard’s
prisoner and had refused to leave him while
Ricard made a hasty journey in search of Petit Marc.
After that Petit Marc took possession.</p>
<p>“You quarrel over the man,” he said to them.
“One brother says he is mine, another he is mine.
I am judge between you. He is neither the one’s
nor the other’s. Ricard took him, as every one
knows, but it was because the Frenchman, your
leader, told him to do it, and therefore if he belongs
to any one it is to François, but he does not belong
to him. He belongs to Yonondio, and to him he
must be delivered at last. If the Frenchman, François<span class="pagenum" id="Page_317">[317]</span>
Sharp Eyes, were here he would tell you so, but
he is slain and he cannot deliver him up to Yonondio.
Will Yonondio protect you? Will he believe you to
be his friends when you steal from him his prisoners?
Yet Yonondio loves François Sharp Eyes, and
he would give him to him because he is his.”</p>
<p>“The Frenchman, Sharp Eyes, is slain,” said an
old chief. “What is my brother saying? How
does he expect that the slain shall come and claim
his prisoner?”</p>
<p>“François Sharp Eyes is not slain,” returned
Marc, racking his brain for a device to lengthen the
time for Lendert. “Moreover, my brothers forget
that there are many who have lost friends in this
war, and even in this battle, therefore it is but right
and according to custom that this prisoner shall be
delivered to one who has lost a friend in war. So
only can the cloud be driven away which hangs over
that one to whom grief has come.”</p>
<p>“My brother speaks what is true,” agreed the old
chief, “and the prisoner must be given to one who
has lost a friend in this battle.”</p>
<p>Then came a long discussion as to who should
possess Lendert, and finally this matter was settled
by his being handed over to one Red Feather.
Petit Marc protested all the while that it was no
one’s right to kill the man, and that the governor,
Frontenac, whom the Indians called Yonondio,
would tell their father, the King of France, and that
he would be very angry that they had kept any prisoner<span class="pagenum" id="Page_318">[318]</span>
from him. Nevertheless, every now and then
murmurs arose, and the life of Lendert hung in the
balance whenever news of a raid from the Iroquois
aroused a new desire for revenge in Lendert’s captors.</p>
<p>At last came the word that a bloody skirmish had
taken place and that here was new cause for maltreatment
of this representative of the enemy. Encouraged
by Petit Marc, Lendert bore himself stoically
while the wily Marc cast about for a reason to delay
the expected torture. Bound to a tree and hopelessly
waiting the pleasure of his tormentors, Lendert
lay when Jeanne appeared.</p>
<p>“To whom do you say this man belongs?” she
asked, at the same time touching him contemptuously
with the toe of her moccasin. “You say he
is Red Feather’s. I say he is not. I say that no
one but François Sharp Eyes has a right to him.”</p>
<p>“Wah!” grunted the old chief, “the Man-Wife
has been drinking the new sap of the fever-tree and
it has touched her brain. Do dead bodies desire to
take away prisoners from the living?”</p>
<p>Jeanne tossed up her chin. “No, but the living
have a right to their own. See, my brothers, François
Sharp Eyes is here.” With a wave of her hand
she indicated the approach of Ricard and Edouard
with their burden.</p>
<p>“And not a minute too soon,” growled Petit
Marc. “It was getting to be close quarters for
him.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_319">[319]</span>Even the most impassive of the redskins stared to
see the white face of François appear. Lendert
struggled in his bonds and glared at this unexpected
presence.</p>
<p>“Where is the prisoner?” asked François.
“Place me near him.” He was laid under the tree
where Lendert was bound.</p>
<p>“You see me, my brothers,” François began.
“You ask if a dead body desires to take possession
of a living one. Behold a dead body, this one of
mine. As the chill of winter creeps farther and
farther from the north, so over this body of mine
creeps the chill of death; and who has caused this
to happen? The same enemy who has robbed Red
Feather of his son. Am I not worse off than Red
Feather? He has another son, two or three of
them. I have but my one body and it is worse than
useless; only a frame to fasten this head upon.
Was it not I who led you against the English?
Said I not, We will have revenge for those indignities
of the English and the Dutch and the Iroquois?
You have come home in safety; I have
been all these months a prisoner; and look at me.
Who shall say that I should not have body for
body?”</p>
<p>The Indians listened solemnly. Then one spoke
up. “Our brother speaks well, but he has still his
head. We will give him the body of the white
man and we will take the head.”</p>
<p>This was received with much approval by the rest<span class="pagenum" id="Page_320">[320]</span>
of the Indians, and Petit Marc gave a short laugh.
The grim humor of the speech struck him. “They
have you there,” he said aside to François.</p>
<p>“Pah!” François raised his hand. “Of what
use is a body which cannot move? And if you deprive
me of the head, how, then, can the body move
for me? My living body has been taken; for it I
demand a living body in return. This is what
Yonondio would accord me. Call the head yours if
you wish. I am willing, but how will it serve me
to have two useless bodies? My brothers mock
me; they wish to double my burdens by giving me
two loads to carry, as if one were not enough. Who
will be feet for my feet, legs for my legs? Who will
run for me if I have not these living legs to do
my will? And what will Yonondio say when I tell
him. They have given me a dead man to bring to
you as a prisoner?”</p>
<p>This was another matter for consideration, but
the decision was not repealed. “The head is Red
Feather’s, the body belongs to François Sharp Eyes.
If François takes away the head which is Red
Feather’s, how, then, will any one know that it belongs
to his brother?”</p>
<p>It was François who solved the difficulty. “It
will not be so bad as it might be, and it is that or his
head,” he said in an undertone to Petit Marc.
“François Sharp Eyes, your brother, will tell you
what to do,” he went on to say. “Let Red Feather
put his mark upon the man; let him brand him upon<span class="pagenum" id="Page_321">[321]</span>
the cheek, so will all know that it is the head of Red
Feather though the body follow François.”</p>
<p>The old chief nodded approval. “Our brother
speaks with wisdom; it shall be as he desires.
Yonondio will then perceive that we have done as
he would command, and it will be a sign to him that
the man was in our hands but that we desire to
please our father, and that we have delivered the
prisoner to François.”</p>
<p>Finding that they were not to be deprived of all
entertainment, the company proceeded, with much
ceremony, to see to it that upon Lendert’s cheek was
branded a queer, small red feather. Then followed
a feast and much powwowing, and at last Lendert
was free.</p>
<p>As he faced his old enemy he felt that he would
almost rather have suffered greater torture than to
be handed over to this man. What further diabolical
intention had he, who was mighty even in his
helplessness? He had not opened his lips during
all this ceremony, not even to ask word of his
friends, of Alaine, whom Jeanne had left lying on
the ground in feigned mortal hurt. Nor did he
speak when his stiffened and cramped limbs followed
the litter to Jeanne’s lodge. Jeanne tramped along
by his side, but turned her talk to Petit Marc, for
she saw that Lendert was in no mood for conversation.
It was only when they were arrived at her
door that she turned to François and said, “And
Alaine, what of her?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_322">[322]</span>“To-day she is with her friends,” François told
her. “She is in New Rochelle, poor little soul.”
He turned his eyes upon Lendert. “Come here, if
you please, my friend. I have done you and Mademoiselle
Hervieu much wrong. I do not know why
I disliked you; probably because you are Dutch and
the enemy of my country, and because you came
between me and my revenge. She will tell you all,
for I send you to her. I am not going to live, and I
made this journey to attain this object, to find you.
I send you back to her you love and to her I have
wronged. I believe she will forgive me. I know
what a great love is, and I respect yours. Go with
it to Mademoiselle Hervieu and say, I am François
Dupont’s gift to you. I love you so deeply that I
can even endure it that he whom I hate has been
the means of liberating me and that it is from his
hands that you receive me back to your heart. I
do not ask your forgiveness, Lendert Verplanck;
only angels can forgive utterly, and it is an angel who
waits for you there in New Rochelle.”</p>
<p>“I thank you, mynheer,” said Lendert, brokenly.
“God knows I love her.”</p>
<p>“And you will marry her. Yes, I know. I have
heard it all from the lips of that little Trynje and
from her good mother and her better lover.” His
eyes softened as he spoke of Adriaen. “Good boy!
good boy! I love that lad,” he said, thoughtfully.
“I know your mother’s feeling, but you will say to
her that the man who gave up his revenge and his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_323">[323]</span>
will that he might go out of the world worthy of one
who waits for him up there——” He gave a quick,
short sigh. “I believe that! I believe that!” he
said, passionately. “She waits for <i>me</i>. Well, then,
say to your mother this man, half dead, took his
poor body over hill and dale, through forest and
down-stream, that he might right a wrong, and he
gives you back your son, but in return he asks that
you do not stand between him and happiness. This
man, François Dupont, you will tell her what became
of his strong will, and how Heaven treated
him for his vainglory and stubbornness. I am not
good; I am not religious, not I, but I know when I
am beaten, and I can recognize the stroke when it
comes. I am so near death that I can see the meaning
of things. You will tell her of me and of what I
say. Yet, because even then, in her strength and her
power of health, she still refuses, there is something
else. It will be told you in good time. Now, boys,
we rest here for to-night, and to-morrow take me on
to Quebec. I wish to die under the flag which
waved above me when I fought there upon the heights
of Quebec. I shall live to get there,—I shall do
that. You will take me, Ricard, and you, Edouard,
and Toito, my man? So now, you, M. Verplanck,
must have safe escort to the other side of the river,
and then you can go on.”</p>
<p>Lendert bowed his head in assent. He had not
even words now for this strange man, whose devotion
to a purpose rose above his egotism and ambitions.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_324">[324]</span>
But the young Dutchman carried all this in
his heart, and when the next morning he saw François
placed in the canoe which was to bear him upon
his last journey before he should enter that darker
river, the feeling of angry resentment, of hatred and
revenge, gave way. It had been slowly growing less
and less ever since the hour when he was freed, and
he leaned over from the side of his own canoe to
touch the hand of François, not now in anger nor
in assault, but in pity and gratitude.</p>
<p>“Mynheer Dupont,” he said, “you told me that
Mademoiselle Hervieu would forgive you, that it was
an angel I should find when I return. Then, I cannot
go to her with a black heart, and if I am your gift
to her, one does not give angels as worthless a thing
as a man who hates his deliverer. And so, mynheer,
if you wish my forgiveness, here it is, and if
you have aught against me, I pray you, in turn, let
me ask your pardon for it.”</p>
<p>François turned his feverishly bright eyes upon
him. “Head of Red Feather and body that is
mine,” he said, with a whimsical smile, “you are
of no account at all beside the heart which is
Alaine Hervieu’s, and which is great enough to
do this. Will you bend your head closer, monsieur?”</p>
<p>Lendert obeyed, and François touched his lips to
the burning mark, which stood out red and inflamed,
even though Jeanne’s soothing applications had taken
away the worst of its fire. “When you go to Alaine,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_325">[325]</span>
tell her so I have dedicated this mark and bear her
my long farewell.”</p>
<p>The canoes drifted apart, one going up stream,
the other down, and to those who had best known
him, who had suffered with and by him, whose fear
had been turned into compassion, François Dupont
became but a memory, yet from the memory at
last all bitterness vanished, and he was remembered
as one to whom reverence and gratitude were
due.</p>
<p>The long and wearisome journey made by Lendert
at last brought him to the house from which he
had lately been cast out. But here was no mother
to welcome him or to upbraid him, for Madam De
Vries had gone to New York after Trynje’s wedding.
She felt a miserable satisfaction in nursing her resentment
towards Alaine, yet was of a dozen minds
about her. Trynje was no longer to be treated as a
daughter, and the one whom her son had loved
ought rightly to have taken her place. This Madam
conceded to herself, but grew hot and angry at the
thought, and so at last she shut herself away from
her friends and brooded over it all. As day after
day passed and the hopelessness of ever seeing
Lendert again came over her, she grew more and
more bitter, outwardly, and more and more yielding,
inwardly, so that if, at certain moments, Alaine had
appeared, she would have wept with her and have
taken her to her heart. A dozen times she started
to make the journey to New Rochelle, where she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_326">[326]</span>
knew Alaine to be, and as often she fell back in her
chair, a slave to her obstinacy and self-pity.</p>
<p>It was one morning, six months after the events
of the day, which it seemed to Madam De Vries
must always pass in procession before her upon her
first waking, that she suddenly decided to return to
her home. “I cannot escape it wherever I go,” she
moaned; “I am idle here, and I brood too much. I
will go to work. I will change everything; I will
busy myself doing that. I will have nothing as it
used to be, and so in time I may be able to live in a
measure contented.”</p>
<p>And thus it happened that the canoe bearing Lendert
to New York passed the spot where his mother
was resting overnight upon her homeward journey.</p>
<p>While Lendert was proceeding on his way some
one else was nearing New York with hope and longing.
M. Theodore Hervieu, late engagé upon the
island of Dominica, was free at last and was now in
possession of the knowledge of his daughter’s whereabouts.
These facts had come to him in that peculiar
way which gives credence to the saying that truth is
stranger than fiction. He had not fared badly, when
all is told, for he was fortunate in falling into the
hands of a compassionate master, who gave him such
liberty as was his due and set him about tasks which
were not heavy. It was, however, not upon the
island of Guadaloupa, but upon St. Domingo, that
he was landed, and having been shipped under a
name differing somewhat from his own, he was not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_327">[327]</span>
discovered by those who had gone in search of him,
remaining himself all the while ignorant of what had
become of his daughter. Letters sent to France
assured him that she had fled the country; letters
sent to England remained unanswered, therefore in
patience possessing his soul M. Hervieu waited till
an event occurred which turned the tide of his
affairs.</p>
<p>One morning from a high rock upon the coast of
Guadaloupa there might have been seen dangling a
rope, and from it swung a man, looking below him
to make sure of how far he might drop if he let go.
Presently the rope swung free of its burden, and the
man, limping a little, ran along the shore and was
not long in reaching a small boat, which immediately
set out for the neighboring island of Dominica.
After six months of miserable bondage Pierre Boutillier
had a second time escaped, and as fate would
have it, he found himself received upon the plantation
of one Madame Valleau, and was taken into
that lady’s presence by her secretary, whom she addressed
as M. Hervet.</p>
<p>The pitiful condition of the escaped man excited
Madame’s pity as she directed that he be given the
best that the place could afford, and herself invited
him to be her guest at dinner.</p>
<p>Madame Valleau had been a widow a little over
two years. She was young and bewitching, and
having married an elderly man who seemed more
like a father than a husband to her, she was ready<span class="pagenum" id="Page_328">[328]</span>
to fall in love when the proper person should present
himself, and this happened to be Pierre Boutillier,
for, as did Desdemona, “she loved him for the
dangers he had passed,” and found in him a hero
whom fate had cast at her feet.</p>
<p>Pierre had not been under her roof a week when
she began to reproach him for his melancholy.
“Thy grave and sombre face needs a different medicine
to alter its expression from that I have to offer,”
she said one day. “M. Hervet, there, for all he has
a missing daughter somewhere in the world, does
not look so melancholy. Who is it you have left
behind?” She gave a coquettish glance at the unresponsive
Pierre, who shook his head.</p>
<p>“No kin of mine waits for me anywhere, for all
perished under the hand of persecution in France.”</p>
<p>Madame Felice Valleau tapped her foot reflectively.
“And that is why you do not approve of me, I suppose.
I am not Protestant.”</p>
<p>“I never said, madame, that I did not approve of
you. Who am I that I should abuse your bounty
by vilifying you? Yet, I would you were Protestant.”</p>
<p>“And suppose I were, then would I see you
smile?”</p>
<p>“Without doubt I should smile that Providence
had brought me into such a favorable haven of
refuge.”</p>
<p>“Then turn your head this way. I am Protestant
and M. Hervet knows it. It was not my husband’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_329">[329]</span>
belief, but he did not cross me in it, and he
was always kind to those of my faith. It was his
way to say that each man was accountable to his
own conscience for his faith, and he had no right to
persecute others for thinking the same. He took M.
Hervet into his employ, knowing him to be a Huguenot,
but seeing him a gentleman and a good man
of business. He finally made him his secretary, in
which office in this house he still continues, though
he is still an engagé, and it will be some time before
he can have his freedom. I think he will likely wish
to remain here if he can realize something from the
estates he left in France. There is a secret about
that too, which I will tell you some day. There are
not bad opportunities in this place for one who has
M. Hervet’s ability, and I think he will do well to
remain. But now let us return to our former subject.
I see no reason for your melancholy, for I
assure you that I shall treat you well.”</p>
<p>“I do not doubt it, madame, and as for my grave
manner, one who has suffered much cannot at once
assume the gayety of those always free from care.”</p>
<p>The tears came to the eyes of Madame Valleau.
“It shall be my dearest privilege to drive that gloom
away from one who has borne so much for the sake
of my religion. Tell me again of that wild escape
of yours. And why did you return when once you
had freed yourself? I can never wring from you
why you did that. Can you not tell me?” She
looked at him with melting dark eyes and laid her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_330">[330]</span>
soft warm hand upon his arm. “Tell me,” she said
in a beseeching voice.</p>
<p>Pierre hesitated. He felt the woman’s witchery,
and told himself that there was not any reason why
he should not confess that his was a mission of love,
a sacrifice because of his devotion to Alaine. Yet
he hesitated. After a pause, in which the silken
garments of the pretty widow swept his feet and
the entreaty in her eyes deepened, he said, slowly,
“I returned that I might seek and liberate some one
who, like myself, had been sent into slavery.”</p>
<p>“He must have been very dear to you.”</p>
<p>“I never saw him.”</p>
<p>“What!” Felice Valleau leaned nearer. “Then
it was for a woman you did it. Who is she? Tell
me. Who is she?”</p>
<p>“Her name is Alaine Hervieu,” Pierre answered
in response to an irresistible impulse.</p>
<p>“Alaine Hervieu!” Felice screamed. Then a little
light laugh rippled from her red lips. “Very well,
then, you have come to the right place. I can find
him for you. But first—— No, no,” as Pierre’s
eager questions leaped to his lips. “No, not yet.
Do you love this Alaine Hervieu madly? Would
life be a blank without her?”</p>
<p>Pierre was silent.</p>
<p>“Does she love you?”</p>
<p>“I do not know. I did not demand that she
should tell me. She made no promise. I would
not allow that, but it was that if her father desired,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_331">[331]</span>
she would marry me when I returned with
him.”</p>
<p>Madame laughed again, and then leaned forward,
her chin resting in one dainty palm, her soft round arm
almost touching Pierre as he sat by her side. After
a silence she looked at him with alluring, velvety
eyes. “She does not love you. No, she does not.
She would never have allowed you to leave her if
she had. She would have flung herself into your
arms and have implored you to stay. No, no.”</p>
<p>“She did beg me not.”</p>
<p>“But she did not do so with tears and sighs and
kisses, with her heart in her eyes. She thought of
her father first.”</p>
<p>“Ye-es.” The answer came reluctantly.</p>
<p>“Then, I repeat, she does not love you as you
loved her. Why must you love her, Monsieur
Pierre? By this time she has forgotten you.”</p>
<p>“No; she will wait till the year is out.”</p>
<p>“And will then marry some one else?”</p>
<p>“Perhaps.”</p>
<p>“And when is the year up?”</p>
<p>“In three months.”</p>
<p>“Then, in that time she shall see her father, if—if—— Listen,
monsieur. If I let him go I shall demand
the sacrifice you were willing to make. You
were willing to give yourself for him. Then I shall
demand the exchange. You will do this willingly?”</p>
<p>“Give myself to you?”</p>
<p>“Yes.” Felice arose. She looked down at him<span class="pagenum" id="Page_332">[332]</span>
with a soft luminous expression. “Pierre, would it
be such a sorry lot to remain with me? Could I
not make you happy? This girl does not love you.
I repeat it. In your heart you do not feel that she
does, and will you force her to marry you because
her father may demand it?”</p>
<p>“A thousand times no.”</p>
<p>“And if, after you had gone back, you were to
find that she loved some one else would it not be
harder then to give her up, who now is but a
dream?”</p>
<p>“It would be harder.”</p>
<p>“Then—— You are very humble, too humble,
Pierre Boutillier; many men have sued on their
knees for what is yours on your own conditions. I
give you M. Theodore Hervieu, my secretary, and
you give yourself to me.”</p>
<p>“M. Hervet?”</p>
<p>“The same.”</p>
<p>Pierre too had arisen and was looking down at
the graceful figure clad in its filmy silken robes.
“And if I do not,” he said, hesitatingly, and pressing
his hand over his eyes.</p>
<p>“Then I refuse to give up my slave, the man
Thomas Hervet.” She drew herself away a few
steps. “You are very hard, very unresponsive, very
ungrateful, Pierre Boutillier. I do not wonder that
Alaine did not love you.”</p>
<p>Pierre removed his hand from his eyes. He saw
that there were tears standing in the soft eyes and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_333">[333]</span>
that the bewitching red lips were quivering like a
hurt child’s. He made a step forward. “Madame,”
he hastened to say, “I accept. I offer you this
poor, heavy-eyed, ungainly Pierre Boutillier in exchange
for Theodore Hervieu. I am yours, madame,
do as you will with me.” He knelt at her feet.</p>
<p>Felice bent over and kissed him gently on the
head. “I would make you my slave,” she said,
softly. “And as for myself, take my hands; they are
your willing servitors: take my heart; it is in chains
that you have forged.”</p>
<p>And so it happened that Pierre Boutillier became
the head of a large estate, and the husband of the
pretty widow of Eugene Valleau.</p>
<p>M. Hervieu’s surprise came not in the news of the
approaching marriage, but in the stranger fact that
here was one who knew his daughter and who had
come in search of him. “But I am still an engagé,”
he said, “and I have no money for my passage to
Manhatte.”</p>
<p>“You are not an engagé, and you are not penniless,”
Felice told him. “M. Valleau believed that it
would be better for you to serve out your time here,
thinking it would not be altogether disagreeable to
you.”</p>
<p>“It has been far otherwise. Your kindness and
that of M. Valleau give me no unhappy recollection
of my bondage,” he answered.</p>
<p>“Before my husband died,” Madame Valleau told
him, “he gave me this,” she handed him a paper,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_334">[334]</span>
“and told me that if ever you should wish to leave
me, and it seemed advisable that you should do so,
that you were to receive from my hands the amount
brought by the sale of certain estates of yours in
France, put up for sale and purchased by him for
you. By his will he leaves that to you. ‘It is not a
great gift,’ he said, ‘but it will start our friend again
in some good enterprise when he is ready to take
his place with his friends in another country. He
has served me well for no wages, and I am doing
only what is just in requiting for his services.’”</p>
<p>“Madame!” M. Hervieu was overcome, and could
only murmur some unintelligible words of thanks.</p>
<p>“Therefore,” continued Felice, “if you will kindly
remain with me until I am married, I will wish you
God-speed. And will you please ask your daughter
to write to me and send it by a safe hand, and will
you give her this little packet?”</p>
<p>M. Hervieu promised, and two weeks later he
left the island of St. Domingo, and set sail for the
colony of New Netherlands, then beginning to be
known as New York.</p>
<p>“This is a better voyage than the last I made,” he
said to the captain of the ship in which he had taken
passage; “in that I, with fifty others, was wedged
into a space scarce big enough for a breath.”</p>
<p>The good Dutchman looked his sympathy; he had
taken on this passenger who was willing to pay
his way, and the thrifty man did not despise the
money, though his was but a small merchantman.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_335">[335]</span>
He was making the return trip to New York and
had seen something of the life of the engagé. “You
vas locky to get owet alretty,” he remarked.</p>
<p>M. Hervieu drew a long, free breath. It was good
to take in the air of absolute liberty once more.</p>
<p>“Vat you vas calt?” asked the skipper. He must
converse in English with this passenger who knew
only a little of that language and French.</p>
<p>“I am called Theodore Hervieu now,” was the
reply.</p>
<p>The skipper took the pipe from his mouth and
stared at his companion. “Py tam!” he exclaimed.
And then he lapsed into a silence from which no
remark of M. Hervieu aroused him for half an hour.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_336">[336]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XX<br>
<small>MATHILDE’S TABLEAUX</small></h2>
</div>
<p><span class="smcap">Mathilde</span> was in a flutter of excitement. For the
first time since her marriage she meant to give an
entertainment to her friends. Small evening companies
were quite a usual thing among the lively
French emigrants, and an excuse to entertain one’s
friends was seldom wanting. Alaine had declared
that she had no heart to dance, but Mathilde had a
fertile brain; there should be something else. She,
so deft with brush and needle, would arrange some
tableaux. These would help to occupy Alaine and
give her something new to think about. She had
been under such a nervous strain and needed diversion.
Mathilde quite appreciated Michelle’s concern;
they must rouse this triste Alaine. Life was
sad enough at best, why not try to put some joy into
it? Therefore Mathilde flitted about like some small
bright-eyed bird, singing as she worked. Her slim,
clever little fingers gave a twist to this, a touch to
that, and lo, an artistic result.</p>
<p>“You are far more clever than I,” Alaine would
say, admiringly, “and yet I thought myself not deficient
in embroidery and flower-painting. The sisters
used to say I was an industrious pupil. Those<span class="pagenum" id="Page_337">[337]</span>
lovely laces, Mathilde, where did you get them? And
those muslins, so beautiful they are.”</p>
<p>“They are what remain of my mother’s wardrobe,”
Mathilde told her, fingering the stuffs lovingly.
“You shall wear this in the bower of roses which
I mean for the rose maiden.”</p>
<p>Alaine gave a little joyless laugh. “I, a rose
maiden? No, no, do not press me into any such
service; rather am I a weeping Niobe, a desolate
Mara.”</p>
<p>Mathilde’s fingers flew back and forth as she
sewed some strips together. “And you were once
such a happy girl, Alaine. If Pierre should return
in time you might find happiness with him, he is so
good and true. See how dark it looked to me at
one time.”</p>
<p>“Pierre?”</p>
<p>“Yes. Gerard has told me why he went.”</p>
<p>Alaine let her hands lie idle in her lap for a moment
and looked mournfully out of the window.
The year was past, but there was no Pierre to claim
her, and no Lendert to step in between her and
duty. “In what strange ways are our doings
ordered,” she said, gravely. “We mourn and sigh
and fret over the difficulties in our pathway, and
before we know it some convulsion of nature has
removed them and we walk for evermore through a
twilight world in which no stumbling is possible.
With the danger we lose the light.”</p>
<p>“Yes, but there is the morning still to come,” returned<span class="pagenum" id="Page_338">[338]</span>
Mathilde, cheerily. “Here comes Mère Michelle;
I will leave you for a little, I have forgotten
something that I should have brought from my
uncle’s. We shall need it for our tableaux to-night.”</p>
<p>It was a full hour before she returned all in a
flutter. She sought Mère Michelle. There were
whispers, chatterings, screams of astonishment, falling
almost without notice upon Alaine’s dull ears.
Mathilde did love surprises; she had some new
scheme afoot for the night’s entertainment. But the
girl did arouse to a sense of more important things
being in prospect when Michelle, with much mystery,
came and clasped her in her arms.</p>
<p>“Prepare yourself, my Alainette; this day will
have a happy ending for you. Sorrow endureth for
a night, but joy cometh in the morning.”</p>
<p>“What is it? What is it?” Alaine asked, faintly.</p>
<p>“We have heard from Pierre.”</p>
<p>“Ah-h!” Alaine started. “He is coming?”</p>
<p>“No, not he. Some one in his stead.”</p>
<p>“My father!” Alaine clasped her hands over her
heart, and again Michelle fell upon her neck with
tears and kisses and murmuring words of love.</p>
<p>“When will he come?” Alaine asked. “It is not
a false report? You are sure, Michelle?”</p>
<p>“The letter arrived to-day; it was written hurriedly,
and is only a line: ‘M. Hervieu is discovered.
He will set out as soon as possible for Manhatte. I
remain here.’ That was all.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_339">[339]</span>“Poor Pierre!” sighed Alaine, “he has condemned
himself to a life of slavery, I fear. Poor Pierre!
There must be a drop of bitterness even in this cup,
Michelle.”</p>
<p>“Dear little one, so gloomy and unlike your old
self. This will not do—no, no. Here, Papa Louis
wants you for a walk; the air is brisk and keen and
you have bent over those paper flowers all day. Go
out and get a breath.”</p>
<p>“Yes, take her off, Papa Louis. Go, both of you,
and do not come back for an hour. We do not
want you around. We need all the space we can
get, and you are of such a size, Papa Louis, that
you are in the way.” And, laughing, Mathilde playfully
pushed the good man out of the door. “Bring
back Alaine with some color, else I shall be ruined
in paint for her cheeks to-night.”</p>
<p>Papa Louis, always good company, was to-day in
a high state of jocularity. An entertainment such
as this was dear to his heart. He and Mathilde had
pored over such books as the little community possessed,
had drawn upon their memories and upon
their imaginations until they felt that the tableaux
would surpass anything of the kind yet shown in
the village. It was the kind of thing which gave
Papa Louis supreme pleasure. He was in his element.
He could quote poetry, he could make reference
to classical characters, he could recall historical
personages with an ease which awoke a new humility
in Michelle, grown accustomed to ordering about<span class="pagenum" id="Page_340">[340]</span>
this little man, whose knowledge of a husbandman’s
crafts was so small, and who so often aroused her
mocking laughter by his mistakes. He was superior.
Yes, she knew it, and he had stooped to marry her.
And so Michelle wore a very meek look these days.</p>
<p>Gerard and Mathilde, two children, frolicked
through it all, played jokes upon each other, laughed
and danced and quarrelled and kissed between the
quarrels, so that it was really quite a hubbub from
which Alaine escaped, given, too, a half-dozen other
young people to join in the chatter, neighboring
maidens and their swains who were to take part in
the evening’s festivities.</p>
<p>These were all still there when Alaine returned
from her walk, but they were more subdued. They
stopped their chatter as Alaine came in and pressed
one another’s hands sympathetically. They had an
expectant air as Alaine stepped into the room, and
cast quick glances at the improvised curtain, the old
blue bedspreads hung below the rafters.</p>
<p>Mathilde went to Alaine and kissed her, then took
the cold, thin hands in hers. “You are returned
just in time, my dear. We have changed the tableaux
somewhat, and will now rehearse the first
one. Sit there, between Papa Louis and Mère
Michelle. We call this The Return. It permits of
two scenes. We shall want you for the second one,
Alaine, dear Alaine. Draw the curtain, Gerard.”</p>
<p>The blue linen hangings parted, and Alaine saw
before her, smiling a little, two men, one whose gray<span class="pagenum" id="Page_341">[341]</span>
locks hung about a face somewhat older, somewhat
more careworn, than she remembered it, but still the
same that was her earliest memory. He rested his
hand upon the shoulder of a younger man upon
whose smooth cheek burned the mark of the red
feather.</p>
<p>With parted lips and one cry, in which love, longing,
and bewilderment were united, Alaine sprang to
her feet, made one bound, and was clasped in her
father’s arms.</p>
<p>“Drop the curtain, Gerard,” ordered Mathilde.
“You have beheld the second scene, my friends.
This tableau will not be repeated.”</p>
<p>An hour later the guests came trooping in, the
Allaires and the Bonneaus, the Theroldes and the
Thauvets. The news had spread abroad, and Mathilde’s
tableaux proved to be less of an excitement
than this drama in which the chief actors were
Alaine and Theodore Hervieu and Lendert Verplanck.</p>
<p>It was late when the last tableau was announced.
Surely it was a rose maiden who stood there in her
gown of broidered pink, her short brown curls garlanded,
and the bloom on her cheeks and lips that
given by the touch of joy. So sweet and fair and
slight she stood, and at her feet two little loves from
out of the roses aimed their arrows. Around her
glowed the flowers made by Mathilde’s cunning
hands. At sight of her who had suffered much,
who was lost and was found, who had mourned and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_342">[342]</span>
had been mourned, who had been in perils oft, the
whole company arose as if by an impulse, and burst
out into a psalm of praise, singing so lustily that
they might have been heard far in the quiet forest:
“O give thanks unto the Lord; for he is good!”
And who in all that company could sing the words
with more exalted soul than Alaine?</p>
<p>It was when one after another had tramped home
and the snatches of song had died away that Mathilde,
unable to curb her curiosity any longer,
asked, “And Pierre?”</p>
<p>“And Pierre?” mocked Gerard, his arm around
her. “My wife, you see, desires to know of him.”</p>
<p>Mathilde made a saucy face at him. “We desire
to know of Pierre,” she repeated. “No doubt you
have told his story over a dozen times this evening,
but we have not heard, and we are not less friends
than the rest, M. Hervieu.”</p>
<p>“Pierre.” M. Hervieu looked at Alaine and
smiled. “Pierre is quite comfortable and in good
hands. He is married.”</p>
<p>“Married!” the comical expression of dismay
upon Mathilde’s face was a sight to see. She turned
to Gerard. “Then say no more to me of a man’s
constancy.”</p>
<p>“What I wish to know,” said Michelle, “is how
it comes that you and M. Verplanck appear in company.”</p>
<p>“That is a coincidence. I returned upon the first
ship which touched at Dominica upon her return<span class="pagenum" id="Page_343">[343]</span>
voyage, and this happened to be the one of which
M. Verplanck is half owner. It seems that he,”—he
placed a kind hand upon the young man’s arm,—“our
friend here, had taken the journey to Guadaloupa
some months ago, hoping to find me there. He
was misinformed; I was not at Guadaloupa but at
Dominica, and there Pierre Boutillier found me by
chance. M. Verplanck had taken the precaution to
have inquiry made for me at each succeeding voyage,
and when I took passage upon the very ship that
had come in search of me, the good skipper, when
he learned my name, was completely dumfounded.
And when upon arriving in port, M. Verplanck was
there to receive his ship, he received me also.
Then, since our destination was the same, we came
together. I had no idea that I was so important a
person that I must be sought for by two strangers,
but it seems I am of more value than I knew.”
He looked with loving eyes at Alaine as he said
this.</p>
<p>Papa Louis laughed softly. “It is not always
ourselves for which we are valued, M. Hervieu, but
for what we possess. I am of little account, but
Mathilde has coddled me ever since that day when
she came to nurse my wife.”</p>
<p>Mathilde gave him a gentle tap. “For shame,
Papa Louis, you would imply that I did so because
of Gerard.”</p>
<p>“And was not that it?”</p>
<p>Mathilde pouted. “He tells dreadful stories, that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_344">[344]</span>
Papa Louis. Go on, M. Hervieu, we would hear
more. No matter why you were sought, you are
here and we are very glad. We wish next to hear
of M. Verplanck’s adventures.”</p>
<p>But Michelle declared that that must wait till the
morning, else Alaine would have no rest at all.
“And she is not yet as strong as we would have
her,” she said, solicitously.</p>
<p>It seemed to Alaine, in her little bed up under the
eaves, that the night was all too short for her long
thoughts. Till morning she lay wide awake, with
such great joy and gladness tugging at her heart that
once or twice she sat up and put out her hand to
touch the wall of her room that she might be sure
this was no dream. “Lendert! Father!” she
whispered. “I am happy! I am happy! It is so
wonderful, dear God, to be happy when I have been
wretched for so long, so long.”</p>
<p>At dawn she arose and dressed quietly, then
slipped softly down-stairs and out into the autumn
morning. Michelle and Gerard were already astir,
but she passed Michelle in her kitchen and Gerard
in the garden and went on to the edge of the wood,
where a golden finger of light was already touching
the trees in their crimson. Before entering the well-remembered
path she stopped. There were footsteps
behind her. She turned to see that Lendert
had followed her. He took her hand, and together
they went on into the still forest and with one consent
knelt there together.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_345">[345]</span>“The house was too narrow for me,” said Alaine,
when they arose and faced each other. “I was too
full of thanksgiving to give it utterance there. My
Lendert! my Lendert! Are we dead and is this
heaven?” She yielded her sweet body to his embrace.
So thrilled with happiness she was that it
seemed that the world must fade before her blurred
vision.</p>
<p>“My sweet! my sweet!” whispered Lendert, “I
am a gift to you.” And there in his arms she listened
to the story of his rescue and received her
message.</p>
<p>Standing on tiptoe she touched her lips to the red
scar upon his cheek. “So I receive him, François,”
she said. “Thou poor mistaken, unhappy
soul, God give thee peace in thine hour of death. I
forgive thee. So I receive this gift dedicated to me
by thy great courage and by thy supreme renunciation.”</p>
<p>The tangy, winelike odor of the leaves under their
feet filled the air. From the little farmsteads came
the cheerful sounds of stirring life. Through the
purple mists at the end of the path could be seen
glimpses of the blue sound. The hush of Indian
summer, not unlike that of an expectant spring, was
around and over them.</p>
<p>“Do you remember that last morning when we
went out into the woods together?” Alaine asked.</p>
<p>“Can we forget it?”</p>
<p>“Never has broken a morning since that when I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_346">[346]</span>
have not felt the horror of it. That was why I came
out so early, that I might take my happiness with
the dawn and remember that day no more. I have
been so wretched, so weary.”</p>
<p>“And now?”</p>
<p>She gazed at him with eyes full of love, while into
his own came the look which long ago had caught
her heart. “Thou lovest me?” he murmured.</p>
<p>“I love thee! I love thee! Ah, how I love
thee!”</p>
<p>“And so I love thee. No one shall ever part us
again.”</p>
<p>“But thy mother?”</p>
<p>“She does not know. I have in some way missed
her, and therefore I must leave thee for a little that
I may find her; but we shall not even then be parted,
for there is now no one to do us harm.”</p>
<p>Hand in hand, yet in soberer mood, they went back
to the house. Lendert had told his story to Alaine’s
father and had not been heard unkindly. If his
mother’s consent could be obtained all would go
well, he believed.</p>
<p>“You will not leave us?” Michelle exclaimed in
dismay when Lendert announced his intention of
seeking his mother. Pierre disposed of, Gerard
married, François beyond return, she began to think
it would be well after all if this young man were
not allowed to wander too far away. Besides, she
really liked him and was bent upon securing Alaine’s
happiness. “He would make a desirable husband<span class="pagenum" id="Page_347">[347]</span>
for Alaine,” she confided to M. Hervieu. “He has
good prospects, and it is not so far to Manhatte,
where they could live. It would be well if the girl
were settled, she has had so many experiences, and
I think she could not do better.”</p>
<p>M. Hervieu nodded and smiled. He understood
Michelle’s concern for the girl, who had been as her
very own, but he had observed a habit of self-restraint
in these years past, and was not inclined to
discuss the subject yet. For all that, he, too, advised
Lendert not to return at once to his mother’s
home. “She has heard of your having been there
and of your going on to Manhatte. She will in all
probability go there at once to overtake you.”</p>
<p>“And so you may keep it up, dodging each other
for weeks,” said Michelle. “Better remain here,
my friend.”</p>
<p>Lendert considered the matter. “I will go to the
town and leave word with my mother’s friends that
I am here, and I will furthermore send a message to
her that I await her pleasure. If she wills it so, I
will go to her.”</p>
<p>It was late one afternoon a week after that Alaine,
from the porch where she had been sitting with her
father, looked down the street to see three figures
approaching. She had been examining the little
packet sent her by Felice. “I send you a small
token of my esteem,” the little lady wrote. “May
this silver dove take you an olive branch of peace.”
Then followed a few gracious words, and at the end,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_348">[348]</span>
“I have a curiosity to know if you ever loved Pierre
Boutillier. You will understand, being a woman,
why I wish to know this. If I believed your heart
given to him I should not be happy in what I have
done, but in sending you your father instead of a
lover, I feel sure I am doing you no wrong. Assure
me of this and receive my gratitude.”</p>
<p>Alaine was smiling over these words when she
beheld the three advancing figures. Surely that
stride was very familiar. She sprang to her feet.
“It is Jeanne! Jeanne Crepin! and Petit Marc, and,
oh, my father, it is Madam De Vries herself!”</p>
<p>It was Madam who arrived first, for she was
riding ahead of the other two, who tramped along
with a free swinging walk. She alighted from her
horse and went tremblingly toward the girl, who
stood by her father’s side not less agitated. In these
months Madam had aged greatly. She looked like
an old woman. “My son! My son!” she cried.
“Where is he? I want my son!”</p>
<p>“He is here. We have sent for him. He will
arrive at once,” M. Hervieu returned courteously.
“Allow me to lead you in, madam.”</p>
<p>“Madam!” Alaine stood shyly by.</p>
<p>“Alaine!” The mother sank into a chair and
began to weep softly. “Give him back to me, my
boy. My poor boy!”</p>
<p>“He is here. You shall see him at once,” repeated
Alaine, kneeling by her. “Madam, this is
my father, who has lately been restored to his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_349">[349]</span>
daughter. He can understand.” She saw Lendert
coming and ran out another way. For some reason
she would rather not witness the meeting between
mother and son.</p>
<p>She ran out the gate and down the road to meet
Jeanne just beyond the fence. “Jeanne! Jeanne!
it is so good to see you again. Oh, you good Jeanne,
how can I thank you and Petit Marc for your goodness
to M. Verplanck? And Jeanne, Jeanne, it is
my father who is in there. There are so many
wonderful things happening. Come in, come
in.”</p>
<p>Jeanne shrank back a little. “Will I do, Alaine?
Will I do? Remember I must meet Michelle with
dignity. I am really trembling, Alaine, old stupide
that I am. After all these years, and it is Theodore
Hervieu in there.”</p>
<p>If she were uncertain of her welcome, its heartiness
took away all discomfort. It was M. Hervieu
who grasped her hands and called her his dear old
friend Jeanne Bisset. It was Michelle who, rather
awkwardly, but in all kindliness, first hesitated and
then embraced her. It was Lendert who led her to
his mother, saying, “But for these two, Jeanne
Crepin and Marc Lenoir, I should no longer be
living, madam.”</p>
<p>This caused Madam’s tears again to flow, and she
sobbed forth, “And I drove her from me. Twice
has she heaped coals of fire upon my head: first
by warning me on that dreadful morning, and then<span class="pagenum" id="Page_350">[350]</span>
she saves you. I am a wicked old woman, Jeanne
Crepin.”</p>
<p>“We are all wicked, whether we be old or young,
men or women,” returned Jeanne, seriously. “I am
no saint myself, neither is Petit Marc.”</p>
<p>M. Hervieu looked at the big coureur de bois with
attention, then he clapped him on the shoulder.
“Surely I should know Marc Lenoir. No, no, let
us say nothing of those old days. We know only
these new ones. We are friends all, yes?” Yet
when he looked around it was Alaine who turned
away her head. Madam had not bestowed upon
her the greeting one gives a daughter.</p>
<p>“I am not a rich man,” M. Hervieu went on,
“but I am a very fortunate one, or I have good
friends, and I have enough to begin the world anew.
I already have made my plans to go to Manhatte and
engage in trade there. We shall be quite comfortable,
my daughter and I, and I trust we shall be
content.”</p>
<p>Petit Marc had taken a packet from his blouse.
“There is a small matter here that I wish to talk
about,” he said. “Perhaps we older ones would
best discuss it by ourselves at first.”</p>
<p>Mathilde, who had come in some time before, now
led the way out. Lendert and Alaine followed.
“They do not want us to hear,” Mathilde remarked,
“yet I am consumed with curiosity.”</p>
<p>Alaine walked by Mathilde’s side. She did not
look at Lendert, but kept her eyes cast down as she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_351">[351]</span>
walked, and the young man looked troubled. “She
does not forgive me,” Alaine’s look said.</p>
<p>Petit Marc drew his chair up to the table; the
others followed his example. He slowly opened the
paper he held. “I have here a copy of the last will
and testament of François Dupont,” he began. “Before
the death of the testator he converted all his
estates in France into English moneys. The amount
is deposited in Orange with trustworthy persons. It
is not a sum to be despised. This he leaves share
and share alike to Lendert Verplanck and Alaine
Hervieu should they marry. If, for any reason,
there are objections raised to the marriage of Lendert
Verplanck to Alaine Hervieu, he foregoes his
share, and it is to be given for the sole use of
Alaine Heirvieu. Has any one here a word to say?”
His eyes glanced from M. Hervieu to Madam De
Vries.</p>
<p>The latter nervously fingered a hand-screen upon
the table before her. M. Hervieu looked at her
inquiringly. “Madam, I would know your desires
in this matter. We are among those who are aware
of the attachment of these two, and we need not
seem blind to it.”</p>
<p>“My son is all I have in the world,” began
Madam.</p>
<p>“My daughter is all I have,” returned M. Hervieu.
“I am not anxious that she should marry. I can
maintain her in comfort, and she goes into no family
not proud to receive her.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_352">[352]</span>“She’ll have no lack of suitors either,” put in
Jeanne’s gruff voice.</p>
<p>“With such a purse,” added Michelle complacently.</p>
<p>“Without it,” came from Papa Louis. “Alaine
Hervieu has never had to lack for lovers. She has
birth and beauty, and there are still those in France
who would think themselves rich in gaining her if
she were penniless.”</p>
<p>“And,” said Jeanne, watching Madam narrowly,
“it is she who will be the gainer if the marriage
does not take place. After all is said, would it not
be better that it should not? I have stood in place
of mother to her, and that is my opinion.”</p>
<p>“And I the same,” Michelle agreed, interpreting
rightly the sly glance from Jeanne’s eye, and giving
her husband a nudge.</p>
<p>Papa Louis looked thoughtful. “She might do
better,” he said, reflectively; and then, as if recovering
himself, “I beg your pardon, Madam De Vries,
but I speak as a father, and, all things considered,
you will admit that she might do better.”</p>
<p>“You are all against me,” passionately Madam
broke forth, roused to anger by this seeming defiance
of her opinion and this setting aside of her
son’s interests. “Have I nothing to say? Do you
all dare to dismiss the matter without a word from
me?” She arose and swept to the door. “Alaine,”
she called. “Alaine, come, my daughter, it is your
Lendert’s mother who calls you. Come, my daughter.”
And Alaine, from where she was dejectedly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_353">[353]</span>
pacing the walk, ran to her and was clasped in
Madam’s arms.</p>
<p>“Sh! sh!” said Jeanne, as all the rest began to
laugh, though her own face was broad with smiles.
“We must not let her suspect that we have done it.
It was the only way to manage her.”</p>
<p>There were several other bequests in François’s
will. A ring and all personal effects to Adriaen,
except a sword and a brace of pistols to Petit Marc.
To Michelle was left a tidy sum: “In affectionate
acknowledgment of past kindnesses.”</p>
<p>A silence fell upon them all as the last words of
the will were read. Even now the man’s strong
individuality touched them all with a nearness not
possible in their thought of another less forceful
though more worthy of being loved.</p>
<p>“You will stay with us, Jeanne,” Alaine begged,
when they were alone in the garden, for Alaine must
show this old friend all her haunts. “You will not
return to that rough life.”</p>
<p>Jeanne hitched her shoulders and gave a twitch
to her petticoats. “I couldn’t stand them much
longer. We must go back. We could not endure
any other life now.”</p>
<p>“But why we? You do not need to follow Petit
Marc. Come and live with us in our home in Manhatte.”</p>
<p>Jeanne screwed up her eyes in the way that she
had when embarrassed or amused. “Didn’t I tell
you?” she said. “We are married.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_354">[354]</span>And then Alaine hugged her and kissed her till
she cried, and called herself an old stupide, a chat-huant,
an insensée, a dindon, and various other
names with which Alaine had been familiar of old.</p>
<p>“I have not forgotten,” she told Alaine, “but one
must have something to do, and Petit Marc, he will
soon be growing old, and who will take care of him
then?”</p>
<p>“Who indeed?” Alaine held the good weather-beaten
face between her palms. “I shall often,
often think of you up there, you two who have done
so much for me, to whom I owe so much, and it
will make me very glad to know you are together.
But you must remain to see me married. Trynje
and her husband and Mynheer van der Deen and
Madam, his goede vrouw, and I cannot miss you
from among those who love me and who will come
to see me take my Lendert for my husband.”</p>
<p>After more persuasion Jeanne promised, and with
Petit Marc attended the ceremony, a month later,
the two being the most conspicuous couple present,
if one may except the bride and groom. And, even
in that day when romantic stories were common
and thrilling adventure no novelty, the tale of the love
of Lendert and Alaine brought to the French church
in Marketfield Street such a crowd on that Sunday
that the “cars” and the people fairly jostled each
other for blocks around.</p>
<p>It was a few days after her marriage that Alaine
answered the letter of Felice, and among other<span class="pagenum" id="Page_355">[355]</span>
things she wrote: “If it be any comfort to you,
madame, take my assurance that with my whole
heart I love and have ever loved the man who is
now my very dear husband. He is Lendert Verplanck,
whom your husband will remember, and
though fate has played us many sad tricks, we are
now supremely happy. At one time it seemed that
we should never marry, yet even then, believe me,
I could never have become the wife of any one else.
We shall live in Manhatte, where my father and my
husband have entered into business, and my husband
has promised that upon one of his voyages to the
islands he will take me with him that I may thank
you in person for your great kindness to my father.
I congratulate you, madame, upon possessing so good
a husband, and I congratulate, with all my heart, my
old friend Pierre Boutillier, who has been so fortunate
as to win you for his wife.”</p>
<p>When Felice showed this to Pierre she did so with
dancing eyes and dimpling mouth. “What did I
tell you?” she said. “Are you fortunate, my
melancholy love?”</p>
<p>And Pierre, for answer, smiled, and kissed her.</p>
<p class="center">THE END.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<div class="transnote">
<p class="ph1">TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:</p>
<p>Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.</p>
<p>Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.</p>
<p>Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.</p>
</div></div>
<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74479 ***</div>
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