Читать книгу Early Candlelight - Maud Hart Lovelace - Страница 18

WINTER held the fort at the junction of the rivers. Until the new year it had held a willing captive. The first falling of snow, the first covering of the naked hillsides with feathery white, the first glassing over of the waters, these had been pleasant. The children of the garrison floundered joyfully upon new skates. The children of the settlement screamed down the slopes on barrel staves. And the ladies and gentlemen of the command glided forth in tinkling, fur-laden sleighs to the mill at the Falls of St. Anthony, where a sergeant served hot little suppers and one returned beneath a spangled sky.

One enjoyed Christmas in the wilderness. In the decade and more which had passed since the founding of the fort, the Indians had learned the nature of this holiday. They came solemnly to call and send their pipes about the circle, not unmindful of the forthcoming presentations of tobacco and pork. And there was a dancing assembly in the evening, with hot whiskey punch, and all the ladies wearing their diamonds as though Fort Snelling had been West Point.

One enjoyed the New Year’s Eve so dear to the French Canadians. One could see the candles twinkling in their little cabins, and hear the songs of old Canada with which they greeted the jour de l’an. These river-men might seem to be drinking by their fires, but there was a tradition at the Entry. On this night the voyageurs returned to the scenes of their youth. They went at the moment of midnight, their canoes riding high through the snow-filled air, to kneel in old churches, visit old hearths, and kiss old loves back in Quebec.

Memory walked through old men’s minds like a choir boy swinging a censer. Old Jacques would talk of his Marguerite. He had left this Marguerite behind him at St. Anne’s when he set out as a lad. And in a day which never seemed to come, he meant to go back and marry her.

“Wid de curé,” old Jacques, pensive with liquor, would assure the circle of smiling young lieutenants. “Wid de curé, we marry ourselves. She wait for me, my Marguerite. N’est-ce pas, Denis?”

“She true lak de stars,” Denis would nod.

“She wan pretty girl. Black eye. Black hair. Her fader farmeur, beeg farmeur près de St. Anne’s. Annie,” he would call to Indian Annie, who came obediently, “a leetle w’eesky for de gen’lemen. We drink wan toas’ to my Marguerite, de mos’ pretty girl in Canada.”

But with January—the hard moon, the Indians called it—winter grew less charming. It snowed, and it snowed, and it snowed. Drifts to the height of fifteen feet blockaded the prairie. Snow and ice and bitter cold held the fort in relentless barricade.

Mountains of wood were chopped, to vanish in hungry fireplaces. Hunting was impossible; rations grew monotonous. Officers drank too heavily, gambled, called one another atheists and seducers, and quarreled with their wives. Soldiers were flogged until their bare backs bled. They threw their moldy black bread on the parade ground in attempted mutiny. They drank forbidden liquor, and were frozen to death in snowdrifts, or drunkenly invaded the Indian huts, to the wrath of the good Taliaferro who braved many an icy midnight to eject them.

Sometimes death broke the winter’s hold. Perhaps for an Indian child; and the Major sent calico with which to enwrap her, and gartering with which to tie her, and she was hoisted up on a scaffold and not put below ground until spring. Perhaps for a soldier, who was buried with the solemn beat of black-draped drums echoing down the empty valleys, with his comrades stamping their feet and blowing on their fingers. And day by day the sky continued overcast, the snow billowed higher on the prairies, and hours of melting warmth were quickly followed by weeks of cold more biting than before.

The human animal, however, will not stomach too much misery. Led by a buoyant spirit, the soldiers formed a Thespians’ Club. Officers in gala dress, from cocked hats to sashes, ladies in low-cut ball gowns, attended the performance of “The Poor Gentleman.” They applauded the Miss Emily of a slim dragoon who had borrowed a dress and bonnet from his captain’s wife, enjoyed themselves heartily, and acknowledged a good example.

The gentlemen opened a chess tournament, including, of course, their neighbor, Jasper Page. The ladies planned a series of fortnightly balls. And tattle, that lively accompaniment of social pleasure, was heard again within the walls. There were just six ladies at the garrison that year. But five tongues may make a merry clatter. It is only surprising that the five were so slow to begin on Jasper Page and Eva Boles.

Of course Major Boles and young Page had been friends long before Eva came out to join her husband. Both were enthusiastic hunters. When Eva came and she and Jasper began to take their daily rides, every one knew it was at Mowrie’s wish. He was heavy and did not enjoy riding, except for the chase. Eva was accustomed to a gentle canter daily. So Page acted as her escort.

And Eva was proper to prudishness. Prudishness was the fashion back in the states, but at Snelling the occupants of the officers’ quarters lived like one big family. Often a turbulent family, it is true, but one affectionately intimate. And within the family circle it is difficult for even the most delicate female to avoid sitting on a sofa with a male or between two males at dinner. Yet Eva, quietly and deftly and to the admiration of the gentlemen, avoided even that.

Decidedly, Eva Boles held the admiration of the gentlemen. While the ladies did not dislike her, and even acknowledged certain good points—her equable temper, her strict attention to her own affairs, her fastidious skill as a housewife—they were annoyed sometimes at their husbands’ unanimous assumption that she was perfection itself. She was the woman of man’s adoration, never impulsive or hysterical, never betrayed into any action ungraceful or unbecoming. The men at the garrison often confided to their wives (who had grown tired of hearing it) that Mowrie did not appreciate the treasure which was his.

Jasper Page had reflected on this more than once. He liked Mowrie Boles. It was impossible not to like that burly, red-faced boy of a man. But undeniably he was drinking too much—more than he had been accustomed to drink before Eva came out to join him. And undeniably he neglected Eva. He stayed at quarters less than did the bachelors.

The problem of his friend was on Jasper’s mind one afternoon as he directed his snowshoes across the frozen river toward the Boles’ quarters. After a late autumn trip of inspection to the outlying trading posts, he had returned to the island for the winter; and several days a week at early candlelight he came to tea at the Boles’. Eva was not hospitable. She had not heretofore encouraged Mowrie in extending invitations, and Mowrie was clumsily pleased that his friend Page was made welcome. The two men talked dogs and guns, while Jasper got an esthetic enjoyment, of which Mowrie was quite incapable, from watching Eva, in a scalloped silk apron, setting out the Lowestoft cups.

Eva’s parlor was as exquisite as was her person. No one would have thought that it was Mowrie’s parlor also. No one would have suspected from its spotless order the presence of a child in the household, although there was, in fact, a little son. Many of the post homes were comfortable, with packing boxes utilized as bookcases, and carpets which had traveled by wagon and steamboat from the east. But Eva’s was an astounding parlor to discover in the wilderness. Embroidery covered everything as cobwebs cover lawns on summer mornings. A multitude of knickknacks sat about on gilded tables. There were silk-bound copies of ladylike verses, portfolios of chaste European views. Not the most hardened puffer of the weed would have lighted a segar within its walls.

Whatever Mowrie’s grievances might be, they could not concern Eva’s housekeeping, Jasper Page was positive of that. He was trying, as he made his way up the hillside through a twilight which purpled the snow, to discover Mowrie’s grievances. Mowrie’s own faults were all too evident, and Jasper, being very just, wished to admit Eva’s also. But it was difficult to know what they might be.

She was a model of piety as she was of industry. She had delayed her trip up the river by a month, waiting alone in a tavern in St. Louis because she would not take a steamboat on the Sabbath. At Fort Snelling one would hardly have known when Sabbath came, except that Major Taliaferro hoisted a flag on that day to teach his Indians respect for it. But Eva observed it as though she were still back east. Only cold foods were served in her household. Only the most necessary tasks were done. She had tried to gather the children of the officers together in a Sabbath school, but the enterprise had languished.

And although all of the gentlemen so openly admired her, Mowrie could certainly find no fault in her behavior. She would not even dance the new German waltz which the Smythes had brought out with them from West Point. She only moved with tranquil grace through a quadrille. Jasper, in justice to his friend, tried desperately to think of faults in Eva Boles. But he could think only of virtues.

“He ought to kiss her feet,” he said to himself heatedly. Before he could check it, a picture came of Eva’s little feet, white and bare. He flushed hotly and slid faster through the gathering dusk.

“She’s worthy any man’s worship,” he said. It was his first acknowledgment of his own worship. Of a sudden his mind’s eye danced with pictures of her. He saw her feeding her canary, that dainty bird which always reminded him of Eva herself. He saw her lighting the candles, touching them into a flame less yellow than her hair.

He stopped short. For a moment his usual assurance fell away. He was youthfully disturbed from a recollection of a certain biblical injunction. It was a day when men far more worldly than he took their Bible with a literal seriousness.

“By God!” he whispered, “I don’t covet my friend’s wife!” But his heart gave his voice no reassurance. When he reached the Boles’ door he did not turn in. He continued on to the lookout beyond the commandant’s quarters.

The still rivers meeting below were lost in the dusk. Trees were only a black mist rising from the pale hillsides. But on Pilot Knob, that height of land where the Indians placed their dead, the scaffolds stood out against the darkening sky, their grim burdens upon them. Behind him a cloak of rose and vermilion hung from the west, but before him the scene was one of cold desolation. It matched the desolation which suddenly lay in his breast.

In twenty-five years of busy, agreeable life, Jasper Page had never known anything like this. Only one thing in the world would comfort him. That was to hold Eva Boles in his embrace.

“If I’m in love I can master it.” That helped more than a little, since it reminded him of his years-old determination to be master of himself at all times. Presently he could turn about and retrace his steps.

It was well that he was himself when he entered the Boles’ parlor, for the atmosphere there was troubled. Mowrie’s tongue was thick, and his usually jolly temper surly. To make matters worse, Hetty Frenshaw was there. She had run in to borrow something, and Eva, thinking perhaps that such a guest might restrain her husband, had asked her to tea.

Eva was laying the tea cloth and welcomed Jasper serenely, but he felt a surge of anger against Mowrie.

Mowrie did not greet his friend with his usual heartiness. After a sullen silence he burst out, “Tell me this—why don’t you drink like a man, damn it?” The oath was proof of his condition. Sober, he was far more careful of his speech before the ladies than most men at the fort. Eva looked up quickly.

“What’s the matter?” Jasper laughed. “Didn’t you like the toddy I gave you with our euchre last night?”

“I’m not talking of toddies,” cried Mowrie. “Why don’t you get drunk? I’m tired of hearing Eva say that you never get drunk.”

Eva, who never flushed, flushed. A pink tide enveloped her from the line of her fair hair to the edge of her broad muslin collar. Jasper’s pity and his love rammed up into his throat. Hetty Frenshaw’s suddenly lifted lids made half moons of her eyes.

“You ought to be in a chapel window,” Mowrie blustered on. “You ought to have a ring around your head, and all the ladies saying their prayers to you.”

Jasper laughed again. Hetty Frenshaw, with her eyes looking like half moons, helped him to do it.

“See here,” he said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. But I’m sorry you’re out of temper with me. The spaniel has hurt her paw. Caught it in a wolf trap. And I walked over to see if you’d take a look at her.”

Mowrie’s displeasure shifted to Eva. “D’you hear that, Mrs. Boles? When any thing’s wrong, they have to come to your husband. He has a hand with dogs. With horses, too. The old man has his points, eh, Jasper? But she’d never admit it.”

“You won’t mind if we don’t stay to tea, Mrs. Boles?” asked Jasper, rising.

Hetty Frenshaw jumped up, too. “I shan’t stay, either. I clean forgot I’d left baby alone.”

Eva moved quietly to straighten the wick of a candle. “I’ll wait tea for you then, Major Boles.”

But Mrs. Frenshaw did not return at once to her baby. Jasper, fastening his snowshoes outside, saw her eager dart into the Smythe quarters. It made him uneasy. Uneasiness for Eva weighted the unhappiness which crowded down upon him as he and Mowrie wound their shawls closer and faced the stinging cold which had come with the dark.

After that evening Jasper went less often to the Boles’. He played euchre with Mowrie, and treated Eva pleasantly when they met.

Every night the watchman called to the star-filled sky and the snowy immensities of prairie, “All’s well around.” But things were far from well with Jasper Page.