Читать книгу Beyond the Frontier - Randall Parrish - Страница 9

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It had been two years since I was at Quebec, and it was with new eyes of appreciation that I watched the great bristling cliffs as our boat glided silently past the shore and headed in toward the landing. There were two ships anchored in the river, one a great war vessel with many sailors hanging over the rail and watching us curiously. The streets leading back from the water front were filled with a jostling throng, while up the steep hillside beyond a constant stream of moving figures, looking scarcely larger than ants, were ascending and descending. We were in our large canoe, with five Indian paddlers, its bow piled deep with bales of fur to be sold in the market, and I had been sleeping in the stern. It was the sun which awoke me, and I sat up close beside Chevet’s knee, eagerly interested in the scene. Once I spoke, pointing to the grim guns on the summit of the crest above, but he answered so harshly as to compel silence. It was thus we swept up to the edge of the landing, and made fast. Cassion met us, attired so gaily in rich vestments that I scarcely recognized the man, whom I had always 29 seen before in dull forest garb, yet I permitted him to take my hand and assist me gallantly to the shore. Faith, but he appeared like a new person with his embroidered coat, buckled shoes and powdered hair, smiling and debonair, whispering compliments to me, as he helped me across a strip of mud to the drier ground beyond. But I liked him none the better, for there was the same cold stare to his eyes, and a cruel sting to his words which he could not hide. The man was the same whatever the cut of his clothes, and I was not slow in removing my hand from his grasp, once I felt my feet on firm earth.

Yet naught I might do would stifle his complacency, and he talked on, seeking to be entertaining, no doubt, and pointing out the things of interest on every hand. And I enjoyed the scene, finding enough to view to make me indifferent to his posturing. Scarcely did I even note what he said, although I must have answered in a fashion, for he stuck at my side, and guided me through the crowd, and up the hill. Chevet walked behind us, gloomy and silent, having left the Indians with the furs until I was safely housed. It was evidently a gala day, for flags and streamers were flying from every window of the Lower Town, and the narrow, crooked streets were filled with wanderers having no apparent business but enjoyment. Never had I viewed so motley a throng, and I could but gaze 30 about with wide-opened eyes on the strange passing figures.

It was easy enough to distinguish the citizens of Quebec, moving soberly about upon ordinary affairs of trade, and those others idly jostling their way from point to point of interest––hunters from the far West, bearded and rough, fur clad, and never without a long rifle; sailors from the warship in the river; Indians silent and watchful, staring gravely at every new sight; settlers from the St. Lawrence and the Richelieu, great seigniors on vast estates, but like children in the streets of the town; fishermen from Cap St. Roche; couriers du bois, and voyageurs in picturesque costumes; officers of the garrison, resplendent in blue and gold; with here and there a column of marching soldiers, or statuesque guard. And there were women too, a-plenty––laughing girls, grouped together, ready for any frolic; housewives on way to market; and occasionally a dainty dame, with high-heeled shoe and flounced petticoat, picking her way through the throng, disdainful of the glances of those about. Everywhere there was a new face, a strange costume, a glimpse of unknown life.

It was all of such interest I was sorry when we came to the gray walls of the convent. I had actually forgotten Cassion, yet I was glad enough to be finally rid of him, and be greeted so kindly by Sister Celeste. 31 In my excitement I scarcely knew what it was the bowing Commissaire said as he turned away, or paid heed to Chevet’s final growl, but I know the sister gently answered them, and drew me within, closing the door softly, and shutting out every sound. It was so quiet in the stone passageway as to almost frighten me, but she took me in her arms, and looked searchingly into my face.

“The three years have changed you greatly, my child,” she said gently, touching my cheeks with her soft hands; “but bright as your eyes are, it is not all pleasure I see in them. You must tell me of your life. The older man, I take it, was your uncle, Monsieur Chevet.”

“Yes,” I answered, but hesitated to add more.

“He is much as I had pictured him, a bear of the woods.”

“He is rough,” I protested, “for his life has been hard, yet has given me no reason to complain. ’Tis because the life is lonely that I grow old.”

“No doubt, and the younger gallant? He is not of the forest school?”

“’Twas Monsieur Cassion, Commissaire for the Governor.”

“Ah! ’tis through him you have invitation to the great ball?”

I bowed my head, wondering at the kind questioning 32 in the sister’s eyes. Could she have heard the truth? Perchance she might tell me something of the man.

“He has been selected by Monsieur Chevet as my husband,” I explained doubtfully. “Know you aught of the man, sister?”

Her hand closed gently on mine.

“No, only that he has been chosen by La Barre to carry special message to the Chevalier de Baugis in the Illinois country. He hath an evil, sneering face, and an insolent manner, even as described to me by the Sieur de Artigny.”

I caught my breath quickly, and my hand grasp tightened.

“The Sieur de Artigny!” I echoed, startled into revealing the truth. “He has been here? has talked with you?”

“Surely, my dear girl. He was here with La Salle before his chief sailed for France, and yesterday he came again, and questioned me.”

“Questioned you?”

“Yes; he sought knowledge of you, and of why you were in the household of Chevet. I liked the young man, and told him all I knew, of your father’s death and the decree of the court, and of how Chevet compelled you to leave the convent. I felt him to be honest and true, and that his purpose was worthy.”

“And he mentioned Cassion?”

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“Only that he had arranged to guide him into the wilderness. But I knew he thought ill of the man.”

I hesitated, for as a child I had felt awe of Sister Celeste, yet her questioning eyes were kind, and we were alone. Here was my chance, my only chance, and I dare not lose it. Her face appeared before me misty through tears, yet words came bravely enough to my lips.

“Sister, you must hear me,” I began bewildered, “I have no mother, no friend even to whom to appeal; I am just a girl all alone. I despise this man Cassion; I do not know why, but he seems to be like a snake, and I cannot bear his presence. I would rather die than marry him. I do not think Chevet trusts him, either, but he has some hold, and compels him to sell me as though I was a slave in the market. I am to be made to marry him. I pray you let me see this Sieur de Artigny that I may tell him all, and beseech his aid.”

“But why De Artigny, my girl? What is the boy to you?”

“Nothing––absolutely nothing,” I confessed frankly. “We have scarcely spoken together, but he is a gallant of true heart; he will never refuse aid to a maid like me. It will be joy for him to outwit this enemy of La Salle’s. All I ask is that I be permitted to tell him my story.”

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Celeste sat silent, her white hands clasped, her eyes on the stained-glass window. It was so still I could hear my own quick breathing. At last she spoke, her voice still soft and kindly.

“I scarcely think you realize what you ask, my child. ’Tis a strange task for a sister of the Ursulines, and I would learn more before I answer. Is there understanding between you and this Sieur de Artigny?”

“We have met but twice; here at this convent three years ago, when we were boy and girl, and he went westward with La Salle. You know the time, and that we talked together on the bench in the garden. Then it was three days since that he came to our house on the river, seeking Cassion that he might volunteer as guide. He had no thought of me, nor did he know me when we first met. There was no word spoken other than that of mere friendship, nor did I know then that Chevet had arranged my marriage to the Commissaire. We did no more than laugh and make merry over the past until the others came and demanded the purpose of his visit. It was not his words, Sister, but the expression of his face, the glance of his eye, which gave me courage. I think he likes me, and his nature is without fear. He will have some plan––and there is no one else.”

I caught her hands in mine, but she did not look at 35 me, or answer. She was silent and motionless so long that I lost hope, yet ventured to say no more in urging.

“You think me immodest, indiscreet?”

“I fear you know little of the world, my child, yet, I confess this young Sieur made good impression upon me. I know not what to advise, for it may have been but idle curiosity which brought him here with his questioning. ’Tis not safe to trust men, but I can see no harm in his knowing all you have told me. There might be opportunity for him to be of service. He travels with Cassion, you say?”

“Yes, Sister.”

“And their departure is soon?”

“Before daylight tomorrow. When the Commissaire returns we are to be married. So Chevet explained to me; Monsieur Cassion has not spoken. You will give me audience with the Sieur de Artigny?”

“I have no power, child, but I will speak with the Mother Superior, and repeat to her all I have learned. It shall be as she wills. Wait here, and you may trust me to plead for you.”

She seemed to fade from the room, and I glanced about, seeing no change since I was there before––the same bare walls and floor, the rude settee, the crucifix above the door, and the one partially open window, set deep in the stone wall. Outside I could hear voices, and the shuffling of feet on the stone slabs, 36 but within all was silence. I had been away from this emotionless cloister life so long, out in the open air, that I felt oppressed; the profound stillness was a weight on my nerves. Would the sister be successful in her mission? Would the Mother Superior, whose stern rule I knew so well, feel slightest sympathy with my need? And if she did, would De Artigny care enough to come? Perchance it would have been better to have made the plea myself rather than trust all to the gentle lips of Celeste. Perhaps I might even yet be given that privilege, for surely the Mother would feel it best to question me before she rendered decision.

I crossed to the window and leaned out, seeking to divert my mind by view of the scene below, yet the stone walls were so thick that only a tantalizing glimpse was afforded of the pavement opposite. There were lines of people there, pressed against the side of a great building, and I knew from their gestures that troops were marching by. Once I had view of a horseman, gaily uniformed, his frightened animal rearing just at the edge of the crowd, which scattered like a flock of sheep before the danger of pawing hoofs. The man must have gained glimpse of me also, for he waved one hand and smiled even as he brought the beast under control. Then a band played, and I perceived the shiny top of a carriage moving slowly up 37 the hill, the people cheering as it passed. No doubt it was Governor la Barre, on his way to the citadel for some ceremony of the day.

Cassion would be somewhere in the procession, for he was one to keep in the glare, and be seen, but there would be no place for a lieutenant of La Salle’s. I leaned out farther, risking a fall, but saw nothing to reward the effort, except a line of marching men, a mere bobbing mass of heads. I drew back flushed with exertion, dimly aware that someone had entered the apartment. It was the Mother Superior, looking smaller than ever in the gloom, and behind her framed in the narrow doorway, his eyes smiling as though in enjoyment of my confusion, stood De Artigny. I climbed down from the bench, feeling my cheeks burn hotly, and made obeisance. The Mother’s soft hand rested on my hair, and there was silence, so deep I heard the pounding of my heart.

“Child,” said the Mother, her voice low but clear. “Rise that I may see your face. Ah! it has not so greatly changed in the years, save that the eyes hold knowledge of sorrow. Sister Celeste hath told me your story, and if it be sin for me to grant your request then must I abide the penance, for it is in my heart to do so. Until I send the sister you may speak alone with Monsieur de Artigny.”

She drew slightly aside, and the young man bowed 38 low, hat in hand, then stood erect, facing me, the light from the window on his face.

“At your command, Mademoiselle,” he said quietly. “The Mother tells me you have need of my services.”

I hesitated, feeling the embarrassment of the other presence, and scarce knowing how best to describe my case. It seemed simple enough when I was alone, but now all my thoughts fled in confusion, and I realized how little call I had to ask assistance. My eyes fell, and the words trembled unspoken on my lips. When I dared glance up again the Mother had slipped silently from the room, leaving us alone. No doubt he felt the difference also, for he stepped forward and caught my hand in his, his whole manner changing, as he thus assumed leadership. ’Twas so natural, so confidently done, that I felt a sudden wave of hope overcome my timidity.

“Come, Mademoiselle,” he said, almost eagerly. “There is no reason for you to fear confiding in me. Surely I was never sent for without just reason. Let us sit here while you retell the story. Perchance we will play boy and girl again.”

“You remember that?”

“Do I not!” he laughed pleasantly. “There were few pleasant memories I took with me into the wilderness, yet that was one. Ay, but we talked freely enough then, and there is naught since in my life to 39 bring loss of faith. ’Tis my wish to serve you, be it with wit or blade.” He bent lower, seeking the expression in my eyes. “This Hugo Chevet––he is a brute. I know––is his abuse beyond endurance?”

“No, no,” I hastened to explain. “In his way he is not unkind. The truth is he has lived so long in the woods alone, he scarcely speaks. He––he would marry me to Monsieur Cassion.”

Never will I forget the look of sheer delight on his face as these words burst from me. His hand struck the bench, and he tossed back the long hair from his forehead, his eyes merry with enjoyment.

“Ah, good! By all the saints, ’tis even as I hoped. Then have no fear of my sympathy, Mademoiselle. Nothing could please me like a clash with that perfumed gallant. He doth persecute you with his wooing?”

“He has not spoken, save to Chevet; yet it is seemingly all arranged without my being approached.”

“A coward’s way. Chevet told you?”

“Three days ago, Monsieur, after you were there, and Cassion had departed. It may have been that your being seen with me hastened the plan. I know not, yet the two talked together long, and privately, and when the Commissaire finally went away, Chevet called me in, and told me what had been decided.”

“That you were to marry that coxcomb?”

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“Yes; he did not ask me if I would; it was a command. When I protested my lack of love, saying even that I despised the man, he answered me with a laugh, insisting it was his choice, not mine, and that love had naught to do with such matters. Think you this Cassion has some hold on Hugo Chevet to make him so harsh?”

“No doubt, they are hand in glove in the fur trade, and the Commissaire has La Barre’s ear just now. He rode by yonder in the carriage a moment since, and you might think from his bows he was the Governor. And this marriage? when does it take place?”

“On Monsieur’s safe return from the great West.”

The smile came back to his face.

“Not so bad that, for ’tis a long journey, and might be delayed. I travel with him, you know, and we depart at daybreak. What else did this Chevet have to say?”

“Only a threat that if ever you came near me again his fingers would feel your throat, Monsieur. He spoke of hate between himself and your father.”

The eyes upon mine lost their tolerant smile, and grew darker, and I marked the fingers of his hand clinch.

“That was like enough, for my father was little averse to a quarrel, although he seldom made boast of it afterwards. And so this Hugo Chevet threatened 41 me! I am not of the blood, Mademoiselle, to take such things lightly. Yet wait––why came you to me with such a tale? Have you no friends?”

“None, Monsieur,” I answered gravely, and regretfully, “other than the nuns to whom I went to school, and they are useless in such a case. I am an orphan under guardianship, and my whole life has been passed in this convent, and Chevet’s cabin on the river. My mother died at my birth, my father was a soldier on the frontier, and I grew up alone among strangers. Scarcely have I met any save the rough boatmen, and those couriers du bois in my uncle’s employ. There was no one else but you, Monsieur––no one. ’Twas not immodesty which caused me to make this appeal, but a dire need. I am a helpless, friendless girl.”

“You trust me then?”

“Yes, Monsieur; I believe you a man of honor.”

He walked across the room, once, twice, his head bent in thought, and I watched him, half frightened lest I had angered him.

“Have I done very wrong, Monsieur?”

He stopped, his eyes on my face. He must have perceived my perplexity, for he smiled again, and pressed my hand gently.

“If so, the angels must judge,” he answered stoutly. “As for me, I am very glad you do me this honor. I but seek the best plan of service, Mademoiselle, for I 42 stand between you and this sacrifice with much pleasure. You shall not marry Cassion while I wear a sword; yet, faith! I am so much a man of action that I see no way out but by the strong arm. Is appeal to the Governor, to the judges impossible?”

“He possesses influence now.”

“True enough; he is the kind La Barre finds useful, while I can scarce keep my head upon my shoulders here in New France. To be follower of La Salle is to be called traitor. It required the aid of every friend I had in Quebec to secure me card of admission to the ball tonight.”

“You attend, Monsieur?”

“Unless they bar me at the sword point. Know you why I made the effort?”

“No, Monsieur.”

“Your promise to be present. I had no wish otherwise.”

I felt the flush deepen on my cheeks and my eyes fell.

“’Tis most kind of you to say so, Monsieur,” was all I could falter.

“Ay!” he interrupted, “we are both so alone in this New France ’tis well we help each other. I will find you a way out, Mademoiselle––perhaps this night; if not, then in the woods yonder. They are filled with secrets, yet have room to hide another.”

“But not violence, Monsieur!”

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“Planning and scheming is not my way, nor am I good at it. A soldier of La Salle needs more to understand action, and the De Artigny breed has ever had faith in steel. I seek no quarrel, yet if occasion arise this messenger of La Barre will find me quite ready. I know not what may occur. Mademoiselle; I merely pledge you my word of honor that Cassion will no longer seek your hand. The method you must trust to me.”

Our eyes met, and his were kind and smiling, with a confidence in their depths that strangely heartened me. Before I realized the action I had given him my hand.

“I do, Monsieur, and question no more, though I pray for peace between you. Our time is up, Sister?”

“Yes, my child,” she stood in the doorway, appearing like some saintly image. “The Mother sent me.”

De Artigny released my hand, and bowed low.

“I still rely upon your attendance at the ball?” he asked, lingering at the door.

“Yes, Monsieur.”

“And may bespeak a dance?”

“I cannot say no, although it may cost you dear.”

He laughed gaily, his eyes bright with merriment.

“Faith! most pleasures do I find; the world would be dull enough otherwise. Till then, Mademoiselle, adieu.”

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We heard his quick step ring on the stone of the passage, and Celeste smiled, her hand on mine.

“A lad of spirit that. The Sieur de la Salle picks his followers well, and knows loyal hearts. The De Artignys never fail.”

“You know of them, Sister?”

“I knew his father,” she answered, half ashamed already of her impulse, “a gallant man. But come, the Mother would have you visit her.”

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