FIDÈLE.
It was a day or two later, in the early forenoon. The air was
stagnant, breathlessly awaiting the thunderstorm whose cumulus vapour
masses were already drifting up from the distant horizon; though as
yet the sun blazed in cloudless fervour overhead, and the world lay
panting in the intolerable heat. The very light was sultry, and Mary
Selby had drawn close the blinds, to shut it out where she lay on a
sofa trying to stir the thick stillness into motion with her fan; but
the air was heavy with heat and she felt too faint for the exertion.
She was dropping asleep when Lisette entered with a basket of May
apples. They looked so cool in their green pith-like husks that she
could not refrain from pulling one or two asunder to reach the blob of
fragrant pulp within, tasting and awakening from her langour, before
she asked where they had come from. The maid answered that a squaw
without was offering them for sale, and the mistress had then to rise
and go into an adjoining room to find her purse.
She took the basket in her lap and began to pull open the fruit,
separating the small eatable portions from the pod-like rind. "What a
feast for Edith!" she said, when she had done; and she called to
Lisette to bring the baby.
Lisette appeared looking hot and troubled. "She had not seen
Miss Edith," she said, since she brought the fruit to her
mistress--"supposed Cato must have got her. She had been looking for
the squaw to give her her money, but could not find her. She thought
at first she might be prowling round the house looking for something
to steal, but she had looked everywhere now, even in the wood shed and
coal cellar, but could not see a sign."
Mary rose to join in the search, running out with the maid to question
Cato. Cato was in the far-off corner of the garden, delving with a
will. The sultry fervour of the air, stifling to men of another race,
was like wine to him, recalling the torrid country of his birth, and
he tossed the spadefuls gleefully, perspiring and singing as he
worked. He had been there all the morning, and knew nothing of Edith
or the vanished squaw; but he threw down his spade at once and joined
the searchers. The cook came running from her kitchen to assist, and
the little band now quickening each other's alarm ran hither and
thither over the small domain, peering under every bush, pulling about
melon frames and empty boxes, dropping stones down the well, looking
under all the beds in the house and even up the chimney. By-and-by
they were out of breath and began to think. Then Lisette was sent for
a policeman, and Cato to fetch a cab to carry his mistress in search
of her husband, and to the police-station in case he could not be
found.
The policeman arrived first with grave importance and a note-book. He
questioned Lisette, but being an Irishman while she was French, he
soon lost himself amongst her voluble but not very lucid English,
emphasized with frequent "_mon Dieux_," and much gesticulation. She
was the only one who had seen the squaw, and the last to see the
child, but what of that? "Them furreigners were of no account, and
nobody could tell what they might be afther intending to mane:" so he
turned to the cook, a countrywoman of his own, and from her got ample
satisfaction. It is true she had seen nothing, and only knew what she
had heard Lisette say, but then she had thought a great deal since;
and the thoughts and the hearsay flowed in a mixed and copious, if not
too coherent stream, which Paddy could readily follow, it was so much
like the meanderings of his own mind. He opened his book and proceeded
to write it all down--how she had just finished washing up her morning
dishes, and the pan of water was in her hands to empty down the sink
at that very moment "whin who should come trapezin' into moy kitchen
but the gurrl, all brithless loike, an' hur hair flyin' ivery way at
wanst. An' thinks oi to meself, 'whativer's the matther wid the
omadhaun?' An' sorr if I was to take me boible oath this moment,
thim's the very worrds that passed through me moind whin I seed hur,
an' ye may safely write them down, for oi'll stand boy thim before all
the judges and juries in the land."
"Oi'll wroite thim down, mum, ye may depind; an' be me troth, it's
moighty remarkable them worrds are; an' they do ye credit, mum, though
it's me that says it," answered the policeman, relaxing the crooks in
his shoulder and elbow, and the frown on his brow, which were with him
the concomitants of penmanship. He had not in truth the pen of a ready
writer, and it was only by pushing his tongue into one cheek and
closing an eye, that he was able to construct the letters at all. That
was of little consequence, however; the notebook was solely for his
own private eye, or rather for the eye of the public, which could not
but respect a policeman who wrote everything down.
It impressed the cook immensely, and flattered her too, for never
before had she seen her words put down on paper, and she resolved in
her mind there should be a smoking hot morsel for this "supayrior"
man, whenever he came round to see her of a winter's afternoon. The
man perfectly understood. There were several kitchens on his beat
where he was wont to visit, and the cook before him smiled so
hospitably that he promised himself not to forget her.
Cato now arrived with the cab for his mistress, and the guardian of
the peace, hitherto engrossed with a more important person, turned to
the poor lady to favour her with a few words at parting.
"You're purfecly right, ma'am," he said, "to make ivery exurtion. An'
if ye call at the station, ye'll foind the jintlemen there both
poloite an' accommodatin'. An' ye may go wid an aisy mind, for well be
havin' your intherests under consideration all the same as if ye was
here. An' ye may rest assured that the sthrong arrum of the law will
be laid on the aivil doer sooner or later. An' as for the choild,
ma'am, oi'm bound to sthop ivery choild of a year old that's carried
through my bait; but ye must give me marks, ye see, or they would soon
be complainin' of me at head quarthers. Did the choild squint, now,
maybe, ma'am, the purty angel? An' it's moighty becomin' some says
that same is; an' kinvanient too, whin they gits older, an' can look
both ways at wanst. No? Well, no offince, ma'am. Or maybe there was
something crooked about wan of its legs, or an arrum, or who knows but
there might be something wrong wid its face. A hare lip, now, would be
a sure mark, and oi'd arrist the first wan I met. No? Well, no
offince, ma'am. Oi cuddn't arrest all the childer I moight meet, ye
see, an' bring thim here for you to oidintifee. How many teeth, thin,
moight your purty darlin' have, ma'am?--though it's misdoubtin' I am
if the law gives me power to open the childher's mouths an' look down
their throats. But we'll do our best, ye may depind on that. An' it's
wishin' ye a plisant dhroive, ma'am, an' thank ye keoindly," as Mary,
driven desperate by his gabble, pushed a dollar into his hand and
hurried to her cab.
In this way "the law's delays" left the coast clear for the escape of
the kidnapper. It was an hour or two before the police throughout the
city became aware that a squaw had run away with an infant, and by the
time they had begun to be on the alert, the thief had made good her
retreat. Wrapped in her bright blue blanket and broad-leafed straw
hat, she passed swiftly along, as might any of her fellows who hawk
their beadwork and like wares about the streets. A lump of fat, rubbed
in the juice of some narcotic herb, pushed into the little mouth had
stilled the child's cries and made it sleep as though in its nurse's
arms--evidence of the practical wisdom of the wilderness still
lingering among its erewhile people, as yet but partially elevated to
our higher plane of life. Our women may become doctors of divinity,
law, or physic; they can play the piano, or stand in the front rank of
culture; but can they handle a baby like the artless daughters of the
North-West, whose charges, packed in moss and fur, strapped upon a
board and suspended from a branch, sway gently in the breeze, watching
and growing silently, like the plants, for hours together, with never
a cry to disturb the resting sire or the laborious mother? In the
march of improvement some useful knowledge has been dropped by the
way, and there are regrettable losses to set off against the manifest
gains.
The thunder which had been threatening all the morning began to
rumble, the sky darkened, and soon the rain came down in torrents. The
ferry-boat between Lachine and Caughnawaga had whistled, and was
throwing loose from the wharf, when a squaw--it was Fidèle, Paul's
squaw, of course--rain-soaked and draggled, leaped on board. She
squatted on the deck beside the three or four others who were the only
passengers, cowering over the bundle under her blanket, but not
uncovering its face as did the mothers near her.
"She has stolen something," the purser observed to the mate, "and is
passing it off for a child. She don't behave to it as the others do.
If there is a constable on the pier, I'll give her in charge. But
there won't be in this heavy rain, and there would be a row if we
attempted to stop her. Best take no notice, I guess; 'taint no
business of ours."
On reaching the pier, Fidèle was the first to land and flit away
through the village. "I told you so," said the purser, looking wise.
"You just see if we don't hear more about that one. Blue blanket,
with a tear in one corner; straw hat--brim badly broken; face, like
they all have--broad and brown as a butternut; red cheeks--must be
young--and real spry on the pins. Guess I'd know her again--know the
clothes, any way. Injuns are as like one another as copper cents."
Fidèle reached a cabin in the outskirts, of square logs, whitewashed,
one window and a door, with a "lean-to" addition of boards in the
rear, where the cooking-stove stood in the warm weather. Entering, she
found her sister Thérèse awaiting her, who with very few words
proceeded to strip off her own brightly printed cotton gown. Fidèle
carried the child into the room behind, and returning, removed her
blanket and dripping headgear.
"Ouff," said Thérèse, undoing the gay handkerchief from her head and
picking up the hat in evident disgust. "No good."
There was a small silver cross hanging from her neck by a black
riband, to which Fidèle stretched out her hand expecting it to be
taken off likewise. But no. Thérèse drew back with a head-shake,
explaining that that belonged to the ladies of the Convent school,
adding, that it was bad enough to give up the smart frock and kerchief
in exchange for such a hat and a damp blanket. Fidèle reminded her of
the new ones she was to receive from Paul, after she had worn the
blanket for a week, and again snatched at the nuns' silver badge of
merit. Thérèse caught the hand and bit it. Fidèle screamed, and a
battle was imminent, when Paul's growl from the back room, threatening
violence, restored calm, and Thérèse sulkily took up the blanket and
drew it over her head. Presently, Paul looked out to bid her begone,
and Thérèse, through the open door, saw enough to silence
remonstrance, and send her trembling away.
Paul entered as Thérèse went out, and stood before his squaw. He spoke
in Iroquois, briefly, and in the conclusive tone which admits neither
of question nor reply. Another, Messieurs the Benedicts, of those
natural gifts dropped by the way in the march of improvement. The
squaw never "speaks back," but the "last word" belongs of right to
every self-respecting Christian woman, and she takes it. Ask the
ladies!
"To work at once," was the purport of Paul's orders, "then sweep up.
Put on your sister's gown, and that black blanket over all. Go out by
the back, into the bush. Hide in the old roothouse by the corner of
the clearing till sundown; then away, across the reservation. Take
care you are not seen. Travel all night, going west. Stay in the woods
to-morrow till dusk. Travel your quickest till you reach Ogdensburg.
Cross the river there, and go west to Brantford, taking your own time.
Go to your brother, and tell him to expect me next winter." And so
saying, he went out by the front of the house, locking the door behind
him.
Fidèle set her teeth and proceeded to obey. It was a repulsive sight
which she beheld on entering the inner room, and the work set her to
do was horrible. A board or two of the flooring had been pulled up,
and there was a sack filled with the earth brought up through the
opening. The hole was a foot or two deep, and it was shaped like a
grave. Paul must have been terribly in earnest to have it rightly
done, seeing he had dug it himself. There was a box--a soap-box
seemingly, from the village store--hammer and nails, a bundle of
withered grass, and the baby asleep lying on it. The sight of the baby
must have been too much for Paul, for part of an old buffalo robe had
been thrown over it. He had his design fixed and firm, but having also
a squaw why should he likewise discompose himself? Civilization had at
least eaten so far into his nature that to extinguish a helpless and
unresisting life was no longer delightful enough to compensate the
risk--and he had the squaw.
Fidèle sat down on the ground with the poor little thing in her lap.
How peacefully it slept! Was it angels whispering in those little ears
which made it smile in its sleep, as the ladies of the Convent had
said? Could viewless spirits be hovering around, seeing and noting all
that passed? Involuntarily she looked over her shoulder expecting
almost to behold a presence. Then she shook herself and snorted. Why
should she call up shadowy fears to make harder for herself the work
she had to do? If she failed to do it she knew full surely the terrors
would be all too real--bruises, wounds, possibly death by violence;
assuredly violence in any less degree.
The child lay sleeping on her lap, so fair and soft of skin, rounded
and dainty in every joint. She could not but recall the picture in the
church, of the Holy Mother with her ever Blessed Son, high up above
the altar, amid the star-like twinkling of the tapers and the cloudy
incense ascending before it in solemn fragrance, while holy nuns and
innocent choristers sang hymns of adoration; and all she had learned
to think of blessedness beyond the grave, attainable only by more than
common goodness, was that it would be like that. The little rings of
hair that framed the face were bright and shining like burnished gold,
a glory like the gilded halos about the heads in that sacred picture;
and the long eyelashes laid peacefully upon the reddening cheeks, like
clouds at daybreak, promising so enhanced a brightness at the
awakening. Fidèle laid her fingers on the little neck. How dark and
evil they looked upon its creamy whiteness! How could she ever grasp
it hard and cruelly, till the heaving bosom grew convulsed to bursting
at the interrupted breath, and the sweet face grew black and distorted
in fruitless gaspings? Her fingers lay more heavily as she thought,
and the slight pressure disturbed the sleeper. The plump round
shoulder and cheek were drawn together as if tickling were the subject
of her dreams; the lips parted in a smile, the eyes unclosed, and the
child awoke with a low and merry laugh. She looked so fearless and
trustful out of her blue eyes and crowed so gleefully, caressing with
her own tiny palms the dusky fingers so near her throat, and with such
fell intent, that surely a fiend must have abandoned the thought of
doing her harm. And Fidèle was no fiend at all. Ignorance and a narrow
horizon had left her sympathies to slumber, but, so far as she could
see or know, she was true and good. To serve her man had seemed the
chief if not the only end of her being, and she had done it blindly
hitherto; but it appeared to her now that to do this thing was more
than she ought, or could.
The little hands were stretched up now to her face and the lips
strained up to kiss her, and the clear blue light of the eyes
penetrated the blackness of her own with a cooling purifying influence
which made evil intent like a shadow slink away. She stooped and
pressed the little pink lips to her own, and to her forehead and to
her breast, and then with a big breath of resolution she got up and
set the little one down in a corner while she fulfilled in seeming the
orders she had received. She took the dried grass and laid it in the
box which she then closed and placed in the bottom of the little
grave. The grave she then filled up with earth from the sack, tramping
it down tightly, and making the top level with the adjacent soil, and
strewing what earth was left in the rain pools outside the house. She
then nailed down the flooring as before, and swept the house, making
it appear again as it had always been. No one could now suspect that
there was a grave beneath his feet, nor could Paul that that grave was
empty. Then concealing the child under her blanket she stole into the
bush as she had been instructed to do, an instance of how the
scrupulously obedient wife, even while obeying, may contrive to effect
the exact opposite of her instructions; and showing, perhaps, that the
equality and sympathy of the civilized home may secure a man the
fulfilment of his wishes no less, at least, than the despotism of the
barbarian plan.
In the twilight Fidèle left her place of concealment and stole away
under the dripping-trees. The storm was over, and as the light died
out of the heavens the stars came twinkling forth, awaiting the rising
moon. It was a long and toilsome tramp across the reservation, through
wet and tangled herbage, with many a slough and flooded brook, for she
had been bidden to avoid observation and dared not avail herself of
such paths and rude bridges as suffice the Indians on their own
domain. At length when night had fully come, and home-going stragglers
were no longer likely to be met, she reached a country road. The march
of the stars pointed her way and further she knew not, for she had
never been there before. She hurried along clasping her burden, which
grew heavier as she went, for she had been travelling for hours. It
was late and she had spent a long and a busy day, a day of hard work
and much excitement. The child grew heavier, and as her own strength
grew less, she clasped it the more tightly. Since she had saved the
little one's life, something of a mother's feeling for it had stolen
into her heart. It seemed dependent on her, and her very own; and were
not the tiny fingers even then spreading themselves against her breast
to gather warmth? The night seemed very long, and yet she feared to
stop and rest. A pursuer might be on her track even now to seize her
for child-stealing. And the child in her arms! She could not but be
taken and punished, and the child given back. And even when her
punishment was over, and she let out of jail, there would still be
Paul to reckon with. And what might _he_ not do? Her heart died within
her at the thought, her limbs grew feeble, and the child heavier than
lead. She staggered along looking behind her and before, but all was
still, no one to be seen. And now she was approaching a village. The
moonlight glittered on the tin belfry of the church, and there were
houses, low-browed _habitant_ houses, with deep projecting eaves and
great black shadows lurking under the stoops and porches. Not a soul
was stirring, but from those coverts of obscurity what or who might
not rush forth on her as she went by? The law in some mysterious way
might be lying in wait for her among the dusky shadows, or Paul
himself might be in hiding to watch her pass, and see that he was
obeyed. It would be bad for her if she were to meet him now, and bad
for the child as well. She stopped, faltering as she thought of it,
unable to go on. Ah! there stood one small house at a forking of the
road, where one branch ran uphill through well-fenced woods,
surrounding a mansion, doubtless, for the moonlight glistened on the
tin of the roof; and the other branch ran downward to the village and
the church, and there was a broad river beyond, with perhaps no
bridge, and she might have to wait for morning to be ferried across.
There might be a magistrate in the mansion, she would avoid that, and
down in the village the child might be seen. No! she dared not carry
it in either direction, but here in the corner of the ways stood the
little _habitant_ house, a good half-mile from both. Yet there was no
light visible in the window; the house might be uninhabited; not a dog
or pig was to be seen around. But then it was late. The voiceless
stars and the silent sailing moon were whitening the slumbering world
with dim and hazy dreams. Nothing was awake or moving but the vagrant
breeze which rustled drowsily among the poplar leaves; and--yes, that
decided her--the loose casement of the one window in the roof swaying
back and forth against the flapping curtains within. There must be
people in the house, people asleep, who would not awake till she had
time to escape. She stepped on the little porch, laid down her burden,
knocked, and fled into a neighbouring bank of shadow, where her dark
blanketed figure was swallowed up in the gloom and she could wait and
watch. Her moccasined feet made no sound, but the knock awoke a dog
within. The dog barked, and presently a head looked out of the open
casement. The baby, uncovered to the night air and laid on the hard
boards, began to cry, and the head--it was a woman's and a
mother's--recognized the voice of a _bébé_. The door was opened, the
woman came out and took up the child.
"Holy Madaleine!--it is a child! And whose? Another, when there are
already six, and the loaf so small, and the _sous_ so hard to come
by!"
Fidèle saw, and she may have heard; but she could not understand or
enter into the white woman's troubled feelings. _Sous_ scarce and
loaves small were just as she knew them, when she knew them at all,
which was not always. At least it was better, both for herself and the
child, that it should not be with _her_. She waited till the woman had
carried it indoors, and then, like a wandering shadow, she went her
way, westward, with the stars and moon. Her friends, her home, her
man, were all behind her, and she must not return to them. She must go
forward and westward to Upper Canada, a wanderer and alone, with
nothing but the stolid patience of her unawakened mind to bear her up.
But at least her hands were untainted with the stain of blood, and she
could look forward to the long dark winter nights and their howling
winds without fear. There would be no voices in them to make her
tremble, no cry of a murdered child--no image in the darkness of
gasping lips and eyes rolled back in the death-struggle. She could
sleep in peace and still ask God and His saints to shelter her.