THE WAY TO CHURCH
“It is a long walk, my child,” Papa Louis was saying; “you should not
think of taking it.”
“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.”
“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.”
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 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.
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.”
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. 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, 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.
“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.”
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.
“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.”
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 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.
“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.”
Alaine retreated a step. What ill fate had given her an interview with
this man whom she had hoped never to see again?
“And I was fortunate,” he repeated, “Mademoiselle--Hervieu.”
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.”
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.”
“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.”
“But that was not our first meeting: I remember 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.”
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.”
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 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?”
“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.”
She bit her lip, but seated herself and regarded him silently.
“Étienne Villeneau is my friend; we were together at school in Rouen.
Always Étienne spoke 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.”
“Monsieur,” Alaine’s voice was low and determined, “you forget that I
am a Huguenot.”
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.”
“My father is also Protestant,” said Alaine, her dark eyes growing
larger and more intense.
“Your father, M. Hervieu? And where is he?”
“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.”
M. Dupont listened thoughtfully. “You would leave only at your father’s
command? It behooves me, then, to find him.”
Alaine clasped her hands. “Oh, monsieur, find him, find him, and I will
bless you forever, though you may be my enemy!”
“Your enemy?” He shrugged his shoulders; then looking at her with
an inexplicable smile, he said, “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.
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.”
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.
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.”
“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 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.”
“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.”
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.
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 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?
“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.”
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.
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.”
“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 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.
“You undertake a long walk,” Pierre said, after a moment’s silence.
“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.”
“Even so, there are some good Papists,” returned Pierre, quietly.
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?”
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 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.’”
Alaine nodded. “I remember the couplet which Papa Louis taught me,--
‘Plus a me frapper on s’amuse,
Tant plus de marteau on y use.’
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.”
“And I like the anvil,” returned Pierre.
Alaine gave him a half-saucy look from under her long lashes. “Yes, you
are more like an anvil,” she told him.
“Quite hard you mean?”
“I did not say so. Perhaps I meant very useful.”
“And you are more like the marigold.”
“Quite useless?”
“I did not say so. Perhaps I meant because of a heart of gold.”
“Merci, monsieur. I like that better than if you had said as truly
lovely.”
“I meant that, too.”
“It strikes me,” said Alaine, slyly, “that one should not put honey in
pot à feu.”
“Let us have, then--what shall we say?”
“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.”
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.
“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.
“I am a little tired,” she returned, “but I am here, 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.”
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.
“And you will not walk back?” said Pierre to Alaine, as they were
making ready for the return.
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.”
“What do you say, my daughter?” Mère Michelle’s alert ears caught the
last words.
“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.”
Mère Michelle looked mystified.
“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.