WHITHER THOU GOEST
“Did 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.
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.
“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.”
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 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!”
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.”
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.
The melancholy face of the young Huguenot bent over the pillow of
François. “I bring you water,” he said.
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 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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“And I will not?”
“You will be longer at it, monsieur.”
“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.”
Mère Michelle turned her back upon him and 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?”
“I agree.”
“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.
“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 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.”
“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.”
“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.”
Michelle, distressed, hurried to Lendert’s bedside.
“His brain wanders, good sir. I pray you do not mind him,” she said, in
anxious explanation.
Lendert smiled and turned his head. “Ho there, Mosquito!” he said,
sleepily. “I thought I heard you buzz some time ago.”
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.”
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 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.
“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.”
Pierre looked down at her concernedly. “And what is it, Alaine?”
“I mean to go to Guadaloupa. Surely they will accept me in my father’s
stead, one as young and strong as I.”
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.”
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.”
His eyes had a far-off look in them as she went on. “You have been so
peaceful, so happy here,” he said.
“I cannot be happy now; I can never be happy while he is there. I
should be content, I would 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.”
“What is your plan?” Pierre asked after a silence.
“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.”
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.”
“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.”
“And M. Verplanck, is he also an enemy?”
Alaine looked down. “I do not know, Pierre. I do not think he is.”
“Where does he live? How did you encounter him? I have not yet been
informed of the whole matter.”
“I was directed to his aunt’s house by the woman Marie, and there I met
him.”
“You saw his aunt?” Pierre looked down at the girl’s drooping head.
She hesitates a moment. “No, I did not see her. She was ill of a
migraine. I saw another lady; her cousin.”
“And who was she?”
Alaine was silent.
“Did you see any other?”
“Yes, the Dutchwoman who rules the kitchen.”
“And no one else?”
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.
“Alaine, Alainette,” he called, softly.
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.”
She sighed and glanced at him from under her long lashes. “Papa Louis
and Mère Michelle have designed to marry me to Gerard.”
“And Gerard?”
“Loves Mathilde better.”
“Mathilde?”
“Yes; and you, do you not love Mathilde?”
“I love her, yes, as one does a sister; not as I do you, Alaine.”
“As I love Gerard and as he loves me, no doubt. But one must be guided
by one’s parents.”
“And your parents; one is in heaven, the other in Guadaloupa, as you
have told me. Therefore, Alaine----”
“Therefore I have no one to whom I can refer you except Papa Louis and
Mère Michelle.”
“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.”
“And not before?”
“Before? Yes, ever since your little face like a star came to illumine
my sky.”
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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“And if I could--if I should release him you would--Alaine, you would
marry me?”
“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?”
“I will do that.”
“Soon?”
“As soon as I can. There are things I must do first. I have to go away
on a mission, Alainette.”
“For whom?”
“For Governor Leisler. When I return I will see you, and then----”
“And then? Why do you look so miserable, Pierre?”
“Because I love you. You do not know how I love you, my Alainette.”
“Not yours, nor any one’s, but my father’s.”
“Whom you shall see again if he be alive.”
“Mère Michelle is calling me; I must go.”
“You will let me say good-by to you here.”
“Yes; but it need not be a long farewell I hope.”
He caught her hands and pressed fervent kisses upon them. “God bless
thee, now and forever,” he murmured.
“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.”
“Alaine, Alaine!” called a voice from the garden.
“Yes, yes, Gerard, I come. Here I am,” she answered.
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
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.
“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?”
She came over to his side and leaned against the fence. “We owe them
much, Gerard.”
“And because they have sacrificed themselves for us we should not show
ourselves ungrateful.”
“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!”
“And you, Alaine, how your little hands have spun and scoured and
toiled! You were not meant to do such things, my sister.”
“Nor were you, my brother.”
“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 easily, but he took
me, who had not always been the most diligent of pupils.”
“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!”
“And myself the same. She is a good nurse, a good wife, a good mother,
that Mère Michelle.”
“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.”
“And therefore, Alaine.”
“Therefore----”
“We should please them, those two, by acceding to their wishes.”
“We should do that, Gerard, yet----”
“You understand?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“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?”
“Yes; but, Gerard, I have made a promise.”
“Alaine! Without consulting them?”
“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 a little hope that he will return to me. Pierre is arranging a
plan.”
“But there is Mathilde.”
“What of her?”
“Her uncle and aunt wish to see her married to Pierre.”
Alaine’s eyes danced and she laughed. “And you, Gerard, you would be
delighted if it were arranged, I am sure.”
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?”
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.”
“And you love this sober Pierre?”
“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?”
“Of course. And if he does not say this?”
“I do not know what.”
“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.”
“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 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.”
“Not M. Verplanck; the other, you mean.”
“The other who swears that whither I go he will follow. And there is
also Étienne.”
“Myself, Pierre, M. Dupont, and Étienne.” Gerard counted on his
fingers. “How many more, Alaine? Shall we add M. Verplanck?”
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.”
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.
“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?”
“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.”
“And you will not go with messages to warn the settlements of danger
from the French?”
“I will go where I am sent. Pierre and I will go; Papa Louis, no. We
have another selected in his place.”
“And you start?”
“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.”
“If anything were to happen to you they would 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.”