THREE PARTINGS
Alaine, singing in the garden where she was gathering some late
vegetables, saw Lendert coming. She had longed, yet dreaded to see him
again. The color flew to her face as he drew near, and she moved away a
few steps. “If you will stay there and help me with these beans I will
tell you more of myself, some things which you do not know,” she said.
Lendert took the place assigned him. Michelle, from the house, watched
the pair; Lendert slowly picking from the vines the pods to fill
a basket standing upon the walk, and Alaine with quick bird-like
movements adding to the store. But Michelle did not know all that
Alaine was saying, that she was disclosing herself as Alaine Hervieu,
that she was telling of her great hope that her father might still be
living, and of Pierre’s interest in the quest.
To all this Lendert listened mutely. When the basket was filled the two
carried it together to the barn. Michelle frowned and shook her head,
still keeping an eye upon the barn door. What if she could have heard
Lendert say, “I think I will go, my Alaine. Thou, my beloved, must
believe in me even if thou dost not see me in a long time. We love,
thou and I, but what is best to do I must think, and I must leave thee,
beloved one, for a time, but I leave my heart behind.”
“And mine thou takest with thee.”
“They will not marry thee to another meanwhile?”
“No, no.”
“Yet thy father?”
“If he returns it will be his right to bestow my hand; that is what I
tell myself and what I have told Pierre.”
“And this Pierre?”
“He has gone away; when he returns we are to speak of how to obtain
my father’s release. I would have gone myself,--I meant to,--but
now--Lendert, Lendert, I was ready to do this even a week ago.”
“And now, is it I who keeps thee from it?”
“It is thou,” she whispered.
He kissed her hair, her eyes, her lips. “Now I know thou dost love me,
and thou shalt understand one day how I value thy love. We must part,
my beloved, but I will come again. In the mean time be thou patient and
constant.”
One last embrace and he was gone, leaving Alaine with a miserable sort
of happiness. It seemed as if her heart would burst with this new-born
love and with the memory of the parting. All these weeks, day by day,
this flower of love had been growing and she was scarcely aware of it;
now it had burst into bloom, and she was bewildered and faint with its
sweetness. She threw herself down on the hay and pressed her hands over
her burning eyes.
She was aroused by a sudden stealthy sound. She lifted her head
slightly and peeped between the spears of hay to see the sinuous form
of an Indian skulking past the barn. With almost as secret a movement
she crept to a point where she could watch his further actions. There
was Michelle busy in the fields husking corn; the house was left for
occupancy to François Dupont. Was this known to the red-skin? Was it
François whom he sought? She watched him make his way to the house and
insinuate his lithe body in at the door. “He may be simply one of the
friendly creatures come with a message or to get work in the fields,”
she thought; “but no, he would not have then approached in this
stealthy way.”
At last she determined to busy herself openly in the garden, where
there were still more beans to be gathered and where Michelle, in
the field beyond, could see her. She was hard at work pulling the
rattling pods when suddenly by her side appeared the Indian. She had
been furtively watching, but had not seen him leave the house, and his
appearance startled her. He paused only long enough to slip a paper
into her hand, and then, gliding along by the fence, was lost in the
woods beyond.
Wonderingly Alaine unfolded the paper. On it was written, “If you would
say farewell, meet me to-morrow at sunset at the cave where is the old
fireplace. The ship will be ready.--Pierre.”
Alaine held the paper in her shaking hand. To leave now with Lendert’s
love warming her heart; with this new hope beautifying her life! She
gazed with staring eyes at the words. “Oh, my father, my father!” she
moaned. “But you said, Pierre, it would do no good, that they would not
accept me in his stead.” She stood very still with the paper clinched
in her hand. “Perhaps,” she thought, after reflection, “he means that
he goes himself to see what can be done. The good, noble Pierre. I will
meet him; I will give him every sou I have saved. I will bless you, my
good Pierre, but I cannot reward you as I said I would. No, Lendert, I
cannot, I cannot, even though my father bade me. I must be honest and
tell Pierre that. But oh, my father, who will then deliver you?” She
fell on her knees and sobbed out the words.
Michelle, beyond in the cornfield, saw her. “Something disturbs my
little one,” she said to herself. “There are human wolves to be kept
from my lamb. As soon as Louis returns that one in there must go. I can
see that my little one fears him; I will not have it so.” She raised
her basket of yellow corn and bore it toward the barn, taking care to
pass Alaine on the way. “Tears in your eyes, my pretty one,” she said,
putting down her basket. “What is this?”
“I was thinking of my father,” faltered Alaine, and going to Michelle
she put her arms around her. “Dear mother, comfort me; it is a wide
world and there is much trouble in it.”
“And much goodness.”
“Yes, when I think of Papa Louis and you, and Gerard and” Pierre she
would have added, but she substituted “our good pastor. Papa Louis
returns to-night?”
“To-morrow; and then adieu to monsieur the wolf yonder.”
Alaine’s face brightened. “I am glad, glad, Michelle; he has brought us
evil days. Before he came how peaceful and content I was.”
“And now?”
The girl moved her head wearily. “I am too distraught by hopes and
fears and dreads.”
“We will stop this,” thought Michelle. “She shall be safely married to
Gerard before the winter is over. There, there, my child,” she said,
aloud, “once we are rid of our wolf your happy days will come back. God
forbid I should commit murder in my heart, but to you I confess that
I would not grieve if the ship which carries this man back to France
should lose him overboard.”
“Oh, Michelle, Michelle! You wicked?”
“I but spoke what more than one thinks,” returned Michelle. “You shall
not see him again if I can arrange it. Go to Mathilde Duval, ask there
that they lend me the little Jean, and remain till this one goes. I
with Jean shall be safe till Gerard or Louis returns. We have but one
guest now, though the worst of all he be. Yet, we must be patient,
child, patient.”
Alaine was only too glad of escape. If they would but wed Mathilde
to Gerard instead of to Pierre; but then what good would that do?
Pierre would still be left. No, she must be patient, patient, as Papa
Louis and Mère Michelle were always telling her. Patience, the great
characteristic of the Huguenots, she must cultivate it, she would try
to do right when the moment for action came.
François, now that he was rid of his rival, had no idea of departing
too hastily. The next morning he was groaning on his bed, declaring
that he had taken cold and that he suffered as much as ever. Michelle
submitted to the inevitable with none too good a grace, and felt
obliged to send for Alaine. There was no help for it, but it was a
disappointment, for she had endured a long season of nursing and felt
that she deserved release. Beyond this, with Papa Louis and Gerard both
away there were added tasks for the two women, and Michelle’s face
wore its grimmest expression. Whenever she could give Alaine tasks
out of the house she did so, and it was not often that the girl was
seen indoors. François clamored to have his screen removed, but this
Michelle refused to do. She could not take the time, she said.
And so it was that when Papa Louis returned the next day it was to find
that François was again on his back, but, to his great relief, that
Lendert Verplanck had departed, therefore the suggestion of François
could not be carried out. “I am no Jacobite,” he told François, “and I
believe in the good intentions of Jacob Leisler, but he has resorted
to strong measures, and has gone so far that he cannot retreat. I have
talked the matter over with my good friends, and though one is of one
opinion and one is of another, the good God has settled my part in the
matter by removing temptation. I return, M. Verplanck has departed, the
plot ends. As for yourself, monsieur----”
“As for me----”
“You remain? To help us if we need to resist the attacks of your
countrymen from Canada?”
François was moodily silent and remained so, in strange contrast to his
former loquacity, so that Michelle’s fears were aroused and she warned
Alaine. “He is very mute these days, that wolf, but his white teeth are
strong and his eyes have still their evil gleam. My lamb must not go
near him.”
“I will keep out of the way,” replied Alaine. “I am not anxious to
spend my time in the company of M. Dupont.” And she contrived so well
that he seldom saw her.
She found little difficulty in making her escape the day of Papa
Louis’s return. She ran down to the well-known spot where Pierre was
to meet her. What plan had he been able to contrive? She found him
standing by the water’s edge gazing out upon the sound. He did not
hear her approach, and she stood for a moment regarding him. His grave
face wore a sadder look than usual; the quiet, firm lips were pressed
together determinedly, but there was a singularly sweet expression in
the face, and Alaine sighed. Poor Pierre, how sad a fate that had not
let her love him!
At the sound of his name softly spoken he turned, and a flush of
pleasure lighted up his dark eyes. “Alaine, Alainette,” he said,
holding out his hands.
She came and laid hers in them. “Are you going away, Pierre? Is that
why you wished to say farewell?”
“I go, but a longer journey than you thought. I go for you, Alaine.”
“Oh, no, no; I cannot let you do that.”
“For your father’s deliverance. I shall bring him back to you if he be
alive or I never return.”
“Pierre, Pierre, I cannot have you do this thing for me. Tell me what
you intend. Suppose he, the one who called himself your master, should
discover you, what then?”
“That is it, but I shall first have gained your father’s release.”
“No, no, I cannot consent; even for that I could not let you take such
risks.”
“What matters it? A little longer, a little shorter time and all is
over. And life to me without Alaine, what would it be anywhere? The
supreme joy, the wonder of happiness if I should succeed and return to
find you mine, Alaine, it is worth the deepest misery I could suffer.
To see you happy, even if I miss a supreme joy myself, is enough.”
“Do not, do not say that,” she murmured. “Ah, Pierre, if you but knew
how unworthy I am of such love.”
“It is how I must love. Your happiness at any cost. I have seen tears
in your eyes because of your father’s condition, and could I hesitate
if mine might be the hand to wipe them away? No, no, beloved, I would
be a slave forever for your sweet sake; it would glorify my days to
wake in the morning and say, She is happy there in her home, my Alaine;
she smiles, she sings, and God has let me give her this happiness.
Whatever my body might suffer, my heart would sing with yours.”
Alaine’s tears fell softly. “Oh, Pierre, Pierre, such great love, and
I----”
He interrupted her hastily. “I do not ask yours. I ask only to do this
for you.” He laid his hand on her head and smoothed back the curling
locks that strayed from under her little cap. “Sweet eyes, dear lips.”
He gave a long, shivering sigh. “I ask no promise, sweet.”
Alaine lifted her tearful eyes. “I ought to give it, Pierre, for I do
not forget that I told you I would marry whom my father should desire.”
“I know that, but I would not have you bound even so much, for if he
returned without me, or if neither returned, it would be a sad waiting.
A year, Alaine; if at the end of a year you do not see your father, or
if you do not hear from him or from me, you must be free to do whatever
seems well and good.”
“But your plan, Pierre, tell me more of it.”
“I go to Manhatte to-morrow to sail by a vessel going to Guadaloupa.”
He did not tell her that he had shipped as a common sailor and would
thus work his passage, saving his own earnings for the use of Alaine’s
father, should he need them.
“And there, Pierre, you will be sure to find him.”
“I will find him if he be alive.”
She put both hands in his. “Oh, my good Pierre, so good. I cannot thank
you enough. I feel that I ought not to allow this, but----”
He shook his head. “It would be no use to refuse, Alaine, I should go;
if not now, at some other time. You cannot keep me. I desire to do this
thing for you. Do not forbid it and destroy my only joy in life.”
“Then I will not, but I will do my best while you are away. I will
think of you and pray for you always, night and day.”
“And if I do not return, think of me then sometimes, even then, Alaine.”
“I will. I will always think of you, Pierre, so noble, so brave, so
unselfish.”
“Hush, hush, dear one, it is for my own pleasure that I go. I ask but
this: one kiss to bear with me as a remembrance, perhaps all I shall
ever ask of you.”
Alaine almost quailed at the request. She had promised to be true to
one lover; the remembrance of his caresses, his kisses, still haunted
her day and night. But this man, ready to lay down his life for her,
could she refuse him? It was a sacred duty that she should send him
away with all of happiness and hope that she could offer. She mutely
raised her face to his, and he kissed her as it were a sacrament he
took. “Adieu, my star. Alaine, I am yours, living or dead. I love you
forever. A long adieu, sweet Alaine; it grows late and you will be
missed. Leave me here. Once more, adieu!”
She gave him her hands again and looked long and wistfully into his
face. “Adieu, Pierre,” she said at last and turned away. Once she
looked back and he smiled; but as she passed out of sight, he staggered
back against the rocky ledge and leaned there white to the lips. And
Alaine, as she went on her way with bowed head, struggled to keep down
the rising cry of her heart, “Lendert, Lendert, I must be false to you;
I must put you forever from my thoughts. If Pierre, for love of me,
can do this great thing, ought I, for my father’s sake,--for Pierre’s
sake,--to do less? Forgive me, Lendert, God knows I love you.”
And so it was that Pierre sailed away, and in time François recovered,
so that before the trees were bare he was well enough to take his
departure too. “It is but for a time, mademoiselle,” he said before
parting. “I do not go far, and you shall see me again; believe me,
it will not be so very long before you see me again. I have an acute
perception and I watch; that Pierre has gone, no one seems to know why
or where, and that other, our friend of large proportions, does not
appear, therefore I feel that I need have no fear. The boy Gerard has
eyes and ears for no one but the saucy damsel across the way, and you
and he will not marry yet, in spite of Michelle. So ’tis but au revoir,
mademoiselle, and I shall see you before we see these trees again bare.
I trust that I shall some day prove to you all that I am not ungrateful
for your care of me, and to Michelle most of all.” He bowed in the
direction of Michelle, who had come forward and now stood stiff and
uncompromising.
“You owe us nothing, monsieur, but the consideration that will leave us
to ourselves,” she said. “Show us your good will so much as to do that,
and we are content.”
He laughed. “I should be as impolite as that other patient of yours who
has never had the grace to come back for a friendly call.” He glanced
at Alaine as he spoke, and the color forsook the girl’s face.
But Michelle took up the cudgels. “He was in no way under obligation to
do that, M. Dupont. This is not the city of Paris nor of Rouen, where
to make a call is a small business. These are troublous times, and our
guest does us greater favor by protecting us from an invading foe than
he could by his presence here.”
“Oho! so that is what you think,” returned François. “M. Mercier here
could tell you another tale. He is busy, that friend of yours, in
helping M. Bayard and others of the same stripe to keep secure. He is
not fond of the Black People, nor is M. Bayard, you know.” He watched
Alaine narrowly, but she had gone around to Michelle’s side and stood
leaning upon the good woman’s broad shoulder.
“Well, well,” put in Papa Louis, cheerfully, “we will not quarrel when
our parting is so near. Whatever the times bring forth, the condition
of affairs is due neither to us nor to our visitors. We have a common
foe to fight and must make common cause at last. You, monsieur, have
given us reason to believe that you are with us in that, and why
dispute anything else.”
“In faith, what else could I do?” returned François, shrugging his
shoulders. “When one is on his back and scarce able to lift a finger,
he must promise anything that will save his scalp, be it from Iroquois
or Mohawk. I am out of any sort of a fight, as you see, not yet being
able to hold sword or pistol.”
For all that, Michelle warned Papa Louis not to let monsieur escape
without being sure of his destination, and to be careful that he did
not at once join the French to discover to them something which might
be detrimental to the colony. But François either suspected or else
had his own reasons for slipping away quietly, for one night, after
making something of a display of his plans for leaving the next day, he
went out, ostensibly to see one of the neighbors, and did not return.
Just when and how he left the village no one seemed to know.