ON SHIPBOARD
As the weeks passed Alaine counted them, and as to one month was added
two, three, and at last six months had gone by, she began to watch and
listen and hope for a word from Pierre. If he had succeeded, at any day
now she might hope to see her father. She resolutely determined to put
from her all thought of Lendert Verplanck, for not a word nor sign had
come from him. “He loved me and left me,” she sighed. “It will be hard
to forget, but he marries that other whom his mother has chosen, and
for me, I marry Pierre, God willing.”
More than once Mère Michelle brought up her darling project. “There is
no reason, Alaine, why you and Gerard should not marry, or at least be
acknowledged fiancée,” she would say.
“But the spring will soon be here, and we shall all be busy.”
“That evil wolf may return, and finding you still unmarried, will seek
to devour you. Pierre has left to seek his fortune elsewhere,--see
Mathilde deserted,--and if Gerard in the heat of his youth should
become fretful of the quiet life here, he might do the same; but with a
wife and home interests he would be so bound by silken chains that he
would not desire to leave us.”
“Ah, but, maman, these are uncertain times; look how the colony is rent
by strife; and suppose the Jacobites once more rise into power, we
might again find it necessary to take flight, and what then? No, no,
neither Gerard nor I wish to leave you, and on that score you need have
no fear. When this question of government and war is settled it will be
time enough to think of marriage.” And Michelle, for the time being,
would be silenced.
The destruction of Schenectady by the French and Indians, the arrival
of Frontenac as governor of Canada, and the alarming prospect suggested
absorbed the attention of even those in the little French settlement
of New Rochelle. These who threatened them were their own countrymen,
and to them this was civil war, yet they believed in Jacob Leisler. Had
he not conveyed these lands to them, and was he not the friend of the
people? And did not this Frontenac come armed with terrible orders? It
would require one of whose religious beliefs there could be no doubt to
be leader for those who shuddered at a possibility of a return of the
persecutions from which they had fled.
“Alas! Alas!” cried Michelle, striking her hands together, when Papa
Louis, with a grave face, told her of the disputes among the different
factions. “It is from bad to worse. Be content to remain at home,
Louis, and mix not up with affairs of government. Your head may yet be
placed on a pike, and how will you be better off than in that France
from which you have escaped? Till your fields, say your prayers, and
keep out of this.”
Papa Louis decided to follow this advice, and, in spite of the ferment
in the city, affairs went on quietly enough at home while summer came
and went.
“Months since Pierre left and no news of him,” Alaine said to Gerard,
as the summer waned. “I fear I shall never see my father again. You,
who alone know why Pierre has gone, can give me no comfort. I have sent
him into slavery, and perhaps to his death.”
“No, no, Alaine, that is a foolish way to look at it. He went of his
own accord, so he told me, and, the good Pierre, he bade me try to
comfort you. It may take a long time to effect his purpose. There is no
reason for despair as yet. The vessels are slow in going and coming,
and who knows what time and caution he must use in seeking your father?
Even to-day a message may be on its way to you.”
Alaine plucked up courage, and with better heart went singing to her
work. Michelle and Papa Louis were in the fields, and Gerard had just
come to the pump to quench his thirst. “Even now he may be on his way
to me,” Alaine repeated. “If he returns it means--what may it not
mean?” The blood rushed to her face and brow. “Alas, my Lendert,” she
murmured, but instantly she shook her head as if to put away too
intrusive a thought and continued her spinning.
She had hardly recommenced her song when the latch of the door was
lifted, and she saw before her a tall Indian. He gravely unrolled from
a piece of deer-skin a small packet and handed it to her, then turned
and walked out without a word. With trembling fingers Alaine undid the
packet. On a bit of bark a few words were written: “Meet me at the cave
at sunset. I have news for you. Tell no one, but come alone, or there
may be danger for one you love.--Pierre.”
Alaine stared at the bark, turned it over, and then hid it away. It
was as Gerard had said; a message was truly on its way to her; one
would almost think it a prophecy. It seemed as if the moments were
doubly long that day, but at last the hours of labor were over, and the
girl, all impatient expectation, stole down to the well-known spot.
She wondered why the secrecy. What had happened? Why did not Pierre
approach boldly, there in the village where all his friends were? She
was anxious, apprehensive, yet so eager that she ran all the way to
the shore, hoping no one else would be there. She glanced around; all
was still; the place was deserted, for the weary workers in the fields
did not care to do other than rest from their labors. Upon the water a
little way out rocked a large sailing-vessel, its white sails catching
the evening light. Perhaps--she hardly dared think it--her father was
on board; it might be that it was on his account there was need of
secrecy. She looked around; no one was near; but presently from the
vessel a little boat put out, and when it touched the shore a man
leaped ashore.
“You await Pierre Boutillier?” he asked, in good French.
“Yes,” Alaine replied, eagerly.
“He asks if you will let me conduct you to yonder ship, where he can
confer with you without observation.”
“Why did he not come himself?” Alaine asked, drawing back.
“He had the misfortune to trip over a coil of rope and sprain his
ankle. He is clumsy, that Pierre.” The man looked at her with a bright,
quizzical smile.
Alaine drew herself up. “He is not, then, but he is no sailor, rather a
husbandman. Lead the way. I follow.” She spoke with a haughty air, and
the man started on ahead, but cast frequent glances over his shoulder
to see if she were yet behind him. She came on with a light tread and
stepped without hesitation into the little boat, which quickly took her
out to the larger vessel anchored beyond. She was then helped on board
and conducted to a cabin, seeing no one on her way but a few sailors
lounging on deck.
“I will tell monsieur that you have arrived,” said her conductor, “and
myself will assist him hither.” He then withdrew.
“It is strange,” thought Alaine, “that Pierre was not on deck to meet
me. He is perhaps badly hurt; he is unfortunate, poor Pierre. Only
for my father would I have consented to come. Why does he not arrive,
that Pierre?” She grew impatient as the moments passed, and at last
determined to go herself and seek her friend. She tried the door of
the little room; it was fast. “Pierre! Pierre!” she called. There
was no response. Overhead she could hear the tread of the sailors or
the dragging of ropes across the deck. “Pierre! Pierre!” Outside the
sea-gulls dipped their free wings in the dancing waves. She could see
their white breasts as they swept past the open port-hole. “He cannot
have forgotten me,” she murmured. “What does this mean?”
Suddenly she raised her hands above her head with a great cry. This
was a plot, and who had designed it? She sank moaning to the floor,
and sat there, her hands tightly clasped, till the glory of the golden
sky paled to gray, then the soft twilight descended; night came on.
The girl did not move except once in a while to ease her position. The
sound of sailors singing, the shuffle of feet, the rattle of chains,
the splash of the water against the sides of the vessel, these were
what reached her ears strained to catch the least sound. Darkness
had settled down, when, by the tossing of the ship and the increased
movement overhead, she discovered that the vessel was moving. She
started up with a great cry and then a fury of despair seized her. She
beat on the door, shrieking, “Poltroons! Knaves! Thieves! Thieves! Is
there no one here to listen? I go mad! I kill myself, you there, who
will not rescue me!”
The door opened at last; a lantern swung before her; its rays flashed
on the face of the man she feared; François Dupont stood before her.
She gave one wild cry of fear and horror, but the next moment bravely
faced him. “You!” she said, in such scorn that he made a step back. In
a moment he drew nearer, and she saw his face wore its usual smile of
assurance and audacity.
“It is I in truth, Mademoiselle Alaine. You remember I vowed that we
should not be separated long. ‘Whither thou goest,’ I said. I am forced
to travel, behold you are here to accompany me. Since you would not
have come by invitation from me, I was obliged to consider myself the
proxy of M. Boutillier, for all is fair in a case of this kind. I am
not ungenerous, fair Alaine, as you will see; I give you the key to
your cabin; you shall not be disturbed. I regret the voyage is not to
your liking, but that is all I regret. I desire to take you to Canada
with me as my wife. We have a good priest aboard who can unite us. You
refuse?”
“I refuse,” Alaine replied, curtly, but with trembling lips.
“I feared that you would not accept me at once, nor even upon two or
three urgings. We go to Canada, as I said; if by the time we reach
that place you still consider my suit unfavorably, we can extend the
voyage; we can go to France, to Rouen; there you have the opportunity
of choosing between your cousin Étienne and myself. I am generous, yes?
They would say, our friends there in our beloved France, how he has
worked for the good of this obstinate little lady! How he has suffered,
that poor François, that he might bring her back to her own, to those
to whom she rightly belongs, the perverse little one! But they will
forgive, yes, they will forgive; the good Father Bisset says so.”
“Father Bisset?” The words came in whispered surprise.
“The same; it is he of whom I spoke a moment ago. He is here. If you
would like to see him, he awaits us. We will have a little supper
together. Permit me to escort you, mademoiselle.” He held the lantern
high and looked questioningly at the girl’s pale face. She refused his
proffered hand, but mechanically walked with him to the larger cabin,
where the kindly face of her old friend met her vision.
With a cry of mingled grief and pleasure she ran forward. Here was one
who had never failed in his gentle consideration, in his mild guidance,
his loving reproof. At once she fell under the spell of his presence.
“Oh, my good father, save me!” she begged.
He looked down at her with a loving smile. “I ought not to have a word
to say to you, little runaway; yet must we forgive when forgiveness is
sought, and you are my spiritual child.”
Alaine made no response, but clung to him. The old man nodded assurance
as she mutely searched his face. “Be not troubled, my child. You are
safe. And when did Father Bisset ever do you a wrong? Come, you are
weary. M. Dupont has provided a good supper for us. Dry your eyes, my
daughter, and join us at table. One may as well partake of good things
when they are set before him.”
Alaine suffered herself to be led to the table, and made a light
supper, while her two companions kept up a race of trivial talk, full
of lively anecdote, by which the girl was entertained in spite of
herself. They sat a long time at table, and when he arose François
said, “Marie shall attend you whenever you wish to go to your room;
meanwhile, I will leave you to the company of Father Bisset, who, I
doubt not, will be more agreeable to you than myself. Pleasant dreams,
Mademoiselle Alaine. Before we part for the night, I drink to our
future.” He took up a cup of wine and tossed it off, then, with a bow
and a good-night, left them.
Father Bisset sat silently, leaning one arm on the table, and looked
long and earnestly at the sad face before him. After a time he came
over and drew a seat close to her side. “My daughter,” he said, “you
can trust Jacques Bisset. He is old, he is weak in body, and he has not
a great mind, but he can endure, he can suffer; he can perhaps use a
little strategy.” He bent nearer and whispered, “Do not seem surprised;
he is also Protestant, this old man. Hush! we must dissemble.” Then
louder: “Yes, my child, it seems good to have you again under my
guidance.” Again his voice dropped. “This François Dupont,”--he glanced
cautiously around,--“he believes me to be still a papist; he had not
heard otherwise, it seems, and, as it happened, he was the first to
meet me as I landed in New York a day or two ago. ‘Ho, Father Bisset,’
he cried, ‘you have come to the wrong port. If, as I suppose, you
are come on a mission to this wild land, you should have been better
informed. They are all loud-mouthed for the Protestant William and
Mary, and you’ll stand a poor showing here. I would advise you to get
out of the colony as soon as possible. I have it,’ he cried, after
a moment’s thought, ‘I will direct you to a safe retreat.’ ‘Thanks,
monsieur,’ I answered, ‘I think I can find my way.’ ‘At all events,’ he
said, ‘I will send some one to guide you to a fair lodging.’ A stranger
and acquainted with little Dutch and no English, I was not averse to
accepting the offer, and I have not a great headpiece, my child, so I
followed my guide, who brought me to a lonely spot by a running river
and bade me step aboard a little boat that I might be ferried across
stream. Ferried I was, but no farther than to mid-stream, when I was
seized bodily and brought aboard this ship.”
He gave a little low chuckle. “I have not protested as yet, for I am
well fed and comfortably lodged, and my religious beliefs have not been
questioned. I do not announce them, but allow them to be taken for
granted. So, my child, let us be watchful and wary and we shall yet
find that this adventure will work to our benefit. I am supposed to
take you under my instruction, and I do not object.” Again the familiar
chuckle rejoiced Alaine’s heart. “We will outwit François Dupont, and
he will be none the wiser of our intent.”
Alaine listened eagerly to all this, and her spirits rose as the genial
old priest went on: “François warned me, just after we set sail, that
I should see you, and I was prepared, therefore I showed no surprise.
He is not a religious enthusiast, and will not notice what my devotions
may be. It will not harm any one if I say my Pater Noster in Latin, and
the good God will hear it just the same. Therefore observe me without
disapproval if you can. The end sometimes justifies the means, and I
pray I may be forgiven if I use covert means for your sake as well as
my own. ‘Wise as a serpent and harmless as a dove,’ that is what one
should be, and to wisdom we must add patience.”
“You will tell me some day of how you made your escape from France,
dear Father Bisset? There is much that I wish to hear.”
“You shall hear it at some convenient time. Meanwhile, we must be
careful of our conversation; there are sharp ears about,” he added,
significantly.
Alaine looked up quickly and saw the dark face of Marie looking at her
from a dim corner. She started, for it brought to mind the fact that
she was again a prisoner, and although seemingly free, the blue waters
encircling her were safer bonds than fetters of steel.
“‘Let not your heart be troubled,’” murmured Father Bisset. “May the
good angel guard you, my child.”
Alaine made the same respectful obeisance she had been wont to use as
a child, and then turned to Marie. “I am ready to retire,” she said.
And the last thing of which she was conscious before she dropped off to
sleep was that Marie’s vigilant eyes seemed to watch her even there in
the darkness.