FROM SHIP TO SHORE
To get rid of Marie and to escape,--the thought recurred to Alaine over
and over again for the next few days. She had nothing to do but to
watch the sea-birds, and, when she was not talking to Father Bisset,
the time hung heavily on her hands. The good old man, be it said, had
given no cause for suspicion of his being a renegade priest, and,
indeed, his lifelong manner of speech and his pious ejaculations were
too much a matter of habit to evidence any change in his opinions.
François, on his part, exercised quite as much acumen in treating
Alaine with deference and in seldom forcing his society upon her.
“She will more readily accept the inevitable if I leave her to your
persuasive arguments,” he said to the ex-priest, confidentially. “Ma
foi! but she has a fine temper. Yet it is not a bad alternative. I am
not so evil nor so cruel as I seem, good father, despite my having
small interest in religious matters. I prefer the Church to no church,
naturally, but I do not trouble myself to go further. I hear Mass;
I make my confession; it is enough. You may not consider that as
sufficient for the husband of Alaine, yet better that than a Huguenot,
you will say. We will return to France after a time, and I keep my
promise; yes, I am not all evil, for I swear I shall try to deliver M.
Hervieu. That may not agree with what you approve; you may believe he
should suffer his punishment, but I am not so tenacious. Do not shake
your head, good father, you too will use your good offices for him;
for if Alaine prefers to remain in a convent for a year, I shall take
you to Guadaloupa and on the return voyage an opportunity is afforded
you to deal artfully yet gently with the erring man, who by this will
probably be glad enough to escape the experiences of an engagé. And so
all goes well.”
“But, my son,” expostulated Father Bisset, “my mission is not to
accompany you upon your travels.”
“But, good Father, consider the reward. You come to America upon
mission work. What is better than such an opportunity? And I promise
you afterwards you shall go your ways and I will do my utmost for you.
I will give you a heavy purse to further your good works. In the long
run you will gain.”
“But, my son, I cannot see why this little Alaine should be so great
a prize that you take all this trouble. Is it not rather Étienne who
should marry her?”
“Étienne!” François clinched his fist. “He shall never have her. At
first--but I will not go into that,--it is sufficient that now I wish
to marry her, and I shall move heaven and earth to accomplish my
object.”
“Softly, softly, my son. Heaven is not to be moved for the
accomplishment of human desires.”
François laughed. “Then I will say that I mean to use every human
endeavor to make it possible to marry Alaine Hervieu, and when a
resolution takes possession of me I am not one to give it up easily.”
The old man softly patted together the outstretched tips of his fingers
and thoughtfully looked out upon the water. “Alaine was never a child
to be coerced,” he said.
“In matters of religion, perhaps not, but in matters of the heart
a woman yields to him who proves himself her master, who does not
cringe nor sue, but who gives her no chance to say no to him. For that
reason, Father Bisset, I leave you to do your part by moral suasion
while I direct the other matter with a high hand. It was through her
affections entirely that she was won over to the Huguenots, and through
her affections it is for you to win her back, first by mild discourse,
and secondly by producing a father who has conformed to your belief. I
think by playing your cards properly--I beg your pardon, by using the
gentle means you know so well how to employ, that you will soon win her
to your way of thinking. That is all I ask of you.”
“And you will not be disappointed,” returned the wily old man. “I feel
sure that we shall both be of one mind, Alaine and I, when we leave
the ship, Monsieur Dupont.”
“So soon?” François struck his hands together in satisfied approval.
“As soon as this? You are doing well, Father.” He laughed. “How sweet
is revenge! There is nothing so sweet.”
“Except forgiveness,” returned the other, gently.
François got up and walked the deck excitedly. “I say revenge. By the
saints, but I shall have won, if not in all directions, at least in
one.” He stepped closer to the old man. “And I reckon on you, Father
Bisset, to make it possible for me to win in both. Alaine vows she will
marry no one whom her father does not favor; the inference is obvious.
Behold your son-in-law, good Monsieur Hervieu, bondman over there
in Guadaloupa. I come to your assistance.” He blew a kiss from his
finger-tips. “You are grateful, monsieur, and with our good priest’s
help I shall endeavor to find a way to persuade you to agree with me,
when I endeavor to show you why I should prove to be an acceptable
husband for your daughter. I have come far to satisfy my desires; I
shall not return ungratified.”
“And your destination on this voyage?” inquired Father Bisset.
“Is Canada. We place Alaine with the good sisters, who will complete
the work you have so well begun.”
Father Bisset’s eyelids drooped over his eyes to hide the sudden
anxiety which leaped up into them. “But suppose, my good sir, that
Alaine should prefer the life of a religious to the name of Madame
Dupont.”
“Ah-h, that she must not do!” François paused in his walk.
Father Bisset watched him. “Would it not be well, then, that they be
warned that she is fiancée, and that all we require is good guidance,
and not that she enter the convent to become one of them? You, of
course, will know what line of argument to use, and how best to incline
them toward this result.”
François looked thoughtfully seaward. “I? No, I do not. As I have told
you, I was never an enthusiast in matters of religion. What shall I
say?”
“More depends upon the manner of saying than upon the words,” replied
Father Bisset, astutely. “One should know well how to choose his words.
It is a pity that you are not a more saintly man,” he added, as it
were, regretfully.
“Then, my dear Father, I must rely upon you, and shall commit the
matter into your hands, first exacting a promise from you that you will
not lose sight of Alaine a moment till she is safely established.”
“I can give you my word that I shall not allow her to leave my presence
for a single instant till she is safely established,” Father Bisset
returned, with emphasis, and the eyes, which a moment before were
downcast to hide their anxiety, were again dropped to hide their
triumph.
“She can be very obstinate, that demoiselle,” said François, after a
pause. “It must be for you to persuade her to go. In this instance a
hint from me would cause rebellion.”
“I think I shall have no difficulty in persuading her. She has obeyed
me from infancy, and the habit of a lifetime, albeit but a short life,
is not easily broken.”
“Good!” cried François. “It was a lucky day when I ran across you there
in New York. The saints be praised that I did. I have not made our
voyage altogether distasteful to you, I hope, although I forced it upon
you. Mademoiselle there grows triste. What is she reading?”
“A little book of devotion which I happened to have with me,” returned
Father Bisset; but he gave a quick look at Alaine, who, in a sunny
corner, had been reading intently.
The old man walked nonchalantly toward her. She looked up with a smile
and put into his hand the book, which he slipped into an inner pocket.
“I trust you have found it profitable reading, my daughter,” he said,
seriously.
“I think so, Father.”
François did not see the sudden amused expression which played around
Father Bisset’s mouth as he saw the satisfied look upon the young man’s
face when he turned away.
Alaine made room by her side for her old friend. “Well?” she said,
eagerly, when François was out of hearing.
“All is well,” she was told. “I think we may hope to escape once we
reach Canada. You, of course, refuse to marry here on shipboard.”
“Of course.”
“Then you go to a nunnery.”
“Oh!”
“I go with you to prepare the nuns for the part they are to act toward
you. That will be our opportunity. Do not look so glad. You must assume
a pensive and troubled air. That is better. As we near land you must
seem distressed, uncertain, shy, even of me, and at times silent and
thoughtful. M. Dupont will urge you at the last to marry him, and you
say you will refuse. Very good.” The old man hesitated a moment, then
said. “But, my daughter, it is a true intention of his to try for the
release of your father. Will you, then, remain in the convent to await
his return?”
“Oh, Father, that is a hard question. How shall I answer it?”
“As your conscience dictates. Can you stand steadfast till our return?
There will be much pressure brought to bear upon you. And will you run
the risk of our finding your father no longer alive and of a forced
return to France for you with François Dupont?”
“But my father, if he should be living? Advise me, I beg of you, for I
cannot see what is right.”
“Could you stand the privations, the experiences you would have to
endure in a flight to the colonies with only this old man as your
protector?”
“I should not be afraid to risk it.”
“Then, my beloved daughter, I advise you to escape while you can. We
cannot tell how the bonds may tighten around you, and it may be too
late a year, or even six months, from now. We would best seize the
opportunity while we may. I know your father would so desire it, and
you tell me there is another working for his deliverance. We will trust
God for that to be accomplished and get away when we can.”
“Ah, Father, how fortunate a day when I chanced upon you!” sighed
Alaine.
He smiled as he remembered that François had said the same words a few
minutes before. “One must sometimes dissemble when it is for good,” the
old man told himself. “I am no longer a Jesuit, but I have not been one
without learning that stratagem is often better than open rebellion.”
Under her friend’s advice and leadership Alaine so comforted herself
that François with satisfaction viewed the quiet, somewhat pensive
mien. “We are taming the wild bird. I shall yet see you come at my
bidding, Alaine, with the fluttering wings, and when we return to
France and I face Étienne Villeneau, what joy!” He laughed to himself
as he leaned over the side of the vessel. But after a moment he raised
his eyes to the blue sky. “Thou up there wilt understand that I do this
for thee, for thee,” he murmured.
In the dim distance a faint line of shore indicated that they were
nearing the great river. Alaine by Father Bisset’s side watched it
grow more and more distinct. For many days she had felt comparatively
safe, but now would soon come a crisis. If at the last moment the plot
failed; if François should insist upon accompanying them himself, or
should send Marie to see that she reached the destination he intended
for her, what then? Marie, herself, silent, vigilant, unapproachable,
might be suspicious and might follow them. Alaine confided her fears to
Father Bisset.
“I have thought of all that,” he replied. “I, myself, am not sure of
the woman, the other I can manage. I am prepared for that. We must
put our trust in the Lord, my daughter, he will deliver us from the
snare of the fowler. ‘Many sorrows shall be to the wicked, but he that
trusteth in the Lord, mercy shall compass him about.’”
A roundabout way it was, this by water all the way to Quebec by the
outside route, but François had his reasons for selecting it. His
prisoners had no means of escape, and Alaine would be the longer under
the tutelage of Father Bisset. It was some time after they had entered
upon the voyage that the young man approached Alaine. “Mademoiselle,”
he began, “we are going to Quebec. You will not find it a bad place.
Will you enter it as Madame François Dupont?” He stood regarding her
with a grave courtesy.
“Monsieur,” returned Alaine, sweetly, “I am not indifferent to the
compliment you pay me, but I cannot accept your name.”
“You prefer the convent? Then, mademoiselle, if in six months or a year
hence I return with your father as my companion I may claim you from
the good nuns, who will guard you well I feel assured.”
Alaine made no reply, and he went on. “I understand that you are
willing to accept him whom your father shall desire to receive as his
son-in-law. Am I not right?”
Alaine gave a hasty glance at Father Bisset. The question was a hard
one to answer evasively. “Six months, a year is a long time,” she at
length replied, after some hesitation. “How can one promise what one
may do in that time?”
“Then we will leave it so, and I will rest content that you will bide
by your father’s selection and do his bidding.”
“I think I can promise that.”
“That gives me hope sufficient, my fiancée. Soon we must part for a
season. Father Bisset will parley with the good sisters better than I.
He will conduct you to them, and then he will return to me. Is it no
consolation to you, mademoiselle, that this same genial father goes
with me to Guadaloupa to help me in my quest of releasing your father?”
“Whoever has the good fortune to be under the guardianship of Father
Bisset is indeed fortunate,” replied Alaine. “If monsieur is to be
honored by such company, he is indeed blest.”
François bowed, and then, with a laugh, said, “This time I am not able
to say, ‘Whither thou goest,’ is it not so? I do not keep my word in
this instance, but it is because I cannot.”
“No, monsieur, you cannot say that, since it will probably be many days
before we meet, and there will soon be many miles between us.”
“Can you lay any discourtesy to my charge since you have been taken
this enforced journey?”
“No, M. Dupont; I have been treated with every consideration. I
might have preferred a more agreeable maid, but not a more faithful
one could I have selected, and of your own conduct, of that of your
sailing-master and his men, I have no complaint to make.”
“For that much grace my thanks. I trust that mademoiselle when she
is established in the convent will remember me with a little less
aversion, and will reflect that, though I may seem at times to have
been discourteous, my rudenesses have never been directed to her, and,
despite the fact that I have more than once given her no choice in the
matter of travel, I have had her own good in view. Perish her enemies!
I have taken for my watchword. Father Bisset there tells me that
forgiveness is sweeter than revenge.” He looked at her with a little
inquiring smile.
Alaine smiled in return. “When I see you again, monsieur, after this
long parting, I may be better able to extend my forgiveness, at
present----”
“You withhold it. That is not unexpected. Ah-h, France! See, there
flies her flag. Does it not thrill your heart to look upon it, Alaine
Hervieu?”
She looked up and saw flying from the fort the flag of her native
country. For a moment her heart did indeed swell and tears came to her
eyes. “Dear France!” she sighed.
“This will seem quite like home to you,” said Father Bisset,
diplomatically. “We shall all feel as if we were again under the skies
of France. I regret, M. Dupont, that we do not tarry longer. When did I
understand you to say that we set sail for the return trip?”
“As soon as possible,” replied François.
“I should like to see something of the town, now we are here,” the old
man remarked, with a pensive air.
“We can grant you time enough for that,” returned François.
Alaine watched the frowning cliff grow nearer and nearer. The Château
of St. Louis upon the terrace of the Upper Town rose before her; below
twisted the streets of the Lower Town, its gray wharves stretching
along the river. She gazed at the clusters of spires and of buildings.
Under which roof might be those nuns of whom M. Dupont had spoken?
Darkness had settled down when the vessel at last dropped her anchor,
and Alaine went to sleep with a feeling half dread, half joy, for what
the morrow might bring.
She was out upon deck early the next morning. The town stretched
out before her in all its outline of spire and roof, of postern and
bastion; a French city, and she, a French girl, there a prisoner before
it. Father Bisset noted her sigh before he made his presence known.
“Art sorrowful at leaving the ship?” he whispered, smiling.
“No, Father, but one has many thoughts. All this,” she waved her hand,
“does it not bring back thoughts of home to you?”
“Of wrong and persecution, of oppression and death?” he asked.
“Yes, for us it includes that. Oh, Father, shall we surely escape?”
He nodded. “I have the clue I missed. If Marie should follow us I can
manage her. As for the other, he will take a nap this afternoon, I
fancy.”
“Sh! here he comes.”
François approached, debonair and confident. “We will breakfast a
little late. I have sent ashore for some provisions, and we will
have such a feast as we have not had for many a long day. Now that
our voyage is ended, I will admit that it was not without danger.
With England at war with us, and her ships upon the seas, besides
the possibility of heavy storms at this time of year, we might have
fared hardly; yet all has gone well and we will celebrate the event.
Mademoiselle will not refuse a glass of good old wine, and you, Father
Bisset, will not object to drinking her health. I would see you first
in my cabin; I have a few words for your ear.”
Father Bisset followed him, and when they were alone François said,
“Mademoiselle will need a better wardrobe than she is at present
provided with;” he handed him a purse; “this for the purpose.”
Father Bisset recoiled. “My dear sir, I am not versed in the art of
selecting toilettes for a lady; I pray you commission some one else.”
François tossed the purse from one hand to the other. “Then hand it
over to the good sisters and let them attend to it. I may count on your
return, Father Bisset. You will give me your word that when you leave
mademoiselle at the convent you will return to the ship.”
“I do not know why I should,” returned the old man, reflectively. “I do
not know on what grounds you have a right to exact it from me.”
“Only because of mademoiselle; if she is assured that you accompany me
on my search for her father she will feel more content.”
“You are suddenly very considerate.” Father Bisset’s lip curled
slightly.
“It is circumstance that has made me ever seem otherwise, and in this
instance, if I have not your promise, I must feel compelled to detain
you and send mademoiselle under other escort.”
“I promise you that when I leave mademoiselle it will be to return to
you.”
“Good; that is sufficient.”
“But I shall take a little time to examine the city, and if I am not
back at once----”
“I will wait for you; we understood that before.”
It was, indeed, quite an elaborate meal which François provided for
his guests, and Father Bisset warmed to the occasion, so that when
François, with a flourish, proposed the health of the future Madame
Dupont, the old man tossed off his wine gayly. “To the future Madame
Dupont,” he repeated; “a good toast that. You do not drink, Alaine;”
and he laughed.
Alaine looked coldly disapproving; then suddenly it dawned upon her
that it was not she of whom Father Bisset thought, for she remembered
that he intended to make it impossible that she should ever bear that
name. She smiled faintly. He was so sly, so like a crafty old fox, that
Father Bisset.
“Mademoiselle is too modest to drink her own health,” cried François.
“Another bottle, Father. It is good wine, is it not? None too heady,
and smooth and soft as silk.”
“Should you not like to try this other?” asked Father Bisset, drawing
a bottle from under the table, removing the cork, and pouring out a
glassful, which he handed to François. “Also good, is it not?”
“Also good; if anything, better than the other.”
Father Bisset laughed. “I bribed your man to get it for me; I fancied
it was to be had here; it is an old favorite of mine.” He set the
bottle by his side, and from time to time refilled François’s glass.
“A bit heady,” remarked François, after a time. “I think I have had
enough.” He staggered slightly as he rose from his chair.
“We would best depart, Alaine and I; it is later than we realized,”
said Father Bisset, “and a walk will do us good after this heavy meal.
Will you order that we be set ashore?”
François looked at him with dimly seeing eyes. “I will order,” he
mumbled.
Father Bisset led him by the arm on deck; the fresh air revived him
somewhat. “What was it you wanted?” he asked.
“That you order a boat to take us ashore.”
“Yes, yes. See to it, my man,” he said to a passing sailor. “Send the
skipper to me.”
But when the skipper appeared François was beyond the ability of giving
orders. “A boat was to take mademoiselle and myself ashore,” explained
Father Bisset, blandly. “Monsieur has been testing too many of the good
wines; I will assist him to his room.” Still grasping François’s arm,
he led him to his cabin and saw him safely abed. “It was too heady,”
murmured François, drowsily.
Leaving him in a heavy slumber, Father Bisset sought Alaine. “The
moment has arrived,” he told her; “the boat is ready to go.”
Marie stood watching them.
“Adieu, Marie,” said Alaine.
The woman did not move, but simply returned, “Adieu, mademoiselle.”
Up the narrow, crooked streets of the town the fugitives went, their
faces set in the direction of the convent. They walked rapidly, and
Alaine nearly lost breath as she climbed the steep rocky way, her
companion panting beside her. They paused near the market-place. “Now
we are here, the next thing is to get out,” said Father Bisset. “We
will not linger long, my child, for we are safe only for so many hours,
and we must make the most of them.” And he stalked on with increasing
speed, looking anxiously around as he turned from one crooked street
to another. From time to time he looked at Alaine thoughtfully, as
if puzzling over some question. At last he entered a shop, bidding
the girl to follow him, and saying, “I would have you remember, my
daughter, that your brother, though younger, is about your height.”
The solution to these enigmatical words was evident when he purchased
a suit of rough clothes, which he had made up into a bundle and took
under his arm. He paused at the door of the shop as he was going out,
and addressed the shopkeeper. “Could monsieur recommend a cheap and
comfortable lodging where two could rest and await the arrival of the
lad just mentioned?” Monsieur could and did, with voluble directions
pointing the way.
A few minutes of chaffering and the bargain with a sturdy Frenchwoman
was made; but this done, they were established for the nonce in a
by-street out of the way of general traffic.
About dawn there issued from the house two figures; one of a lad in
coarse clothing and the other of the priest who had long ago exchanged
his soutane for a peasant’s dress. Down toward the water front they
took their way among the groups of singing boatmen and coureurs de
bois; farther and farther along till the spars of the vessel in which
François Dupont still lay asleep were lost to sight, and the waters of
the St. Lawrence before them were free of any craft save some light
canoes. Yet farther out, nearer the sea, the ships of a fleet were
sailing toward Quebec, the commander unconscious that one victory to
result from his attack would be that affecting a girl fleeing from a
persistent suitor.