I CHOOSE MY DUTY
The view outspread before me revealed nothing new; the same dread
waste of water extended to the horizon, while down the shore no
movement was visible. As I rested there, oppressed by the loneliness,
I felt little hope that the others of our party had escaped without
disaster.
De Artigny's words of cheer had been spoken merely to encourage me, to
make me less despondent. Deep down in his heart the man doubted the
possibility of those frail canoes withstanding the violence of the
storm. It was this thought which had made him so anxious to secure
food, for, if the others survived, and would return seeking us, as he
asserted, surely they would appear before nightfall, and there would
be no necessity for our snaring wild game in order to preserve life.
De Artigny did not believe his own words; I even suspicioned that he
had gone now alone to explore the shore-line; seeking to discover the
truth, and the real fate of our companions. At first this conception
of our situation startled me, and yet, strange as it may seem, my
realization brought no deep regret. I was conscious of a feeling of
freedom, of liberty, such as had not been mine since we departed from
Quebec. I was no longer watched, spied upon, my every movement
ordered, my speech criticized. More, I was delivered from the hated
presence of Cassion, ever reminding me that I was his wife, and
continually threatening to exercise his authority. Ay, and I was with
De Artigny, alone with him, and the joy of this was so deep that I
came to a sudden realization of the truth--I loved him.
In a way I must have known this before, yet, not until that moment,
did the fact dawn upon me in full acknowledgement. I sank my head on
my hands, my breath quickened by surprise, by shame, and felt my
cheeks burn. I loved him, and believed he loved me. I knew then that
all the happiness of life centered in this one fact; while between us
arose the shadow of Cassion, my husband. True I loved him not; true I
was to him wife only in name; true our marriage was a thing of shame,
yet no less a fact, no less a barrier. I was a La Chesnayne to whom
honor was a religion; a Catholic bowing humbly to the vow of Holy
Church; a Frenchwoman taught that marriage was a sacred rite.
The knowledge of my love for De Artigny brought me more fear than
pleasure. I dare not dream, or hope; I must escape his presence while
I retained moral strength to resist temptation. I got to my feet, not
knowing what I could do, yet with a wild conception of returning to
the beach, and seeking to find a passage southward. I would go now
along the shore, before De Artigny came back, and meet those returning
canoes. In such action lay my only safety--he would find me gone,
would trace me along the sand, yet before I could be caught, I would
have met the others, and thus escape the peril of being alone with him
again.
Even as I reached this decision, something arose in my throat and
choked me, for my eyes saw just outside the curve of the shore-line, a
canoe emerge from the shadows of the bluff. I cannot picture the
reaction, the sudden shrinking fear which, in that instant, mastered
me. They were coming, seeking me; coming to drag me back into slavery;
coming to denounce De Artigny of crime, and demand his life.
I know not which thought dominated me--my own case, or his; but I
realized instantly what course Cassion would pursue. His hatred of De
Artigny would be fanned into flame by discovery that we were alone
together. He possessed the power, the authority to put this man
forever out of his way. To save him there remained but one possible
plan--he must reach Fort St. Louis, and friends before Cassion could
bring him to trial. It was in my power to permit his escape from
discovery, mine alone. If I did otherwise I should be his murderer.
I sank down out of sight, yet my decision was made in an instant. It
did not seem to me then as though any other course could be taken.
That De Artigny was innocent I had no doubt. I loved him, this I no
longer denied to myself; and I could not possibly betray the man to
the mad vengeance of Cassion. I peered forth, across the ridge of
earth concealing me from observation, at the distant canoe. It was too
far away for me to be certain of its occupants, yet I assured myself
that Indians were at the paddles, while three others, whose dress
designated them as whites, occupied places in the boat. The craft kept
close to the shore, evidently searching for any sign of the lost
canoe, and the man in the stern stood up, pointing, and evidently
giving orders. There was that about the fellow's movements to convince
me he must be Cassion, and the very sight of him strengthened my
resolve.
I turned, and ran down the bank to where the fire yet glowed dully in
the hollow, emitting a faint spiral of blue smoke, dug dirt up with my
hands, and covered the coals, until they were completely extinguished.
Then I crept back to the bluff summit, and lay down to watch.
The canoe rounded the curve in the shore, and headed straight across
toward where I rested in concealment. Their course would keep them too
far away from the little strip of sand on which we had landed to
observe the imprint of our feet, or the pile of wood De Artigny had
flung down. I observed this with an intense feeling of relief, as I
peered cautiously out from my covert.
I could see now clearly the faces of those in the canoe--the dark,
expressionless countenances of the Indians, and the three white men,
all gazing intently at the shore line, as they swept past, a soldier
in the bow, and Père Allouez and Cassion at the stern, the latter
standing, gripping the steering paddle. The sound of his rasping,
disagreeable voice reached me first.
"This is the spot," he exclaimed, pointing. "I saw that headland just
before the storm struck. But there is no wreck here, no sign of
landing. What is your judgment, Père?"
"That further search is useless, Monsieur," answered the priest. "We
have covered the entire coast, and found no sign of any survivor; no
doubt they were all lost."
"'Tis likely true, for there was small hope for any swimmer in such a
sea." Cassion's eyes turned to the others in the boat. "And you,
Descartes, you were in the canoe with the Sieur de Artigny, tell us
again what happened, and if this be not the place."
The soldier in the bow lifted his head.
"I know little of the place, Monsieur," he answered gruffly, "though
it would seem as if I recalled the forked tree yonder, showing through
a rift in the fog. All I know is that one of the paddles broke in the
sergeant's canoe, and over they went into the water. 'Twas as quick as
that," and he snapped his fingers, "and then a head or two bobbed up,
but the canoe swept over them, and down they went again. Sieur de
Artigny held our steering paddle, and, in an instant, he swung us that
way, and there was the lady struggling. I reached out and touched her,
but lost hold, and then the Sieur de Artigny leaped overboard, and the
storm whirled us off into the fog. I saw no more."
"You do not know that he reached her?"
"No, Monsieur; the lady sank when I lost my grip; I do not even know
if she came up again."
Cassion stood motionless, staring intently at the bluff. I almost
thought he must have seen me, but there was no outcry, and finally he
seated himself.
"Go on, round the long point yonder, and if there is no sign there we
will return," he said grimly. "'Tis my thought they were all drowned,
and there is no need of our seeking longer. Pull on boys, and let us
finish the job."
They rounded the point, the Père talking earnestly, but the canoe so
far away I could not overhear his words. Cassion paid small heed to
what he urged, but, at last, angrily bade him be still, and, after a
glance into the narrow basin beyond, swung the bow of the canoe about,
and headed it southward, the return course further off shore. The
Indians paddled with renewed energy, and, in a few moments, they were
so far away their faces were indistinguishable, and I ventured to sit
on the bank, my gaze still on the vanishing canoe.
So intent was I that I heard no sound of approaching footsteps, and
knew nothing of De Artigny's presence until he spoke.
"What is that yonder--a canoe?"
I started, shrinking back, suddenly realizing what I had done, and the
construction he might place upon my action.
"Yes," I answered faintly, "it--it is a canoe."
"But it is headed south; it is going away," he paused, gazing into my
face. "Did it not come this far?"
I hesitated; he had furnished me with an excuse, a reason. I could
permit him to believe the boat had not approached close enough to be
signaled. It was, for an instant, a temptation, yet as I looked into
his eyes I could not tell the lie. More, I felt the uselessness of any
such attempt to deceive; he would discover the fire extinguished by
dirt thrown on it, and thus learn the truth. Far better that I confess
frankly, and justify my action.
"The canoe came here," I faltered, my voice betraying me. "It went
around the point yonder, and then returned."
"And you made no signal? You let them go, believing us dead?"
I could not look at him, and I felt my cheeks burn with shame.
"Yes, Monsieur; but listen. No, do not touch me. Perhaps it was all
wrong, yet I thought it right. I lay here, hidden from view, and
watched them; I extinguished the fire so they could not see the smoke.
They came so near I could hear their voices, and distinguish their
words, yet I let them pass."
"Who were in the canoe?"
"Besides the Indians, Cassion, Père Allouez, and the soldier
Descartes."
"He was with me."
"So I learned from his tale; 'twas he who sought to lift me from the
water, and failed. Do you realize, Monsieur, why I chose to remain
unseen? Why I have done what must seem an unwomanly act?"
He was still gazing after the canoe, now a mere speck amid the waste
of waters, but turned and looked into my face.
"No, Madame, yet I cannot deem your reason an unworthy one--yet wait;
could it be fear for my life?"
"It was that, and that only, Monsieur. The truth came to me in a flash
when I first perceived the canoe approaching yonder. I felt that hate
rather than love urged Cassion to make search for us. He knew of your
attempt at rescue, and if he found us here together alone, he would
care for nothing save revenge. He has the power, the authority to
condemn you, and have you shot. I saw no way to preserve your life,
but to keep you out of his grip, until you were with your friends at
Fort St. Louis."
"You sacrificed yourself for me?"
"'Tis no more than you did when you leaped from the canoe."
"_Pah_, that was a man's work; but now you risk more than life; you
peril reputation--"
"No, Monsieur; no more, at least, than it was already imperiled.
Cassion need never know that I saw his searching party, and surely no
one can justly blame me for being rescued from death. One does not
ask, in such a moment, who the rescuer is. I feel I have chosen right,
Monsieur, and yet I must trust you to never cause me to regret that I
am the wife of Monsieur Cassion."
To my surprise his face brightened, his eyes smiling, as he bowed low
before me.
"Your confidence shall not be betrayed, Madame," he said gallantly. "I
pledge you my discretion whatever circumstances may arise. There is no
cur in the De Artigny strain, and I fight my own battles. Some day I
shall be face to face with Francois Cassion, and if then I fail to
strike home it will be memory of your faith which restrains my hand.
And now I rejoice that I can make your sacrifice less grievous."
"In what way, Monsieur?"
"In that we are no longer entirely alone in our wilderness adventure.
I have fortunately brought back with me a comrade, whose presence will
rob Cassion of some sharpness of tongue. Shall we go meet him?"
"Meet him! a man, you mean? One rescued from the canoe?"
"No, but more likely to serve us a good turn--a soldier under Monsieur
de la Durantaye, who has camp below at the portage to the Des Plaines.
Out yonder I ran onto him, bearing some message from Green Bay--an odd
fellow, but with a gun at his shoulder, and a tongue with which to
tell the truth on occasion. Come, Madame, there is naught now you need
to fear."