"QUOTH LITTLE GARAINE"
I have given the whole story here as though it had been thought
out and written that Sunday afternoon which brought me good news of
Juste Duvarney. But it was not so. I did not choose to break the
run of the tale to tell of other things and of the passing of time.
The making took me many, many weeks, and in all that time I had
seen no face but Gabord's, and heard no voice but his, when he
came twice a day to bring me bread and water. He would answer no
questions concerning Juste Duvarney, or Voban, or Monsieur Doltaire,
nor tell me anything of what was forward in the town. He had had
his orders precise enough, he said. At the end of my hints and
turnings and approaches, stretching himself up, and turning the
corn about with his foot (but not crushing it, for he saw that I
prized the poor little comrades), he would say:
"Snug, snug, quiet and warm! The cosiest nest in the world--aho!"
There was no coaxing him, and at last I desisted. I had no
light. With resolution I set my mind to see in spite of the dark,
and at the end of a month I was able to note the outlines of my
dungeon; nay, more, I was able to see my field of corn; and at last
what joy I had when, hearing a little rustle near me, I looked
closely and beheld a mouse running across the floor! I straightway
began to scatter crumbs of bread, that it might, perhaps, come near
me--as at last it did.
I have not spoken at all of my wounds, though they gave me many
painful hours, and I had no attendance but my own and Gabord's. The
wound in my side was long healing, for it was more easily disturbed
as I turned in my sleep, while I could ease my arm at all times,
and it came on slowly. My sufferings drew on my flesh, my blood,
and my spirits, and to this was added that disease inaction, the
corrosion of solitude, and the fever of suspense and uncertainty as
to Alixe and Juste Duvarney. Every hour, every moment that I had
ever passed in Alixe's presence, with many little incidents and
scenes in which we shared, passed before me--vivid and cherished
pictures of the mind. One of those incidents I will set down here.
A year or so before, soon after Juste Duvarney came from Montreal,
he brought in one day from hunting a young live hawk, and put it
in a cage. When I came the next morning, Alixe met me, and asked
me to see what he had brought. There, beside the kitchen door,
overhung with morning-glories and flanked by hollyhocks, was a
large green cage, and in it the gray-brown hawk. "Poor thing,
poor prisoned thing!" she said. "Look how strange and hunted it
seems! See how its feathers stir! And those flashing, watchful
eyes, they seem to read through you, and to say, 'Who are you? What
do you want with me? Your world is not my world; your air is not my
air; your homes are holes, and mine hangs high up between you and
God. Who are you? Why do you pen me? You have shut me in that I may
not travel, not even die out in the open world. All the world is
mine; yours is only a stolen field. Who are you? What do you want
with me? There is a fire within my head, it eats to my eyes, and I
burn away. What do you want with me?'"
She did not speak these words all at once as I have written them
here, but little by little, as we stood there beside the cage. Yet,
as she talked with me, her mind was on the bird, her fingers running
up and down the cage bars soothingly, her voice now and again
interjecting soft reflections and exclamations.
"Shall I set it free?" I asked her.
She turned upon me and replied, "Ah, monsieur, I hoped you
would--without my asking. You are a prisoner too," she added; "one
captive should feel for another."
"And the freeman for both," I answered meaningly, as I softly
opened the cage.
She did not drop her eyes, but raised them shining honestly and
frankly to mine, and said, "I wished you to think that."
Opening the cage door wide, I called the little captive to
freedom. But while we stood close by it would not stir, and the
look in its eyes became wilder. I moved away, and Alixe followed
me. Standing beside an old well we waited and watched. Presently
the hawk dropped from the perch, hopped to the door, then with a
wild spring was gone, up, up, up, and was away over the maple woods
beyond, lost in the sun and the good air.
I know not quite why I dwell on this scene, save that it throws
some little light upon her nature, and shows how simple and yet
deep she was in soul, and what was the fashion of our friendship.
But I can perhaps give a deeper insight of her character if I here
set down the substance of a letter written about that time, which
came into my possession long afterwards. It was her custom to
write her letters first in a book, and afterwards to copy them
for posting. This she did that they might be an impulse to her
friendships and a record of her feelings.