The Forge in the Forest
Page 12
Chapter XI
I Fall a Willing Captive
The lady whose feet I had freed had risen so far as to rest crouchingagainst the gnarled trunk of the maple tree. The glorious abundance ofher hair she had shaken back, revealing a white face chiselled like aMadonna's, a mouth somewhat large, with lips curved passionately, andgreat sea-coloured eyes which gazed upon me from dark circles of pain.But the face was drawn now with that wordless and tearless anguishwhich makes all utterance seem futile,--the anguish of a mother whosechild has been torn from her arms and carried she knows not whither.Her hands lay in her lap, tight bound; and I noted their long, whiteslenderness. I felt as if I should go on my knees to serve her--I whohad but just now served her with such scant courtesy as it shamed mysoul to think on. As I bent low to loose her hands, I sought in mymind for phrases of apology that might show at the same time mynecessity and my contrition. But lifting my eyes for an instant tohers, I was pierced with a sense of the anguish which was rending herheart, and straightway I forgot all nice phrases.
What I said--the words coming from my lips abruptly--was this: "I willfind him! I will save him! Be comforted, Madame! He shall berestored to you!"
In great, simple matters, how little explanation seems needed. Sheasked not who I was, how I knew, whom I would save, how it was to bedone; and I thrill proudly even now to think how my mere word convincedher. The tense lines of her face yielded suddenly, and she broke intoa shaking storm of tears, moaning faintly over and over--"Philip!--Oh,my Philip!--Oh, my boy!" I watched her with a great compassion. Then,ere I could prevent, she amazed me by snatching my hand and pressing itto her lips. But she spoke no word of thanks. Drawing my hand gentlyaway, in great embarrassment, I repeated: "Believe me, oh, believe me,Madame; I _will_ save the little one." Then I went to release theother captive, whom I had well-nigh forgotten the while.
This lily maid of Marc's, this Prudence, I found in a white tremour ofamazement and inquiry. From where she sat in her bonds, made fast toher tree, she could see nothing of what went on, but she could heareverything, and knew she had been rescued. It was a fair, frank,childlike face she raised to mine as I smiled down upon her, swiftlyand gently severing her bonds; and I laid a hand softly on that richhair which Marc had praised, being right glad he loved so sweet a maidas this. I forgot that I must have seemed to her in this act a shadefamiliar, my fatherly forty years not showing in my face. So, indeed,it was for an instant, I think; for she coloured maidenly. But seeingthe great kindness in my eyes, the thought was gone. Her own eyesfilled with tears, and she sprang up and clung to me, sobbing, like achild just awakened in the night from a bad dream.
"Oh," she panted, "are they gone? did you kill them? how good you are!Oh, God will reward you for being so good to us!" And she trembled soshe would certainly have fallen if I had not held her close.
"You are safe now, dear," said I, soothing her, quite forgetting thatshe knew me not as I knew her, and that, if she gave the matter anyheed at all, my speech must have puzzled her sorely. "But come withme!" And I led her to where Marc lay in the shade.
The dear lad's face had gone even whiter than when I left him, and Isaw that he had swooned.
"The pain and shock have overcome him!" I exclaimed, dropping on myknees to remove the pillow of ferns from under his head. As I did so,I heard the girl catch her breath sharply, with a sort of moan, andglancing up, I saw her face all drawn with misery. While I looked insome surprise, she suddenly threw herself down, and crushed his face inher bosom, quite shutting off the air, which he, being in a faint,greatly needed. I was about to protest, when her words stopped me.
"Marc, Marc," she moaned, "why did you betray us? Oh, why did youbetray us so cruelly? But oh, I love you even if you _were_ a traitor.Now you are dead" (she had not heard me, evidently, saying he hadswooned), "now you are dead I may love you, no matter what you did.Oh, my love, why did you, why did you?" And while I listened inbewilderment, she sprang to her feet, and her blue eyes blazed upon mefiercely.
"You killed him!" she hissed at me across his body.
This I remembered afterwards. At the moment I only knew that she wascalling the lad a traitor. That I was well tired of.
"Madame!" said I, sternly. "Do not presume so far as to touch himagain."
It was her turn to look astonished now. Her eyes faltered from myangry face to Marc's, and back again in a kind of helplessness.
"Oh, you do well to accuse him," I went on, bitterly,--perhaps not veryrelevantly. "You shall not dishonour him by touching him, you, who canbelieve vile lies of the loyal gentleman who loves you, and has, it maybe, given his life for the girl who now insults him."
The girl's face was now in such a confusion of distress that I almost,but not quite, pitied her. Ere she could find words to reply, however,her sister was at her side, catching her hands, murmuring at her ear.
"Why, Prudence, child," she said, "don't you see it all? Didn't yousee it all? How splendidly Marc saved us" (I blessed the tact whichled her to put the first credit on Marc)--"Marc and this most brave andgallant gentleman? It was one of the savages who struck Marc down,before my eyes, as he was fighting to save us. That dreadful story wasa lie, Prudence; don't you see?"
The maid saw clearly enough, and with a mighty gladness. She was forthrowing herself down again beside the lad to cover his face withkisses--and shut off the air which he so needed. But I thrust heraside. She had believed Marc a traitor. Marc might forgive her whenhe could think for himself. I was in no mind to.
She looked at me with unutterable reproach, her eyes filling andrunning over, but she drew back submissively.
"I know," she said, "I don't deserve that you should let me go nearhim. But--I think--I think he would want me to, sir! See, he wantsme! Oh, let me!" And I perceived that Marc's eyes had opened. Theysaw no one but the maid, and his left hand reached out to her.
"Oh, well!" said I, grimly. And thereafter it seemed to me that thelad got on with less air than men are accustomed to need when theywould make recovery from a swoon.
I turned to Mizpah Hanford; and I wondered what sort of eyes were inMarc's head, that he should see Prudence when Mizpah was by. Before Icould speak, Mizpah began to make excuses for her sister. With heroicfortitude she choked back her own grief, and controlled her voice witha brave simplicity. Coming from her lips, these broken excuses seemedsufficient--though to this day I question whether I ought to haverelented so readily. She pleaded, and I listened, and was content tolisten so long as she would continue to plead. But there was little Iclearly remember. At last, however, these words, with which sheconcluded, aroused me:--
"How could we any longer refuse to believe," she urged, "when the goodpriest confessed to us plainly, after much questioning, that it wasMonsieur Marc de Mer who had sent the savages to steal us, and had toldthem just the place to find us, and the hour? The savages had told usthe same thing at first, taunting us with it when we threatened themwith Marc's vengeance. You see, Monsieur, they had plainly beeninformed by some one of our little retreat at the riverside, and of thehour at which we were wont to frequent it. Yet we repudiated the talewith horror. Then yesterday, when the good priest told us the samething, with a reluctance which showed his horror of it, what _could_ wedo but believe? Though it did seem to us that if Marc were false therecould be no one true. The priest believed it. He was kind andpitiful, and tried to get the savages to set us free. He talked mostearnestly, most vehemently to them; but it was in their own barbarouslanguage, and of course we could not understand. He told us at lastthat he could do nothing at the time, but that he would exert himselfto the utmost to get us out of their hands by and by. Then he wentaway. And then--"
"And then, Madame," said I, "your little one was taken from you at hisorders!"
"Why, what do you mean, Monsieur?" she gasped, her great sea-colouredeyes opening wide with fresh terror. "At his orders? By the orders ofthat kind priest?"
"Of what appearance was he?" I inquired, in return.
"Oh," she cried breathlessly, "he was square yet spare of figure,dark-skinned almost as Marc, with a very wide lower face, thin, thinlips, and remarkably light eyes set close together,--a strange, strongface that might look very cruel if he were angry. He looked angry oncewhen he was arguing with the Indians."
"You have excellently described our bitterest foe, and yours, Madame,"said I, smiling. "The wicked Abbe La Garne, the pastor and master ofthese poor tools of his whom I would fain have spared, but could not."And I pointed to the bodies of the three dead savages, where they laysprawling in various pathetic awkwardnesses of posture.
She looked, seemed to think of them for the first time, shivered, andturned away her pitiful eyes.
"Those poor wretches," I continued, "were sent by this kind priest tocapture you. He knew when and where to find you, because he had playedthe eavesdropper when Marc and I were talking of you."
"Oh," she cried, clenching her white hands desperately, "can there be apriest so vile?"
"Ay, and this which you have heard is but a part of his villany. Wehave but lately baulked him in a plot whereby he had nearly got Marchanged. This, Madame, I promise myself the honour of relating to youby and by; but now we must get the poor lad removed to some sort ofhouse and comfort."
"And, oh," cried this poor mother, in a voice of piercing anguish andamazement, as if she could not yet wholly realize it,--"my boy, my boy!He is in the power of such a monster!"
"Be of good heart, I beseech you," said I, with a kind of passion in myvoice. "I will find him, I swear I will bring him back to you. I willwait only so long as to see my own boy in safe hands!"
Again that look of trust was turned upon me, thrilling me withinvincible resolve.
"Oh, I trust you, Monsieur!" she cried. Then pressing both hands toher eyes with a pathetic gesture, and thrusting back her hair--"I knewyou, somehow, for the Seigneur de Briart," she went on, "as soon as Iheard you demanding our release. And I immediately felt a great hopethat you would set us free and save Philip. I suppose it is from Marcthat I have learned such confidence, Monsieur!"
I bowed, awkward and glad, and without a pretty word to repay herwith,--I who have some name in Quebec for well-turned compliment. Butbefore this woman, who was young enough to be my daughter, I was like agreen boy.
"You are too kind," I stammered. "It will be my great ambition tojustify your good opinion of me."
Then I turned away to launch a canoe.
While I busied myself getting the canoe ready, and spreading ferns inthe bottom of it for Marc to lie on, Mizpah walked up and down in akind of violent speechlessness, as it were, twisting her long whitehands, but no more giving voice to her grief and her anxiety. Once shesat down abruptly under the maple tree, and buried her face in herhands. Her shoulders shook, but not a sound of sob or moan came to myears. My heart ached at the sight. I determined that I would give herwork to do, such as would compel some attention on her part.
As soon as the canoe was ready I asked:
"Can you paddle, Madame?"
She nodded an affirmative, her voice seeming to have gone from her.
"Very well," said I, "then you will take the bow paddle, will you not?"
"Yes, indeed!" she found voice to cry, with an eagerness which I tookto signify that she thought by paddling hard to find her child thesooner. But the manner in which she picked up the paddle, and took herplace, and held the canoe, showed me she was no novice in the art ofcanoeing. I now went to lift Marc and carry him to the canoe.
"Let me help you," pleaded Prudence, springing up from beside him. "Hemust be so heavy!" Whereat I laughed.
"I can walk, I am sure, Father," said Marc, faintly, "if you put me onmy feet and steady me."
"I doubt it, lad," said I, "and 'tis hardly worth while wasting yourlittle strength in the attempt. Now, Prudence," I went on, turning tothe girl, "I want you to get in there in front of the middle bar, andmake a comfortable place for this man's head,--if you don't mind takinga live traitor's head in your lap!"
At this the poor girl's face flushed scarlet, as she quickly seatedherself in the canoe; and her lips trembled so that my heart smote mefor the jest.
"Forgive me, child. I meant it not as a taunt, but merely as a poorjest," I hastened to explain. "Your sister has told me all, and youwere scarce to blame. Now, take the lad and make him as comfortable asa man with a shattered shoulder can hope to be." And I laid Marcgently down so that he could slip his long legs under the bar. Hestraightway closed his eyes from sheer weakness; but he could feel hismaid bend her blushing face over his, and his expression was astrangely mingled one of suffering and content.
Taking my place in the stern of the canoe, I pushed out. The tide wasjust beginning to ebb. There was no wind. The shores were green andfair on either hand. My dear lad, though sore hurt, was happy in thesweet tenderness of his lily maid. As for me, I looked perhapsovermuch at the radiant head of Mizpah, at the lithe vigorous swayingof her long arms, the play of her gracious shoulders as she paddledstrenuously. I felt that it was good to be in this canoe, all of ustogether, floating softly down to the little village beside theCanard's mouth.
Part II
Mizpah