"James!" she screamed. "James! Wait!" That James was already out of sight and could not possibly hear her did not matter, nor that her English words and her headlong rush would startle the market place. The young soldier who had been eying her leaped into action. Before she had run three steps Miriam's flight was halted by a solid figure in her path.
Even in her excitement Miriam recognized the soldier who had stared at her so rudely that first night on the riverbank. But she could not bother with him now. She attempted to dart past him, and had almost made it when he caught her by the arm. For a moment she glared at him, then, quicker than thought, she dropped the market basket and her free hand came up in a vigorous slap against that grinning face. Wrenching herself free, she gathered up her skirts and ran, with all the fleetness that had once outstripped every boy at Number Four.
She had marked the place where James had turned, but she reached it too late. The alley was completely empty, and in the moment that she paused to get her bearings, the soldier caught up with her again, a half-dozen delighted boys at his heels. This time there was no breaking away from him. He meant business, and he was quickly reinforced by a fellow soldier at her other elbow.
"Let me go!" Miriam stormed, frantic at missing James. She struggled furiously to free herself, aware, in a panic, that a curious crowd was already hemming her in.
"What is going on here?" The voice was deliberate and authoritative. The crowd gave way before the tall figure that pushed its way through. Looking up, Miriam met the vastly amused gaze of the young coureur de bois.
"She was escaping! She is the English prisoner!" the soldier boasted.
"I am not escaping!" Miriam cried. "That's ridiculous! Where could I escape to?"
"You let go of her!" The angry new comment came from Hortense, breathlessly elbowing her way through the spectators. Her indignation had no effect on the soldier.
"She was escaping!" he shouted, twisting her arm tighter. Perhaps he was doing his duty, but certainly he was enjoying it. He had a red mark on his cheek to repay. Suddenly realizing that her violent struggles were only providing a spectacle, Miriam stood still.
"That's enough!" ordered Pierre Laroche. "You have nobly prevented your prisoner from escaping. Now let's hear what she has to say for herself. Let her go, my brave garçon."
Miriam shook herself free as the soldiers reluctantly loosened their grip. Now all her frustration was directed toward the coureur.
"If people would only mind their own business!" she flared. "I was trying to catch up with Captain Johnson. I saw him go down this street, and I could have caught up with him if only—"
"You could catch up with anyone, that I'll wager," laughed the coureur. "Parbleu! How you can run! Who are you, anyway?"
Miriam drew herself up. "I am Miriam Willard, Captain Johnson's sister."
"Captain Johnson had an audience with the Governor," broke in the soldier. "He was on his way back to prison. They would all run away if they could."
"I was not running away!"
"She is a stranger," put in Hortense. "She is with Madame Du Quesne, and if you will allow her to come with me—"
"Ah—Madame Du Quesne?" exclaimed Pierre. "Why didn't you say you were a servant of Madame's?"
Miriam's head went still higher. "I am only staying with Madame for a short time while the Captain arranges for our ransom."
"I see. Well, we can easily check your story. We shall ask Madame herself."
Madame! She had entirely forgotten! As the crowd gave way, she saw that the carriage, with its two elegant occupants, still lingered at the street corner. Madame and Felicité must have witnessed this whole undignified affair. In panic and chagrin, Miriam would almost have surrendered herself to the soldier to be dragged off to jail rather than face her mistress before this tittering crowd. But the coureur was determinedly leading the way and, propelled by a soldier at each elbow, she had no choice but to follow.
For a moment, as those chill blue eyes looked down from the lofty height of the carriage, Miriam feared that Madame Du Quesne intended not to recognize her at all. But after an interminable inspection the woman spoke.
"Let the girl go, messieurs. I am responsible for her. Miriam, what could have possessed you to create such a disgraceful scene?"
"Indeed, I am sorry to embarrass you, Madame. I saw my brother James going down that street."
"That is an odd excuse. Your clothes are torn."
Miriam looked down at her bare shoulder and flushed as she tried to pull together the ripped bodice.
"It is impossible for you to walk home in such a state," said Madame. "I suppose you will have to get into the carriage."
Feeling like a shamed child, Miriam climbed in beside Felicité, shrinking her disheveled self into as small a space as possible to avoid touching those fragrant ruffles.
"You may go about your errands, Hortense," Madame dismissed the anxious girl. "I should have thought I could trust you to take better care of your charge."
Madame gave a command to the driver, and then, as they drove away, remembered to change her stony disapproval to a gracious smile at the young Pierre. In spite of her disgrace, Miriam could not resist a last curious look. The coureur was bowing very low, with an elaborate flourish, and by the merest flick of his dancing black eyes, Miriam had the distinct impression that a corner of that flourish was intended for her.
They drove for some time in silence. Felicité said nothing at all, merely gazed at Miriam with round reproachful eyes misted with tears. Miriam felt impelled to speak.
"You must not blame Hortense, Madame," she attempted. "It was entirely my fault, and I know that my sister would be just as shocked as you. It is just that I want so much to know what has happened to the others. Hortense told me that my brother-in-law is in prison, but I saw him turning that corner. Oh, Madame—if you do know where they are, won't you please tell me?"
"If you desired to know about your family, I could have inquired for you," replied Madame. "The members of my household are expected to conduct themselves with propriety. However, what can one expect of the uncivilized English?"
Miriam bit her tongue and kept silent. Not one of the three spoke another word until the house was reached. Then, just as Miriam was hurrying toward the kitchen, she heard a cautious whisper.
"Miriaml Wait!" It was Felicité.
"I think I maybe know something about one of the children. Is there a little girl, about so high, with red curls something like yours, only lighter?"
"Oh, yes! That is Polly. Felicité—do you know where she is?"
"I have seen her," nodded Felicité. "The Mayor's wife has bought her. I didn't think that she might be one of your family."
"But Polly is too little to do any work!"
"Oh, she is not going to work. She is a very lucky girl. You see, the Mayor's wife has never had a baby of her own, and now she is so happy that she has a little English child. She has named her Alphonsine, and she is going to make her a real little French girl."
Miriam was not sure what to think. "Well—if Polly is with someone kind, that is good, of course," she said at last. "But won't this woman feel disappointed when we leave? We shan't be here long, you know?"
"Oh, I don't think she will ever let Polly go," said Felicité doubtfully. "She loves her very much."
James had better hurry, Miriam thought, making her way to the kitchen in a confusion of relief and alarm. Meanwhile she would have to mend her own ways. Felicité at least seemed to have forgiven her, and she was sure that Hortense would bear no ill will. But would Madame ever trust her again?
Chapter 10
HORTENSE, as Miriam had trusted, was all sympathy, though she did not conceal that she was also scandalized. It had not been necessary to make such a fuss. Miriam had only to be patient till Jules came tonight with news. True to his word, Jules did bring news. He had learned that Captain Johnson had made a petition which would be considered by the Governor of Canada when he arrived in Montreal
. Meanwhile, the Captain was allowed out of the prison only under guard, and was not allowed to communicate with anyone. The two little girls had been purchased by wealthy families. Also, Jules had heard, there was a prisoner by the name of Labaree working on a seigneury north of the city.
Miriam tried to be content with this reassurance. At least they all appeared to be safe. But how drearily the days must drag for Susanna! All she herself could do now was to behave circumspectly and, if it were possible, to win her way back into Madame Du Quesne's good graces.
She was astonished, therefore, at an unexpected bit of graciousness on Madame's part. The lady of the house swept into Felicité's room a few mornings later, where Miriam, forgetting her good intentions, was allowing Felicité to chatter aimlessly; was, to be truthful, egging her on. Nothing could have induced her to speak the name of Pierre Laroche, but bit by bit, from Felicité's chance remarks, she was piecing together an intriguing picture. Now, at her mother's step, Felicité hurriedly dipped her pen into the inkpot, and pulled her forehead into exaggerated wrinkles of concern over a neglected sentence.
"Never mind the lesson," said Madame, not at all deceived. "I have word for Miriam. It seems that one of the children—your sister's child did you say?—has been purchased by my good friend the Mayor's wife."
"Thank you, Madame," replied Miriam meekly.
"Now it appears the child is being difficult," Madame went on. "My friend has suggested that I bring you to see her so that perhaps you can reason with her."
"Oh—I should love to see Polly," exclaimed Miriam, delighted and grateful. "I do thank you, Madame."
"I am merely doing it to oblige my friend," Madame assured her. "You will make certain, I trust, that there are no demonstrations this time."
It was too much to expect that there would be nc reminders, Miriam thought, flushing. But she must show nothing but gratitude. Felicité was overjoyed.
"Oh, Miriam!" she rejoiced. "Now you will have to go with us in the carriage. What shall I wear, Maman? The new velvet?"
"Certainly not. The blue morning dress will do well enough for this occasion." Madame's gaze lingered deliberately over Miriam—then she shrugged and turned away.
"Be quick," she ordered. "I shall wait for you downstairs."
The moment the door was closed, Felicité bounced into action. "I've wanted to dress you up ever since you came," she gloated. "Sh! Don't let Maman hear us! Just you wait and see what I'm going to do to you! The blue lustring, I think. It is too small for me anyway."
"But, Madame—!"
"Never mind her. Now, take off that horrid dress!"
The soft lightness of silk slipping over her shoulders gave Miriam a shock of delight.
"You can't look yet," Felicité ordered, fluffing out the full sleeves, tugging at the fastenings. "What a tiny waist you have. I wish mine were as small. I think my foot is smaller than yours, though, but try these shoes anyway. Now—you will need a hat, and gloves. What a pity about your hair—we haven't time to arrange it. But with the hat—see—you tip it just like this. Now! Come and look at yourself!"
Just two steps to the long mirror, but in those two steps Miriam traveled a distance she could never retrace. The girl who looked back from the mirror was a total stranger, yet she had always been there, waiting.
"That is really Miriam Willard!" she said under her breath. She could not drag her eyes away from the vision.
"Come along, silly," urged Félicité. "I think Maman is going to have a fit when she sees you."
Madame was certainly startled. "This was entirely unnecessary." she snapped. For a moment Miriam held her breath, awaiting the order that would strip all the finery away. But Madame shrugged.
"Well, it is late. They are expecting us."
Following Félicité out the front door, teetering in the too tight, high-heeled boots, Miriam felt a heady surge of confidence. She would show these people! Her hat tilted as loftily as Madame's own. This time she would step into that carriage as though she had ridden behind a footman every day of her life!
They had not far to go. In fact they could have walked the distance in a few moments, and the carriage had barely set in motion before it drew up at an imposing stone house that Miriam remembered Hortense had pointed out to her on the way to market. What would Hortense think of her now, she wondered, could she see her entering the front door, walking into the drawing room, curtsying to the Mayor's wife, and seating herself delicately on a gilded chair?
Like a punctured bubble her pleasure vanished, when presently a servant led in little Polly. The child's face blurred in the sudden tears that sprang to her eyes. Scrubbed and brushed and dressed in a bright new jumper, Polly looked more sick and miserable than at any time on the Indian trail. She gave no sign that she recognized Miriam, merely stood staring at the strange clothes that had made her aunt an alien like the others.
"Polly dear, 'tis Miriam. Don't you know me?"
Polly refused even to touch her outstretched hand. Were they mistreating the child? She looked so pale and listless. Indignant words sprang to Miriam's lips, but looking up at the Mayor's wife, she could read only bewilderment and concern on that pleasant face.
"Perhaps you can talk to her," the Mayor's wife pleaded. "Tell her to eat her food like a good child. She is so sweet and quiet, no trouble at all except that she will not eat. She needs some good milk and eggs to put roses in her cheeks. Tell me, is there anything she is especially fond of? I will get it for her."
It was impossible to doubt this woman's kind intent. "It is not the food that is wrong," Miriam explained, as tactfully as she could. "Polly has never been away from her mother. Ever since the day we were captured she has needed to have her mother in sight."
There was a sudden cry. Flinging herself violently across the room, Polly buried her head in Miriam's blue skirt.
"Mama!" she wailed. "I want Mama! Take me back to Mama!"
Miriam knelt and hugged the child tight. "Polly, don't cry," she begged. "Mama will come soon. Please, Polly, be a good girl, so that when Mama comes she will find you looking all pretty and well."
The Mayor's wife reached down and dragged Polly away, holding her firmly on her own lap. "I did not ask you to come here to lie to the child," she accused Miriam.
"Lie to her?"
"It will do no good to deceive her," the woman repeated. "Alphonsine has a new mother now. She must learn to be a good little French girl."
"But, madame—"
"You have done nothing but upset her. She has never cried like this before. Please go now, quickly."
Madame Du Quesne was only too ready to end this distressing affair. As Polly was borne howling from the room, she maneuvered the girls through the door, and into the carriage, with the bitter wails echoing in their ears.
So Miriam was not a grand lady, fashionably dressed, making a morning call in a genteel manner. The pretty picture was shattered. No matter how dressed-up they might be, she and Polly were prisoners.
Madame Du Quesne surprisingly showed a moment's sympathy. "She will not cry long," she said, briskly. "She will be quite all right as soon as you are out of sight, and some day she will come to realize what a fortunate little girl she is. Now, since you are out with us, I think I shall take you to call on the other child, and you will see how foolish your suspicions have been."
It was a considerably humbled girl who alighted at the next door. This house was nowhere near so grand. It was an older, one-story wooden dwelling with a scarlet-painted door. The room into which they stepped was cozy and welcoming. Miriam looked about for Susanna with apprehension, and could hardly believe her eyes when the child came running joyously to meet her.
"What a pretty dress!" Sue cried. "Miriam, you look just beautiful!"
Miriam seized the child's hands and smiled back at her affectionately. Sue had been eating, beyond a doubt. Her cheeks were round and pink, and her chubby little legs showed sturdily under the short dress.
"You look beaut
iful too," Miriam answered. "You've grown an inch, Sue, and you look so—so grown up."
"It's my new shoes. I just got them yesterday." Sue held out a foot for Miriam to admire, clad in a dainty white-topped leather boot that Felicité might envy.
"I have a red pair, too, to wear to school every day, and I have six white petticoats. I have a room all to myself with a big bed. Come and see where I sleep Miriam."
Miriam looked up at the two women who stood behind Sue. One was tall and sharp-nosed, with gray in her hair; the other was younger and rounder, but both had exactly the same expression of fond pride and pleasure.
"She wants to show me her room," Miriam interpreted, and the two women smiled more broadly than before. Excusing herself from Madame Du Quesne, Miriam allowed Sue to pull her through the curtained doorway, through a tidy chamber where the two women apparently slept, into a tiny bedroom beyond. This room was so new and pretty, so recently painted and freshly curtained that it must have been expressly planned for the little girl who slept there.
Calico Captive Page 8
