Montlivet Part 14

And so it went for three days. The north country has such storms in the spring, and they chill all beauty out of the woods. We could do nothing. We kept what fire we could, regummed the seams of the canoes, and for the rest ate, sulked, and tried to sleep. The men gambled among themselves, and I grew weary of the click, click of their b.a.l.l.s and the sound of their stupid boasts and low jesting. Yet I had no ground for stopping them, for the woman understood almost nothing of their uncouth speech. Indeed, she was little in sight or hearing. She stayed in her bark shelter, and I could hear her moving about, trying to keep it neat and herself in order. In those three days I learned one secret of her spirit. She had a natural merriment that did not seem a matter of will power nor even of wish. It was an instinctive, inborn content, that was perhaps partly physical, in that it enabled her to sleep well, and so to wake with zest and courage. By night her eyes might be dark circled and her step slow, but each morning there was interest in her looks to see what the strange day was about to bring. I had seen this nature in men many times; I had not thought that it belonged to women who are framed to follow rather than to look ahead.

For twenty-four hours we held little more intercourse than dumb people, but the second day she came to me.

"Monsieur, would you teach me?" she asked. "Would you explain to me about the Indian dialects?"

I agreed. I threw her a blanket, which she wrapped around her, and we cowered close to the bole of a pine. I took birch bark and a crayon and turned schoolmaster, explaining that the Huron and Iroquois nations came of the same stock, but that most of the western tribes were Algonquin in blood, and that, though they had tribal differences in speech, Algonquin was the basic language, as Latin is the root of all our tongues at home. I took the damp bark, and wrote some phrases of Algonquin, showing her the syntax as well as I had been able to reduce it to rule myself. She had a quick ear and the power of attention, but after an hour of it I tore the bark in pieces.

"We will not try this again," I told her roughly, and we scarcely met or spoke for the next day.

The fourth morning came without rain, and the sun struggled out. We built great fires, dried our clothing, repacked the canoes, and were afloat by noon. By contrast it was pleasant, but it still was cold, and we stood to our paddling. I wrapped the woman in extra blankets, and made her swallow some brandy. I hoped that she would sleep, but she did not, for it was she who called to us that there were three canoes ahead.

It showed how clogged I was by sombre thought that I had not seen them, for in a moment they swept in full sight. I crowded the woman down in the canoe, and covered her with sailcloth. Then I hailed the canoes with a long cry, "Tanipi endayenk?" which means, "Whence come you?" and added "Peca," that they might know I called in peace.

The canoes wheeled and soon hung like water birds at our side. They were filled with a hunting party of Pottawatamies, and the young braves grunted and chaffered at me in high good humor. I gave them knives and vermilion, and they talked freely. I saw them look at the draped shape in the canoe, but I shrugged my shoulders and said, "Ouskouebi!" which might mean either "drunken" or a "fool," and they grinned and seemed satisfied. They promised to report to me at La Baye des Puants, and I saw by their complaisance that the French star was at the zenith. I should have stretched my legs in comfort as I went on my way.

CHAPTER XII

A COMPACT

We paddled that afternoon till the men splashed water into the canoes, which was their way of telling me that I had worked them hard enough.

It was dusk when we landed, and starlight before our kettles were hot.

I had been silent, when I had not been fault finding, till, supper over, the woman, leaning across the fire, asked me why.

"Is something wrong?" she ventured. "Ever since we met the Pottawatamies you have seemed in haste."

I looked around. The men were at a distance preparing for sleep. "I wish to reach the Pottawatamie Islands before to-morrow night.

Mademoiselle Starling, may I talk of our future?"

She rose. "You called me mademoiselle."

"Yes, mademoiselle."

"And you mean"--

I took off my hat. "Will you come with me?" I asked,--"come where we shall not be overheard? We must talk of our future."

I knew that she trembled as she bowed her a.s.sent, but I pretended to be blind. I led the way outside of the circle of light, then waited for her to come to me. I stood with my hat in hand, and my heart cried in pity for the woman, but my tongue was heavy as a savage's.

"I learned from the Pottawatamies," I said, "that Father Nouvel is tarrying at their islands. If we haste, we may find him there.

Mademoiselle, will you marry me?"

I do not know that I was cool enough to measure rightly the s.p.a.ce of the silence that ensued, but it seemed a long one. The woman stood very still. A star fell slanting from the mid-sky, and I watched it slip behind the horizon. The woman's head was high, and I knew that she was thinking. It troubled me that she could think at such a time.

"Mademoiselle"--I began.

"Wait!" she interrupted. She raised her hand, and her fingers looked carven white in the moonlight, though by daylight they were brown.

"Monsieur, you watched the star. It went into the unknown,--a way so wide and terrible that we may not follow it even in thought. We live alone with majestic forces,--forests greater than an empire, unmapped waters, and strange, savage men. We are pygmies; yet, if we have spirit we can grow into some measure of the greatness and inflexibility around us. Monsieur, when you asked me--what you asked me now--you were thinking of France and its standards. Of little, tidy, hedged-in France. You were not---- Oh, monsieur, I am sorry you asked me that question. Of course I answer 'no,' but--but I am sorry that you asked it."

I went to her. "You are cold. Come with me to the fire. Come. The men are asleep by this time. Mademoiselle, your spirit is steel and fire, but your body betrays you. You are s.h.i.+vering and afraid.

Yet---- Well, mademoiselle, pygmies or giants, whichever we may be, we must not scorn counsel. You once called us partners. On that basis, will you listen to me now?"

"But you must not"----

"Mademoiselle, on that basis will you listen to me now?"

"Yes."

"Then come." I led her to the warmth, and placed her snugly, with logs to pillow her and her face away from the sleeping men. Then I sat beside her. But my speech had left me. I had no reasons, no persuasions at my tongue.

"Father Nouvel is at the islands," I said. "Mademoiselle, you must marry me. You must."

"Why 'must,' monsieur?"

"We cannot travel in this way."

"A week ago you thought it possible."

"I had not tried it then. It will not do."

"Monsieur, what has gone wrong?"

I took out my hunting knife and tried its edge.

"My mind," I answered savagely. "Mademoiselle, I may, as you say, have tidy, circ.u.mscribed France behind my thought, but---- Well, mademoiselle, I was brought up to certain observances in regard to a woman. And I cannot forget you are a woman. When the men speak roughly to you I put my hand on my sword."

"I have seen you, monsieur."

"And so I lose much thought and time conquering my anger. It fills my thought. When I taught you Indian verbs the other day the rain dripped from your hair. And I sat like a clod. What could I do? I could not shelter you for fear of rousing suspicion in the men. Mademoiselle, I cannot stand it. I must let the men know that you are a woman. And then I must marry you when we reach Father Nouvel."

She rose. "Monsieur, you must send me back to Montreal."

I kept my seat. "Mademoiselle, I have your word," I reminded. "You agreed to listen."

I had meant to plead, not to rebuke, and I regretted that she flushed.

She seated herself lingeringly, but I saw that she leaned back, and did not sit as she had done before with her muscles braced for flight.

"Why not send me back to Montreal?" she begged.

The embers of the fire fell into irregular, rectangular shapes like the stone buildings on the Marne, where I was born. My father had beggared us, but those buildings were left. I scorned my father's memory, but I had strange pride in the name and place that had been his.

"I have thought over this matter by night and day," I replied slowly.

"I cannot send you to Montreal, for I cannot trust these men. If I take you myself I shall lose six weeks out of the summer. Then it will be too late to accomplish anything. No, I cannot afford so much time.

The summer is all too short as it is."

"You would marry me--marry me to get me out of the way--rather than lose six weeks of time!"