The Plowshare and the Sword Part 16

"And with you also," he murmured, and raising her fair white hand he pressed it reverently to his lips.

No hostile sound disturbed the silence of the grove throughout that night, and Geoffrey made no stir upon his scented bed, until the sun streaming into the cabin and the noisy turk, turk, turk of the wild bush-fowl rendered further sleep impossible. Having performed the hasty toilet of that age, when by day and night a man had to be prepared to fight for his life, he went outside, and was straightway made welcome to the grove by a brilliant and versatile bluejay, which obtruded itself upon the stranger and with cheerful chattering friendliness volunteered to be his guide in return for a little flattering attention. But when Madeleine came out into the sun, the fickle bird deserted the man and paid court to the maid.

It had been Geoffrey's honest determination to proceed that morning upon his journey, but noon, and then evening, came and found him again a tenant of the grove. All day he and Madeleine wandered in the green valley, like children of innocence in a garden, the girl pointing out her favourite haunts, the flowery ridges where she would while away hours in day-dreams, and guiding him along faint paths which her small feet, and hers only, had trodden into being; and as they so walked Geoffrey forgot for the time his mission, and became blind to the path of duty, because the spell of enchantment was over him, and all the world went far away while Madeleine was laughing at his side, and her sweet voice was in his ears, and her fragrant presence stirred before his eyes. No day had ever been so short, no sun more bright, no self-surrender ever more complete.

Again the grove was in splendour at the close of the day, and again Madame Labroquerie met her guest with a grating word of greeting and her bitter smile; and again the laggard slept upon the scented couch and had his dreams; and his dreams that night were not of power, nor of duty, nor of his hara.s.sed friends beside Couchicing; but of shaded bowers, and green valleys, and love in life, and Madeleine. And once the girl cried out in her sleep, but neither her mother nor her lover overheard her unconscious utterance, "I cannot let you go."

But during the day which followed Geoffrey's conscience awoke and reproached him for this love-in-idleness, and as the evening of that day drew near his higher self conquered. Lying at Madeleine's feet, he told her with averted face that on the morrow he must depart; and she merely sighed very softly and made no answer, but longed in her heart that the morrow might never come.

Once again they returned to the grove, where Madame curtsied as before, and muttered to her guest: "You are welcome, sir. For the third time I bid you welcome to my poor home."

Her meaning was unmistakable, and the young man flushed hotly as he bowed in reply and thanked her for her words. More he would have said, but Madeleine touched him lightly and motioned him to keep silent. He turned and followed her to the hut, and they partook of food, and afterwards sat together and talked on, and yearned for one another; and in the meantime darkness fell, and the fire outside, which was maintained at night to keep wild beasts at bay, surrounded the cabin with a roseate glow.

Alone through that twilight Madame walked, muttering as was her wont, and started in superst.i.tious terror when she saw a tall figure standing erect, spectral, beside the leaping fire. A few more steps and the Frenchwoman recognised a priest. She hurried forward, and a minute later genuflected to kiss the cloak of that man of blood, the Abbe La Salle.

In wonder the priest gave her the blessing which she sought and went on to question her. Eagerly Madame responded, telling him her name and circ.u.mstance, explaining her position, and mentioning her longing to escape from that lonely spot. Her desires were, like herself, made up of selfishness. She did not question the priest concerning the son who had been driven out by her bitter tongue to join the commandant's little force; nor did she mention Roussilac's name, because--so entirely isolated was that shelter in the grove--she was not even aware that the man who ruled the land was indeed her nephew. But La Salle waived her petulant inquiries aside, and asked whether any Englishman had lately been known to pa.s.s that way. Then Madame shortly acquainted him with the coming of Viner.

"Bring me here something to eat," said the priest wearily, when he had obtained the information which he sought. "Afterwards I will rest me by this fire."

"Now the saints forbid," cried Madame. "Shall an infidel lie in my house, while a holy Churchman sleeps outside? Out the Lutheran shall go, and you, my father, must honour my poor home this night."

"'Tis not for me to provoke a quarrel," La Salle replied. "I may but fight in self-defence. Let me have food and a pallia.s.se here."

Madame bent her grey head, and went to do his bidding.

The cabin was in gloom when Madame entered and pa.s.sed through silently to procure food for the priest. Madeleine rose, seeking to be of service, but the grating voice sent her back to the fireside. Viner had also arisen, dimly suspicious. The girl's head reached his shoulder, and to put away the thought, which recurred more strongly when he noted her helplessness, he resorted to selfishness.

"Am I safe?" he asked.

Madeleine gave him a reproachful glance.

"My mother hates all Protestants. The heathen Indians are merely animals in her sight; but such as you and I are children of the devil."

"The fire beyond the palisade is burning more strongly," he said.

The door was open, and the glow entered the cabin like moonlight.

"It is to keep away the wolves. You do not suspect--me?"

"No, no," he said, in a manner that brought a smile to her mouth. "For myself I care nothing, but I may not forget my comrades. I must be upon my guard for their sake."

The dame reappeared, a mantle over her shoulders and her hands. She smiled grimly, and gently addressed her guest:

"I have my birds to feed. They are the sole companions of my loneliness, and each night finds them awaiting me beyond the palisade.

They are brighter birds than those of my country, but sadder because songless. The saints protect you, sir, in your sleep to-night."

"Shall I come with you, mother?" said Madeleine.

"Why upon this night more than others?" answered Madame bitterly.

"Your way is never mine. When you shall learn to pray with me then you may walk with me."

She left the cabin, drawing the door close.

"Stay you here," whispered Madeleine, detaining Viner with a gentle hand. "There was that in my mother's manner which makes me fear. I will follow her and bring you word."

"I would not have you put yourself to danger."

"For me there is no danger."

"I go with you," he said.

"No!" cried Madeleine, stamping her foot. "You shall not."

He gave way and let her have her will.

When Madeleine returned with the tidings that a tall French priest was without, the young man's first impulse suggested that he should rush out and attempt to silence the spy, but prudence and a girl's hand detained him. For the first time Geoffrey shuddered at the thought of danger. With those two beautiful eyes watching him tenderly he felt that it was good indeed to live.

"I shall watch over you," said Madeleine's fearless young voice. "See, I will move your pallia.s.se. Now this thin wall of wattles shall alone divide us. We shall be so near that I can listen to your breathing, and shall hear your faintest whisper. I pray you trust in me."

"In the morning I shall see you," he urged. "I shall not depart without thanking you?"

"Oh, talk not of the morning," she cried.

He seized her fingers, and when he kissed the hand it fluttered like a bird.

"I shall have my dreams," cried Madeleine, her face uplifted, and her eyes moistened. "And they may be so happy that I shall not wake. See!

Yonder is my resting-place. The wattle-wall shall separate us. There my head will lie. Give me your sword."

She grasped the hilt, and thrust the blade through the trifling wall.

Then she spoke with averted face: "When you are lying down to rest I shall tell you why I have done this."

They separated after a few tender words of commendation. The fire burnt down, and the north wind played roughly among the trees until the cabin hummed like a cave. Madame entered, as noiseless as a cat, and pa.s.sed into her room. The rattling of her beads sounded at intervals, before sleep deadened the enmity of her mind.

"My hair is long," whispered Madeleine's sweet voice. "I am pa.s.sing a coil through the hole in the wattles. Hold it, and if you hear disquieting sounds do not speak, but pull."

"I have it," he whispered, seizing the warm silk enviously.

"The holy angels watch over you," she murmured.

"And you. As for me, I am already protected by an angel."

"Angel?" she wondered.

"Sainte Madeleine is her name."

"Ah!" she said.