Forge In The Forest Part 11

"I know," she said, "I don't deserve that you should let me go near him. But -- I think -- I think he would want me to, sir! See, he wants me! Oh, let me!" And I perceived that Marc's eyes had opened. They saw 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 the lad got on with less air than men are accustomed to need when they would make recovery from a swoon.

I turned to Mizpah Hanford; and I wondered what sort of eyes were in Marc's head, that he should see Prudence when Mizpah was by. Before I could speak, Mizpah began to make excuses for her sister. With heroic fort.i.tude she choked back her own grief, and controlled her voice with a brave simplicity. Coming from her lips, these broken excuses seemed sufficient -- though to this day I question whether I ought to have relented so readily.

She pleaded, and I listened, and was content to listen so long as she would continue to plead. But there was little I clearly remember. At last, however, these words, with which she concluded, aroused me:-

"How could we any longer refuse to believe," she urged, "when the good priest confessed to us plainly, after much questioning, that it was Monsieur Marc de Mer who had sent the savages to steal us, and had told them just the place to find us, and the hour? The savages had told us the same thing at first, taunting us with it when we threatened them with Marc's vengeance. You see, Monsieur, they had plainly been informed by some one of our little retreat at the riverside, and of the hour at which we were wont to frequent it. Yet we repudiated the tale with horror. Then yesterday, when the good priest told us the same thing, with a reluctance which showed his horror of it, what _could_ we do but believe? Though it did seem to us that if Marc were false there could be no one true. The priest believed it. He was kind and pitiful, and tried to get the savages to set us free. He talked most earnestly, most vehemently to them; but it was in their own barbarous language, and of course we could not understand. He told us at last that he could do nothing at the time, but that he would exert himself to the utmost to get us out of their hands by and by. Then he went away. And then -- "

"And then, Madame," said I, "your little one was taken from you at his orders!"

"Why, what do you mean, Monsieur?" she gasped, her great sea-coloured eyes opening wide with fresh terror.

"At his orders? By the orders of that 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, thin lips, and remarkably light eyes set close together, -- a strange, strong face that might look very cruel if he were angry. He looked angry once when 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 of these 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 lay sprawling in various pathetic awkwardnesses of posture.

She looked, seemed to think of them for the first time, s.h.i.+vered, and turned away her pitiful eyes.

"Those poor wretches," I continued, "were sent by this kind priest to capture you. He knew when and where to find you, because he had played the eaves-dropper when Marc and I were talking of you."

"Oh," she cried, clenching her white hands desperately, "can there be a priest so vile?"

"Ay, and this which you have heard is but a part of his villany. We have but lately baulked him in a plot whereby he had nearly got Marc hanged. This, Madame, I promise myself the honour of relating to you by and by; but now we must get the poor lad removed to some sort of house and comfort."

"And, oh," cried this poor mother, in a voice of piercing anguish and amazement, 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 pa.s.sion in my voice. "I will find him, I swear I will bring him back to you. I will wait only so long as to see my own boy in safe hands!"

Again that look of trust was turned upon me, thrilling me with invincible resolve.

"Oh, I trust you, Monsieur!" she cried. Then pressing both hands to her eyes with a pathetic gesture, and thrusting back her hair -- "I knew you, somehow, for the Seigneur de Briart," she went on, "as soon as I heard you demanding our release. And I immediately felt a great hope that you would set us free and save Philip. I suppose it is from Marc that I have learned such confidence, Monsieur!"

I bowed, awkward and glad, and without a pretty word to repay her with, -- I who have some name in Quebec for well-turned compliment. But before this woman, who was young enough to be my daughter, I was like a green boy.

"You are too kind," I stammered. "It will be my great ambition to justify your good opinion of me."

Then I turned away to launch a canoe.

While I busied myself getting the canoe ready, and spreading ferns in the bottom of it for Marc to lie on, Mizpah walked up and down in a kind of violent speechlessness, as it were, twisting her long white hands, but no more giving voice to her grief and her anxiety. Once she sat down abruptly under the maple tree, and buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook, but not a sound of sob or moan came to my ears.

My heart ached at the sight. I determined that I would give her work 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 took to signify that she thought by paddling hard to find her child the sooner. But the manner in which she picked up the paddle, and took her place, and held the canoe, showed me she was no novice in the art of canoeing.

I now went to lift Marc and carry him to the canoe.

"Let me help you," pleaded Prudence, springing up from beside him. "He must be so heavy!" Whereat I laughed.

"I can walk, I am sure, Father," said Marc, faintly, "if you put me on my feet and steady me."

"I doubt it, lad," said I, "and 'tis hardly worth while wasting your little strength in the attempt. Now, Prudence," I went on, turning to the girl, "I want you to get in there in front of the middle bar, and make a comfortable place for this man's head, -- if you don't mind taking a _live_ traitor's head in your lap!"

At this the poor girl's face flushed scarlet, as she quickly seated herself in the canoe; and her lips trembled so that my heart smote me for the jest.

"Forgive me, child. I meant it not as a taunt, but merely as a poor jest," I hastened to explain. "Your sister has told me all, and you were scarce to blame.

Now, take the lad and make him as comfortable as a man with a shattered shoulder can hope to be." And I laid Marc gently down so that he could slip his long legs under the bar. He straightway closed his eyes from sheer weakness; but he could feel his maid bend her blus.h.i.+ng face over his, and his expression was a strangely mingled one of suffering and content.

Taking my place in the stern of the canoe, I pushed out. The tide was just beginning to ebb. There was no wind. The sh.o.r.es were green and fair on either hand.

My dear lad, though sore hurt, was happy in the sweet tenderness of his lily maid. As for me, I looked perhaps overmuch at the radiant head of Mizpah, at the lithe vigorous swaying of her long arms, the play of her gracious shoulders as she paddled strenuously. I felt that it was good to be in this canoe, all of us together, floating softly down to the little village beside the Canard's mouth.

Part II.

Mizpah.

Chapter XII.

In a Strange Fellows.h.i.+p.

I TOOK Marc and the ladies to the house of one Giraud, a well-tried and trusted retainer, to whom I told the whole affair. Then I sent a speedy messenger to Father Fafard, begging him to come at once. The Cure of Grand Pre was a skilled physician, and I looked to him to treat Marc's wound better than I could hope to do. My purpose, as I unfolded it to Marc and to the ladies that same evening, sitting by Marc's pallet at the open cottage door, was to start the very next day in quest of the stolen child. I would take but one follower, to help me paddle, for I would rely not on force but on cunning in this venture. I would warn some good men among my tenants, and certain others who were in the counsels of the Forge, to keep an un.o.btrusive guard about the place, till Marc's wound should be so far healed that he might go to Grand Pre. And further, I would put them all in the hands of Father Fafard, with whom even the Black Abbe would scarce dare to meddle openly.

"The Cure," said I, turning to Mizpah, "you may trust both for his wisdom and his goodness. With him you will all be secure till my return."

Mizpah bowed her head in acknowledgment, and looked at me gratefully, but could not trust herself to speak.

She sat a little apart, by the door, and was making a mighty effort to maintain her outward composure.

Then I turned to where Marc's face, pallid but glad, shone dimly on his pillow. I took his hand, I felt his pulse -- for the hundredth time, perhaps. There was no more fever, no more prostration, than was to be accounted inevitable from such a wound. So I said:-

"Does the plan commend itself to you, dear lad? It troubles me sore to leave you in this plight; but Father Fafard is skilful, and I think you will not fret for lack of tender nursing. You will not _need_ me, lad; but there is a little lad with yellow hair who needs me now, and I must go to him."

The moment I had spoken these last words I wished them back, for Mizpah broke down all at once in a terrible pa.s.sion of tears. But I was ever a bungler where women are concerned, ever saying the wrong thing, ever slow to understand their strange, swift s.h.i.+ftings of mood.

This time, however, I understood; for with my words a black realization of the little one's lonely fear came down upon my own soul, till my heart cried out with pity for him; and Prudence fell a-weeping by Marc's head. But she stopped on the instant, fearing to excite Marc hurtfully, and Marc said:-

"Indeed, Father, think not a moment more of me. 'Tis the poor little lad that needs you. Oh that I too could go with you on the quest !"

"To-morrow I go," said I, positively, "just as soon as I have seen Father Fafard."

As I spoke, Mizpah went out suddenly, and walked with rapid strides down the road, pa.s.sing Giraud on the way as he came from mending the little canoe which I was to take. I had chosen a small and light craft, not knowing what streams I might have to ascend, what long carries I might have to make. As Mizpah pa.s.sed him, going on to lean her arms upon the fence and stare out across the water, Giraud turned to watch her for a moment. Then, as he came up to the door where we sat, he took off his woollen cap, and said simply, "Poor lady! it goes hard with her."

"My friend," said I, "will these, while I am gone, be safe here from their enemies, -- even should the Black Abbe come in person?"