Part 22 (1/2)
”Lieutenant Beverley says that the Americans will be sure to drive Hamilton out of Vincennes, or capture him. Probably they are not so very far away now, and Rene may join them and come back to help punish these brutal Englishmen. Don't you wish he would, Adrienne? Wouldn't it be romantic?”
”He's armed, I know that,” said Adrienne, brightening a little, ”and he's brave, Alice, brave as can be. He came right back into town the other night and got his gun and pistols. He was at our house, too, and, oh!--”
She burst out crying again. ”O Alice! It breaks my heart to think that the Indians will kill him. Do you think they will kill him, Alice?”
”He'll come nearer killing them,” said Alice confidently, with her strong, warm arms around the tiny la.s.s; ”he's a good woodsman, a fine shot--he's not so easy to kill, my dear. If he and Papa Roussillon should get together by chance they would be a match for all the Indians in the country. Anyway, I feel that it's much better for them to take their chances in the woods than to be in the hands of Governor Hamilton. If I were a man I'd do just as Papa Roussillon and Rene did; I'd break the bigoted head of every Englishman that mistreated me, I'll do it, girl as I am, if they annoy me, see if I don't!”
She was thinking of Captain Farnsworth, who had been from the first untiring in his efforts to gain something more than a pa.s.sing acquaintance. As yet he had not made himself unbearable; but Alice's fine intuition led her to the conclusion that she must guard against him from the outset.
Adrienne's simple heart could not grasp the romantic criterion with which Alice was wont to measure action. Her mind was single, impulsive, narrow and direct in all its movements. She loved, hated, desired, caressed, repulsed, not for any a.s.signable reason more solid or more luminous than ”because.” She adored Rene and wanted him near her. He was a hero in her imagination, no matter what he did. Little difference was it to her whether he hauled logs for the English or smoked his pipe in idleness by the winter fire--what could it matter which flag he served under, so that he was true to her? Or whom he served if she could always have him coming to see her and calling her his little pet?
He might crush an Irish Corporal's head every day, if he would but stroke her hair and say: ”My sweet little one.”
”Why couldn't he be quiet and do as your man, Lieutenant Beverley, did?” she cried in a sudden change of mood, the tears streaming down her cheeks. ”Lieutenant Beverley surrendered and took the consequences.
He didn't kill somebody and run off to be hunted like a bear. No wonder you're happy, Alice; I'd be happy, too, if Rene were here and came to spend half of every day with me. I--”
”Why, what a silly girl you are!” Alice exclaimed, her face reddening prettily. ”How foolishly you prattle! I'm sure I don't trouble myself about Lieutenant Beverley--what put such absurd nonsense into your head, Adrienne?”
”Because, that's what, and you know it's so, too. You love him just as much as I love Rene, and that's just all the love in the world, and you needn't deny it, Alice Roussillon!”
Alice laughed and hugged the wee, brown-faced mite of a girl until she almost smothered her.
It was growing dusk when Adrienne left Roussillon place to go home. The wind cut icily across the commons and moaned as it whirled around the cabins and cattle-sheds. She ran briskly, m.u.f.fled in a wrap, partly through fear and partly to keep warm, and had gone two-thirds of her way when she was brought to an abrupt stop by the arms of a man. She screamed sharply, and Father Beret, who was coming out of a cabin not far away, heard and knew the voice.
”Ho-ho, my little lady!” cried Adrienne's captor in a breezy, jocund tone, ”you wouldn't run over a fellow, would you?” The words were French, but the voice was that of Captain Farnsworth, who laughed while he spoke. ”You jump like a rabbit, my darling! Why, what a lively little chick of a girl it is!”
Adrienne screamed and struggled recklessly.
”Now don't rouse up the town,” coaxed the Captain. He was just drunk enough to be quite a fool, yet sufficiently sober to imagine himself the most proper person in the world. ”I don't mean you any harm, Mademoiselle; I'll just see you safe home, you know; 'scort you to your residence; come on, now--that's a good girl.”
Father Beret hurried to the spot, and when in the deepening gloom he saw Adrienne flinging herself violently this way and that, helplessly trying to escape from the clasp of a man, he did to perfection what a priest is supposed to be the least fitted to do. Indeed, considering his age and leaving his vocation out of the reckoning, his performance was amazing. It is not certain that the blow dealt upon Governor Hamilton's jaw by M. Roussillon was a stiffer one than that sent straight from the priest's shoulder right into the short ribs of Captain Farnsworth, who there-upon released a mighty grunt and doubled himself up.
Adrienne recognized her a.s.sailant at the first and used his name freely during the struggle. When Father Beret appeared she cried out to him--
”Oh, Father--Father Beret! help me! help me!”
When Farnsworth recovered from the breath-expelling shock of the jab in his side and got himself once more in a vertical position, both girl and priest were gone. He looked this way and that, rapidly becoming sober, and beginning to wonder how the thing could have happened so easily. His ribs felt as if they had been hit with a heavy hammer.
”By Jove!” he muttered all to himself, ”the old prayer-singing heathen!
By Jove!” And with this very brilliant and relevant observation he rubbed his sore side and went his way to the fort.
CHAPTER XI
A SWORD AND A HORSE PISTOL
We hear much about the ”days that tried men's souls”; but what about the souls of women in those same days? Sitting in the liberal geniality of the nineteenth century's sunset glow, we insist upon having our grumble at the times and the manners of our generation; but if we had to exchange places, periods and experiences with the people who lived in America through the last quarter of the eighteenth century, there would be good ground for despairing ululations. And if our men could not bear it, if it would try their souls too poignantly, let us imagine the effect upon our women. No, let us not imagine it; but rather let us give full credit to the heroic souls of the mothers and the maidens who did actually bear up in the center of that terrible struggle and unflinchingly help win for us not only freedom, but the vast empire which at this moment is at once the master of the world and the model toward which all the nations of the earth are slowly but surely tending.
If Alice was an extraordinary girl, she was not aware of it; nor had she ever understood that her life was being shaped by extraordinary conditions. Of course it could not but be plain to her that she knew more and felt more than the girls of her narrow acquaintance; that her accomplishments were greater; that she nursed splendid dreams of which they could have no proper comprehension, but until now she had never even dimly realized that she was probably capable of being something more than a mere creole la.s.s, the foster daughter of Gaspard Roussillon, trader in pelts and furs. Even her most romantic visions had never taken the form of personal desire, or ambition in its most nebulous stage; they had simply pleased her fresh and natural fancy and served to gild the hardness and crudeness of her life,--that was all.