Part 46 (1/2)
”I didn't mean that I had heard from him, and I don't know where he is; but--but they always come back.”
”You say that because your man--because Lieutenant Beverley has returned. It is always so. You have everything to make you happy, while I--I--”
Again her eyes spilled their shower, and she hid her face in her hands which Alice tried in vain to remove.
”Don't cry, Adrienne. You didn't see me crying--”
”No, of course not; you didn't have a thing to cry about. Lieutenant Beverley told you just where he was going and just what--”
”But think, Adrienne, only think of the awful story they told--that he was killed, that Governor Hamilton had paid Long-Hair for killing him and bringing back his scalp--oh dear, just think! And I thought it was true.”
”Well, I'd be willing to think and believe anything in the world, if Rene would come back,” said Adrienne, her face, now uncovered, showing pitiful lines of suffering. ”O Alice, Alice, and he never, never will come!”
Alice exhausted every device to cheer, encourage and comfort her.
Adrienne had been so good to her when she lay recovering from the shock of Hamilton's pistol bullet, which, although it came near killing her, made no serious wound--only a bruise, in fact. It was one of those fortunate accidents, or providentially ordered interferences, which once in a while save a life. The stone disc worn by Alice chanced to lie exactly in the missile's way, and while it was not broken, the ball, already somewhat checked by pa.s.sing through several folds of Father Beret's garments, flattened itself upon it with a shock which somehow struck Alice senseless.
Here again, history in the form of an ancient family doc.u.ment (a letter written in 1821 by Alice herself), gives us the curious brace of incidents, to wit, the breaking of the miniature on Beverley's breast by a British musket-ball, and the stopping of Hamilton's bullet over Alice's heart by the Indian charm-stone.
”Which shows the goodness of G.o.d,” the letter goes on, ”and also seems to sustain the Indian legend concerning the stone, that whoever might wear it could not be killed. Unquestionable (sic) Mr. Hamilton's shot, which was aimed at poor, dear old Father Beret, would have pierced my heart, but for that charm-stone. As for my locket, it did not, as some have reported, save Fitzhugh's life when the musket-ball was stopped.
The ball was so spent that the blow was only hard enough to spoil temporary (sic) the face of the miniature, which was afterwards restored fairly well by an artist in Paris. When it did actually save Fitzhugh's life was out on the Illinois plain. The savage, Long-Hair, peace to his memory, worked the miracle of restoring to me--” Here a fold in the paper has destroyed a line of the writing.
The letter is a sacred family paper, and there is not justification for going farther into its faded and, in some parts, almost obliterated writing. But so much may pa.s.s into these pages as a pleasant authentication of what otherwise might be altogether too sweet a double nut for the critic's teeth to crack.
While Adrienne and Alice were still discussing the probability of Rene de Ronville's return, M. Roussillon came to the door. He was in search of Madame, his wife, whom he had not yet seen.
He gathered the two girls in his mighty arms, tousling them with rough tenderness. Alice returned his affectionate embrace and told him where to find Madame Roussillon, who was with Dame G.o.dere, probably at her house.
”n.o.body killed,” he said, in answer to Alice's inquiry about the catastrophe at the fort. ”Some of 'em hurt and burnt a little. Great big scare about nearly nothing. Ziff! my children, you should have seen me quiet things. I put out my hands, this way--omme ca--pouf! It was all over. The people went home.”
His gestures indicated that he had borne back an army with open hands.
Then he chucked Adrienne under the chin with his finger and added in his softest voice:
”I saw somebody's lover the other day, over yonder in the Indian village. He spoke to me about somebody--eh, ma pet.i.te, que voulez-vous dire?”
”Oh, Papa Roussillon! we were just talking about Rene!” cried Alice.
”Have you seen him?”
”I saw you, you little minx, jumping into a man's arms right under the eyes of a whole garrison! Bah! I could not believe it was my little Alice!”
He let go a grand guffaw, which seemed to shake the cabin's walls.
Alice blushed cherry red. Adrienne, too bashful to inquire about Rene, was trembling with anxiety. The truth was not in Gaspard Roussillon, just then; or if it was it stayed in him, for he had not seen Rene de Ronville. It was his generous desire to please and to appear opulent of knowledge and sympathy that made him speak. He knew what would please Adrienne, so why not give her at least a delicious foretaste? Surely, when a thing was so cheap, one need not be so parsimonious as to withhold a mere antic.i.p.ation. He was off before the girls could press him into details, for indeed he had none.
”There now, what did I tell you?” cried Alice, when the big man was gone. ”I told you Rene would come. They always come back!”
Father Beret came in a little later. As soon as he saw Alice he frowned and began to shake his head; but she only laughed, and imitating his hypocritical scowl, yet fringing it with a twinkle of merry lines and dimples, pointed a taper finger at him and exclaimed:
”You bad, bad, man! why did you pretend to me that Lieutenant Beverley was dead? What sinister ecclesiastical motive prompted you to describe how Long-Hair scalped him? Ah, Father--”
The priest laid a broad hand over her saucy mouth. ”Something or other seems to have excited you mightily, ma fille, you are a trifle impulsively inclined to-day.”