CHAPTER II
A LETTER FROM AFAR
Although Father Beret was for many years a missionary on the Wabash,most of the time at Vincennes, the fact that no mention of him can befound in the records is not stranger than many other things connectedwith the old town's history. He was, like nearly all the men of hiscalling in that day, a self-effacing and modest hero, apparently quiteunaware that he deserved attention. He and Father Gibault, whose nameis so beautifully and nobly connected with the stirring achievements ofColonel George Rogers Clark, were close friends and often companions.Probably Father Gibault himself, whose fame will never fade, would havebeen to-day as obscure as Father Beret, but for the opportunity givenhim by Clark to fix his name in the list of heroic patriots whoassisted in winning the great Northwest from the English.
Vincennes, even in the earliest days of its history, somehow kept upcommunication and, considering the circumstances, close relations withNew Orleans. It was much nearer Detroit; but the Louisiana colony stoodnext to France in the imagination and longing of priests, voyageurs,coureurs de bois and reckless adventurers who had Latin blood in theirveins. Father Beret first came to Vincennes from New Orleans, thevoyage up the Mississippi, Ohio, and Wabash, in a pirogue, lastingthrough a whole summer and far into the autumn. Since his arrival thepost had experienced many vicissitudes, and at the time in which ourstory opens the British government claimed right of dominion over thegreat territory drained by the Wabash, and, indeed, over a large,indefinitely outlined part of the North American continent lying aboveMexico; a claim just then being vigorously questioned, flintlock inhand, by the Anglo-American colonies.
Of course the handful of French people at Vincennes, so far away fromevery center of information, and wholly occupied with their trading,trapping and missionary work, were late finding out that war existedbetween England and her colonies. Nor did it really matter much withthem, one way or another. They felt secure in their lonely situation,and so went on selling their trinkets, weapons, domestic implements,blankets and intoxicating liquors to the Indians, whom they held boundto them with a power never possessed by any other white dwellers in thewilderness. Father Beret was probably subordinate to Father Gibault. Atall events the latter appears to have had nominal charge of Vincennes,and it can scarcely be doubted that he left Father Beret on the Wabash,while he went to live and labor for a time at Kaskaskia beyond theplains of Illinois.
It is a curious fact that religion and the power of rum and brandyworked together successfully for a long time in giving the French postsalmost absolute influence over the wild and savage men by whom theywere always surrounded. The good priests deprecated the traffic inliquors and tried hard to control it, but soldiers of fortune andreckless traders were in the majority, their interests takingprecedence of all spiritual demands and carrying everything along. Whatcould the brave missionaries do but make the very best of a periloussituation?
In those days wine was drunk by almost everybody, its use at table andas an article of incidental refreshment and social pleasure beingpractically universal; wherefore the steps of reform in the matter ofintemperance were but rudimentary and in all places beset by well-nighinsurmountable difficulties. In fact the exigencies of frontier lifedemanded, perhaps, the very stimulus which, when over indulged in,caused so much evil. Malaria loaded the air, and the most efficaciousdrugs now at command were then undiscovered or could not be had.Intoxicants were the only popular specific. Men drank to preventcontracting ague, drank again, between rigors, to cure it, and yetagain to brace themselves during convalescence.
But if the effect of rum as a beverage had strong allurement for thewhite man, it made an absolute slave of the Indian, who never hesitatedfor a moment to undertake any task, no matter how hard, bear anyprivation, even the most terrible, or brave any danger, although itmight demand reckless desperation, if in in the end a well filledbottle or jug appeared as his reward.
Of course the traders did not overlook such a source of power.Alcoholic liquor became their implement of almost magical work incontrolling the lives, labors, and resources of the Indians. Thepriests with their captivating story of the Cross had a large influencein softening savage natures and averting many an awful danger; but wheneverything else failed, rum always came to the rescue of a threatenedFrench post.
We need not wonder, then, when we are told that Father Beret made nosign of distress or disapproval upon being informed of the arrival of aboat loaded with rum, brandy or gin. It was Rene de Ronville whobrought the news, the same Rene already mentioned as having given thepriest a plate of squirrels. He was sitting on the doorsill of FatherBeret's hut, when the old man reached it after his visit at theRoussillon home, and held in his hand a letter which he appeared proudto deliver.
"A batteau and seven men, with a cargo of liquor, came during therain," he said, rising and taking off his curious cap, which, made ofan animal's skin, had a tail jauntily dangling from its crown-tip; "andhere is a letter for you, Father. The batteau is from New Orleans.Eight men started with it; but one went ashore to hunt and was killedby an Indian."
Father Beret took the letter without apparent interest and said:
"Thank you, my son, sit down again; the door-log is not wetter than thestools inside; I will sit by you."
The wind had driven a flood of rain into the cabin through the opendoor, and water twinkled in puddles here and there on the floor'spuncheons. They sat down side by side, Father Beret fingering theletter in an absent-minded way.
"There'll be a jolly time of it to-night," Rene de Ronville remarked,"a roaring time."
"Why do you say that, my son?" the priest demanded.
"The wine and the liquor," was the reply; "much drinking will be done.The men have all been dry here for some time, you know, and are asthirsty as sand. They are making ready to enjoy themselves down at theriver house."
"Ah, the poor souls!" sighed Father Beret, speaking as one whosethoughts were wandering far away.
"Why don't you read your letter, Father?" Rene added.
The priest started, turned the soiled square of paper over in his hand,then thrust it inside his robe.
"It can wait," he said. Then, changing his voice; "the squirrels yougave me were excellent, my son. It was good of you to think of me," headded, laying his hand on Rene's arm.
"Oh, I'm glad if I have pleased you, Father Beret, for you are so kindto me always, and to everybody. When I killed the squirrels I said tomyself: 'These are young, juicy and tender, Father Beret must havethese,' so I brought them along."
The young man rose to go; for he was somehow impressed that FatherBeret must wish opportunity to read his letter, and would prefer to beleft alone with it. But the priest pulled him down again.
"Stay a while," he said, "I have not had a talk with you for some time."
Rene looked a trifle uneasy.
"You will not drink any to-night, my son," Father Beret added. "Youmust not; do you hear?"
The young man's eyes and mouth at once began to have a sullenexpression; evidently he was not pleased and felt rebellious; but itwas hard for him to resist Father Beret, whom he loved, as did everysoul in the post. The priest's voice was sweet and gentle, yet positiveto a degree. Rene did not say a word.
"Promise me that you will not taste liquor this night," Father Beretwent on, grasping the young man's arm more firmly; "promise me, my son,promise me."
Still Rene was silent. The men did not look at each other, but gazedaway across the country beyond the Wabash to where a glory from thewestern sun flamed on the upper rim of a great cloud fragment creepingalong the horizon. Warm as the day had been, a delicious coolness nowbegan to temper the air; for the wind had shifted into the northwest. Ameadowlark sang dreamingly in the wild grass of the low lands hard by,over which two or three prairie hawks hovered with wings that beatrapidly.
"Eh bien, I must go," said Rene presently, getting to his feet nimblyand evading Father Beret's hand which would have held him.
"Not to
the river house, my son?" said the priest appealingly.
"No, not there; I have another letter; one for M'sieu' Roussillon; itcame by the boat too. I go to give it to Madame Roussillon."
Rene de Ronville was a dark, weather-stained young fellow, neither tallnor short, wearing buckskin moccasins, trousers and tunic. His eyeswere dark brown, keen, quick-moving, set well under heavy brows. Arazor had probably never touched his face, and his thin, curly beardcrinkled over his strongly turned cheeks and chin, while his moustachessprang out quite fiercely above his full-lipped, almost sensual mouth.He looked wiry and active, a man not to be lightly reckoned with in atrial of bodily strength and will power.
Father Beret's face and voice changed on the instant. He laughed drylyand said, with a sly gleam in his eyes:
"You could spend the evening pleasantly with Madame Roussillon andJean. Jean, you know, is a very amusing fellow."
Rene brought forth the letter of which he had spoken and held it upbefore Father Beret's face.
"Maybe you think I haven't any letter for M'sieu' Roussillon," heblurted; "and maybe you are quite certain that I am not going to thehouse to take the letter."
"Monsieur Roussillon is absent, you know," Father Beret suggested. "Butcherry pies are just as good while he's gone as when he's at home, andI happen to know that there are some particularly delicious ones in thepantry of Madame Roussillon. Mademoiselle Alice gave me a juicy sample;but then I dare say you do not care to have your pie served by herhand. It would interfere with your appetite; eh, my son?"
Rene turned short about wagging his head and laughing, and so with hisback to the priest he strode away along the wet path leading to theRoussillon place.
Father Beret gazed after him, his face relaxing to a serious expressionin which a trace of sadness and gloom spread like an elusive twilight.He took out his letter, but did not glance at it, simply holding ittightly gripped in his sinewy right hand. Then his old eyes staredvacantly, as eyes do when their sight is cast back many, many yearsinto the past. The missive was from beyond the sea--he knew thehandwriting--a waft of the flowers of Avignon seemed to rise out of it,as if by the pressure of his grasp.
A stoop-shouldered, burly man went by, leading a pair of goats, a kidfollowing. He was making haste excitedly, keeping the goats at a livelytrot.
"Bon jour, Pere Beret," he flung out breezily, and walked rapidly on.
"Ah, ah; his mind is busy with the newly arrived cargo," thought theold priest, returning the salutation; "his throat aches for theliquor,--the poor man."
Then he read again the letter's superscription and made a falteringmove, as if to break the seal. His hands trembled violently, his facelooked gray and drawn.
"Come on, you brutes," cried the receding man, jerking the thongs ofskin by which he led the goats.
Father Beret rose and turned into his damp little hut, where the lightwas dim on the crucifix hanging opposite the door against theclay-daubed wall. It was a bare, unsightly, clammy room; a rude bed onone side, a shelf for table and two or three wooden stools constitutingthe furniture, while the uneven puncheons of the floor wabbled andclattered under the priest's feet.
An unopened letter is always a mysterious thing. We who receive threeor four mails every day, scan each little paper square with aspeculative eye. Most of us know what sweet uncertainty hangs on theopening of envelopes whose contents may be almost anything exceptsomething important, and what a vague yet delicious thrill comes withthe snip of the paper knife; but if we be in a foreign land and longyears absent from home, then is a letter subtly powerful to move us,even more before it is opened than after it is read.
It had been many years since a letter from home had come to FatherBeret. The last, before the one now in his hand, had made him ill ofnostalgia, fairly shaking his iron determination never to quit for amoment his life work as a missionary. Ever since that day he had foundit harder to meet the many and stern demands of a most difficult andexacting duty. Now the mere touch of the paper in his hand gave him asense of returning weakness, dissatisfaction, and longing. The home ofhis boyhood, the rushing of the Rhone, a seat in a shady nook of thegarden, Madeline, his sister, prattling beside him, and his mothersinging somewhere about the house--it all came back and went over himand through him, making his heart sink strangely, while another voice,the sweetest ever heard--but she was ineffable and her memory aforbidden fragrance.
Father Beret tottered across the forlorn little room and knelt beforethe crucifix holding his clasped hands high, the letter pressed betweenthem. His lips moved in prayer, but made no sound; his whole frameshook violently.
It would be unpardonable desecration to enter the chamber of FatherBeret's soul and look upon his sacred and secret trouble; nor must weeven speculate as to its particulars. The good old man writhed andwrestled before the cross for a long time, until at last he seemed toreceive the calmness and strength he prayed for so fervently; then herose, tore the letter into pieces so small that not a word remainedwhole, and squeezed them so firmly together that they were compressedinto a tiny, solid ball, which he let fall through a crack between thefloor puncheons. After waiting twenty years for that letter, hungry ashis heart was, he did not even open it when at last it arrived. Hewould never know what message it bore. The link between him and the oldsweet days was broken forever. Now with God's help he could do his workto the end.
He went and stood in his doorway, leaning against the side. Was it amere coincidence that the meadowlark flew up just then from itsgrass-tuft, and came to the roof's comb overhead, where it lit with alight yet audible stroke of its feet and began fluting its tender,lonesome-sounding strain? If Father Beret heard it he gave no sign ofrecognition; very likely he was thinking about the cargo of liquor andhow he could best counteract its baleful influence. He looked towardthe "river house," as the inhabitants had named a large shanty, whichstood on a bluff of the Wabash not far from where the road-bridge atpresent crosses, and saw men gathering there.
Meantime Rene de Ronville had delivered Madame Roussillon's letter withdue promptness. Of course such a service demanded pie and claret. Whatstill better pleased him, Alice chose to be more amiable than wasusually her custom when he called. They sat together in the main roomof the house where M. Roussillon kept his books, his curiosities ofIndian manufacture collected here and there, and his surplus firearms,swords, pistols, and knives, ranged not unpleasingly around the walls.
Of course, along with the letter, Rene bore the news, so interesting tohimself, of the boat's tempting cargo just discharged at the riverhouse. Alice understood her friend's danger--felt it in the intenseenthusiasm of his voice and manner. She had once seen the men carousingon a similar occasion when she was but a child, and the impression thenmade still remained in her memory. Instinctively she resolved to holdRene by one means or another away from the river house if possible. Soshe managed to keep him occupied eating pie, sipping watered claret andchatting until night came on and Madame Roussillon brought in a lamp.Then he hurriedly snatched his cap from the floor beside him and got upto go.
"Come and look at my handiwork," Alice quickly said; "my shelf of pies,I mean." She led him to the pantry, where a dozen or more of the cherrypates were ranged in order. "I made every one of them this morning andbaked them; had them all out of the oven before the rain came up. Don'tyou think me a wonder of cleverness and industry? Father Beret waspolite enough to flatter me; but you--you just eat what you want andsay nothing! You are not polite, Monsieur Rene de Ronville."
"I've been showing you what I thought of your goodies," said Rene;"eating's better than talking, you know; so I'll just take one more,"and he helped himself. "Isn't that compliment enough?"
"A few such would make me another hot day's work," she replied,laughing. "Pretty talk would be cheaper and more satisfactory in thelong run. Even the flour in these pates I ground with my own hand in anIndian mortar. That was hard work too."
By this time Rene had forgotten the river house and the liquor. Withsoften
ing eyes he gazed at Alice's rounded cheeks and sheeny hair overwhich the light from the curious earthen lamp she bore in her handflickered most effectively. He loved her madly; but his fear of her wasmore powerful than his love. She gave him no opportunity to speak whathe felt, having ever ready a quick, bright change of mood and mannerwhen she saw him plucking up courage to address her in a sentimentalway. Their relations had long been somewhat familiar, which was butnatural, considering their youth and the circumstances of their dailylife; but Alice somehow had kept a certain distance open between them,so that very warm friendship could not suddenly resolve itself into atroublesome passion on Rene's part.
We need not attempt to analyze a young girl's feeling and motives insuch a case; what she does and what she thinks are mysteries even toher own understanding. The influence most potent in shaping therudimentary character of Alice Tarleton (called Roussillon) had beenonly such as a lonely frontier post could generate. Her associationswith men and women had, with few exceptions, been unprofitable in aneducational way, while her reading in M. Roussillon's little librarycould not have given her any practical knowledge of manners and life.
She was fond of Rene de Ronville, and it would have been quite inaccordance with the law of ordinary human forces, indeed almost theinevitable thing, for her to love and marry him in the fullness oftime; but her imagination was outgrowing her surroundings. Books hadgiven her a world of romance wherein she moved at will, meeting a classof people far different from those who actually shared her experiences.Her day-dreams and her night-dreams partook much more of what she hadread and imagined than of what she had seen and heard in the raw littleworld around her.
Her affection for Rene was interfered with by her large admiration forthe heroic, masterful and magnetic knights who charged through theromances of the Roussillon collection. For although Rene wasunquestionably brave and more than passably handsome, he had no armor,no war-horse, no shining lance and embossed shield--the difference,indeed, was great.
Those who love to contend against the fatal drift of our age towardover-education could find in Alice Tarleton, foster daughter of GaspardRoussillon, a primitive example, an elementary case in point. Whatcould her book education do but set up stumbling blocks in the path ofhappiness? She was learning to prefer the ideal to the real. Her soulwas developing itself as best it could for the enjoyment of conditionsand things absolutely foreign to the possibilities of her lot in life.
Perhaps it was the light and heat of imagination, shining out throughAlice's face, which gave her beauty such a fascinating power. Rene sawit and felt its electrical stroke send a sweet shiver through hisheart, while he stood before her.
"You are very beautiful to-night Alice," he presently said, with asuddenness which took even her alertness by surprise. A flush rose tohis dark face and immediately gave way to a grayish pallor. His heartcame near stopping on the instant, he was so shocked by his own daring;but he laid a hand on her hair, stroking it softly.
Just a moment she was at a loss, looking a trifle embarrassed, thenwith a merry laugh she stepped aside and said:
"That sounds better, Monsieur Rene de Ronville much better; you will beas polite as Father Beret after a little more training."
She slipped past him while speaking and made her way back again to themain room, whence she called to him:
"Come here, I've something to show you."
He obeyed, a sheepish trace on his countenance betraying hisself-consciousness.
When he came near Alice she was taking from its buckhorn hook on thewall a rapier, one of a beautiful pair hanging side by side.
"Papa Roussillon gave me these," she said with great animation. "Hebought them of an Indian who had kept them a long time; where he cameacross them he would not tell; but look how beautiful! Did you ever seeanything so fine?"
Guard and hilt were of silver; the blade, although somewhat corroded,still showed the fine wavy lines of Damascus steel and traces ofdelicate engraving, while in the end of the hilt was set a large ovalturquoise.
"A very queer present to give a girl," said Rene; "what can you do withthem?"
A captivating flash of playfulness came into her face and she sprangbackward, giving the sword a semicircular turn with her wrist. Theblade sent forth a keen hiss as it cut the air close, very close toRene's nose. He jerked his head and flung up his hand.
She laughed merrily, standing beautifully poised before him, therapier's point slightly elevated. Her short skirt left her feet andankles free to show their graceful proportions and the perfect pose inwhich they held her supple body.
"You see what I can do with the colechemarde, eh, Monsieur Rene deRonville!" she exclaimed, giving him a smile which fairly blinded him."Notice how very near to your neck I can thrust and yet not touch it.Now!"
She darted the keen point under his chin and drew it away so quicklythat the stroke was like a glint of sunlight.
"What do you think of that as a nice and accurate piece of skill?"
She again resumed her pose, the right foot advanced, the left arm wellback, her lissome, finely developed body leaning slightly forward.
Rene's hands were up before his face in a defensive position, palmsoutward.
Just then a chorus of men's voices sounded in the distance. The riverhouse was beginning its carousal with a song. Alice let fall hersword's point and listened.
Rene looked about for his cap.
"I must be going," he said.
Another and louder swish of the rapier made him pirouette and dodgeagain with great energy.
"Don't," he cried, "that's dangerous; you'll put out my eyes; I neversaw such a girl!"
She laughed at him and kept on whipping the air dangerously near hiseyes, until she had driven him backward as far as he could squeezehimself into a comer of the room.
Madame Roussillon came to the door from the kitchen and stood lookingin and laughing, with her hands on her hips. By this time the rapierwas making a criss-cross pattern of flashing lines close to the youngman's head while Alice, in the enjoyment of her exercise, seemed toconcentrate all the glowing rays of her beauty in her face, her eyesdancing merrily.
"Quit, now, Alice," he begged, half in fun and half in abject fear;"please quit--I surrender!"
She thrust to the wall on either side of him, then springing lightlybackward a pace, stood at guard. Her thick yellow hair had fallen overher neck and shoulders in a loose wavy mass, out of which her facebeamed with a bewitching effect upon her captive.
Rene, glad enough to have a cessation of his peril, stood laughingdryly; but the singing down at the river house was swelling louder andhe made another movement to go.
"You surrendered, you remember," cried Alice, renewing the sword-play;"sit down on the chair there and make yourself comfortable. You are notgoing down yonder to-night; you are going to stay here and talk with meand Mother Roussillon; we are lonesome and you are good company."
A shot rang out keen and clear; there was a sudden tumult that broke upthe distant singing; and presently more firing at varying intervals cutthe night air from the direction of the river.
Jean, the hunchback, came in to say that there was a row of some sort;he had seen men running across the common as if in pursuit of afugitive; but the moonlight was so dim that he could not be sure whatit all meant.
Rene picked up his cap and bolted out of the house.
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