SPLENDOUR.
In one short day the hand of fate had divided the little band of venturers, destroying the physical life of Flower, leading Woodfield into the trackless forest and losing him there, and driving Viner into the unknown country of the south. Viner's course, during its early stages, may first be followed, beside the lakes and across the thickly wooded plains of the land which was later to be known as the northern part of the State of Maine.
No event marked his journey during the first day. On the second he saw in the distance a party of Dutchmen, who also sighted him and gave chase; but the swift young athlete shook off these slow men with ease. Later he perceived the smoke of an Indian encampment, and bent off his course, fearing lest the tribe might be hostile to all of his complexion. By doing so he lost his bearings, and while attempting to regain them wandered at evening into a glorious valley, bright with flowers, and green with high grass undulating gently in soundless waves. Perceiving a line of trees beyond, Geoffrey determined to gain their shelter, and wait for the stars to guide him back to his southerly route.
He came to a shallow stream, a mere brook winding through the valley amid red willow and wild rice and fragrant beds of brown-topped reeds. A flight of swans passed overhead, their necks outstretched, their bodies casting gaunt shadows across the grass. On the near side patches of bush variegated the plain; beyond, the descending sun cast a dazzling haze. The wind was murmuring in the reeds, and the whistlings of aquatic fowl made a plaintive music. The lonely boy relieved his solitude as he walked, by reciting to the tune of the breeze one of the poetic fables he had learnt at school:
"And when he was unable to restrain his secret, he crept among the reeds, and murmured, 'King Midas has the ears of an ass.' But the reeds betrayed him. When the wind passed they bent together and whispered, 'Midas has the ears of an ass—the ears of an ass.'"
Stepping among the sedges, where single stalks shuddered in the cold water, Geoffrey looked for the ripple which would indicate a place of crossing. The reeds inclined their feathery heads towards him, and the malicious whisper seemed to follow, "Geoffrey has the ears of an ass—the ears of an ass." Laughing at the idle fancy, he ran on at the sight of a line of foam some little way down the stream. Drawing off his shoes, he passed across the yellow gravel, the keen water nipping his ankles, the reeds brushing his head. Old Thames had often been as cold, when as a schoolboy he had waded through its weeds hunting the dive-dapper's nest.
Viner hesitated where the Indian trail split. That to the left ran into the sun. He could scarcely see it, so dazzling was the glory. That to the right was bare and cold, but leading, had he known it, direct to the south. At the foot of a long bank the brook poured away its water, and above in the fruit-bushes the wild canaries sang away the hours. The youth took the bow from his shoulder, held it on end, and let it fall. The bow pointed as he wished, as perhaps his fingers had guided it at the moment of release. It fell into the sun.
A breath of fire was in the splendour ahead, an acrid smoke crept down, he heard the crackling of twigs. It seemed to the traveller that the sun was consuming the grove before him. A voice began to sing. Geoffrey tried to persuade himself that some little yellow bird was sitting in the sun-grove warbling its soul out to him. Then an envious night cloud swooped upon the lord of day and rolled him up in its dewy blanket, and immediately a palisade, a grass roof, and a thicket started out like black upon white. But the song went on.
A log-cabin stood right in the centre of the setting sun, a snaky palisade winding around, enclosing also a garden planted with corn and potatoes, where already blade and crinkled leaf pushed from the dark alluvial soil. Trees surrounded the house.
Amid the smoke the side of an iron pot showed at intervals. The singer held her head back, the slightest frown creasing her forehead. She was waiting for the fire to burn clearly, and to encourage it she sang.
Her hair, which hung all about her body, was golden-brown, no one tress the same shade as another, the whole a bewildering mantle of beauty. Its wealth became reckless when one crafty ray of sunlight eluded the cloud and shot across her head.
"Oh, oh!" she sighed, breaking off her bird-like song. "The sun will not let my fire burn, and—this wicked wind!"
The breeze, delighting to flirt with so glorious a creature, veered slyly, and fanned the bitter smoke around her. She danced away coughing, her cheeks scarlet, her red mouth gasping for pure air, her tresses gleaming in their mesh of sunlight. Her movements were as supple as the swaying dance of the pine-branch over her. She tried to laugh while she caught at her breath, and, failing, fell back panting, showing her tiny teeth.
Then the violet eyes moved along the path, and all the pretty laughter went out. A white hand drifted like falling snow, stole a tress of hair, and shining pearls began cruelly to bite the silk.
No maid could have desired a fairer vision.
Geoffrey, tall, slender, and flushed, stood between the trees, his bow in his hands, his Saxon blue eyes meeting the violet glances of timidity with free admiration. The maid of the fire-side beheld his clear complexion, his fair hair tied loosely at the nape of his neck, his strong figure; and as she watched for a few moments, which were not measured by time, her bosom began to rise and fall. Had she not prayed for such a vision? She had surely wasted her sweetness long enough upon the unsatisfying things of her daily life in that lone, hard land. There was that in her young blood which rebelled against her convent-like environment, where she had indeed her freedom, but where the tree of knowledge had not been trained to grow.
Viner stepped out and doffed his feathered cap.
"Fair mistress," he said, bending before this beauty of the grove, "give me your pardon for coming on you so suddenly. I am a traveller on my way to the south."
Madeleine Labroquerie answered him only with her eyes.
"Can you tell me how many English miles I am from Plymouth?"
He looked up, and learnt that the sun had not yet left the grove. He saw the cloud of hair waving iridescent. His gaze wandered over the beautiful head, until two eyes like purple iris flowers met his.
"But I am not English."
"Yet you speak in English," he protested.
"Why, yes. In England I was brought up. I love England; but I am French, and a Protestant."
Geoffrey looked into the grove as he spoke on softly, mindful of his duty:
"Tell me, lady, how many days must I travel before I come to the province of Massachusetts?"
Madeleine Labroquerie had not a word to say. This handsome stranger had hardly arrived, and already he suggested departure.
"I must not delay," he faltered.
"My fire!" cried Madeleine, stretching out her hands. "It will not burn. Stranger"—she turned to him with a winsome glance—"will you make my fire burn?"
She hurried to the smoking pile. He was beside her instantly.
"You shall not soil those hands."
"They are already smoked and soiled. And see—a burn!"
Because Geoffrey dared not look Madeleine pouted at his back. Then she kicked the smouldering wood, and exclaimed spitefully, "There!"
"Your fire is too closely packed."
"It is not," she snapped, daring him with her eyes.
"You say it is not," he agreed; but loosening the heap.
"I fear that it was," she sighed. "And the wood is damp."
Geoffrey rebuilt the fire, placing the hot embers to face the wind, and fanned the sticks until they burst into flame.
The daylight went out like a failing lamp, and a red glow flung about them as the fire increased.
"I know that you are weary, sir," said the girl winningly. "Let me lead you into the house and present you to my mother."
Seeing wonder upon the young man's face, she pointed her shapely hand through the smoke.
"Down there my father lies," she explained in a hushed voice. "Deep in the hollow where the beavers bite the bark at night. There the Indians made his grave. French though we are, the Iroquois have been friendly, because my father, who was a skilled physician, used them well. Here my father hid from the world. He found a rest here, and yonder he rests still hidden. I am with my mother and one native servant, who loves us because my father saved his life. And I—I have never known a friend."
"Lady," said Geoffrey suddenly, "I would serve you if I might."
"Rest you here a few days," she said quickly, "and tell my mother what is doing in the world."
"I must down to the coast."
"Did you say Plymouth just now? Learn how ignorant I am. I did not know there was a town of that name in all the New World. I have been to the English Plymouth. There I saw the brave ships in her harbour, and the red and white flags, and the sailors looking over the sea for what might come sailing by, watching thus and hoping all the day. That was a happy time."
"There are yet as good men in Plymouth as ever sailed westward from the Hoe," said the boy with eager pride.
While he spoke the expression on Madeleine's face altered. She drew away, murmuring as she moved, "Here is Madame, my mother." She added hurriedly, and as he thought with fear, "I pray you be gracious to her."
Viner turned, and there in the fire glow walked a little old woman in black, a white cap holding her thin grey hair, her face pale, her eyes sunken, and her colourless lips a tight line. She smiled coldly, and showed no amazement when her daughter presented the traveller.
"You are welcome, sir," she said in English. "We are poor and lonely folk left to perish in the wilderness. My husband was an atheist, a philosopher, and every man's hand was against him. He brought his wife and family to the New World that he might study in peace and learn somewhat of Nature's secrets. Last summer he was taken, babbling of the work of his misspent life, careless of our farewells, heedless of the state in which he left us. Philosophy is of a truth the devil's work, inasmuch as it hardens the heart of man, loses him his God, and wraps its slave in selfishness."
The old woman signed herself slowly; then suddenly pushed beside the traveller and snatched at her daughter's arm.
"Cross yourself, girl! Infidel, cross yourself!" she cried.
"Mother!" Madeleine shrank back, appealing with her lovely eyes.
"Lutheran!" screamed the little woman. "Make the holy sign, and so strive to save your wicked soul from the pit of destruction wherein your father lies."
"My faith is fixed," murmured the girl. "Ah, ah!" she panted.
Madame Labroquerie struck the girl thrice upon her fair cheek, staining the white skin red as a roseleaf.
"Madame, forbear!" Viner stood between them, his blood hot with shame. "This is no sight for a stranger and a man to witness."
The little woman smiled at him and abandoned her daughter, who bent over the fire to hide her crimson face.
"You are English, sir. Your brave countrymen yield to none in their respect for a woman, when she be young and fair to see. Let her be old, they shall call her witch and fling her in the nearest pond. There be young witches, good sir, better able to seduce the soul of man than the old, though they keep neither cat nor toad, nor ride at night across the face of the moon."
Madame Labroquerie made him a low courtesy, and walked noiselessly to the gate of the palisade.
"That so lovely a daughter should be cursed with such a mother!" muttered the youth as he watched her go.
He came to the side of Madeleine, and found her crying.
"My mother has a strange temper. She has suffered much," the girl sighed.
There was a pause, one of those rare intervals when ears are opened to the music of the spheres, and souls may meet.
"You are not happy here," he said.
Her glorious eyes were two blossoms heavy with dew.
"Friend!" She put out one hand, groping for something to hold. "I am miserable."
They stood together, hand in hand.
"She struck you."
There was no answer. Divine pity dropped upon his heart, sweet and dangerous pity out of heaven.
"Stay a little," she whispered. "For the sake of your religion, stay. If for a day only, stay. Stay, for a woman's sake."
It was dark in the grove outside the circle of the fire. He drew at her fingers. He bent his head suddenly and breathed upon them. She placed her other hand—a cold little hand—upon his.
Then the evening breeze flung itself sportingly into the trees, and all the branches sprang before it, and the foliage danced and shouted in a laugh, singing noisily the old secret of the river reeds, singing, "Midas is a king of gold—a king of gold."
So the fire died down into an angry red, and all the birds of the grove were songless. Madame walked alone from the rude house, her small face white against dark clouds, and passed into the clearing. The Indian who worked for the widow and daughter approached with a burden of wood.
"Wind is coming," he said in his own tongue.
"May it blow away heresy and all heretics," muttered the little woman.