ALONE WITH DE ARTIGNY
Beyond this I knew nothing; with the coming of help, the sense that I was no longer struggling unaided for life in those treacherous waters, all strength and consciousness left me. When I again awoke, dazed, trembling, a strange blur before my eyes, I was lying upon a sandy beach, with a cliff towering above me, its crest tree-lined, and I could hear the dash of waves breaking not far distant. I endeavored to raise myself to look about, but sank back helpless, fairly struggling for breath. An arm lifted my head from the sand, and I stared into a face bending above me, at first without recollection.
“Lie still a moment,” said a voice gently. “You will breathe easier shortly, and regain strength.”
I knew my fingers closed on the man’s hand convulsively, but the water yet blinded my eyes. He must have perceived this for he wiped my face with a cloth, and it was then I perceived his face clearly, and remembered.
“The Sieur de Artigny!” I exclaimed.
“Of course,” he answered. “Who else should it be, Madame? Please do not regret my privilege.”
“Your privilege; ’tis a strange word you choose, Monsieur,” I faltered, not yet having control of myself. “Surely I have granted none.”
“Perchance not, as there was small chance,” he answered, evidently attempting to speak lightly. “Nor could I wait to ask your leave; yet surely I may esteem it a privilege to bring you ashore alive.”
“It was you then who saved me? I scarcely understood, Monsieur; I lost consciousness, and am dazed in mind. You leaped into the water from the canoe?”
“Yes; there was no other course left me. My boat was beyond yours, a few yards farther out in the lake, when the storm struck. We were partially prepared, for I felt assured there would be trouble.”
“You told Monsieur Cassion so,” I interrupted, my mind clearing. “It was to bring him warning you returned.”
“I urged him to land until we could be assured of good weather. My Indians agreed with me.”
“And he refused to listen; then you permitted your canoe to fall behind; you endeavored to keep close to the boat I was in––was that not true, Monsieur?”
He laughed, but very softly, and the grave look did not desert his eyes.
“You noted me then! Faith, I had no thought you 213 so much as glanced toward us. Well, and why should I not? Is it not a man’s duty to seek to guard your safety in such an hour? Monsieur Cassion did not realize the peril, for he knows naught of the treachery of this lake, while I have witnessed its sudden storms before, and learned to fear them. So I deemed it best to be near at hand. For that you cannot chide me.”
“No, no, Monsieur,” and I managed to sit up, and escape the pressure of his arm. “To do that would be the height of ingratitude. Surely I should have died but for your help, yet I hardly know now what occurred––you sprang from the canoe?”
“Ay, when I found all else useless. Never did I feel more deadly blast; no craft such as ours could face it. We were to your left and rear when your canoe capsized, and I bore down toward where you struggled in the water. An Indian got grip upon you as we swept by, but the craft dipped so that he let go, and then I jumped, for we could never come back, and that was the only chance. This is the whole story, Madame, except that by God’s help, I got you ashore.”
I looked into his face, impressed by the seriousness with which he spoke.
“I––I thank you, Monsieur,” I said, and held out my hand. “It was most gallant. Are we alone here? Where are the others?”
“I do not know, Madame,” he answered, his tone 214 now that of formal courtesy. “’Tis but a short time since we reached this spot, and the storm yet rages. May I help you to stand, so you may perceive better our situation.”
He lifted me to my feet, and I stood erect, my clothes dripping wet, and my limbs trembling so that I grasped his arm for support, and glanced anxiously about. We were on a narrow sand beach, at the edge of a small cove, so protected the waters were comparatively calm, although the trees above bowed to the blast, and out beyond the headland I could see huge waves, whitened with foam, and perceive the clouds of spray flung up by the rocks. It was a wild scene, the roar of the breakers loud and continuous, and the black clouds flying above with dizzy rapidity. All the horror which I had just passed through seemed typified in the scene, and I covered my face with my hands.
“You––you think they––they are all gone?” I asked, forcing the words from me.
“Oh, no,” he answered eagerly, and his hand touched me. “Do not give way to that thought. I doubt if any in your canoe made shore, but the others need not be in great danger. They could run before the storm until they found some opening in the coast line to yield protection. The sergeant was no voyageur, and when one of the paddles broke he steered wrong. With an Indian there you would have floated.”
“Then what can we do?”
“There is naught that I see, but wait. Monsieur Cassion will be blown south, but will return when the storm subsides to seek you. No doubt he will think you dead, yet will scarcely leave without search. See, the sky grows lighter already, and the wind is less fierce. It would be my thought to attain the woods yonder, and build a fire to dry our clothes; the air chills.”
I looked where he pointed, up a narrow rift in the rocks, yet scarcely felt strength or courage to attempt the ascent. He must have read this in my face, and seen my form shiver as the wind struck my wet garments, for he made instant decision.
“Ah, I have a better thought than that, for you are too weak to attempt the climb. Here, lie down, Madame, and I will cover you with the sand. It is warm and dry. Then I will clamber up yonder, and fling wood down; ’twill be but a short time until we have a cheerful blaze here.”
I shook my head, but he would listen to no negative, and so, at last, I yielded to his insistence, and he piled the white sand over me until all but my face was covered. To me the position was ridiculous enough, yet I appreciated the warmth and protection, and he toiled with enthusiasm, his tongue as busy as his hands in effort to make me comfortable.
“’Tis the best thing possible; the warmth of your body will dry your clothes. Ah, it is turning out a worthy adventure, but will soon be over with. The storm is done already, although the waves still beat the shore fiercely. ’Tis my thought Monsieur Cassion will be back along this way ere dusk, and a canoe can scarce go past without being seen while daylight lasts, and at night we will keep a fire. There, is that better? You begin to feel warm?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“Then lie still, and do not worry. All will come out right in a few hours more. Now I will go above, and throw down some dry wood. I shall not be out of sight more than a few minutes.”
From where I lay, my head on a hummock of sand, my body completely buried, I could watch him scale the rocks, making use of the rift in the face of the cliff, and finding no great difficulty. At the top he looked back, waved his hand, and then disappeared among the trees. All was silent about me, except for the dash of distant waves, and the rustle of branches far overhead. I gazed up at the sky, where the clouds were thinning, giving glimpses of faintest blue, and began to collect my own thoughts, and realize my situation.
In spite of my promise to Cassion I was here alone with De Artigny, helpless to escape his presence, or to 217 be indifferent for the service he had rendered me. Nor had I slightest wish to escape. Even although it should be proven that the man was the murderer of my uncle, I could not break the influence he had over me, and now, when it was not proven, I simply must struggle to believe that he could be the perpetrator of the deed. All that I seemed truly conscious of was a relief at being free from the companionship of Cassion. I wanted to be alone, relieved from his attentions, and the fear of what he might attempt next. Beyond this my mind did not go, for I felt weak from the struggle in the water, and a mere desire to lie quiet and rest took possession of all my faculties.
De Artigny appeared at the edge of the cliff, and called to reassure me of his presence. He had his arms filled with broken bits of wood which were tossed to the sand, and, a moment later, he descended the rift in the wall, and paused beside me.
“No sign of anyone up there,” he said, and I felt not regretfully. “The canoes must have been blown some distance down the coast.”
“Were you able to see far?”
“Ay, several leagues, for we are upon a headland, and there is a wide sweep of bay below. The shore line is abrupt, and the waves still high. Indeed I saw no spot in all that distance where a boat might make safe landing. Are you becoming dry?”
“I am at least warm, and already feel much stronger. Would it not be best, Monsieur, for us to scale the cliff, and wait our rescuers there, where we can keep lookout?”
“If you feel able to climb the rocks, although the passage is not difficult. A boat might pass us by here and never be seen, or know of our presence, unless we keep up a fire.”
I held out my hand to him, and he helped me to my feet. The warmth of the sand while it had not entirely dried my clothing, had given me fresh vigor, and I stood erect, requiring no assistance. With this knowledge a new assurance seemed to take possession of me, and I looked about, and smiled.
“I am glad to know you can laugh,” he said eagerly. “I have felt that our being thus shipwrecked together was not altogether to your liking.”
“And why?” I asked, pretending surprise. “Being shipwrecked, of course, could scarcely appeal to me, but I am surely not ungrateful to you for saving my life.”
“As to that, I did no more than any man might be expected to do,” he protested. “But you have avoided me for weeks past, and it can scarcely be pleasant now to be alone with me here.”
“Avoided you! Rather should I affirm it was your own choice, Monsieur. If I recall aright I gave you 219 my confidence once, long ago on the Ottawa, and you refused my request of assistance. Since then you have scarcely been of our party.”
He hesitated, as though doubtful of what he had best say.
“It was never through indifference as to your welfare,” he answered at last, “but obedience to orders. I am but an employee on this expedition.”
My eyes met his.
“Did Monsieur Cassion command that you keep in advance?” I asked, “and make your night camps beyond those of the main company?”
“Those were his special orders, for which I saw no need, except possibly his desire to keep us separated. Yet I did not know his reason, nor was it my privilege to ask. Had Monsieur Cassion any occasion to distrust me?”
“I know not as to occasion, Monsieur, but he left Quebec disliking you because of our conference there, and some words La Barre spoke gave him fresh suspicion that you and I were friends, and should be watched. I do not altogether blame the man for he learned early that I thought little of him, and held it no honor to be his wife. Yet that distrust would have died, no doubt, had it not been fanned into flame by accident.
“I was kept in his boat, and every instant guarded 220 by either himself, or Père Allouez, his faithful servitor, until long after we passed Montreal, and entered the wilderness. That day I met you on the bluff was the first opportunity I had found to be alone. Your crew were beyond the rapids, and Cassion felt there could be no danger in yielding me liberty, although, had the père not been ill, ’tis doubtful if I had been permitted to disappear alone.”
“But he knew naught of our meeting?”
“You mistake, Monsieur. Scarcely had you gone when he appeared, and, by chance, noted your footprints, and traced them to where you descended the cliff. Of course he had no proof, and I admitted nothing, yet he knew the truth, and sought to pledge me not to speak with you again.”
“And you made such pledge?”
“No; I permitted him to believe that I did, for otherwise there would have been an open quarrel. From then until now we have never met.”
“No,” he burst forth, “but I have been oftentimes nearer you than you thought. I could not forget what you said to me at that last meeting, or the appeal you made for my assistance. I realize the position you are in, Madame, married by force to a man you despise, a wife only in name, and endeavoring to protect yourself by wit alone. I could not forget all this, nor be indifferent. I have been in your camp at night––ay, 221 more than once––dreaming I might be of some aid to you, and to assure myself of your safety.”
“You have guarded me?”
“As best I could, without arousing the wrath of Monsieur Cassion. You are not angry? it was but the duty of a friend.”
“No, I am not angry, Monsieur, yet it was not needed. I do not fear Cassion, so long as I can protect myself, for if he attempts evil it will find some form of treachery. But, Monsieur, later I gave him the pledge he asked.”
“The pledge! What pledge?”
“That I would neither meet, nor communicate with you until our arrival at Fort St. Louis.”
My eyes fell before his earnest gaze, and I felt my limbs tremble.
“Mon Dieu! Why? There was some special cause?”
“Yes, Monsieur––listen. Do not believe this is my thought, yet I must tell you the truth. Hugo Chevet was found dead, murdered, at St. Ignace. ’Twas the morning of our departure, and your boat had already gone. Cassion accused you of the crime, as some of the men saw you coming from the direction where the body was found late at night, and others reported that you two had quarreled the evening before. Cassion would have tried you offhand, using his 222 authority as commander of the expedition, but promised not to file charges until we reached St. Louis, if I made pledge––’twas then I gave him my word.”
De Artigny straightened up, the expression on his face one of profound astonishment.
“He––he accused me,” he asked, “of murder to win your promise?”
“No, Monsieur; he believed the charge true, and I pledged myself to assure you a fair trial.”
“Then you believed also that I was guilty of the foul crime?”
I caught my breath, yet there was nothing for me to do but give him a frank answer.
“I––I have given no testimony, Monsieur,” I faltered, “but I––I saw you in the moonlight bending over Chevet’s dead body.”