Because of conscience

by Amy Ella Blanchard

“He is very wet; he will take cold, I am afraid,” said Alaine to the man, who was looking at her curiously. “As for me,” she continued, “on that broad back I scarcely touched the water enough to hurt me.”

“But Jeanne?” Father Bisset interrupted.

Antoine placed his hand on the questioner’s shoulder and conducted him across the floor to where an inner room was roughly separated from the larger apartment. Alaine did not follow, but drew nearer the fire and crouched on the hearth to wring the water from her damp moccasins and to dry her sleeves. By the dim, flickering light she saw that here was a dwelling of the rudest kind; a roughly fashioned bench, a table, a pile of skins in one corner, a few cooking-utensils, were all that she could discern. From the inner room had come a quick exclamation, a surprised scream of delight, laughter and sobs mingled, and then voluble words expressive of astonishment, commiseration, and inquiry. Presently reappeared Antoine bearing a light, and behind him came two figures. At first sight these were so exactly alike that Alaine stared. Were there two Father Bissets, one many years younger than the other? She rubbed her eyes and looked again. A red kerchief was tied around each of these two heads; each wore a fringed deer-skin jacket, below which was wrapped an Indian blanket. The two faces showed alike kindly eyes, expansive lips, and the same genial smile. Then the older spoke. “This is Jeanne Crepin, my sister Jeanne, who remembers well little Alaine Hervieu in her babyhood.”

Alaine at once comprehended; this was the sister of her old friend, the young sister of whom Michelle had often told her, who had married a gay young Parisian and had followed him overseas. There was some difficulty, some crime which affected these two, Alaine remembered, and they had not remained to take any risks. It was said that Father Bisset had covered the retreat, but of this no one could be positive, but it seemed that all these years he had kept track of the fugitives. It was all true, then, and here they were.

“Alaine Hervieu resembles her mother,” came Jeanne Crepin’s deep voice. “She is very welcome.”

“And now you know,” said Father Bisset, “why I was not so concerned when I learned that our destination would be Canada, for Canada I intended to reach, whether by Hudson, by sea, or by land, it mattered not, and I laughed in my sleeve that François Dupont should be helping me on my way.”

Alaine smiled. She feared François no longer. “And all these years you have been living in these woods?” she asked of Jeanne.

“In these woods; they are kinder than cities. One can learn how to face open foes; it is those who approach us as friends that are most to be feared.”

Antoine nodded gravely. Alaine looked at him with some curiosity. Michelle had described him as a handsome young cavalier, gay and full of life; this serious, reticent old man did not answer to her description. Was he really guilty of that mysterious crime, and so bowed under the weight of it, or was it the injustice of being considered guilty while he was innocent that had embittered him? Alaine wondered over it. But she was tired, and the warmth of the room and the effect of a warm herby drink given her soon made her drowsy, so that her head began to droop, and she threw herself down on the pile of skins in the corner, dimly conscious that a low-voiced conversation went on for hours. Although she felt more secure than she had for weeks, she felt singularly lonely, and she slipped into a sleep to dream that she struggled alone through a sea whose waves ever beat her from the shore.

Having cast in his lot with these children of the wood, Jacques Bisset followed as closely as possible their manner of living, sallying forth into the crisp cold air with gun on shoulder, joining in with the mirth of Jeanne, holding friendly one-sided conversations with such Indians as they met, and teaching Alaine such woodcraft as he thought might be useful to her. Antoine, himself grave and silent, had a smile for no one but the cheerful Jeanne, yet he showed his brother-in-law more graciousness of manner than he did any other. During the long evenings there was time enough for talk, at least it was Father Bisset who chiefly did the talking; Jeanne would put in her eager, saucy questions, and Alaine, well wrapped in furs, would crouch in a warm corner and listen, yet often letting her thoughts wander. Where were they, her father and Pierre, and—Lendert? Yes, Lendert. Even here, and in spite of all these changing scenes, she could not forget him. The devotion of Jeanne and her husband touched her deeply, and Antoine reminded her of Pierre. Poor Pierre, if he had returned he would wait and watch for her the rest of his days. But Lendert, had he forgotten? Yet it was of Lendert she thought the most frequently; it was Lendert she loved. There had been moments of peril, moments of solemn night when truth must be answered by truth; she had tried to retreat, but truth had held her and would be answered, and she, trembling, had confessed to Danger and to Night, “There is one I love. I cannot help it; I have tried with all my strength, but Love is mightier than I, and I am slave to love.” Then, as some red embers dropped with a soft brustle from the burning logs, she would start from her revery and come back to hear what Father Bisset was saying. Now he spoke of Holland, then of England. He had been in both places. Were they surprised, Jeanne and Antoine, that he was Huguenot? They had suffered; they would understand that a matter of conscience,—well, that was it.