Chapter 8

"Yes, it is a stupendous thought."

"How does it feel?"

"Well, I can still see and hear a little; and I am holding on to my teeth. Of course, the lungs, liver, brain, and all the more perishable organs have long since gone."

"Naturally."

"But the heart is still there, and thumping hard and strong for the finest woman in the world."

"Well, the heart is everything, and you are a good boy--I mean a good old man."

"Thanks."

"And as soon as we get to the cottage I shall--" She pressed his arm, stopped suddenly, and listened. "Why, what was that?"

"What was what?"

"Out on the water, off the point there. I heard a noise like a steamboat."

Both listened.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"I certainly thought so."

Again they listened. Nothing was heard, however, except the lapping of the waves along the beach.

At last, in a low tone, Pats muttered:

"A whole fleet might be within a mile on a day like this and nobody know it. Are you sure it wasn't Solomon? He is a heavy breather sometimes."

She sighed. "Very likely. With this blanket about one's ears anything was possible."

They started on again. A few moments later the final shower had ceased. Swiftly the clouds dispersed, but the mist, although illumined by the sun, still lingered over land and sea. Solomon, followed by his friends, climbed the gentle ascent at the end of the beach, and as they hastened on among the pines all felt a mild excitement on approaching the cottage.

Gathered about the doorway, as if to welcome the returning travellers, stood a few white hens and the pompous rooster. To this impressive bird Pats took off his hat with a deferential bow.

"Glad to see you again, Senator."

"Why 'Senator'? Because nobody listens when he talks?" Elinor had been to Washington.

"Yes; and he knows so little and feels so good over it."

From its hiding-place behind the vines, Pats took the key and opened the door. With a military salute he stood aside, and the lady entered. He followed; and as he unslung his knapsack Elinor looked about her with a pleased expression.

"How rich it all is!" she exclaimed. "I had forgotten what a splendid collection we had."

Pats drew a long breath, as if to inhale the magnificence.

"Are you familiar with bric-à-brac shops?" he asked.

"Yes."

"And with the rooms of old palaces and châteaux that are opened only when visitors arrive?"

"Yes."

"Well, this is that smell."

She also inhaled, and closed her eyes. "So it is."

"It's the tapestries and old wood, and the bloom on the paintings, I suppose. But it's good. I like it."

"It's a little musty, perhaps, but--"

She stopped so suddenly that Pats turned toward her. With a look of surprise she was pointing to the dining-table, close beside them. In the centre of this table, and very white against the dark oak, lay an envelope. Upon it had been placed a silver spoon to prevent disturbance from any possible gust of air through the open door.

"Some one has been here!" And she regarded Pats with startled eyes.

Before touching the letter he instinctively cast a look about the room for other evidence. While he was doing it, Elinor pointed toward the farther end of the cottage, to the kitchen table, and whispered:

"Look!"

Upon that table rested a pile of cans, boxes, and sundry packages. For a short moment both regarded in silence this almost incredible display. Then Pats took up the letter. On the envelope was no address--no name nor writing whatsoever. He turned it over in his fingers. "I suppose it is intended for the old gentleman, the owner of the place."

"And how careful they are that nobody shall know his name."

"There must have been several men here to bring up all these provisions, and whoever left the letter had no intention of giving the old gentleman away," and Pats tossed the letter upon the table.

Elinor in turn picked it up and looked it over. "I _would_ like to know what it says."

"So would I," said Pats. "Let's open it."

"Open another man's letter!" And she frowned.

"It may not be a letter. It may be some information as to when they are coming again, or what he is to do about provisions or something important for us to know. Our getting away from here may depend on what is inside that envelope."

"Yes, that is possible."

"Well, open it."

But she handed it back to him. "No, _you_ must do it."

Pats tore open the envelope. Elinor stepped nearer and stood beside him, that she also might read.

"It is in French." Then he began

"_Monsieur le Duc_--"

"Why, the old gentleman was a duke!" exclaimed Elinor.

"I am not surprised. You know we always suspected him of being a howling swell. But this writing and the language are too much for me. You really must read it." And he put the paper in her hands.

Elinor's French was perfect, but after the first sentence Pats interrupted:

"Translate as you go along. It is too important to take chances with, and I never was at home in that deceitful tongue."

Elinor dropped into the chair that stood beside her. Pats sat upon the edge of the table.

Monsieur Le Duc:

It is with a grand regret that I find myself unable to pay my respects in person to your Grace, but a broken ankle keeps me a prisoner in the cabin. If there is anything your Grace wishes to communicate, have the extreme goodness to send me a note by the bearer. He can be trusted. I leave the stores following last instructions. Enclosed is the list. The bearer will bring to me your new list from behind the door, if by chance you are not at home.

Your Grace's devoted servitor, Jacques Lafenestre.

She laid the letter on the table. "What a shame! It really tells us nothing."

"Not a thing. Lafenestre might at least have mentioned the date of the next visit."

"They all seem dreadfully afraid we may learn something." She took up the other paper and unfolded it. "This is the list."

Then she read:

"Four sacks corn-meal, Two sacks Graham flour, Four boxes crackers, Two barrels potatoes."

"Those must be downstairs," said Pats. "I see the cellar door is open."

Elinor continued:

"One box lemons, Four dozen candles, Four dozen Pontet Canet, Six pounds tobacco--"

"Good!" said Pats. "Just what we need."

She went on:

"Four pounds coffee, Four boxes matches, One pocket-knife, Six pairs woollen socks, Six old maids--"

"Six _what_?"

"Six old maids: _vieilles filles_--that is certainly old maids."

"Yes, but, Heavens! What does he want so many for? And where are they? In the cellar?"

She smiled, still regarding the paper. "But you needn't worry. They are something to wear. It says six old maids, extra thick and double length."

"Double length! Well, each man to his taste. Go on."

"That is all," and she dropped the paper on the table and looked up into his face. Thoughtfully he stroked the three days' beard upon his chin. He was watching through the open door the last clouds of mist as they floated by, driven before the wind.

Suddenly he jumped to his feet. "Then you were right about the boat! You _did_ hear one. And it was here an hour ago!"

Quickly he snatched a shotgun from the wall, rushed out of the house, down to the edge of the point and discharged one of the barrels. He shouted at the top of his voice, fired the second barrel and shouted again. For a few moments he stood looking off into the slowly dissolving fog, listening vainly for an answering sound.

Elinor joined him.

"I know it's of no use," he said, "for the wind is in the wrong direction. But I thought I would try it."

A moment later the final cloud of mist in which they stood was swept away, giving a clear view over all the waters to the south. And they saw, disappearing toward the west, around a promontory, a speck upon the blue horizon, and behind it a line of smoke.

In a melancholy silence both watched this far-away handful of vapor until it faded into space. When no trace remained of the vanished craft, Pats dropped the empty gun, slowly turned his head and regarded his companion. In Elinor's eyes, as they met his own, he recognized a gallant effort at suppressing tears. Remembering her resolve of yesterday he smiled,--a smile of admiration, of gratitude, and encouragement.

She also smiled, for she read his thoughts. And something more was plainly written in his face,--that self-effacing, immortal thing that lovers live on; and it shone clear and honest from this lover's eyes. Whereupon she stepped forward; he gathered her in his arms, and an ancient ceremony was observed,--very ancient, indeed, primitive and easily executed.

Solomon, weary of this oft-repeated scene, looked away with something like a sigh, then closed his eyes in patience.

XIV

PILGRIMS

Another June.

Along the northern shore of the St. Lawrence Gulf, through the cold, gray light of early dawn, a yacht was steaming eastward.

Leaning against the rail, near the bow, a woman with eager eyes watched the elusive coast. But this coast, in the spreading light, was rapidly revealing itself, becoming less ethereal, more savage and majestic. The woman was daintily attired. Every detail of her apparel, from the Parisian hat to the perfect-fitting shoes, while simple and designed expressly _pour le voyage_, was sumptuous in its simplicity. Although about thirty-five years of age, her round, rather wide face, graceful figure, and vivacious expression would have made deception easy if she cared to practise it. In feelings, in manner, and in appearance, she was eighteen. And she would never be older. A peculiar droop at the outer corners of two large and very dark eyes, and a mouth--too small for the face--with a slight and rather infantile projection of the upper lip gave a plaintive, half-melancholy expression to an otherwise merry and youthful face.

Behind her, pacing to and fro, a strongly built, elderly man with heavy face and heavy hands, also watched the coast.

"_Voila, Jacques_!" and the lady pointed to a promontory in front, just revealed by the vanishing mist. "_Le voila, n'est-ce pas_?"

The man stepped forward and stood beside her. After a careful scrutiny he replied, also in French:

"Truly, I think it is."

"_Ah, le bonheur_! At last! And how soon shall we land?"

He hesitated, stroking the end of his nose with a stubby finger. "In less than two hours."

"In less than two hours! Absurd! You mean to say in less than twenty minutes, is it not?"

He shrugged his shoulders in respectful protestation. "But, Princess, deign to remember that we are still some miles from this headland, and that Monsieur, your father, is yet farther away,--some fifteen miles, at the very end of the bay which lies beyond."

She frowned and turned away. "Are we going as fast as possible?"

"I think so."

"Well, if you are not sure of it, Jacques, go down and tell that engineer to enliven his exasperating machinery. Make everything turn faster, or I shall jump into the sea and swim ahead. It is of a slowness to rend the nerves."

Jacques Lafenestre moved away to carry out this order. From his youth up he had served this lady and her parents. And when the father, for excellent reasons, left France in haste and came into the wilderness, the old servant followed. Later on he settled in Quebec as keeper of an inn. And ever since that day he had maintained communication with his master.

As the Princess walked impatiently up and down the deck, erect and with elastic tread, often looking at her watch and frowning, she gave the impression of a commanding little person, much accustomed to having her own way--and with no talent for resignation. And when, a few moments later, another individual appeared upon the deck, a tall, thin, dark-robed ecclesiastic, evidently of high degree, with fine features and a stately bearing, she hastened to express her annoyance. To his polite greeting she replied rapidly:

"Good-morning, your Grace; but tell me, did you ever see anything like this boat? Did you ever imagine a thing could crawl with such a slowness--such a slowness? I shall die of it! I believe the screw is working backwards."

The Archbishop smiled,--that is, his mouth lengthened, for mirth and he were strangers,--"But it seems to me we move, Princess, and quite rapidly."

"Rapidly! Well, never mind. Time and the wind will get us there. But why are you up so early? This is an hour when gentlemen are abed."

"I could not sleep."

"Ah, the misfortune! For you may have a hard day. Remember, you are to do your best, and use your strongest arguments. You will need them. My father is wilful."

"Have no fears, Princess, I shall do all in my power, for the cause seems righteous. The Duc de Fontrévault is, as you say, too old a man to be left alone under such conditions."

"Surely! And you are the one of all others to convince him. He will not listen to the rest of us. And don't fail to impress upon him his duty to his family. That is your strongest point, is it not?"

"Yes, and that now he can return with safety."

She shook her head. "No, do not rely too much on that, for he loves his wilderness. And he has known for a long time all danger was past. Better attack his conscience, and his sense of duty."

"As you say, Princess. And I shall spare no effort."

"Then you will succeed." And looking up with a smile, "You could convince anybody of anything, dear Archbishop. A few words from you, if you could only get him alone, and the devil himself would turn over a new leaf--perhaps join the Church. Who knows?"

For these sentiments his Grace had no responsive smile. This lady from Paris, while a good Catholic, seemed to have so little reverence for certain sanctities that he was always on his guard. Her nature was not of the sort he preferred to deal with. There were too many conflicting elements. No one could tell with precision just when she was serious or when she was having a little fun. And, moreover, the dignity of an archbishop was not a thing to be compromised. But she was a _grande dame_, a person of great influence--also of great wealth and a free giver. And the Archbishop was no fool.

As they rounded the promontory and came in sight of the bay the emotion of the Princess was apparent. Impatiently she walked the deck. With the sun once fairly above the water, the little point of land at the farther end of the bay showed clearly in the morning light.

She beckoned the old servant to her side.

"There it is, Jacques! I see distinctly the cottage, a little mass of green against the shadows of the pines. And surely there is smoke from the chimney! My father is an early riser; already up and cooking his breakfast. Is it not so, Jacques?"

"Yes, I do not doubt Monsieur le Duc cooks his breakfast at this moment."

"What enormous trees!" she went on. "Beautiful, beautiful! And they stretch away forever. An ocean of pines! I had forgotten they were so tall--so gigantic. How many minutes now, Jacques, before we arrive?"

Jacques frowned and shrugged his heavy shoulders. "I shall not tell you."

"Wicked old man!"

And again, through her glass, she studied the coast.

He had carried this lady in his arms before she could walk; he had superintended, in a way, her childhood; and so, like many old servants in France, he was not expected to bear in mind, at all times, certain differences in birth.

With a fresh enthusiasm she exclaimed: "And there, down below, to the right, is the little beach--the ravishing little beach! How I loved it! Here, take the glasses, Jacques, and regard it."

Jacques regarded. "Yes, it is a good beach."

She dropped the glasses in their case, folded the daintily gloved hands upon the rail, and for several moments gazed in silence at the coast in front. Her face, in repose, became somewhat sadder, and now there was a moisture in the eyes.

"Tell me again, Jacques, just how long it is since you were here?"

"Eight months."

"Much can happen in eight months."

"Yes, without doubt, but then it is to be remembered that when I was here last, in the month of September--all went well."

"You did not see him yourself, however."

"No, my broken ankle kept me aboard, but those who went ashore with the provisions brought a good report."

"But they did not _see_ him."

"No, for he was away, probably on one of his hunting trips. But why disquiet yourself, Princess? We see the smoke rising from the chimney."

"Yes, it is true. You have reason."

When, at last, they arrived, the Princess was one of the first to land, and she hastened up the narrow path to the grove above. Although in haste to greet her father, she paused among the big trees to inhale the piney fragrance. With a smile of rapture she gazed upward and about. These old friends! How unchanged! And how many years they carried her back! As a very little girl her imagination had revelled without restraint and, to her heart's desire, in this enchanted grove. And now she was listening to the old-time murmurings, high above--the same plaintive whispering--the familiar voices, never to be forgotten--that told her everything a little girl could wish to hear, and whenever she cared to hear it.

But she lingered for a moment only. With eager steps she hurried toward the cottage--picturing to herself an old gentleman's amazement when he recognized his visitor.

The door was open. She stood upon the threshold and looked in--and listened. No sound came to her ears except from the old clock behind the door. How familiar this solemn warning of the passing time! It seemed a part of her youth, left behind and suddenly found again. But her heart was beating many times faster than the stately ticking of this passionless machine. Silently she entered and stood beside the table. She saw the hangings, the pictures, the busts, the furniture, precisely as she had known them, years ago.

From behind the tapestry came a sound, faintly, as of some one moving. She smiled and there was a quivering of the lips. Then, in a low but clear voice, she said:

"_Petit père_"

XV

REVELATIONS

The rustle of a sudden movement--and an exclamation half suppressed--came from within the chamber. Then the tapestry was pushed aside.

The Princess, at sight of the figure that emerged, took a backward step, her smile of welcome supplanted by a look of wonder. Another woman stood before her, also pausing in surprise, a hand still holding the tapestry. This woman was young and slight of figure, erect, dark-haired, and sunburned. In a single glance the quick eye of the Princess took in a number of details. She noticed that the stranger wore a jacket so faded that no trace of its original color remained; that the skirt, equally faded, was also stained and patched. But to the critical Parisian it was obvious that these garments, although threadbare, frayed, and weather-beaten, fitted extremely well.

Now, while the Princess was the more surprised of the two, the girl in the faded garments experienced a greater bewilderment. For this visitor bore a startling resemblance to the miniature,--the wife whose grave was among the pines. And Elinor stared, as if half awake, at the round face, the drooping eyes, and the very familiar features of this sudden guest. Even the arrangement of the hair was unchanged, and the infantile mouth appeared exactly as depicted in the little portrait that hung beside her. Had this portrait come to life and stood near its own chair, the effect would have been the same.

But the lady from Paris was the first to find her voice. In French, with somewhat frigid politeness, she said:

"Pardon me, Mademoiselle; I expected to find another person here."

Also in French the girl replied:

"Madame is the daughter, perhaps, of the gentleman who lived here?"

The Princess, with her head, made a slight affirmative movement. And she frowned more from anxiety than resentment as she asked: "You say _lived_ here. Does he not live here now?"

And she read in the face before her, from its sympathy and sadness, the answer she dreaded.

Elinor, before replying, came nearer to the table. "Do you speak English?"

The Princess nodded, and seated herself in the chair of the miniature, and with clasped hands and a pale face, whispered:

"He is--dead?"

Elinor took the opposite chair. "May I tell you about it in English? I can do it more easily and better than in French."

"Certainly, certainly. And tell me all--everything."

Bravely the Princess listened. The tears flowed as she heard the story, pressing her handkerchief to her eyes, and even trying to smile at times in grateful sympathy for the narrator's efforts at consolation.

"Tell me how he looked the day you found him. Did he seem to have been--ill--to have suffered?"

"We thought him asleep. There was no trace of suffering. The color of his face surprised us."

When the story of his burial was finished, the Princess rose from her seat, came around and stood by Elinor, and took her hand. "I owe you so much. You were very good and considerate. I am grateful, very grateful. He was unfortunate in his life. It is a consolation to know his death was happy, and that he was reverently buried."

Then Elinor, after hesitating, decided to ask a question.

"If it is no secret, and if you care to do it, would you mind telling me why he came across the water, out here in the forest, and lived in such a way?"

"Assuredly! And even if it were a secret I should tell you. In the first place, he was the Duc de Fontrévault, a very good name in France, as perhaps you know. He fell in love--oh, so fiercely in love!--with a lady who was to marry--well, who was betrothed to a king. It sounds like a fairy tale, _n'est-ce pas_?"

"It does, indeed!"

The Princess was now sitting on the arm of Elinor's chair, looking down into her face, in a motherly, or elder sisterly, sort of way.

"Well, you would know all about the king if I told you. He died only the other day, so you will soon guess him. _C'était un vaurien, un imbécile_. My father not only loved this--"

She stopped, abruptly, leaning forward with one hand upon the table. "_Mais, Mon Dieu!_ there is my portrait! My old miniature of twenty years ago! How came it there?" And she pointed to the opposite chair.

"We found it hanging there when we came, and have never disturbed it."

"You found it hanging there, on the back of that chair?"

"Yes."

"My own chair--where I used to sit! So, then, I was always before him!"

Elinor nodded. In the eyes of the Princess came fresh tears. She undertook to say more, but failed; and getting up, she walked around the table and dropped into Pats's chair, gurgling something in French about the _petit père_. Then she broke down completely, buried her face in her hands, and made no effort to control her grief.

When she recovered composure, her self-reproaches were bitter for allowing so many years to go by without a visit to this devoted parent. Smiling as she dried her eyes,--the eyes with the drooping corners, old friends to Elinor,--she said: "You, also, had me for a guest all this time."

"No, for a hostess. It is your house."

"And where do _you_ sit?"

"Here, where I am."

"Then I have been your _vis-à-vis_?"

"Yes."

The Princess smiled. "Well, my face must be terribly familiar to you. Perhaps you recognized me at first?"

"Yes; I supposed you must be his daughter. But we believed the portrait to be your mother."

"How amusing! But poor mamma! there is no portrait of her here. She came away in too much of a hurry to stop for trifles."

She studied the miniature in silence, then, leaning back in her chair:

"_Mais, voyons!_ I was telling something."

"About your father--why he came here."

"Ah, yes! Well, for a man to marry, or try to marry--or to dream of marrying--a princess formally betrothed to a king was _quelque chose d'inouïe_. But he was badly brought up, this little father of mine: always having his own way,--_un enfant gâté_,--you know, a child made worse--a child damaged--hurt--what am I trying to say?"