Part 18 (1/2)
”Myself,” said Pierre Noir, ”shall sleep beneath the boat to-night, for since she sheds water from below, she may do as well from above.”
”Even so, Pierre Noir,” said Du Mesne, ”but get you the boat farther toward your own camp to-night. Do you not see that Monsieur L'as is not with us?”
”_Eh bien_?”
”And were he not surely with us at such time, unless--?”
”Oh, _a.s.surement_!” replied Pierre Noir. ”Jean Breboeuf, aid me in taking the boat back to our camp in the woods.”
Now came the rain. Not in steady and even downpour, not with intermittent showers, but in a sidelong, terrifying torrent, drenching, biting, cutting in its violence. The swift weight of the rain gave to the trees more burden than they could bear. As before the storm, when all was still, there had come time and again the warning boom of a falling tree, stricken with mysterious mortal dread of that which was to come, so now, in the riot of that arrived danger, first one and then another wide-armed monarch of the wood crashed down, adding with its downfall to the testimony of the a.s.sailing tempest's strength and fury.
The lightning now came not only in ragged blazes and long ripping lines of light, but in bursts and shocks, and in bomb-like b.a.l.l.s, exploding with elemental detonations. b.a.l.l.s of this tense surcharged essence rolled out over the comb of the bluff, fell upon the shadows of the water, and seemed to bound from crest to white-capped crest, till at last they split and burst asunder like some ominous missiles from engines of wrath and destruction.
And now, suddenly, all grew still again. The sky took on a lighter, livid tone, one of pure venom. There came a whisper, a murmur, a rush as of mighty waters, a sighing as of an army of the condemned, a shrieking as of legions of the lost, a roaring as of all the soul-felt tortures of a world. From the forest rose a continuous rending crash. The whiplash of the tempest cracked the tree trunks as a child beheads a row of daisies. Piled up, falling, riven asunder, torn out by the wind, the giant trees joined the toys which the cynic storm gathered in its hands and bore along until such time as it should please to crush and drop them.
There pa.s.sed out over the black sea of Michiganon a vast black wraith; a thing horrible, tremendous, t.i.tanic in organic power. It howled, execrated, menaced; missed its aim, and pa.s.sed. The little swaying house still stood! Under the sheltered log some tiny sparks of fire still burned, omen of the unquenchable hearthstones which the land was yet to know!
”Holy G.o.d! what was it? What was that which pa.s.sed?” cried Jean Breboeuf, crawling out from beneath his shelter. ”Saint Mary defend us all this night! 'Twas the great Canoe of the d.a.m.ned, running _au large_ across the sky! Mary, Mother of G.o.d, hear my vow! Prom this time Jean Breboeuf shall lead a better life!”
The storm, baffled, pa.s.sed on. The rain, unsatisfied, sullenly ceased in its attack. The waves, hopeless but still vindictive, began to call back their legions from the narrow sh.o.r.e. The lightnings, unsated in their wrath, flared and flickered on and out across the eastward sea. With wild laughter and shrieks and imprecations, the spirit of the tempest wailed on its furious way. The red West had raised its hand to smite, but it had not smitten sure.
In the silence of the night, in the hush following the uproar of the storm, there came a little wailing cry; so faint, so feeble, yet so mighty, so conquering, this sign of the coming generation, the voice of the new-born babe. At this little human voice, born of sorrow and sin, born to suffering and to knowledge, born to life in all its wonders and to death in all its mystery--the elements perchance relented and averted their fury. Not yet was there to be punished sin, or wrong, or doubt, or weakness. Not at once would justice punish the parents of this babe and blot out at once the record of their fault. Storm and lightning, darkness and the night yielded to the voice of the infant and allowed the old story of humanity and sin, and hope and mercy to run on.
The babe wailed faintly in the silence of the night. Under the hearth-log there still endured the fire. And then the red West, seeing itself conquered, smiled and flung wide its arms, and greeted them with the burgeoning dawn, and the voices of birds, with a sky blue and repentant, a sun smiling and not unkind.
CHAPTER III
AU LARGE
It was weeks after the night of the great storm, and the camp of the _voyageurs_ still held its place on the sh.o.r.e of the great Green Bay.
The wild game and the abundant fishes of the lake gave ample provender for the party, and the little bivouac had been rendered more comfortable in many ways best known to those dwellers of the forest. The light jest, the burst of laughter, the careless ease of att.i.tude showed the light-hearted _voyageurs_ content with this, their last abode, nor for the time did any word issue which threatened to end their tarrying.
Law one morning strolled out from the lodge and seated himself on a bit of driftwood at the edge of the forest's fringe of cedars, where, seemingly half forgetting himself in the witchery of the scene, he gazed out idly over the wide prospect which lay before him. He was the same young man as ever. Surely, this increased gauntness was but the result of long hours at the paddle, the hollow cheeks but betokened hard fare and the defining winds of the outdoor air. If the eye were a trace more dim, that could be due but to the reflectiveness induced by the quiet scene and hour. Yet why should John Law, young and refreshed, drop chin in hand and sit there moodily looking ahead of him, comprehending not at all that which he beheld?
Indeed there appeared now to the eye of this young man not the white sh.o.r.es and black crowned bluffs and distant islands, not the sweep of broad-winged birds circling near the waters, nor the shadow of the high-poised eagle drifting far above. He felt not the soft wind upon his cheek, nor noted the warmth of the on-coming sun. In truth, even here, on the very threshold of a new world and a new life, he was going back, pausing uncertainly at the door of that life and of that world which he had left behind. There appeared to him not the rolling undulations of the black-topped forest, not the tossing surface of the inland sea, nor the white-pebbled beach laved by its pulsing waters. He saw instead a white and dusty road, lined by green English hedge-rows. Back, over there, beyond these rolling blue waves, back of the long water trail over which he had come, there were chapel and bell and robed priest, and the word which made all fast forever. But back of the wilderness mission, back of the straggling settlements of Montreal and Quebec, back of the blue waters of the ocean, there, too, were church and minister; and there dwelt a woman whose figure stood now before his eyes, part of this mental picture of the white road lined with the hedges of green.
A hand was laid on his shoulder, and he half started up in sudden surprise. Before him, the sun s.h.i.+ning through her hair, her eyes dark in the shadow, stood Mary Connynge. A fair woman indeed, comely, round of form, soft-eyed, and light of touch, she might none the less have been a very savage as she stood there, clad no longer in the dress of civilization, but in the soft native garb of skins, ornamented with the stained quills of the porcupine and the bizarre adornments of the native bead work; in her hair dull metal bands, like any Indian woman, upon her feet little beaded moccasins--the very moccasin, it might have been, which Law had first seen in ancient London town and which had played so strange a part in his life since then.
”You startled me,” said Law, simply. ”I was thinking.”
A sudden jealous wave of woman's divining intuition came upon the woman at his side. ”I doubt not,” said she, bitterly, ”that I could name the subject of your thought! Why? Why sit here and dream of her, when here am I, who deserve everything that you can give?”
She stood erect, her eyes flas.h.i.+ng, her arms outstretched, her bosom panting under the fringed garments, her voice ringing as it might have been with the very essence of truth and pa.s.sion. Law looked at her steadily. But the shadow did not lift from his brow, though he looked long and pondered.
”Come,” said he, at length, gently. ”None the less we are as we are. In every game we take our chances, and in every game we pay our debts. Let us go back to the camp.”
As they turned back down the beach Law saw standing at a little distance his lieutenant, Du Mesne, who hesitated as though he would speak.