CHAPTER IIITHE WAY TO CHURCH
“Itis a long walk, my child,” Papa Louis was saying; “you should not think of taking it.”
“But try me, papa,” Alaine persisted, “and if I tire myself there may be cars to take me in. Is it not so, Mother Michelle? Surely the Bonneaux or the Allaires or the Sicards are no stronger than I; and even if there be no room, or no cars going in the morning, I can walk.”
“She must have her will at all times, the little one,” Papa Louis said, with a sigh of resignation. “See you, then, Gerard, that maman does not over-fatigue herself, and so you will go ahead, Michelle, and we follow in the morning. We shall needs be up by break of day, Alaine.”
Already the sound of the low-wheeled wagons could be heard rumbling down the one street of the town; these “cars” with their canvas tops, their deep felloes and turned spokes, were thoroughly French in appearance; they were filled with women and children, only the very little ones being left at home with some care-taker. By the side of the wagons walked the men in sabots, and carrying their shoes and stockings in their hands. Each manwas well armed, for the way through the deep forests was full of possible dangers. Upon the soft silence of the summer evening arose the plaintive strains of a hymn. The march to church had begun, although it was still Saturday evening. “O Lord, Thou didst us clean forsake,” chimed in the voices of Gerard and Michelle as they, too, joined the company, dressed in their Sunday clothes, a touch of color giving evidence of the fact that, sober and earnest as were these people, they were still truly French.
Down the street the troop went, their hymn, which they invariably sang upon starting, echoing along the way. They were always singing, these Huguenots, as if they could never make up for those days when their psalms were denied them. Alaine watched till the last figure became hidden by the trees, then she turned to say, “The poor little cow, it would scarce be right to leave her, and you well know, Papa Louis, that I would be wretched to know you were here alone. I do not mind the long walk nor the early start, and by morning I hope our Petite Etoile will have regained her health; she would be a sore loss.”
Papa Louis looked grave. It had been a struggle to acquire even the little they had, though it was of the plainest. Theirs was a long, low-pitched house, with a big living-room below and two loft chambers above. In the former could be seen two beds with blue linen curtains, a couple of chests, a small table octagonal in form, a little mirror in gilded frame.By the huge fireplace hung the warming-pan, and there was a brass candlestick upon the shelf above it. A gun and powder-horn were hung within easy reach of Papa Louis’s arm. In the fireplace swung two iron pots on long cranes, and at the side hung a bright kettle. Two spinning-wheels, of course, held their places, but now their drowsy hum was hushed, for Alaine, stepping briskly back and forth, prepared the supper. From time to time she looked out of the open door toward the barn just beyond the garden, now brave in summer blossoms. The pretty young cow had been joyously welcomed, and now a wicked wolf had torn her sleek skin so that Papa Louis must needs doctor her. “He is so skilful, that Papa Louis,” said Alaine to herself, pausing, wooden tankard in hand; “he knows herbs and simples well; his book knowledge has served him more than once, the dear little papa. And how he loved his garden! It is well that Gerard has a strong arm for the furrows, else the corn would not look as well as the flowers. Mère Michelle can guide a plough and handle a scythe better than her husband. How we laughed, Gerard and I, when she first taught papa to follow the plough! the poor little papa, he was so determined and so patient, while big Mère Michelle scolded and encouraged and laughed.” She took her tankard out to the well, which stood in front of the door. Guiding the long sweep till the bucket touched the clear water below, she waited till it filled and then drew it up, balanced it on the curb,and poured the water into the trough. At this instant Papa Louis appeared leading the cow. “Good!” cried Alaine. “He brings her for a drink, poor pretty Etoile. It was fortunate that she was not far off when Gerard heard her cry, else she would have fed the wicked wolf ere now.” Over the orderly rows of vegetables she looked to see Papa Louis advance.
“We shall have no milk to-night,” he told her, “yet she becomes better, and I think to-morrow will see her safe, so we can start betimes.”
Alaine with gentle hand stroked the soft ears of the cow, which eagerly drank from the trough and was led back to the barn; then the girl filled her tankard and bore it indoors.
“I must go to see Alexandre Allaire,” said Papa Louis when the simple meal was over. “I shall have to leave you alone here for a short time, my daughter, but there is nothing to fear. I greatly desire to know where we stand in the matter of a new church; a deep longing for it takes possession of us all, and I trust the day is not distant when we can rear the walls of a new temple here in the wilderness.”
By the time he had disappeared behind the leafy trees just beyond the newly set out orchard Alaine had cleared away the supper dishes and ran out for a last look at her fowls. They must be well secured, and there was no Michelle there to spy out a possible loophole where wild creatures could make anentrance. Assuring herself that all was safe, she returned to the house. As she entered the sitting-room, by the dim light she saw sitting a figure bending over the little table.
“Ah, mademoiselle, I am indeed fortunate,” said François Dupont, who put down the book he had been holding and advanced to meet her. “I feared you might have gone with the others upon the long journey to Manhatte, yet I did not see you among the train as they passed, and, therefore, I ventured here in hopes of finding you.”
Alaine retreated a step. What ill fate had given her an interview with this man whom she had hoped never to see again?
“And I was fortunate,” he repeated, “Mademoiselle—Hervieu.”
Alaine started, but recovered herself to say, steadily, “My father, M. Louis Mercier, will be here in a moment to welcome you, monsieur. I regret that Madame Mercier, my mother, is not here to entertain you.”
M. Dupont looked at her with a half-smile curling his lips. “All of which sounds very well, mademoiselle, but does not alter the fact that Mademoiselle Hervieu, herself, does not seem over-glad to meet an old acquaintance.”
“An old acquaintance? An exceedingly short acquaintance. It was at the Feast of the Fat Calf that I met you, and since then not at all.”
“But that was not our first meeting: I remembera charming child who visited her aunt one day, when I was also there, and to whom I offered some cherries which I had gathered; I snatched them from her before she had a taste of them, and I remember how I chased the little maid around the garden and made her give me a taste of her cherry lips in exchange for the fruit. I have not forgotten the pretty little incident, Mademoiselle Hervieu, although it was some years ago, and you were but a gay and happy child.”
Alaine stood silent, but there was fierce anger in her eyes. He dared remind her now. She looked helplessly from one side to the other, then she lifted her chin with a haughty gesture. “Monsieur, your imagination quite exceeds your memory. I declare to you that I have not the honor of your acquaintance.”
He laughed mockingly. “She has very much the air of a peasant, this child of the good honest Michelle of the bourgeois face. Strange how she resembles her mother.” He glanced at the girl’s slim hands and feet, and his eyes travelled back to the well-set little head and the fine oval of the fair face. “So closely does she resemble her mother that I can well imagine how she will look some twenty-five years from now.” He laughed again. “We of the upper class do not mind amusing ourselves with a peasant lass, mademoiselle, and so you cannot be surprised if I steal a second kiss, since you repudiate the one you gave me six or eight years ago.” Hemade a step toward her, and Alaine shrank back with a little cry. “Monsieur,” she said, in a low, strained voice, “what is your motive in all this?”
“Ah-h! she comes to herself; the peasant lass is no more; she was too much for Mademoiselle Hervieu. I but desire to press my claim to your acquaintance, and to urge you to return to the home which is still open to you; to say that, as the friend of your cousin, Étienne Villeneau, I desire to do him the favor of returning the lady of his love to his arms. I had an opportunity of looking into the small black book on yonder table, the book which contains those hymns you Huguenots are so fond of singing at all times and in all places. I am too familiar with the Hervieu arms not to recognize the plate on the inside lid of the book, and the haunting face of the demoiselle whom I met at the fête was no longer that of a stranger. I understand why it seemed so familiar; in the flash of an eye I recollected the little scene which I have just recounted to you. That you were not better known to me is due to the fact that for some years past I have been in Paris to complete my studies.” Alaine listened gravely, making no comment. He waved his hand to a chair. “May we not sit, mademoiselle? I have more to say. I would not keep you standing.”
She bit her lip, but seated herself and regarded him silently.
“Étienne Villeneau is my friend; we were together at school in Rouen. Always Étienne spokeof his little cousin, his sweetheart, as he called her. Judge of my surprise and distress when, upon my return home some two years ago, I was told that this same pretty child whom I so well remembered had been stolen by her foster-mother and had disappeared, no one knew where. Étienne was in despair; he sent his emissaries to search high and low, but to no avail. When he knew I was to depart for these colonies he gave me as a parting charge, ‘My cousin, François, forget her not when you are in the land of the savage, and if chance be that you come across any who know of her, press home the discovery, so will you be my heart’s best friend.’ I find you here. I see you in this humble cot, performing with your own hands tasks that your servants at home should be doing for you, and, therefore, mademoiselle, not only in pity for my friend, but in sympathy for you, I beg of you to return to your native country.”
“Monsieur,” Alaine’s voice was low and determined, “you forget that I am a Huguenot.”
He snapped his fingers with an upward movement of them as he would say, “So slight a matter?” “That is easily adjusted, mademoiselle. Because you, as a child, were over-persuaded by your nurse is no reason why, as a woman, you should not revoke your opinions.”
“My father is also Protestant,” said Alaine, her dark eyes growing larger and more intense.
“Your father, M. Hervieu? And where is he?”
“I know not, but this I know: for his sake, if not for my own conviction, would I forswear the country which, if it has not witnessed his death, has condemned him to a life of misery. Dearly as I loved my own France, I am more Huguenot than French. Revoke my decision? Abjure my belief? Never! Day by day and hour by hour it becomes more and more dear to me in this free home. Listen, monsieur: to-morrow morning I start at break of day to walk over twenty miles to church. I shall do it gladly, joyfully, for it brings me to a service which is my delight. Would I do this if I could be turned by your chance words? My home is humble, yes, but here we are free to sing our psalms, to worship as we desire. I toil with my hands; I labor in the fields that I may help to pay for this piece of land which we call ours. I would work a thousand times harder for those who cherish me and who have given me their honest, honorable name that I may be safe from those who hunt me down and who seek to do me despite. Leave these, my dear adopted parents? Never, till my father himself returns to claim me.”
M. Dupont listened thoughtfully. “You would leave only at your father’s command? It behooves me, then, to find him.”
Alaine clasped her hands. “Oh, monsieur, find him, find him, and I will bless you forever, though you may be my enemy!”
“Your enemy?” He shrugged his shoulders; then looking at her with an inexplicable smile, he said,“Consider me yours to command, mademoiselle. We shall meet again, fair Alaine Hervieu, and I shall yet bid you good-morrow under the skies of France.” He lifted the heavy wooden latch of the door and bowed himself out, leaving Alaine stunned and bewildered.
In the dimness of the room Papa Louis did not perceive the expression on the girl’s face as he entered and gayly cried, “The wolves have not devoured my little bird, I see.”
Alaine flew toward him and clasped his arm. “Oh, papa, papa, there has been some one here!” And she poured forth her tale, one moment the passionate tears falling, and the next a tremor born of fear creeping into her voice.
Papa Louis listened silently until she had concluded, then he said, “But this young man, he is Protestant; he is a friend of Jacob Therolde’s. I have been speaking but now of him to Alexandre Allaire. He has talked to one and another, and no one seems to imagine evil of him. This is a puzzle, my daughter. I am dismayed by the strangeness of it. Ma petite, he did but tease you, perhaps; yes, that is it, he did not mean it when he urged your return to France; he would find out how steadfast you really are, that is all.”
“No, no, I am sure it was not that; yet——” She paused and considered the matter. “He did not say that he was not Protestant, he but spoke as if it were nothing to change one’s religion as favorscome one’s way. If he is not Protestant, why is he here among us, so far from home? and what means his ardent friendship for my cousin? I am terrified by it all, papa.”
“But you need have no fear. Who shall take you from us? Not one man, nor two. So go to sleep, my little one; the good God will defend you. Say your prayers to Him and sleep well, for we have a long walk before us and must start betimes. I hope before long that it will be but a step to our own temple of worship. Mark how sweet is the air and how quiet the night. God be thanked for our peace. Embrace me, little one, and good-night.”
Alaine crept up the ladder to her room above. Why, after all, should she fear? There were papa and Gerard and all the good friends and neighbors to defend her. What could one man do? and why should he desire to harm her? And she went to sleep with a prayer upon her lips.
It required an early start, indeed, to reach New York in time for the service. Alaine put up a frugal lunch, and with others, who had not gone the evening before, they started forth, the men armed, for who knew what lurking foe might not come upon them in the lonely woods. Singing they went: those old songs of Marot’s and of Beza’s so dear to the Huguenot heart. To-day the talk was serious. Fierce and fiercer had grown the conflict between Romanists and Protestants. James II. of Englandhad been compelled to abdicate; France had declared war against England; a Committee of Safety had intrusted Jacob Leisler with the command of the fort in New York, and to him the eyes of the people were turned. Would the French descend and threaten New York? Would the Indians join them and there be worse to be expected?
“Ah, la la,” sighed Alaine, as she stepped briskly along by the side of Papa Louis, “I see you are anxious to discuss the latest news with M. Sicard. Leave me to trudge along with the younger lads and go you, good papa, to those ahead.”
He looked at her with a smile. “So ready to be rid of papa? However, I do wish to discuss these matters, and I will send back to you some one who has been casting longing looks this way ever since we started. Approach, Pierre, and defend my daughter from any naughty enemy who may descend upon us,” he cried to one of the young men striding along in his clumping sabots and with gun in hand.
A smile lighted up the grave face of the youth. “Papa Louis is always a good companion,” he returned; “I fear mademoiselle will lose by the exchange.”
“Variety, my dear boy, variety; we need it. Pray, how would taste one’s pot à feu if but one ingredient composed it? A little of this, a little of that, and we have a dish fit for a king. So with life, my good Pierre; one needs a mixture. I leave you to help to a good flavor my daughter’s pottage to-day. Benot onion to make her weep, nor pepper to cause her anger.” And, laughing, Papa Louis gayly stepped ahead, and Pierre fell into a pace to match Alaine’s.
“You undertake a long walk,” Pierre said, after a moment’s silence.
“Yes, but you know our cow was hurt, and ’twas not safe to leave her last night, so I stayed behind to keep Papa Louis company, although Gerard begged to do so. But papa would not hear of Mère Michelle’s going alone, and thus it settled itself. I have long wanted to take this journey. I am young and strong, and why not? Mère Michelle, active as she is, could not well stand it, but I am sure I can.” She paused and looked at her tall companion, who, always grave, to-day seemed more so than usual. “I wanted to tell you, Pierre,” she began again, “that I do not trust that M. Dupont who was in our village yesterday, and also upon the day of the fête. He claims affiliation with us, but I believe he is a Papist.”
“Even so, there are some good Papists,” returned Pierre, quietly.
Alaine gave a little scream of protest. “You to say so, Pierre! You who began your life in the midst of horrors and who have suffered the loss of all nearest to you?”
He gave her one of his rare smiles. “Do you remember what the good Beza said in reply to the king of Navarre? ‘Sire, it belongs in truth to theChurch of God, in whose name I speak, to endure blows and not inflict them. But it will also please your Majesty to remember that she is an anvil that has worn out many hammers.’”
Alaine nodded. “I remember the couplet which Papa Louis taught me,—
‘Plus a me frapper on s’amuse,Tant plus de marteau on y use.’
‘Plus a me frapper on s’amuse,Tant plus de marteau on y use.’
‘Plus a me frapper on s’amuse,
Tant plus de marteau on y use.’
But to tell you the truth, Pierre, I am not a patient being. I am full of indignation many times a day, and I wonder if I will ever be called a patient Huguenot. That anvil, it is because of Beza’s words that we have it for an emblem, is it not so? I like better the marigold myself.”
“And I like the anvil,” returned Pierre.
Alaine gave him a half-saucy look from under her long lashes. “Yes, you are more like an anvil,” she told him.
“Quite hard you mean?”
“I did not say so. Perhaps I meant very useful.”
“And you are more like the marigold.”
“Quite useless?”
“I did not say so. Perhaps I meant because of a heart of gold.”
“Merci, monsieur. I like that better than if you had said as truly lovely.”
“I meant that, too.”
“It strikes me,” said Alaine, slyly, “that one should not put honey in pot à feu.”
“Let us have, then—what shall we say?”
“A smack of gossip which we will call herbs for smart flavor; I will repeat that I do not trust M. Dupont, and you can contradict me if you will. I tell you this because I do not want to say so to Gerard, who is too fiery, nor to Papa Louis, who would call me an alarmist, nor to Mère Michelle, who would be seized with affright. But remember, if anything happens, that I said this. Ah, here we come to the rock where we rest. I see the clump of cedars quite plainly. You shall have a taste of Mère Michelle’s good bread for your pretty compliments.”
They were not long in reaching the spot which invariably served as the resting-place for the church-goers, and from there they travelled on to Collect Pond, where the dusty feet were bathed, the shoes and stockings put on, and the journey considered as nearly over. The neighborhood of the French church in Marketfield Street was alive with the crowds of those who had come from Long Island, Staten Island, and New Rochelle. Many had passed the night in the “cars,” and had eaten their breakfast in these same wagons, to be ready for the long service before the last stragglers should have arrived.
“And are you so very fatigued, my pigeon?” asked Papa Louis, as Alaine, a little pale, but still keeping up her energetic walk, approached the church.
“I am a little tired,” she returned, “but I am here,and I shall have time to rest. Ah-h!” she gave a little start. “See there, papa, M. Dupont is talking to M. Allaire. I trust he will not see us.”
To Alaine’s relief M. Dupont did not discover her. She kept a sharp eye out during the period of intermission, when a cheerful chatter was kept up by those who visited around from group to group. It was a great event, this communion service on special Sundays, and meant not only the enjoyment of free worship, but a gathering of friends and an exchange of visits; a day’s pleasuring, in fact, for they enjoyed it all, from the hearty singing of the psalms and the long sermon to the arrival home after the toilsome journey.
“And you will not walk back?” said Pierre to Alaine, as they were making ready for the return.
She shook her head. “No; twenty-three miles in one day quite satisfies me, but I enjoyed it and the pot à feu, honey and all.”
“What do you say, my daughter?” Mère Michelle’s alert ears caught the last words.
“Nothing important, maman; I but discussed the difference between the pot à feu of those from Rouen and those from La Rochelle. Pierre there likes to put a sprinkling of honey in his.”
Mère Michelle looked mystified.
“It is but some of Alaine’s mischief,” said Gerard, seeing the expression on Pierre’s face. “Come, climb in, Alaine; we must be off.” And the long journey home began.