The Pines of Lory/Chapter 14



NOTHER 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.”