CHAPTER II
A LETTER FROM AFAR
Although Father Beret was for many years a missionary on the Wabash,
most of the time at Vincennes, the fact that no mention of him
can be found in the records is not stranger than many other things
connected with the old town's history. He was, like nearly all
the men of his calling in that day, a self-effacing and modest
hero, apparently quite unaware that he deserved attention. He
and Father Gibault, whose name is so beautifully and nobly connected
with the stirring achievements of Colonel George Rogers Clark,
were close friends and often companions. Probably Father Gibault
himself, whose fame will never fade, would have been to-day as
obscure as Father Beret, but for the opportunity given him by
Clark to fix his name in the list of heroic patriots who assisted
in winning the great Northwest from the English.
Vincennes, even in the earliest days of its history, somehow kept
up communication and, considering the circumstances, close relations
with New Orleans. It was much nearer Detroit; but the Louisiana
colony stood next to France in the imagination and longing of
priests, voyageurs, coureurs de bois and reckless adventurers
who had Latin blood in their veins. Father Beret first came to
Vincennes from New Orleans, the voyage up the Mississippi, Ohio,
and Wabash, in a pirogue, lasting through a whole summer and far
into the autumn. Since his arrival the post had experienced many
vicissitudes, and at the time in which our story opens the British
government claimed right of dominion over the great territory
drained by the Wabash, and, indeed, over a large, indefinitely
outlined part of the North American continent lying above Mexico;
a claim just then being vigorously questioned, flintlock in hand,
by the Anglo-American colonies.
Of course the handful of French people at Vincennes, so far away
from every center of information, and wholly occupied with their
trading, trapping and missionary work, were late finding out that
war existed between England and her colonies. Nor did it really
matter much with them, one way or another. They felt secure in
their lonely situation, and so went on selling their trinkets,
weapons, domestic implements, blankets and intoxicating liquors
to the Indians, whom they held bound to them with a power never
possessed by any other white dwellers in the wilderness. Father
Beret was probably subordinate to Father Gibault. At all events
the latter appears to have had nominal charge of Vincennes, and
it can scarcely be doubted that he left Father Beret on the Wabash,
while he went to live and labor for a time at Kaskaskia beyond
the plains of Illinois.
It is a curious fact that religion and the power of rum and brandy
worked together successfully for a long time in giving the French
posts almost absolute influence over the wild and savage men by
whom they were always surrounded. The good priests deprecated
the traffic in liquors and tried hard to control it, but soldiers
of fortune and reckless traders were in the majority, their interests
taking precedence of all spiritual demands and carrying everything
along. What could the brave missionaries do but make the very
best of a perilous situation?
In those days wine was drunk by almost everybody, its use at table
and as an article of incidental refreshment and social pleasure
being practically universal; wherefore the steps of reform in
the matter of intemperance were but rudimentary and in all places
beset by well-nigh insurmountable difficulties. In fact the exigencies
of frontier life demanded, perhaps, the very stimulus which, when
over indulged in, caused so much evil. Malaria loaded the air,
and the most efficacious drugs now at command were then undiscovered
or could not be had. Intoxicants were the only popular specific.
Men drank to prevent contracting ague, drank again, between rigors,
to cure it, and yet again to brace themselves during convalescence.
But if the effect of rum as a beverage had strong allurement for
the white man, it made an absolute slave of the Indian, who never
hesitated for a moment to undertake any task, no matter how hard,
bear any privation, even the most terrible, or brave any danger,
although it might demand reckless desperation, if in in the end
a well filled bottle or jug appeared as his reward.
Of course the traders did not overlook such a source of power.
Alcoholic liquor became their implement of almost magical work
in controlling the lives, labors, and resources of the Indians.
The priests with their captivating story of the Cross had a large
influence in softening savage natures and averting many an awful
danger; but when everything else failed, rum always came to the
rescue of a threatened French post.
We need not wonder, then, when we are told that Father Beret made
no sign of distress or disapproval upon being informed of the
arrival of a boat loaded with rum, brandy or gin. It was Rene
de Ronville who brought the news, the same Rene already mentioned
as having given the priest a plate of squirrels. He was sitting
on the doorsill of Father Beret's hut, when the old man reached
it after his visit at the Roussillon home, and held in his hand
a letter which he appeared proud to deliver.
"A batteau and seven men, with a cargo of liquor, came during
the rain," he said, rising and taking off his curious cap,
which, made of an animal's skin, had a tail jauntily dangling
from its crown- tip; "and here is a letter for you, Father.
The batteau is from New Orleans. Eight men started with it; but
one went ashore to hunt and was killed by an Indian."
Father Beret took the letter without apparent interest and said:
"Thank you, my son, sit down again; the door-log is not wetter
than the stools inside; I will sit by you."
The wind had driven a flood of rain into the cabin through the
open door, and water twinkled in puddles here and there on the
floor's puncheons. They sat down side by side, Father Beret fingering
the letter in an absent-minded way.
"There'll be a jolly time of it to-night," Rene de Ronville
remarked, "a roaring time."
"Why do you say that, my son?" the priest demanded.
"The wine and the liquor," was the reply; "much
drinking will be done. The men have all been dry here for some
time, you know, and are as thirsty as sand. They are making ready
to enjoy themselves down at the river house."
"Ah, the poor souls!" sighed Father Beret, speaking
as one whose thoughts were wandering far away.
"Why don't you read your letter, Father?" Rene added.
The priest started, turned the soiled square of paper over in
his hand, then thrust it inside his robe.
"It can wait," he said. Then, changing his voice; "the
squirrels you gave me were excellent, my son. It was good of you
to think of me," he added, laying his hand on Rene's arm.
"Oh, I'm glad if I have pleased you, Father Beret, for you
are so kind to me always, and to everybody. When I killed the
squirrels I said to myself: 'These are young, juicy and tender,
Father Beret must have these,' so I brought them along."
The young man rose to go; for he was somehow impressed that Father
Beret must wish opportunity to read his letter, and would prefer
to be left alone with it. But the priest pulled him down again.
"Stay a while," he said, "I have not had a talk
with you for some time."
Rene looked a trifle uneasy.
"You will not drink any to-night, my son," Father Beret
added. "You must not; do you hear?"
The young man's eyes and mouth at once began to have a sullen
expression; evidently he was not pleased and felt rebellious;
but it was hard for him to resist Father Beret, whom he loved,
as did every soul in the post. The priest's voice was sweet and
gentle, yet positive to a degree. Rene did not say a word.
"Promise me that you will not taste liquor this night,"
Father Beret went on, grasping the young man's arm more firmly;
"promise me, my son, promise me."
Still Rene was silent. The men did not look at each other, but
gazed away across the country beyond the Wabash to where a glory
from the western sun flamed on the upper rim of a great cloud
fragment creeping along the horizon. Warm as the day had been,
a delicious coolness now began to temper the air; for the wind
had shifted into the northwest. A meadowlark sang dreamingly in
the wild grass of the low lands hard by, over which two or three
prairie hawks hovered with wings that beat rapidly.
"Eh bien, I must go," said Rene presently, getting to
his feet nimbly and evading Father Beret's hand which would have
held him.
"Not to the river house, my son?" said the priest appealingly.
"No, not there; I have another letter; one for M'sieu' Roussillon;
it came by the boat too. I go to give it to Madame Roussillon."
Rene de Ronville was a dark, weather-stained young fellow, neither
tall nor short, wearing buckskin moccasins, trousers and tunic.
His eyes were dark brown, keen, quick-moving, set well under heavy
brows. A razor had probably never touched his face, and his thin,
curly beard crinkled over his strongly turned cheeks and chin,
while his moustaches sprang out quite fiercely above his full-
lipped, almost sensual mouth. He looked wiry and active, a man
not to be lightly reckoned with in a trial of bodily strength
and will power.
Father Beret's face and voice changed on the instant. He laughed
dryly and said, with a sly gleam in his eyes:
"You could spend the evening pleasantly with Madame Roussillon
and Jean. Jean, you know, is a very amusing fellow."
Rene brought forth the letter of which he had spoken and held
it up before Father Beret's face.
"Maybe you think I haven't any letter for M'sieu' Roussillon,"
he blurted; "and maybe you are quite certain that I am not
going to the house to take the letter."
"Monsieur Roussillon is absent, you know," Father Beret
suggested. "But cherry pies are just as good while he's gone
as when he's at home, and I happen to know that there are some
particularly delicious ones in the pantry of Madame Roussillon.
Mademoiselle Alice gave me a juicy sample; but then I dare say
you do not care to have your pie served by her hand. It would
interfere with your appetite; eh, my son?"
Rene turned short about wagging his head and laughing, and so
with his back to the priest he strode away along the wet path
leading to the Roussillon place.
Father Beret gazed after him, his face relaxing to a serious expression
in which a trace of sadness and gloom spread like an elusive twilight.
He took out his letter, but did not glance at it, simply holding
it tightly gripped in his sinewy right hand. Then his old eyes
stared vacantly, as eyes do when their sight is cast back many,
many years into the past. The missive was from beyond the sea--he
knew the handwriting--a waft of the flowers of Avignon seemed
to rise out of it, as if by the pressure of his grasp.
A stoop-shouldered, burly man went by, leading a pair of goats,
a kid following. He was making haste excitedly, keeping the goats
at a lively trot.
"Bon jour, Pere Beret," he flung out breezily, and walked
rapidly on.
"Ah, ah; his mind is busy with the newly arrived cargo,"
thought the old priest, returning the salutation; "his throat
aches for the liquor,--the poor man."
Then he read again the letter's superscription and made a faltering
move, as if to break the seal. His hands trembled violently, his
face looked gray and drawn.
"Come on, you brutes," cried the receding man, jerking
the thongs of skin by which he led the goats.
Father Beret rose and turned into his damp little hut, where the
light was dim on the crucifix hanging opposite the door against
the clay-daubed wall. It was a bare, unsightly, clammy room; a
rude bed on one side, a shelf for table and two or three wooden
stools constituting the furniture, while the uneven puncheons
of the floor wabbled and clattered under the priest's feet.
An unopened letter is always a mysterious thing. We who receive
three or four mails every day, scan each little paper square with
a speculative eye. Most of us know what sweet uncertainty hangs
on the opening of envelopes whose contents may be almost anything
except something important, and what a vague yet delicious thrill
comes with the snip of the paper knife; but if we be in a foreign
land and long years absent from home, then is a letter subtly
powerful to move us, even more before it is opened than after
it is read.
It had been many years since a letter from home had come to Father
Beret. The last, before the one now in his hand, had made him
ill of nostalgia, fairly shaking his iron determination never
to quit for a moment his life work as a missionary. Ever since
that day he had found it harder to meet the many and stern demands
of a most difficult and exacting duty. Now the mere touch of the
paper in his hand gave him a sense of returning weakness, dissatisfaction,
and longing. The home of his boyhood, the rushing of the Rhone,
a seat in a shady nook of the garden, Madeline, his sister, prattling
beside him, and his mother singing somewhere about the house--it
all came back and went over him and through him, making his heart
sink strangely, while another voice, the sweetest ever heard--but
she was ineffable and her memory a forbidden fragrance.
Father Beret tottered across the forlorn little room and knelt
before the crucifix holding his clasped hands high, the letter
pressed between than. His lips moved in prayer, but made no sound;
his whole frame shook violently.
It would be unpardonable desecration to enter the chamber of Father
Beret's soul and look upon his sacred and secret trouble; nor
must we even speculate as to its particulars. The good old man
writhed and wrestled before the cross for a long time, until at
last he seemed to receive the calmness and strength he prayed
for so fervently; then he rose, tore the letter into pieces so
small that not a word remained whole, and squeezed them so firmly
together that they were compressed into a tiny, solid ball, which
he let fall through a crack between the floor puncheons. After
waiting twenty years for that letter, hungry as his heart was,
he did not even open it when at last it arrived. He would never
know what message it bore. The link between him and the old sweet
days was broken forever. Now with God's help he could do his work
to the end.
He went and stood in his doorway, leaning against the side. Was
it a mere coincidence that the meadowlark flew up just then from
its grass-tuft, and came to the roof's comb overhead, where it
lit with a light yet audible stroke of its feet and began fluting
its tender, lonesome-sounding strain? If Father Beret heard it
he gave no sign of recognition; very likely he was thinking about
the cargo of liquor and how he could best counteract its baleful
influence. He looked toward the "river house," as the
inhabitants had named a large shanty, which stood on a bluff of
the Wabash not far from where the road-bridge at present crosses,
and saw men gathering there.
Meantime Rene de Ronville had delivered Madame Roussillon's letter
with due promptness. Of course such a service demanded pie and
claret. What still better pleased him, Alice chose to be more
amiable than was usually her custom when he called. They sat together
in the main room of the house where M. Roussillon kept his books,
his curiosities of Indian manufacture collected here and there,
and his surplus firearms, swords, pistols, and knives, ranged
not unpleasingly around the walls.
Of course, along with the letter, Rene bore the news, so interesting
to himself, of the boat's tempting cargo just discharged at the
river house. Alice understood her friend's danger--felt it in
the intense enthusiasm of his voice and manner. She had once seen
the men carousing on a similar occasion when she was but a child,
and the impression then made still remained in her memory. Instinctively
she resolved to hold Rene by one means or another away from the
river house if possible. So she managed to keep him occupied eating
pie, sipping watered claret and chatting until night came on and
Madame Roussillon brought in a lamp. Then he hurriedly snatched
his cap from the floor beside him and got up to go.
"Come and look at my handiwork," Alice quickly said;
"my shelf of pies, I mean." She led him to the pantry,
where a dozen or more of the cherry pates were ranged in order.
"I made every one of them this morning and baked them; had
them all out of the oven before the rain came up. Don't you think
me a wonder of cleverness and industry? Father Beret was polite
enough to flatter me; but you-- you just eat what you want and
say nothing! You are not polite, Monsieur Rene de Ronville."
"I've been showing you what I thought of your goodies,"
said Rene; "eating's better than talking, you know; so I'll
just take one more," and he helped himself. "Isn't that
compliment enough?"
"A few such would make me another hot day's work," she
replied, laughing. "Pretty talk would be cheaper and more
satisfactory in the long run. Even the flour in these pates I
ground with my own hand in an Indian mortar. That was hard work
too."
By this time Rene had forgotten the river house and the liquor.
With softening eyes he gazed at Alice's rounded cheeks and sheeny
hair over which the light from the curious earthen lamp she bore
in her hand flickered most effectively. He loved her madly; but
his fear of her was more powerful than his love. She gave him
no opportunity to speak what he felt, having ever ready a quick,
bright change of mood and manner when she saw him plucking up
courage to address her in a sentimental way. Their relations had
long been somewhat familiar, which was but natural, considering
their youth and the circumstances of their daily life; but Alice
somehow had kept a certain distance open between them, so that
very warm friendship could not suddenly resolve itself into a
troublesome passion on Rene's part.
We need not attempt to analyze a young girl's feeling and motives
in such a case; what she does and what she thinks are mysteries
even to her own understanding. The influence most potent in shaping
the rudimentary character of Alice Tarleton (called Roussillon)
had been only such as a lonely frontier post could generate. Her
associations with men and women had, with few exceptions, been
unprofitable in an educational way, while her reading in M. Roussillon's
little library could not have given her any practical knowledge
of manners and life.
She was fond of Rene de Ronville, and it would have been quite
in accordance with the law of ordinary human forces, indeed almost
the inevitable thing, for her to love and marry him in the fullness
of time; but her imagination was outgrowing her surroundings.
Books had given her a world of romance wherein she moved at will,
meeting a class of people far different from those who actually
shared her experiences. Her day-dreams and her night- dreams partook
much more of what she had read and imagined than of what she had
seen and heard in the raw little world around her.
Her affection for Rene was interfered with by her large admiration
for the heroic, masterful and magnetic knights who charged through
the romances of the Roussillon collection. For although Rene was
unquestionably brave and more than passably handsome, he had no
armor, no war-horse, no shining lance and embossed shield--the
difference, indeed, was great.
Those who love to contend against the fatal drift of our age toward
over-education could find in Alice Tarleton, foster daughter of
Gaspard Roussillon, a primitive example, an elementary case in
point. What could her book education do but set up stumbling blocks
in the path of happiness? She was learning to prefer the ideal
to the real. Her soul was developing itself as best it could for
the enjoyment of conditions and things absolutely foreign to the
possibilities of her lot in life.
Perhaps it was the light and heat of imagination, shining out
through Alice's face, which gave her beauty such a fascinating
power. Rene saw it and felt its electrical stroke send a sweet
shiver through his heart, while he stood before her.
"You are very beautiful to-night Alice," he presently
said, with a suddenness which took even her alertness by surprise.
A flush rose to his dark face and immediately gave way to a grayish
pallor. His heart came near stopping on the instant, he was so
shocked by his own daring; but he laid a hand on her hair, stroking
it softly.
Just a moment she was at a loss, looking a trifle embarrassed,
then with a merry laugh she stepped aside and said:
"That sounds better, Monsieur Rene de Ronville much better;
you will be as polite as Father Beret after a little more training."
She slipped past him while speaking and made her way back again
to the main room, whence she called to him:
"Come here, I've something to show you."
He obeyed, a sheepish trace on his countenance betraying his self-
consciousness.
When he came near Alice she was taking from its buckhorn hook
on the wall a rapier, one of a beautiful pair hanging side by
side.
"Papa Roussillon gave me these," she said with great
animation. "He bought them of an Indian who had kept them
a long time; where he came across them he would not tell; but
look how beautiful! Did you ever see anything so fine?"
Guard and hilt were of silver; the blade, although somewhat corroded,
still showed the fine wavy lines of Damascus steel and traces
of delicate engraving, while in the end of the hilt was set a
large oval turquoise.
"A very queer present to give a girl," said Rene; "what
can you do with them?"
A captivating flash of playfulness came into her face and she
sprang backward, giving the sword a semicircular turn with her
wrist. The blade sent forth a keen hiss as it cut the air close,
very close to Rene's nose. He jerked his head and flung up his
hand.
She laughed merrily, standing beautifully poised before him, the
rapier's point slightly elevated. Her short skirt left her feet
and ankles free to show their graceful proportions and the perfect
pose in which they held her supple body.
"You see what I can do with the colechemarde, eh, Monsieur
Rene de Ronville!" she exclaimed, giving him a smile which
fairly blinded him. "Notice how very near to your neck I
can thrust and yet not touch it. Now!"
She darted the keen point under his chin and drew it away so quickly
that the stroke was like a glint of sunlight.
"What do you think of that as a nice and accurate piece of
skill?"
She again resumed her pose, the right foot advanced, the left
arm well back, her lissome, finely developed body leaning slightly
forward.
Rene's hands were up before his face in a defensive position,
palms outward.
Just then a chorus of men's voices sounded in the distance. The
river house was beginning its carousal with a song. Alice let
fall her sword's point and listened.
Rene looked about for his cap.
"I must be going," he said.
Another and louder swish of the rapier made him pirouette and
dodge again with great energy.
"Don't," he cried, "that's dangerous; you'll put
out my eyes; I never saw such a girl!"
She laughed at him and kept on whipping the air dangerously near
his eyes, until she had driven him backward as far as he could
squeeze himself into a comer of the room.
Madame Roussillon came to the door from the kitchen and stood
looking in and laughing, with her hands on her hips. By this time
the rapier was making a criss-cross pattern of flashing lines
close to the young man's head while Alice, in the enjoyment of
her exercise, seemed to concentrate all the glowing rays of her
beauty in her face, her eyes dancing merrily.
"Quit, now, Alice," he begged, half in fun and half
in abject fear; "please quit--I surrender!"
She thrust to the wall on either side of him, then springing lightly
backward a pace, stood at guard. Her thick yellow hair had fallen
over her neck and shoulders in a loose wavy mass, out of which
her face beamed with a bewitching effect upon her captive.
Rene, glad enough to have a cessation of his peril, stood laughing
dryly; but the singing down at the river house was swelling louder
and he made another movement to go.
"You surrendered, you remember," cried Alice, renewing
the sword- play; "sit down on the chair there and make yourself
comfortable. You are not going down yonder to-night; you are going
to stay here and talk with me and Mother Roussillon; we are lonesome
and you are good company."
A shot rang out keen and clear; there was a sudden tumult that
broke up the distant singing; and presently more firing at varying
intervals cut the night air from the direction of the river.
Jean, the hunchback, came in to say that there was a row of some
sort; he had seen men running across the common as if in pursuit
of a fugitive; but the moonlight was so dim that he could not
be sure what it all meant.
Rene picked up his cap and bolted out of the house.