CHAPTER VII
THE MAYOR'S PARTY
Beverley was so surprised and confused in his mind by the ease
with which he had been mastered at swordplay by a mere girl, that
he felt as if just coming out of a dream. In fact the whole affair
seemed unreal, yet so vivid and impressive in all its main features,
that he could not emerge from it and look it calmly over from
without. His experience with women had not prepared him for a
ready understanding and acceptance of a girl like Alice. While
he was fully aware of her beauty, freshness, vivacity and grace,
this Amazonian strength of hers, this boldness of spirit, this
curious mixture of frontier crudeness and a certain adumbration--so
to call it--of patrician sensibilities and aspirations, affected
him both pleasantly and unpleasantly. He did not sympathize promptly
with her semi-barbaric costume; she seemed not gently feminine,
as compared with the girls of Virginia and Maryland. He resented
her muscular development and her independent disposition. She
was far from coarseness, however, and, indeed, a trace of subtle
refinement, although not conventional, imbued her whole character.
But why was he thinking so critically about her? Had his selfishness
received an incurable shock from the button of her foil? A healthy
young man of the right sort is apt to be jealous of his physical
prowess--touch him there and he will turn the world over to right
himself in, his own admiration and yours. But to be beaten on
his highest ground of virility by a dimple-faced maiden just leaving
her teens could not offer Beverley any open way to recoupment
of damages.
He tried to shake her out of his mind, as a bit of pretty and
troublesome rubbish, what time he pursued his not very exacting
military duties. But the more he shook the tighter she clung,
and the oftener he went to see her.
Helm was a good officer in many respects, and his patriotism was
of the best; but he liked jolly company, a glass of something
strong and a large share of ease. Detroit lay many miles northeastward
across the wilderness, and the English, he thought, would scarcely
come so far to attack his little post, especially now that most
of the Indians in the intervening country had declared in favor
of the Americans. Recently, too, the weather had been favoring
him by changing from wet to dry, so that the upper Wabash and
its tributaries were falling low and would soon be very difficult
to navigate with large batteaux.
Very little was done to repair the stockade and dilapidated remnant
of a blockhouse. There were no sufficient barracks, a mere shed
in one angle serving for quarters, and the old cannon could not
have been used to any effect in case of attack. As for the garrison,
it was a nominal quantity, made up mostly of men who preferred
hunting and fishing to the merest pretense of military duty.
Gaspard Roussillon assumed to know everything about Indian affairs
and the condition of the English at Detroit. His optimistic eloquence
lulled Helm to a very pleasant sense of security. Beverley was
not so easy to satisfy; but his suggestions regarding military
discipline and a vigorous prosecution of repairs to the blockhouse
and stockade were treated with dilatory geniality by his superior
officer. The soft wonder of a perfect Indian summer glorified
land, river and sky. Why not dream and bask? Why not drink exhilarating
toddies?
Meantime the entertainment to be given by Gaspard Roussillon occupied
everybody's imagination to an unusual extent. Rene de Ronville,
remembering but not heeding the doubtful success of his former
attempt, went long beforehand to claim Alice as his partenaire;
but she flatly refused him, once more reminding him of his obligations
to little Adrienne Bourcier. He would not be convinced.
"You are bound to me," he said, "you promised before,
you know, and the party was but put off. I hold you to it; you
are my partenaire, and I am yours, you can't deny that."
"No you are not my partenaire," she firmly said; then
added lightly, "Feu mon partenaire, you are dead and buried
as my partner at that dance."
He glowered in silence for a few moments, then said:
"It is Lieutenant Beverley, I suppose."
She gave him a quick contemptuous look, but turned it instantly
into one of her tantalising smiles.
"Do you imagine that?" she demanded.
"Imagine it! I know it," he said with a hot flush. "Have
I no sense?"
"Precious little," she replied with a merry laugh.
"You think so."
"Go to Father Beret, tell him everything, and then ask him
what he thinks," she said in a calm, even tone, her face
growing serious.
There was an awkward silence.
She had touched Rene's vulnerable spot; he was nothing if not
a devout Catholic, and his conscience rooted itself in what good
Father Beret had taught him.
The church, no matter by what name it goes, Catholic or Protestant,
has a saving hold on the deepest inner being of its adherents.
No grip is so hard to shake off as that of early religious convictions.
The still, small voice coming down from the times "When shepherds
watched their flocks by night," in old Judea, passes through
the priest, the minister, the preacher; it echoes in cathedral,
church, open-air meeting; it gently and mysteriously imparts to
human life the distinctive quality which is the exponent of Christian
civilization. Upon the receptive nature of children it makes an
impress that forever afterward exhales a fragrance and irradiates
a glory for the saving of the nations.
Father Beret was the humble, self-effacing, never-tiring agent
of good in his community. He preached in a tender sing-song voice
the sweet monotonies of his creed and the sublime truths of Christ's
code. He was indeed the spiritual father of his people. No wonder
Rene's scowling expression changed to one of abject self-concern
when the priest's name was suddenly connected with his mood. The
confessional loomed up before the eyes of his conscience, and
his knees smote together, spiritually if not physically.
"Now," said Alice, brusquely, but with sweet and gentle
firmness, "go to your fiancee, go to pretty and good Adrienne,
and ask her to be your partenaire. Refresh your conscience with
a noble draught of duty and make that dear little girl overflow
with joy. Go, Rene de Ronville."
In making over what she said into English, the translation turns
out to be but a sonorous paraphrase. Her French was of that mixed
creole sort, a blending of linguistic elegance and patois, impossible
to imitate. Like herself it was beautiful, crude, fascinating,
and something in it impressed itself as unimpeachable, despite
the broken and incongruous diction. Rene felt his soul cowering,
even slinking; but he fairly maintained a good face, and went
away without saying another word.
"Ciel, ciel, how beautiful she is!" he thought, as he
walked along the narrow street in the dreamy sunshine. "But
she is not for me, not for me."
He shook himself and tried to be cheerful. In fact he hummed a
Creole ditty, something about
"La belle Jeanette, qu' a brise mon coeur."
Days passed, and at last the time of the great event arrived.
It was a frosty night, clear, sparkling with stars, a keen breath
cutting down from the northwest. M. Roussillon, Madame Roussillon,
Alice and Lieutenant Beverley went together to the river house,
whither they had been preceded by almost the entire population
of Vincennes. Some fires had been built outside; the crowd proving
too great for the building's capacity, as there had to be ample
space for the dancers. Merry groups hovered around the flaming
logs, while within the house a fiddle sang its simple and ravishing
tunes. Everybody talked and laughed; it was a lively racket of
clashing voices and rhythmical feet.
You would have been surprised to find that Oncle Jazon was the
fiddler; but there he sat, perched on a high stool in one corner
of the large room, sawing away as if for dear life, his head wagging,
his elbow leaping back and forth, while his scalpless crown shone
like the side of a peeled onion and his puckered mouth wagged
grotesquely from side to side keeping time to his tuneful scraping.
When the Roussillon party arrived it attracted condensed attention.
Its importance, naturally of the greatest in the assembled popular
mind, was enhanced--as mathematicians would say, to the nth power--by
the gown of Alice. It was resplendent indeed in the simple, unaccustomed
eyes upon which it flashed with a buff silken glory. Matrons stared
at it; maidens gazed with fascinated and jealous vision; men young
and old let their eyes take full liberty. It was as if a queen,
arrayed in a robe of state, had entered that dingy log edifice,
an apparition of dazzling and awe-inspiring beauty. Oncle Jazon
caught sight of her, and snapped his tune short off. The dancers
swung together and stopped in confusion. But she, fortified by
a woman's strongest bulwark, the sense of resplendency, appeared
quite unconscious of herself.
Little Adrienne, hanging in blissful delight upon Rene's strong
arm, felt the stir of excitement and wondered what was the matter,
being too short to see over the heads of those around her.
"What is it? what is it?" she cried, tiptoeing and tugging
at her companion's sleeve. "Tell me, Rene, tell me, I say."
Rene was gazing in dumb admiration into which there swept a powerful
anger, like a breath of flame. He recollected how Alice had refused
to wear that dress when he had asked her, and now she had it on.
Moreover, there she stood beside Lieutenant Beverley, holding
his arm, looking up into his face, smiling, speaking to him.
"I think you might tell me what has happened," said
Adrienne, pouting and still plucking at his arm. "I can't
see a thing, and you won't tell me."
"Oh, it's nothing," he presently answered, rather fretfully.
Then he stooped, lowered his voice and added; "it's Mademoiselle
Roussillon all dressed up like a bride or something. She's got
on a buff silk dress that Mo'sieu' Roussillon's mother had in
France."
"How beautiful she must look!" cried the girl. "I
wish I could see her."
Rene put a hand on each side of her slender waist and lifted her
high, so that her pretty head rose above the crowding people.
Alice chanced to turn her face that way just then and saw the
unconventional performance. Her eyes met those of Adrienne and
she gave a nod of smiling recognition. It was a rose beaming upon
a gilliflower.
M. Roussillon naturally understood that all this stir and crowding
to see was but another demonstration of his personal popularity.
He bowed and waved a vast hand.
But the master of ceremonies called loudly for the dancers to
take their places. Oncle Jazon attacked his fiddle again with
startling energy. Those who were not to dance formed a compact
double line around the wall, the shorter ones in front, the taller
in the rear. And what a scene it was! but no person present regarded
it as in any way strange or especially picturesque, save as to
the gown of Alice, which was now floating and whirling in time
to Oncle Jazon's mad music. The people outside the house cheerfully
awaited their turn to go in while an equal number went forth to
chat and sing around the fires.
Beverley was in a young man's seventh heaven. The angels formed
a choir circling around his heart, and their song brimmed his
universe from horizon to horizon.
When he called at Roussillon place, and Alice appeared so beautifully
and becomingly robed, it was another memorable surprise. She flashed
a new and subtly stimulating light upon him. The old gown, rich
in subdued splendor of lace and brocade, was ornamented at the
throat with a heavy band of pearls, just above which could be
seen a trace of the gold chain that supported her portrait locket.
There, too, with a not unbecoming gleam of barbaric colors, shone
the string of porcupine beads to which the Indian charmstone hidden
in her bosom was attached. It all harmonized with the time, the
place, the atmosphere. Anywhere else it would have been preposterous
as a decorative presentment, but here, in this little nook where
the coureurs de bois, the half- breeds, the traders and the missionaries
had founded a centre of assembly, it was the best possible expression
in the life so formed at hap-hazard, and so controlled by the
coarsest and narrowest influences. To Fitzhugh Beverley, of Beverley
Hall, the picture conveyed immediately a sweet and pervading influence.
Alice looked superbly tall, stately and self-possessed in her
transforming costume, a woman of full stature, her countenance
gravely demure yet reserving near the surface the playful dimples
and mischievous smiles so characteristic of her more usual manner.
A sudden mood of the varium et mutabile semper femina had led
her to wear the dress, and the mood still illuminated her.
Beverley stood before her frankly looking and admiring. The underglow
in her cheeks deepened and spread over her perfect throat; her
eyes met his a second, then shyly avoided him. He hardly could
have been sure which was master, her serenity or her girlish delight
in being attractively dressed; but there could be no doubt as
to her self-possession; for, saving the pretty blush under his
almost rude gaze of admiration, she bore herself as firmly as
any fine lady he remembered.
They walked together to the river house, she daintily holding
up her skirts, under the insistent verbal direction of Madame
Roussillon, and at the same time keeping a light, strangely satisfying
touch on his arm. When they entered the room there was no way
for Beverley to escape full consciousness of the excitement they
aroused; but M. Roussillon's assumption broke the force of what
would have otherwise been extremely embarrassing.
"It is encouraging, very encouraging," murmured the
big man to Beverley in the midst of the staring and scrambling
and craning of necks, "to have my people admire and love
me so; it goes to the middle of my heart." And again he bowed
and waved his hand with an all-including gesture, while he swept
his eyes over the crowd.
Alice and Beverley were soon in the whirl of the dance, forgetful
of everything but an exhilaration stirred to its utmost by Oncle
Jazon's music.
A side remark here may be of interest to those readers who enjoy
the dream that on some fortunate day they will invade a lonely
nook, where amid dust and cobwebs, neglected because unrecognized,
reposes a masterpiece of Stradivari or some other great fiddle-
maker. Oncle Jazon knew nothing whatever about old violins. He
was a natural musician, that was all, and flung himself upon his
fiddle with the same passionate abandon that characterizes a healthy
boy's assault when a plum pudding is at his mercy. But his fiddle
was a Carlo Bergonzi; and now let the search be renewed, for the
precious instrument was certainly still in Vincennes as late as
1819, and there is a vague tradition that Governor Whitcomb played
on it not long before he died. The mark by which it may be identified
is the single word "Jazon" cut in the back of its neck
by Oncle Jazon himself.
When their dance was ended Alice and Beverley followed the others
of their set out into the open air while a fresh stream of eager
dancers poured in. Beverley insisted upon wrapping Alice in her
mantle of unlined beaver skin against the searching winter breath.
They did not go to the fire, but walked back and forth, chatting
until their turn to dance should come again, pausing frequently
to exchange pleasantries with some of the people. Curiously enough
both of them had forgotten the fact that other young men would
be sure to ask Alice for a dance, and that more than one pretty
creole lass was rightfully expecting a giddy turn with the stalwart
and handsome Lieutenant Beverley.
Rene de Ronville before long broke rudely into their selfish dream
and led Alice into the house. This reminded Beverley of his social
duty, wherefore seeing little Adrienne Bourcier he made a rush
and secured her at a swoop from the midst of a scrambling circle
of mutually hindered young men.
"Allons, ma petite!" he cried, quite in the gay tone
of the occasion, and swung her lightly along with him.
It was like an eagle dancing with a linnet, or a giant with a
fairy, when the big Lieutenant led out la petite Adrienne, as
everybody called her. The honor of Beverley's attention sat unappreciated
on Adrienne's mind, for all her thoughts went with her eyes toward
Rene and Alice. Nor was Beverley so absorbed in his partner's
behalf that he ever for a moment willingly lost sight of the floating
buff gown, the shining brown hair and the beautiful face, which
formed, indeed, the center of attraction for all eyes.
Father Beret was present, sharing heartily in the merriment of
his flock. Voices greeted him on all sides with intonations of
tender respect. The rudest man there was loyal to the kind-hearted
priest, and would as soon have thought of shooting him as of giving
him any but the most reverent attention. It is to be noted, however,
that their understanding of reverence included great freedom and
levity not especially ecclesiastical in its nature. Father Beret
understood the conditions around him and had the genius to know
what not to hear, what not to see; but he never failed when a
good word or a fatherly touch with his hand seemed worth trying
on a sheep that appeared to be straying dangerously far from the
fold. Upon an occasion like this dance at the river house, he
was no less the faithful priest because of his genial sympathy
with the happiness of the young people who looked to him for spiritual
guidance.
It was some time before Beverley could again secure Alice for
a dance, and he found it annoying him atrociously to see her smile
sweetly on some buckskin-clad lout who looked like an Indian and
danced like a Parisian. He did not greatly enjoy most of his partners;
they could not appeal to any side of his nature just then. Not
that he at all times stood too much on his aristocratic traditions,
or lacked the virile traits common to vigorous and worldly-minded
men; but the contrast between Alice and the other girls present
was somehow an absolute bar to a democratic freedom of the sort
demanded by the occasion. He met Father Beret and passed a few
pleasant words with him.
"They have honored your flag, my son, I am glad to see,"
the priest said, pointing with a smile to where, in one corner,
the banner that bore Alice's name was effectively draped.
Beverley had not noticed it before, and when he presently got
possession of Alice he asked her to tell him the story of how
she planted it on the fort, although he had heard it to the last
detail from Father Beret just a moment ago. They stood together
under its folds while she naively sketched the scene for him,
even down to her picturesquely disagreeable interview with Long-Hair,
mention of whom led up to the story of the Indian's race with
the stolen dame jeanne of brandy under his arm on that memorable
night, and the subsequent services performed for him by Father
Beret and her, after she and Jean had found him in the mud beyond
the river.
The dancing went on at a furious pace while they stood there.
Now and again a youth came to claim her, but she said she was
tired and begged to rest awhile, smiling so graciously upon each
one that his rebuff thrilled him as if it had been the most flattering
gift of tender partiality, while at the same time he suspected
that it was all for Beverley.
Helm in his most jovial mood was circulating freely among those
who formed the periphery of the dancing-area; he even ventured
a few clumsy capers in a cotillion with Madame Godere for partner.
She danced well; but he, as someone remarked, stumbled all over
himself.
There was but one thing to mar the evening's pleasure: some of
the men drank too much and grew boisterous. A quarrel ended in
a noisy but harmless fight near one of the fires. M. Roussillon
rushed to the spot, seized the combatants, tousled them playfully,
as if they had been children, rubbed their heads together, laughed
stormily and so restored the equilibrium of temper.
It was late when fathers and mothers in the company began to suggest
adjournment. Oncle Jazon's elbow was tired and the enthusiasm
generated by his unrecognized Bergonzi became fitful, while the
relaxing crowd rapidly encroached upon the space set apart for
the dancers. In the open lamps suspended here and there the oil
was running low, and the rag wicks sputtered and winked with their
yellow flames.
"Well," said M. Roussillon, coming to where Alice and
Beverley stood insulated and isolated by their great delight in
each other's company, "it's time to go home."
Beverley looked at his watch; it was a quarter to three!
Alice also looked at the watch, and saw engraved and enameled
on its massive case the Beverley crest, but she did not know what
it meant. There was something of the sort in the back of her locket,
she remembered with satisfaction.
Just then there was a peculiar stir in the flagging crowd. Someone
had arrived, a coureur de bois from the north. Where was the commandant?
the coureur had something important for him.
Beverley heard a remark in a startled voice about the English
getting ready for a descent upon the Wabash valley. This broke
the charm which thralled him and sent through his nerves the bracing
shock that only a soldier can feel when a hint of coming battle
reaches him.
Alice saw the flash in his face.
"Where is Captain Helm? I must see him immediately. Excuse
me," he said, abruptly turning away and looking over the
heads of the people; "yonder he is, I must go to him."
The coureur de bois, Adolphe Dutremble by name, was just from
the head waters of the Wabash. He was speaking to Helm when Beverley
came up. M. Roussillon followed close upon the Lieutenant's heels,
as eager as he to know what the message amounted to; but Helm
took the coureur aside, motioning Beverley to join them. M. Roussillon
included himself in the conference.
After all it was but the gossip of savages that Dutremble communicated;
still the purport was startling in the extreme. Governor Hamilton,
so the story ran, had been organizing a large force; he was probably
now on his way to the portage of the Wabash with a flotilla of
batteaux, some companies of disciplined soldiers, artillery and
a strong body of Indians.
Helm listened attentively to Dutremble's lively sketch, then cross-questioned
him with laconic directness.
"Send Mr. Jazon to me," he said to M. Roussillon, as
if speaking to a servant.
The master Frenchman went promptly, recognizing Captain Helm's
right to command, and sympathizing With his unpleasant military
predicament if the news should prove true.
Oncle Jazon came in a minute, his fiddle and bow clamped under
his arm, to receive a verbal commission, which sent him with some
scouts of his own choosing forthwith to the Wabash portage, or
far enough to ascertain what the English commander was doing.
After the conference Beverley made haste to join Alice; but he
found that she had gone home.
"One hell of a fix we'll be in if Hamilton comes down here
with a good force," said Helm.
Beverley felt like retorting that a little forethought, zeal and
preparation might have lessened the prospective gloom. He had
been troubled all the time about Helm's utter lack of military
precaution. True, there was very little material out of which
that optimistic officer could have formed a body of resistance
against the army probably at Hamilton's command; but Beverley
was young, energetic, bellicose, and to him everything seemed
possible; he believed in vigilance, discipline, activity, dash;
he had a great faith in the efficacy of enthusiasm.
"We must organize these Frenchmen," he said; "they
will make good fighters if we can once get them to act as a body.
There's no time to be lost; but we have time enough in which to
do a great deal before Hamilton can arrive, if we go at it in
earnest."
"Your theory is excellent, Lieutenant, but the practice of
it won't be worth a damn," Helm replied with perfect good
nature. "I'd like to see you organize these parly-voos. There
ain't a dozen of 'em that wouldn't accept the English with open
arms. I know 'em. They're good hearted, polite and all that; they'll
hurrah for the flag; that's easy enough; but put 'em to the test
and they'll join in with the strongest side, see if they don't.
Of course there are a few exceptions. There's Jazon, he's all
right, and I have faith in Bosseron, and Legrace, and young Ronville."
"Roussillon--" Beverley began.
"Is much of a blow-hard," Helm interrupted with a laugh.
"Barks loud, but his biting disposition is probably not vicious."
"He and Father Beret control the whole population at all
events," said Beverley.
"Yes, and such a population!"
While joining in Captain Helm's laugh at the expense of Vincennes,
Beverley took leave to indulge a mental reservation in favor of
Alice. He could not bear to class her with the crowd of noisy,
thoughtless, mercurial beings whom he heard still singing gay
snatches and calling to one another from distance to distance,
as they strolled homeward in groups and pairs. Nor could the impending
danger of an enforced surrender to the English and Indians drive
from his mind her beautiful image, while he lay for the rest of
the night between sleeping and waking on his primitive bed, alternately
hearing over again her every phrase and laugh, and striving to
formulate some definite plan for defending the town and fort.
His heart was full of her. She had surprised his nature and filled
it, as with a wonderful, haunting song. His youth, his imagination,
all that was fresh and spontaneously gentle and natural in him,
was flooded with the magnetic splendor of her beauty. And yet,
in his pride (and it was not a false pride, but rather a noble
regard for his birthright) he vaguely realized how far she was
from him, how impossible.