Montlivet Part 27

I laughed at her. "He would not dare harm a Frenchman, madame."

"Then why does he follow you?"

But there I could only shrug. "He was probably in Lord Starling's pay, and was keeping track of us that he might direct your cousin to us.

But we have shaken him off."

She thought this over for some time without speaking, and I was content to lie silent at her feet. Bees droned in the flowers and white drifts of afternoon clouds floated over us. I was happy in the moment, and more than that, I was drugged with my dreams of the future. There were days and days and days before us. This was but the threshold. And then, with my ear to the ground, I heard the sound of an axe. The sound of an axe in an untraveled wilderness!

I crowded closer to the ground. My blood beat in my temples, and I was awake with every muscle. But I learned nothing. The sound of an axe and then silence.

The woman looked at me. "Monsieur, is something wrong? Your face has changed."

I stretched out my hand to her. "You must not grow fanciful. But come. It is time to go home, madame."

I pushed her into the canoe in haste, but when we had once rounded the turn of the bluff we floated home slowly. The light of late afternoon is warm and yellow. It cradled the woman in lapping waves, and she sat glowing and fragrant, and her eyes were mirrors of the light. I dropped my paddle.

"Tell me more about yourself. Talk to me. Tell me of your childhood,"

I breathed.

She put out her hand. "Monsieur! Our contract!"

I let the canoe drift. "Madame; tell me the truth. Why do you hold yourself so detached from me? Is it---- Madame, is it because you fear that we shall learn to love each other,--to love against our wills?"

She looked down. "It would be a tragedy if we did, monsieur."

"You would think it a tragedy to learn to love me?"

"It could be nothing else, monsieur."

The breeze took us where it willed. The mother-of-pearl shimmer of evening was turning the headlands to mist, and the air smelled of cedar and pine. Tiny waves lapped complainingly on the sides of our rocking canoe. I leaned forward.

"Listen, madame, you know life. You know how little is often given under the bond of marriage. You know how men and women live long lives together though completely sundered in heart, and how others though separated in life walk side by side in the spirit. As this is so, why do you fear to see or know too much of me? Propinquity does not create love."

Still she looked down. "Men say that it does, monsieur."

"Then why are so many marriages unhappy? No, madame, you know better than that. And you know that if love should grow between us it would sweep away your toy barriers like paper. Nearness or absence would not affect it. Madame, let me have your hand."

"No, no! Monsieur, I do not know you."

"You shall know me better. Come, what is a hand? There. Madame, would you prefer, from now on, to travel in hardship with me rather than be left in comfort here?"

"I should indeed, monsieur."

"Then you shall go with me."

"But your work, monsieur!"

I released her hand and picked up my paddle. "I see that Indian tribes are not my only concern," I explained. "I have other matters to conquer. We shall not be separated from now on."

She did not answer, and I paddled home in silence with my eyes on her face. As we landed, she gave me her hand.

"I do not care for supper, and am going to my house. Good-night, monsieur."

I bowed over her hand. "Are you glad that you are to travel with me and know me better? Are you glad, madame?"

She smiled a little. "I--I think so, monsieur."

"You are not sure? Think of it to-night. Perhaps you will tell me to-morrow. Will you tell me to-morrow, madame?"

She drew back into the dusk. "Perhaps--to-morrow. Good-night, monsieur."

I walked through the meadow. I would not eat supper and I would not work. Finally I called Simon. He was a strange, quiet man, not as strong as the others of the crew, but of use to me for his knowledge of woodcraft. As a boy he had been held captive by the Mohawks, and he was almost as deft of hand and eye as they.

"Have you seen any sign or sound of Indian or white men in these three weeks?" I asked him.

He looked at me rather sullenly. "Yes. A canoe went through here one night about a week ago."

"Who was in it?"

"I do not know."

"You should have followed."

"I did."

"You should have reported to me."

He glowered at me with the eye of a rebellious panther. "I watched.

The master went away." Then he showed his teeth in open defiance. "I watched every night on the beach. The master slept or went away."

I opened my mouth to order him under guard, but I did not form the words. I thought of the way that he had spent his days working on the delicately fashioned canoe and his nights in keeping guard. And all for the woman. Women make mischief in the wilderness. I grew pitiful.

"Watch again to-night," I said kindly, "and you shall sleep to-morrow.

Simon, I thought that I heard the sound of an axe off the south sh.o.r.e to-day. I shall take the small canoe at daybreak and see what I can find. Tell the camp I have gone fishing. I shall return by noon.

And, Simon"----

"Yes, master."

"Madame de Montlivet is your special care till I return."

CHAPTER XIX

IN THE MIST

I slipped off in grayness the next morning. There was a water fog that hugged me clammily, and sounds echoed in it as in a metal canopy. I could not have found my way in open water, but here I could crowd tight to the sh.o.r.e and keep my bearings. I took a keg of pitch with me, for when I saw the weather I knew that I would give the canoe many a sc.r.a.pe on rocks and snags.