Montlivet Part 51

I TELL THE WOMAN

Cadillac's tent held a couch of brush covered with skins, and I led the woman to it and bade her sit. Then I moved away and stood by the rough table.

"Madame," I said, "I have something that I must tell you. I"----

She rose from the couch and came toward me. "Will you wait?" she interrupted. "May I speak first?" She stood beside me, and I saw how thin her hand was as it rested on the table. She had been through danger, starvation. I found myself shaking.

"You went alone through the woods!" I cried, and my voice was hoa.r.s.e, so that I had to stop and control it. "Did you suffer? You must have suffered, madame?"

She smiled up at me. "Monsieur, do not grieve. It is all over. And the greatest suffering was in my mind. I feared that you would think I disobeyed you."

I clenched my hands. "Madame, you must not say such things to me."

But she touched her fingers to mine. "Monsieur, I beg you. Hear me out before you speak. As to my coming here, I promised you that I would not turn westward,--but I could not help it."

"I know, madame."

"My cousin--he was--he was a spy, after all. He deceived us both. He was carrying peace belts. But--but I am sure that he had moments of saying to himself that he would refuse to act the spy. When he lied to me, and told me that he had no purpose but my safety, I think that he thought he spoke the truth."

"I know, madame."

"But when--when I saw what he had done, when I saw that we were going west, I warned him that I would leave him. I told him, too, that he was going to his death. He did not believe me. No watch was kept on me. He had a small canoe; I took it one night. I had provision--a little---- I--I--I am here, monsieur."

I stood with my eyes down. "Your cousin wished to follow you. The Indians restrained him. It was as I told you. He was not a coward at the last, madame."'

I heard her quick breath. "My cousin,--he was very weak. But he would have liked not to be. I think that he would have liked to be such a man as you, monsieur."

If I had been a live man I should have cried out at the irony of having to hear her say that to me. But I could not feel even shame.

"Hush, hush!" I said slowly. "It is my turn now. Madame, I knew that you were in the Seneca camp."

"But I was not."

"It is the same as if you were. We had news from Indian runners that Starling had turned west and joined Pemaou. I knew that he would take you to the Senecas." I stopped and forced myself to look at her. But I found no horror in her face. There was still that strange glow of pride that had not faded since she talked to Cadillac. I saw that she did not understand. My voice was thick, but I tried to speak again.

She interrupted.

"This is not a surprise to me. This wilderness that seems so lonely is full of eyes and ears. I feared that you would hear that we had turned west."

Her face was unsteady with tenderness. I had never seen her look like that. I warded her away though she was several feet distant. "You do not understand," I said. "I knew that you were in the camp, yet I gave the signal to attack it. I gave the signal to attack it with Indians, and you were inside."

"But I was not inside, monsieur."

"I believed you to be, and I gave the signal."

"But, monsieur, I"----

"Madame, I believed you to be in the camp, and I gave the signal to attack it."

She was silent at that, and I knew that at last she understood. We stood side by side. I looked at the litter in Cadillac's tent, and counted it piece by piece. There were clothes, papers, a handmill for grinding maize. I felt her touch my hand.

"Will you sit beside me on the couch?"

I followed her. She sat facing me, just out of reach of my hand. The light in the tent was blue and dim, but I could see the breath flutter in her throat. I looked at her. I should never be alone with her again. I should never again look at her in this way. I tried to hold the moment, and not blur it. I looked at the lips that I had never kissed. I watched the rise and fall of the bosom where my head had never lain. She was speaking, but I could hardly understand.

"I was three days in the woods before I found the Pottawatamies," she said. "I was alone all night with the stars and the trees. I thought of everything. I thought of this, monsieur. I was sure you would do--what you did."

I stared at her stupidly.

She reached out and touched my hand. "Monsieur, listen. I have lived beside you. I know you to be a man of fixed purpose and fanatic honor.

When such a man as you lays out a path for himself, he will follow it even if he has to trample on what is in his way,--even if he has to trample on his heart, monsieur."

I could not follow her argument. "You should not touch my hand." I drew it away. "You do not understand, after all. Madame, I gave the signal knowing it meant your murder." I rose, and stood like stone.

My arms hung like weights by my side, but I would not look away from her.

She rose, too. I saw a strange, wild brightness flame into her eyes.

"Monsieur," she whispered. "I understand so much more than you realize. Listen. You will listen? Monsieur, until now you have always laughed. You have been gay,--gay at all times. Yet, through it all I have seen--I have always seen--your terrible power of self-crucifixion. Oh, I have seen it; I have feared it; I have loved it! I have tried to get away from it. But always I have been conscious of it. It is you. It has ruled all your dealings with me.

Else why did you take me with you? Why did you marry me? So in this matter. You knew that the safety of the west, and of the Indians who trusted you, lay in attacking this camp. I knew that you would attack it. Monsieur, monsieur, now will you touch my hand?"

I stepped back. "You cannot want to touch my hand. Madame, you do not know what you are saying."

But she did not move. "Monsieur, will you never believe that I understand?"

I could not answer. I turned from her. The air was black. I seized her fur cloak which lay on the couch and pressed it in my hands. I knew that my breath rattled in groans like a dying man's. If I had tried to speak I should have s.n.a.t.c.hed her to me. I held fast to the table. I had no thought of what she was thinking. I knew only that I must stand there silent if I was to get away from her in safety. If I touched her, if I looked at her, I should lose control, and take what she would give in pity. I fought to save her as well as myself from my madness.

At last she spoke, and her voice was tired and quiet. "You wish me to go, monsieur?"

That brought me to my manhood. I went to her and looked down at her brown head; the brave brown head that she had carried so high through all the terror and unkindness that had come to her. I touched her hair with my lips, and I grew as quiet as she.

"Mary," I said, "it is I who must go away at once before I make trouble for both of us. You are trying to forgive me, but you cannot do it.

You may think you have done it, but the time would come when you would look at me in horror, as you looked at Starling. I could stand death better. I know that you cannot forgive me. I knew it at the moment when I gave the signal to attack the camp. You can never forgive me."

She lifted her eyes to mine. "I have not forgiven you, monsieur.

There is nothing to forgive."

I let myself look at her, and all my calmness left me. I shut my teeth and tried to hold myself in bounds.

"Mary!" I groaned, "be careful! Be careful! It is not your pity I want. If you forgive me for pity"----

I could not finish, for she gave a little sob. She turned to me. "It is you who marry for pity," she cried, with her eyes br.i.m.m.i.n.g. "I could not. I would not. And I have nothing to forgive; nothing, nothing. I would not have had you do anything else. I was proud of you. Oh, so proud, so proud! If you had done anything else I could never have---- Monsieur, do you love me--a little?"

I took her in my arms. I held her close to me and looked into her eyes. I looked deep into them and into the soul of her. I saw understanding of me, acceptance of me as I was. I saw belief, heart hunger, love.

And then I laid my lips on hers. She was my wife. She was the woman G.o.d had made for me, the woman who had trusted me through more than death, and who had come to me through blood and agony and tears. She was my own, and I had her there alive. I took her to myself.

CHAPTER x.x.xIII