Beyond the Frontier. Randall Parrish

wave of hope overcome my timidity.

      “Come, Mademoiselle,” he said, almost eagerly. “There is no reason for you to fear confiding in me. Surely I was never sent for without just reason. Let us sit here while you retell the story. Perchance we will play boy and girl again.”

      “You remember that?”

      “Do I not!” he laughed pleasantly. “There were few pleasant memories I took with me into the wilderness, yet that was one. Ay, but we talked freely enough then, and there is naught since in my life to 39 bring loss of faith. ’Tis my wish to serve you, be it with wit or blade.” He bent lower, seeking the expression in my eyes. “This Hugo Chevet––he is a brute. I know––is his abuse beyond endurance?”

      “No, no,” I hastened to explain. “In his way he is not unkind. The truth is he has lived so long in the woods alone, he scarcely speaks. He––he would marry me to Monsieur Cassion.”

      Never will I forget the look of sheer delight on his face as these words burst from me. His hand struck the bench, and he tossed back the long hair from his forehead, his eyes merry with enjoyment.

      “Ah, good! By all the saints, ’tis even as I hoped. Then have no fear of my sympathy, Mademoiselle. Nothing could please me like a clash with that perfumed gallant. He doth persecute you with his wooing?”

      “He has not spoken, save to Chevet; yet it is seemingly all arranged without my being approached.”

      “A coward’s way. Chevet told you?”

      “Three days ago, Monsieur, after you were there, and Cassion had departed. It may have been that your being seen with me hastened the plan. I know not, yet the two talked together long, and privately, and when the Commissaire finally went away, Chevet called me in, and told me what had been decided.”

      “That you were to marry that coxcomb?”

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      “Yes; he did not ask me if I would; it was a command. When I protested my lack of love, saying even that I despised the man, he answered me with a laugh, insisting it was his choice, not mine, and that love had naught to do with such matters. Think you this Cassion has some hold on Hugo Chevet to make him so harsh?”

      “No doubt, they are hand in glove in the fur trade, and the Commissaire has La Barre’s ear just now. He rode by yonder in the carriage a moment since, and you might think from his bows he was the Governor. And this marriage? when does it take place?”

      “On Monsieur’s safe return from the great West.”

      The smile came back to his face.

      “Not so bad that, for ’tis a long journey, and might be delayed. I travel with him, you know, and we depart at daybreak. What else did this Chevet have to say?”

      “Only a threat that if ever you came near me again his fingers would feel your throat, Monsieur. He spoke of hate between himself and your father.”

      The eyes upon mine lost their tolerant smile, and grew darker, and I marked the fingers of his hand clinch.

      “That was like enough, for my father was little averse to a quarrel, although he seldom made boast of it afterwards. And so this Hugo Chevet threatened 41 me! I am not of the blood, Mademoiselle, to take such things lightly. Yet wait––why came you to me with such a tale? Have you no friends?”

      “None, Monsieur,” I answered gravely, and regretfully, “other than the nuns to whom I went to school, and they are useless in such a case. I am an orphan under guardianship, and my whole life has been passed in this convent, and Chevet’s cabin on the river. My mother died at my birth, my father was a soldier on the frontier, and I grew up alone among strangers. Scarcely have I met any save the rough boatmen, and those couriers du bois in my uncle’s employ. There was no one else but you, Monsieur––no one. ’Twas not immodesty which caused me to make this appeal, but a dire need. I am a helpless, friendless girl.”

      “You trust me then?”

      “Yes, Monsieur; I believe you a man of honor.”

      He walked across the room, once, twice, his head bent in thought, and I watched him, half frightened lest I had angered him.

      “Have I done very wrong, Monsieur?”

      He stopped, his eyes on my face. He must have perceived my perplexity, for he smiled again, and pressed my hand gently.

      “If so, the angels must judge,” he answered stoutly. “As for me, I am very glad you do me this honor. I but seek the best plan of service, Mademoiselle, for I 42 stand between you and this sacrifice with much pleasure. You shall not marry Cassion while I wear a sword; yet, faith! I am so much a man of action that I see no way out but by the strong arm. Is appeal to the Governor, to the judges impossible?”

      “He possesses influence now.”

      “True enough; he is the kind La Barre finds useful, while I can scarce keep my head upon my shoulders here in New France. To be follower of La Salle is to be called traitor. It required the aid of every friend I had in Quebec to secure me card of admission to the ball tonight.”

      “You attend, Monsieur?”

      “Unless they bar me at the sword point. Know you why I made the effort?”

      “No, Monsieur.”

      “Your promise to be present. I had no wish otherwise.”

      I felt the flush deepen on my cheeks and my eyes fell.

      “’Tis most kind of you to say so, Monsieur,” was all I could falter.

      “Ay!” he interrupted, “we are both so alone in this New France ’tis well we help each other. I will find you a way out, Mademoiselle––perhaps this night; if not, then in the woods yonder. They are filled with secrets, yet have room to hide another.”

      “But not violence, Monsieur!”

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      “Planning and scheming is not my way, nor am I good at it. A soldier of La Salle needs more to understand action, and the De Artigny breed has ever had faith in steel. I seek no quarrel, yet if occasion arise this messenger of La Barre will find me quite ready. I know not what may occur. Mademoiselle; I merely pledge you my word of honor that Cassion will no longer seek your hand. The method you must trust to me.”

      Our eyes met, and his were kind and smiling, with a confidence in their depths that strangely heartened me. Before I realized the action I had given him my hand.

      “I do, Monsieur, and question no more, though I pray for peace between you. Our time is up, Sister?”

      “Yes, my child,” she stood in the doorway, appearing like some saintly image. “The Mother sent me.”

      De Artigny released my hand, and bowed low.

      “I still rely upon your attendance at the ball?” he asked, lingering at the door.

      “Yes, Monsieur.”

      “And may bespeak a dance?”

      “I cannot say no, although it may cost you dear.”

      He laughed gaily, his eyes bright with merriment.

      “Faith! most pleasures do I find; the world would be dull enough otherwise. Till then, Mademoiselle, adieu.”

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      We heard his quick step ring on the stone of the passage, and Celeste smiled, her hand on mine.

      “A lad of spirit that. The Sieur de la Salle picks his followers well, and knows loyal hearts. The De Artignys never fail.”

      “You know of them, Sister?”

      “I knew his father,” she answered, half ashamed already of her impulse, “a gallant man. But come, the Mother would have you