Chapter XIV Wedding Guests
More guests were arriving—Diomé, Batiste, Mathurin, and a dozen others. Bowkett came out into the porch to receive them, and usher one after the other into the dining-room. As the last went in before him, his friend Dick Vanner of the forked tongue tapped him on the shoulder.
“Who is in there?” he whispered. “Did you see?” pointing as he spoke to the door of Uncle Caleb’s room.
Gaspé was on the alert in a moment, longing to break a lance in his friend’s behalf. The men dropped their voices, but the echo of one sentence reached him. It sounded like, “No, she only saw the other boy.”
“So, Wilfred, mon cher, you and I have changed places, and I have become that ‘other boy,’” laughed Gaspé to himself, lying perdu with an open ear.
As the two separated they muttered, “Outwit us? Like to see it done!”
“Keep that door shut, and leave the rest to me,” added Vanner, sauntering up to the fire.—“Accommodation is scanty here to-night. How many are there in your party?” he asked, looking down on Gaspé. “Pête said four—three men and a boy. Was not it five—three men and two boys?”
“Yes, five,” answered Gaspé.
“You boys must want something to eat,” remarked Vanner, carelessly pushing open the door of the storeroom, and returning with a partridge pie. “Here, fall to. Where’s your chum?”
Gaspé saw the trap into which he was expected to walk. He stepped over it.
“Have not you been taught to look out for number one?” asked Gaspé. “I’ll have a turn at that pie by myself, now I have got the chance, before I call on a chum to help me. I can tell you that.”
“Confound you, you greedy young beggar!” exclaimed Vanner.
“Try thirty miles in an open sled, with twenty-five degrees of frost on the ground, and see if you would be willing to divide your pie at the end of it,” retorted Gaspé.
“That is a cool way of asking for one apiece,” remarked Vanner, abstracting a second pie from the storeroom shelves.
“If you’ve another to spare I’d like two for myself,” persisted Gaspé.
“Then have it,” said Vanner. “I am bound to give you a satisfaction. We do not reckon on a wedding feast every night. Now, where is the other boy? You can’t object to call him. Here is a sausage as long as your arm. Walk into that.”
“You will not get me to move with this dish before me,” returned the undaunted Gaspé, and Vanner felt it waste of time to urge him further. He went back to his friends.
Gaspé was at Caleb Acland’s door in a moment, singing through the keyhole,—
“St. George he is for England, St. Denis is for France.
Honi soit qui mal y pense.”
Wilfred rose to open the door as he recognized his friend’s voice.
“Keep where you are. Don’t come out for anybody,” urged Gaspé, retreating as he heard a noise: but it was only his grandfather re-entering the porch.
He flew to his side. “What’s up?” he asked breathlessly.
“A goodly crop of suspicions, if all the Cree tells me is true. Your poor friend is fitted with an uncle in this Bowkett after their old ballad type of the Babes in the Wood.”
“Now listen to me, grandfather, and I can tell you a little bit more,” answered Gaspé, giving his narrative with infinite delight at the success of his manoeuvring.
The moon shone clear and bright. The tree in the centre of the court, laden with hoar-frost, glittered in its crystal white like some bridal bouquet of gigantic size. The house was ablaze with light from every window. The hunters had turned their horses adrift. They were galloping at will among the orchard trees to keep themselves warm. Maxica was wandering in their midst, counting their numbers to ascertain the size of the party. Mr. De Brunier crossed over to him, to discuss Gaspé’s intelligence, and sent his grandson back indoors, where the sledge-driver was ready to assist him in the demolition of the pies which had so signally failed to lure Wilfred from his retreat.
Mr. De Brunier followed his grandson quickly, and walking straight to Uncle Caleb’s door, knocked for admittance.
The cowkeeper, the only individual at Acland’s Hut who did not know Wilfred personally, was sent by Bowkett to keep up the kitchen fire.
The man stared. “The master has got his door fastened,” he said; “I can’t make it out.”
“Is Mr. Acland ready to see me?” asked Mr. De Brunier, repeating his summons.
“Yes,” answered Uncle Caleb; “come in.”
Wilfred opened the door.
Uncle Caleb raised himself on his elbow, and catching sight of the dishes on the kitchen-table, said, “It seems to me the old man’s orders are to go for little. But whilst the life is in me I am master in this place. Be so good, sir, as to tell that fellow of mine to bring that pie in here, and give this child something to eat.”
“With pleasure,” returned his visitor.
Wilfred’s supper provided for, the two looked well at each other.
“What sort are you?” was the question in both minds. They trusted, as we all do more or less, to the expression. A good honest character writes itself on the face. They shook hands.
“I have to thank you for bringing back my boy,” said Uncle Caleb.
“Not me,” returned Mr. De Brunier, briefly recapitulating the circumstances which led to Wilfred’s sojourn at Hungry Hall, and why he sent him to the hunters’ camp. “Since then,” he added, “your nephew has been wandering among the Indians. It was a Cree who guided him home—the same Cree who warned him not to trust himself with Bowkett.”
“Come here, Wilfred, and tell me exactly what this Indian said,” interposed Caleb Acland, a grave look gathering on his wrinkled brow.
“Not one word, uncle. Maxica did not speak,” answered Wilfred. “He brought me three queer bits of wood from the hearth and stuck them in the floor before me, so, and so,” continued the boy, trying to explain the way in which the warning had been given to him.
Uncle Caleb was getting so much exhausted with the excitement of Wilfred’s return, and the effort of talking to a stranger, he did not quite understand all Wilfred was saying.
“We can’t condemn a fellow on evidence like that,” moaned the old man, “and one so near to me as Bowkett. What does it mean for Miriam?”
“Will you see this Cree and hear for yourself?” asked Mr. De Brunier. “We are neither judge nor jury. We are not here to acquit or condemn, but a warning like this is not to be despised. I came to put you on your guard.”
The feeble hand grasped his, “I am about spent,” groaned Caleb. “It is my breath. Let me rest a bit. I’ll think this over. Come again.”
The gasping words came with such painful effort, Mr. De Brunier could only lay him back amongst his pillows and promise to return in the morning, or earlier if it were wished. He was at the door, when Caleb Acland signed to him to return.
“Not a word to my sister yet. The boy is safe here. Tell him he is not to go out of this room.”
Mr. De Brunier shook the feeble hand once more, and gave the required promise. There was one more word. “What was that about buying land? I might help you there; a little business between us, you understand.”
“Yes, yes,” answered Mr. De Brunier, feeling as if such another effort might shake the labouring breath out of the enfeebled frame in a moment.
“Keep in here. Keep quiet; and remember, whatever happens, I shall be near,” was Mr. De Brunier’s parting charge to Wilfred as he went back into the kitchen, intending to watch there through the night, if no one objected to his presence.
The old man started as the door closed after him. “Don’t fasten it, lad!” he exclaimed. “It looks too much like being afraid of them.”
Mr. De Brunier joined Gaspé and the sledge-driver at their supper. Gaspé watched him attentively as they ate on in silence.
Bowkett came out and spoke to them. “I am sorry,” he said, “to seem inhospitable, but the house is so full to-night I really cannot offer you any further accommodation. But the men have a sleeping hut round the corner, under the pines, where you can pass the night. I’ll send one of them with you to show you the way and light a fire.”
No exception could be taken to this. The three finished their supper and were soon ready to depart.
“I must see Mr. Acland again about the land business,” remarked Mr. De Brunier, recalling Uncle Caleb’s hint.
Bowkett summoned his man, and Diomé came out with him. He strolled through the porch and looked about him, as if he were considering the weather.
Maxica was still prowling behind the orchard trees, like a hungry coyote watching for the remnants of the feast, as it seemed. The two met.
“There will be mischief before these fellows part,” said Diomé. “Keep a sharp look-out for the boy.”
Diomé went on to catch Dick Vanner’s pony. Maxica stole up to the house. The travellers were just coming out. He gave Yula a call. Gaspé was the only one who perceived him, as Yula bounded between them.
It was hard for Gaspé to go away and leave his friend without another word. He had half a mind to take Kusky with him. He lingered irresolute a moment or two behind his grandfather. Bowkett had opened the door of Caleb Acland’s room, and he saw Kusky creeping in between Bowkett’s legs.
“How is this?” the latter was saying in a noisy voice. “Wilfred got home, and won’t show his face!—won’t come out amongst us to have his dinner and speak to his aunt! What is the meaning of it? What makes him afraid of being seen?”
There was not a word from Wilfred. It was the feeble voice of his Uncle Caleb that was speaking:—
“Yes, it is Wilfred come back. I’ve got him here beside me all safe. He has been wandering about among the redskins, half dead and nearly starved. Don’t disturb us. I am getting him to sleep. Tell Miriam she must come here and look at him. You can all come and look at him; Forgill and your Diomé too. They all know my boy. How has Miriam managed to keep away?”
“As if we could spare the bride from the marriage feast,” laughed Bowkett, raising his voice that every one might hear what they were saying.
“Neither can I spare my boy out of my sight a single moment,” said the old man quietly.
“That’s capital,” laughed Gaspé to himself, as he ran after his grandfather.
They did not encounter Maxica, but they passed Diomé trying to catch the horse, and gave him a little help by the way.
“You are not going?” he asked anxiously. “I thought you would be sure to stay the night. You are a friend of Wilfred Acland’s, are you not, Mr. De Brunier? He was so disappointed when he found Hungry Hall was shut up. I thought you would know him; so do I. Mrs. Bowkett says the boy is not her nephew.”
“I rather think that has been said for her,” remarked Mr. De Brunier quietly.
“I see through it,” exclaimed Gaspé; “I see what they are driving at. Her husband told her I was the boy. She came and looked at me. Bowkett knows well enough the real Wilfred is in his uncle’s room, If they could get him out into the kitchen, they would make a great clamour and declare he is an impostor trying to take the old man in.”
“You’ve hit it,” muttered Diomé. “But they shan’t give him lynch law. I’ll not stand by and see that.”
“Come back, grandfather,” cried Gaspé. “Give me one of your English sovereigns with a little silver threepenny on either side to kiss it. I’ll string them on my watch-chain for a lady’s locket, walk in with it for a wedding present, and undeceive the bride before them all.”
“Not so fast, Gaspard. We should only bring the crisis before we have raised our safeguards,” rejoined Mr. De Brunier thoughtfully. “I saw many a gun set down against the wall, as the hunters came in.”
“That is nothing,” put in Diomé; “we are never without them.”
“That is everything,” persisted Mr. De Brunier. “Men with arms habitually in their hands use them with small provocation, and things are done which would never be done by deliberate purpose.”
“I am not Dick Vanner’s groom,” said Diomé, “but he wants me to hold his horse in the shadow of those pines or under the orchard wall; and I’ll hold it as long as he likes, and walk it about half the night in readiness for him, and then I shall know where he is bound for.”
“The American frontier, with Wilfred behind him, unless I am making a great mistake. If Bowkett laid a finger on him here, half his guests would turn upon him,” observed Mr. De Brunier.
“That’s about it,” returned Diomé. “Now I am going to shut up this horse in one of the sheds, ready for Vanner at a moment’s notice, and then I’ll try for a word with Forgill. He is working so hard with the carving-knife there is no getting at him.”
“There is one of the Aclands’ men lighting a fire in his hut, ready for us,” put in Gaspé.
Diomé shook his head. “He!” he repeated in accents of contempt; “he would let it all out at the wrong time.”
“Is the Cree gone?”
“Maxica is on the scent already,’ replied Diomé, whistling carelessly as they parted.
“Gaspard,” said Mr. De Brunier, as they entered the hut, “do you remember passing a policeman on the road. He was watching for a Yankee spirit cart, contraband of course. He will have caught it by this time, and emptied the barrels, according to our new Canadian law. Go back in the sledge—you will meet him returning—and bring him here. If he rides into the farm-court before daybreak, your little friend is safe. As for me, I must keep watch here. No one can leave the house without me seeing him, the night is so clear. A dark figure against the white ground is visible at twice this distance; and Maxica is somewhere by the back of the homestead. Neither sight nor sound will escape an Indian.”
Mr. De Brunier despatched the sledge-driver back to the farm with the man Bowkett had sent to light their fire, to try to procure a fresh horse. This was easily managed. Bowkett was delighted to think the travellers were about to resume their journey, and declared the better half of hospitality was to speed the parting guest.
The sledge went round to Forgill’s hut. Gaspé wrapped himself in the bearskin and departed. No one saw him go; no one knew that Mr. De Brunier was left behind. He built up the fire and reconnoitred his ground. In one corner of the hut was a good stout cudgel.
“I must anticipate your owner’s permission and adopt you,” he said, as he gave it a flourish to try its weight. Then he looked to the revolver in his breast pocket, and began his walk, so many paces in front of the hut, with his eye on the farm-house porch, and so many paces walking backwards, with it still in sight—a self-appointed sentry, ready to challenge the enemy single-handed, for he did not count much upon Diomé. He saw how loath he was to come into collision with Bowkett, and reckoned him more as a friend in the camp than as an active ally. There was Maxica, ready like a faithful mastiff to fly at the throat of the first man who dared to lay a hand on Wilfred, regardless of consequences. He did not know Maxica, but he knew the working of the Indian mind. Revenge is the justice of the savage. It was Maxica’s retaliation that he feared. Diomé had spoken of Forgill, but Mr. De Brunier knew nothing of him, so he left him out of count. It was clear he must chiefly rely on his own coolness and courage. “The moral force will tell in such an encounter as this, and that is all on my side,” he said to himself. “It will tell on the outsiders and the farm-servants. I shall find some to second me.” He heard the scrape of the fiddle and the merry chorus of some hunting-song, followed by the quick beat of the dancers’ footsteps.
Hour succeeded hour. The fire in the hut burned low. De Brunier left his post for a moment to throw on fresh logs. He returned to his watch. The house-door opened. Out came Diomé and crossed to the cattle-sheds. Mr. De Brunier saw him come back with Vanner’s horse. He changed his position, creeping in behind the orchard trees, until he was within a few yards of the house. The three feet of snow beneath his feet gave him an elevation. He was looking down into the court, where the snow had been partially cleared.
Diomé was walking the horse up and down before the door. It was not a night in which any one could stand still. His impatient stamping to warm his feet brought out Vanner and Bowkett, with half-a-dozen others. The leave-taking was noisy and prolonged. Batiste’s head appeared in the doorway.
“I cannot count on his assistance,” thought Mr. De Brunier, “but I can count on his neutrality; and Diomé must know that a word from me would bring about his dismissal from his new master.”
Vanner mounted and rode off along the slippery ground as only a hunter could ride.
“Now for the first act,” thought Mr. De Brunier. “May my Gaspard be speeding on his errand. The hour draws near.”
As Bowkett and his friends turned back into the house, Diomé walked rapidly across the other end of the orchard and went towards Forgill’s hut. With cautious steps De Brunier followed.
Diomé was standing moodily by the fire. He started.
“Well,” demanded Mr. De Brunier, “how goes the night?”
“For God’s sake keep out of the way, sir. They have made this hut the rendezvous, believing you had started hours ago,” exclaimed Diomé brightening.
“Did you think I had deserted the poor boy?” asked Mr. De Brunier.
“I was thinking,” answered Diomé, waiving the question, “Dick Vanner is a dangerous fellow to thwart when the bowie-knife is in his hand.”
“Well, you will see it done, and then you may find him not quite so dangerous as he seems,” was the quiet reply.