A Rich Man's Relatives Volume III Part 11

CHAPTER XIII.

AT CAUGHNAWAGA.

The lacrosse match proceeded all the same, though M. Rouget had withdrawn the patronage of his presence. The interest felt in the second game was greater than that in the first. Every one with money to stake was on the _qui vive_; the chances were considered even now, whereas in the first innings, every one believed in Caughnawaga, and odds had to be given to tempt the few down-hearted Upper Canadians to back Brautford. The second game ended like the first, to the general surprise, and again Brautford's success was largely due to the clever stripling, who, bounding about the field as nimbly as the ball itself, was always where he was most wanted, and calmly did the best thing to do at the time. "Who is the little one?" was asked on every hand; but no one was ready with an answer other than the obvious one, "Injun, like the rest," till a squaw--one of the many who circulated among the crowd, brown as horse chestnuts, with little beads of eyes and broad flat faces, arrayed in moccasins and blankets, yellow, red, and blue, selling bark and bead work--vouchsafed the laconic information, "name Paul."

The third game was longer and more obstinately contested than either of its predecessors. Caughnawaga braced itself for a supreme effort, under the reproaches of its backers and the taunts of the very squaws.

The best of five were to take the stakes. If Brautford won this third, the match was over, and Caughnawaga "knocked into a c.o.c.ked hat." The players fought their most strenuous on either side, with tight set teeth and wicked-looking eyes, which boded ill for joint or limb which should happen within the swing of a lacrosse. Caughnawaga was desperate, following up its capture of the ball with a compact rush, and interposing their wiry bodies recklessly between it and the uplifted sticks of the other side. Rus.h.i.+ng and scuffling, they had carried it nearly to their goal, another lick, and the game were won; when, in front, there leaped the redoubtable Paul, scooped it up on his netting, and threw it back over their heads.

It was done in a moment, while yet the rush and impetus were unstemmed; an instant later and he was stumbled upon and run down by his eager opponents, trampled on and stunned, before they could stay themselves in their rush. They tripped over him and fell in a heap, while the Brautford men caught the ball in the undefended middle and had little opposition in carrying it to the other goal.

"Brautford! Hurrah for Brautford!" The Caughnawaga's heard the shout while they were still disentangling and picking themselves up, a defeated band. They picked themselves up and slunk away like cats, that, raiding a dairy, are suddenly drenched and discomfited by an ambushed milker. Only Paul was left on the ground, stunned and unable to rise.

His comrades were the first to miss him; and they, perhaps, were reminded of him by their backers in the crowd, for triumph is a self-engrossing pa.s.sion, and glory so sweet a sugar-stick, that, while sucking it, we are not too likely to go in search of the comrade to whom the most of it is due.

"Where is the young 'un?" was questioned in the crowd. "Where is Paul?" and the crowd turned to the now deserted portion of the field where he had last been seen. He was there still. A squaw in a red blanket was beside him; she had raised his head and was chafing his temples. Another squaw--a young one, this--was seen fetching water to pour on him. But now the crowd was interested, they had gathered round him, and soon carried him into the refreshment tent, where whisky, the sporting man's nostrum, was used to restore him.

The notable Indians on the ground, the elders who did not join in youthful sports, had gathered to look at the youth who had done so well, and who might yet, for anything they could know, come forth one day, a champion of their race. For who can tell what fancies may be cherished by the red man? The white does not sympathize with them, and therefore he puts them away, behind his impenetrable stolidity of bearing, which might conceal so much, but more frequently and with equal success hides nothing at all. They were once possessors of the land, in so far, at least, as being there, for they shared it with the beasts. Traditions of the physical prowess of their fathers are handed down among them, and who can tell but, in their dreams, they may look forward to a hero like those of old to arise and vindicate their place among the whites.

Our old friend, Paul, of long ago, was a leading figure among these elders, and one of evident consideration. A tall man, grown fleshy from ease and lack of exercise, the violent exercises of his youth, with his straight black hair threaded plentifully with white--a "respectable" Indian, one seemingly well to do. The token of his respectability was likewise that which deprived him of every vestige of dignity or grace, to wit, a suit of rusty black clothes. It is the queer tribute of respect which men of other races pay to our European civilization. They cast away their native braveries and picturesqueness of apparel, and accept the clothing of the white man taken at its baldest and worst. An Indian, a j.a.panese, or a negro, goes into full dress by putting on a chimney-pot hat and black raiment, resembling that worn by undertakers' mutes, never well-fitting, never well cared for, and harmonizing vilely with his dusky skin, while his own natural instincts can arrange combinations so suitable and becoming.

Paul stepped forward to where the lad lay, and surveyed the shapely limbs. He was conscious now, but still dull and stupid, and not averse to being a centre of interest. Paul laid his hand on his brow, and felt his chest, and thought he was as fine a man of his years as he ever beheld. The squaw in the red blanket looked up at him, while she continued to chafe the boy's hands, and seemed greatly moved; but it would have been unworthy of a "respectable" Indian of Paul's standing, to take notice of a squaw on a public occasion like the present. He moved away, and out of the throng in time, preparing to smoke a pipe in quiet. The squaw in the red blanket followed him, and when she had got him well out of notice, that his lordly superiority might not be ruffled by the familiarity in public, she laid her hand on his arm, and said, "Paul."

Paul turned his sleepy eyes that way, but it was only a squaw, a strange squaw. He had nothing to say.

"Your son!" said the squaw, touching his arm again. He stopped at that, and she pointed over her shoulder with her thumb to the crowd they had come from.

"Mine?"

"Yours, Paul."

"Who are you?"

"His mother--Fidele--Your squaw."

"My son? Where born?"

"Brautford. You bade me go to Brautford."

"Ouff." It would have been undignified for a man like Paul to say more. It meant all he had to say, too, very likely. For, doubtless, language which is never uttered ceases to be given birth to in the mind. He turned, however, with Fidele, and both walked back to the tent.

The lad was better now. Refreshment was going on, the people seeing him able to dispense with their care, had turned their attention to sustaining themselves. He got up and joined his mother coming in, and they went out again to a quiet place, followed by Paul, that his parental feelings might be gratified with an interview, without compromising his dignity by an exhibition before the world.

It seemed an unnecessary precaution. Paul's feelings, if he had any, were under far too good control to lead him into impropriety. He sat down with them on a deserted bench, however, questioned them both, and finally accepted his son and his long absent spouse to his heart; that is to say, he bade them follow him to Lachine, and then conducted them across the river, and to his home in Caughnawaga.

Therese had ruled there as mistress from the day Fidele had gone away.

That was so long ago now, that it had never occurred to her that her sister would return, and the Pere Theophile, a wise ruler, who, while his flock did their duty according to what he considered their lights, and were duly submissive, did not unnecessarily fret them with abstract questions of affinity, ignored any irregularity, collected the church dues from them, and christened the children. There were but two of these, and girls both, to the intense disappointment and mortification of Paul. Imagine his satisfaction, then, to find himself in possession of a well-grown son of fifteen years--well-grown, and such a player at lacrosse. Was it not he alone, and not the Brautford band in general, who had beaten the Caughnawagas? And now he would be of the Caughnawagas himself, and Paul would make much money, in bets and otherwise, out of his son's fine play.

He received, then, his new-found family into his home and established them there with honour. Young Paul, with the privileges of a "buck,"

lolled about the place, eating, sleeping, smoking all day long, like his father. Fidele sat by the hearth in her blanket and smoked her pipe, while the household drudgery, now doubled by the addition to the household, trebled by the presence of a squaw claiming to be first wife, criticizing, ordering, and doing no work, fell on Therese and her girls--to cut and carry wood, draw water, dig potatoes, cook, and share the leavings, after the more considered members had eaten their fill. It was hard lines.

The village was speedily aware of the accession to its inhabitants.

That same evening the crest-fallen lacrosse players were told that old Paul had recognized young Paul as his son, and brought him away from the Brautford band to themselves; and all the bucks in the Reservation came to welcome the certain winner of games, and congratulate his father. The middle-aged squaws recollected Fidele, and came to praise her son, squatting round the hearth in their blankets with lighted pipes, while poor Therese, deposed from her motherhood of the house, stole out to the garden-patch to dig and bewail her fate.

It cannot be supposed that the relations of the two squaws could be cordial when they found themselves alone together. Their being sisters made it none the less intolerable to be, or to have been, supplanted.

Therese felt injured now, and Fidele remembered the wrongs and the jealousy of fifteen years. It was not many days before they came to blows, scolding, screaming, scratching, and pulling handfuls of each other's hair, till a crowd of squaws had gathered from the surrounding cabins; when Paul, the lord and master, appeared upon the scene, and, in the grand heroic manner of the wilderness and its uncontaminated sons, took down his cudgel from the wall, and belabouring them both with soundness and impartiality, commanded them to desist. Was it not shocking, dear lady? Yet, it was only one of those shocking things which have been going on from the foundation of the world--which are going on still, in Egypt, Russia, and elsewhere. The strong use a stick to the weak, and order, of a sort, is maintained. We know better, and have changed all that, and we go on improving, though it may still be a question how it is going to answer in the end. It is the weakest and the shrillest voiced, with us, who rule. The burly and the peaceable stop their ears, and yield to escape the din. By-and-bye we shall have all the ignorant to make our laws and instruct us. Shall we be better off, I wonder? When every one is master, who will serve?

When all become commissioned officers, who will be left to fill the ranks?

There was worse yet in store for Therese, however. Fidele must needs go to ma.s.s in that well-watched community. In Brant she could please herself, but in Caughnawaga there were ladies of the convent to be pleased, who were so bountiful. Fidele's re-appearance came thus officially before the Pere Theophile. Scandal must be prevented, Paul could not be permitted the luxury of two wives at once, however capable he might be of keeping them both in order. More, it was the newcomer, in this case, who was the lawful wife. Therese must go, and he laid his injunction on Paul accordingly. Paul was submissive; one squaw was enough to mind his comfort, and it mattered not which, though, if anything, the boy's mother would suit the best. He obeyed with prompt.i.tude, and after administering a parting beating, he turned the three forlorn ones out of doors.

When a turkey comes to grief, through sickness or accident, the rest of the flock are apt to set upon it and peck it to death. It is a Spartan regimen, and encourages the others to keep well. The spirit prevailing in Caughnawaga was in so much Spartan or turkey-ish--it is a spirit not unknown at times in more cultured circles. n.o.body dreamed of coming forward out of natural kindness; and, as a matter of duty, there was too much of the improper in the whole story, for any one brazenly to claim praise from the ladies of the convent for sheltering homeless ones such as these. It seemed irreverent, even, to suppose it could be a Christian duty to succour them.

The outcasts walked down the village street, hiding their faces in their blankets, bruised and ashamed. No one spoke to them or pitied them. The squaws, their daily companions, sitting at their doors, sewing, smoking, idling, looked steadily at them as they went by; some with a wooden stolidity which showed no sign of recognition, some with a spiteful and vindictive leer. Therese had been better off than many of them, but who would change places with her now?

The dusk was falling, and the nights were growing chilly now; there might be frost before morning. The gleam of firelight, the twinkle of lamps, shone through cabin windows and from open doors, but no one bade them enter. There was heavy dew in the air, the herbage was soaked with moisture, and therefore they would not turn aside into the bush, to drench themselves among the dripping leaves, and be chilled to the bone with h.o.a.r frost, perchance, ere morning. They went forward to the river-side, and out upon the pier, where the water swept smoothly by, murmuring monotonously in a sombre pa.s.sionless sough, black as their own desolate misery, still and undemonstrative as themselves.

They huddled themselves together under the lee of some bales and boxes, their chins upon their knees within their blankets, and there they crouched and s.h.i.+vered, all through the livelong night, sleeping at times or drowsing, but always motionless, with the sound of the mighty river in their ears, promising nothing, regretting nothing, yet consoling in its changeless continuance--a life, and one in harmony with their own, a seeming sympathy, when all the world beside had cast them off.

CHAPTER XIV.

THeReSE'S REVENGE.

The daylight had returned, but the sun was not yet up, and the air was cold, when a heavy hand was laid upon the sleeping squaws, and shook them roughly.

"What are yez doin' here? Stailin' is it ye're afther, eh?"

"Sleep here all night," was Therese's answer, as she slowly regained her feet. She was stiff with cold. "No home to go to--come here."

"A s.h.i.+ndy at home was it? Turned out of doors is it ye are? Sarves ye right, maybe. But it's a could sleepin' place, _al_ the same, and wan niver knows. The gates won't be opened these two hours, but ye can come in this way. Here's an empty luggige room, where yez cuddn't do no harm ef ye wanted."

He ushered them in, closed the door behind them, and turned the key with a knowing wink.

"Oi'm clair of yez now, me beauties. The pollisman can do as he thinks best when he comes on at sivin o'clock. Oi've catched them if they're wanted, an' that's as much as they kin expect from a night watchman."

The police sergeant arrived at his appointed time. The squaws had accepted their confinement with a contented mind, and were asleep.

Under the shelter of a roof and on a wooden floor, they could stretch themselves at length, which was grateful after the cramped position of the night.

Their apathetic indifference convinced the man of authority that their tale was true; they had come on the pier while the gates were open the evening before, and fallen asleep. It was wrong, as he a.s.sured them, and he could take them up for it; but to what good end? he asked himself. He was a _virtuoso_ in malefactors, and did not care to enc.u.mber himself with a capture out of which so little credit with his superiors could be got, as three squawks sleeping on a pier.

"Look out, now!" he said, shaking his finger at them. "I let you off this time, but if"--another shake of his finger--"but if ever--I--catch-you here again--you may look out for squalls."

Therese had lifted her head in dull indifference; but at the sound of his voice her face changed. She looked at him. It was now long ago since she had heard that voice before--when she was quite a girl, the speaker quite a young man--but the occasion was a momentous one. It was when she had been arrested by mistake instead of Fidele. If only it had been Fidele indeed; and if Fidele had been punished then as she deserved, she would not have come back again, like the hungry ghosts of the long forgotten dead, to push the living from their stools and bring them to ruin.

There kindled a red coal down deep at the bottom of Therese's eyes and made them glow and burn, and the surging blood rose to her weather-beaten cheek and reddened it behind the scarce transparent; skin the lips parted, and the white teeth glistened, and for the moment Therese in her fury looked handsomer, if in an evil way, than she had ever done in her youth. It was no apathetic face now, carven in walnut wood, but rather the features of a snake-haired fury, as one may see them at times in the caverns of a red-coal fire.