The Lady of the Mount. Isham Frederic Stewart
biting tooth of autumn was preferable to the stripes and tongue-lashings of the old life; and, if now frugal repasts were the rule, hunger had often been his lot in the past. So he assimilated with his surroundings; learned not to fear the animals, and they, to know him; indeed, they seemed to recognize him by that sharp unsated glint of the eye as one of their kind. When the days grew bleaker and the nights colder, he took refuge in a corner within the gray walls of the moss-grown castle of his ancestors, the old Seigneurs. No cheerful place, above all at night, when the spirits of the dead seem to walk abroad, and sobs, moans, and fierce voices fill the air! Then, creeping closer to the fire he had started in the giant hearth, wide-eyed he would listen, only at length through sheer weariness to fall asleep. Nevertheless, it was a shelter, and here, throughout the winter, the boy remained.
Here, too, Sanchez, the Seigneur's old servant, returning months later from long wanderings to the vicinity of the Mount – for no especial reason, save the desire once more to see the place – had found him. And at the sight the man frowned.
In the later days, the Seigneur Desaurac had become somewhat unmindful, if not forgetful, of his own flesh and blood. It may be that the absorbing character of the large and chivalrous motives that animated him left little disposition or leisure for private concerns; at any rate, he seemed seldom to have thought, much less spoken of, that "hostage of fortune" he had left behind; an absent-mindedness that in no wise surprised the servant – which, indeed, met the man's full, unspoken approval! The Seigneur, his master, was a nobleman of untarnished ancestry, to be followed and served; the son – Sanchez had never forgiven the mother her low-born extraction. He was, himself, a peasant!
CHAPTER III
A SUDDEN RESOLUTION
After his chance encounter with my lady, the Governor's daughter, and Beppo, her attendant, the boy walked quickly from the Mount to the forest. His eyes were still bright; his cheeks yet burned, but occasionally the shadow of a smile played about his mouth, and he threw up his head fiercely. At the verge of the wood he looked back, stood for a moment with the reflection of light on his face, then plunged into the shadows of the sylvan labyrinth. Near the east door of the castle, which presently he reached, he stopped for an armful of faggots, and, bending under his load, passed through an entrance, seared and battered, across a great roofless space and up a flight of steps to a room that had once been the kitchen of the vast establishment. As he entered, a man, thin, wizened, though active looking, turned around.
"So you've got back?" he said in a grumbling tone.
"Yes," answered the boy good-naturedly, casting the wood to the flagging near the flame and brushing his coat with his hand; "the storm kept us out last night, Sanchez."
"It'll keep you out for good some day," remarked the man. "You'll be drowned, if you don't have a care."
"Better that than being hanged!" returned the lad lightly.
The other's response, beneath his breath, was lost, as he drew his stool closer to the pot above the blaze, removed the lid and peered within. Apparently his survey was not satisfactory, for he replaced the cover, clasped his fingers over his knees and half closed his eyes.
"Where's the fish?"
The boy, thoughtfully regarding the flames, started; when he had left the child and Beppo, unconsciously he had dropped it, but this he did not now explain. "I didn't bring one."
"Didn't bring one?"
"No," said the boy, flushing slightly.
"And not a bone or scrap in the larder! Niggardly fishermen! A small enough wage – for going to sea and helping them – "
"Oh, I could have had what I wanted. And they are not niggardly! Only – I forgot."
"Forgot!" The man lifted his hands, but any further evidence of surprise or expostulation was interrupted by a sudden ebullition in the pot.
Left to his thoughts, the boy stepped to the window; for some time stood motionless, gazing through a forest rift at the end of which uprose the top of an Aladdin-like structure, by an optical illusion become a part of that locality; a conjuror's castle in the wood!
"The Mount looks near to-night, Sanchez!"
"Near?" The man took from its hook the pot and set it on the table. "Not too near to suit the Governor, perhaps!"
"And why should it suit him?" drawing a stool to the table and sitting down.
"Because he must be so fond of looking at the forest."
"And does that – please him?"
"How could it fail to? Isn't it a nice wood? Oh, yes, I'll warrant you he finds it to his liking. And all the lands about the forest that used to belong to the old Seigneurs, and which the peasants have taken – waste lands they have tilled – he must think them very fine to look at, now! And what a hubbub there would be, if the lazy peasants had to pay their métayage, and fire-tax and road-tax – and all the other taxes – the way the other peasants do – to him – "
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing!" The man's jaw closed like a steel trap. "The porridge is burned."
And with no further word the meal proceeded. The man, first to finish, lighted his pipe, moved again to the fire, and, maintaining a taciturnity that had become more or less habitual, stolidly devoted himself to the solace of the weed and the companionship of his own reflections. Once or twice the boy seemed about to speak and did not; finally, however, he leaned forward, a more resolute light in his sparkling black eyes.
"You never learned to read, Sanchez?"
At the unexpected question, the smoke puffed suddenly from the man's lips. "Not I."
"Nor write?"
The man made a rough gesture. "Nor sail to the moon!" he returned derisively. "Read? Rubbish! Write? What for? Does it bring more fish to your nets?"
"Who – could show me how to read and write?"
"You?" Sanchez stared.
"Why not?"
"Books are the tools of the devil!" declared Sanchez shortly. "There was a black man here to-day with a paper – a 'writ,' I think he called it – or a 'service' of some kind – anyhow, it must have been in Latin," violently, "for such gibberish, I never heard and – "
The boy rose. "People who can't read and write are low and ignorant!"
"Eh? What's come over you?"
"My father was a gentleman."
"Your father! – yes – "
"And a Seigneur! – "
"A Seigneur truly!"
"And I mean to be one!" said the boy suddenly, closing his fists.
"Oh, oh! So that's it?" derisively. "You! A Seigneur? Whose mother – "
"Who could teach me?" Determined, but with a trace of color on his brown cheek, the boy looked down.
"Who?" The man began to recover from his surprise. "That's not so easy to tell. But if you must know – well, there's Gabriel Gabarie, for one, a poet of the people. He might do it – although there's talk of cutting off his head – "
"What for?"
"For knowing how to write."
The lad reached for his hat.
"Where are you going?"
"To the poet's."
"At this late hour! You are in a hurry!"
"If what you say is true, there's no time to lose."
"Well, if you find him writing verses about liberty and equality, don't interrupt him, or you'll lose your head," shouted the man.
But when the sound of the boy's footsteps had ceased, Sanchez's expression changed; more bent, more worn, he got up and walked slowly to and fro. "A fine Seigneur!" The moldering walls seemed to echo the words. "A fine Seigneur!" he muttered, and again sat brooding by the fire.
In the gathering dusk the lad strode briskly on.