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HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Exeter Times-Advocate, 1934-01-18, Page 6THURSDAY. JANUARY 18, 1931 THE EXETER TIMES-ADVOCATE Captain Midnight by L. Arthur Cunningham SYNOPSIS Yvonne Caron, one of the most beautiful ladies of early French Quebec is being forced into mar­ riage with and by Simon Girard, an unscrupulous lawyer. Her brother Paul is deep in debt thro’ gambling with Girard. The cere­ mony, however, is interrupted by the notorious Catain Midnight, Robin Hood of the French colony, who save marries Yvonne in order to the girl’s vast estates. mocking, appraising glance from the white, angry face of so dark, so one forget a husband had never really seen, to that way. Captain Mid- Lurent Lemoine St. Hil- Pierre | Au ! I i that ‘ His darted Melusine to Yvonne’s, suffused with crimson; to the storm in Yvonne’s black eyes and the way her white teeth held her lower lip. She would not speak in front of Jean Pierre, Melusine shrugged, smiled, rose from her .chair. “I was but congratulating Yvon­ ne upon her marriage, and wishing her all happiness. No doubt a mas­ que is a blessing since one tires of looking at the same fa|ce for long.” “That is true—of some faces,” said Jean Pierre innocently, “wheth­ er they be pretty or otherwise—after all, they are only masques; it is the heart that counts. And no one has said that Captain Midnight’s heart is not an honest and no.ble one. I, too. should like to congratulate you, Yvonne, and tell you that the great­ est wish of my life is that you will be happy with this man on whom you have most certainly bestowed happiness.” Yvonne hesitated. Jean Pierre’s face was grave, sincere. All of Jean Pierre seemed to be in those large, dark grey and eloquent eyes of his. She gazed into them a moment, and then looked away. “I thank you m’sieur. You are too kind.” “They are words of mercy,” said Melusine. “Come, Monsieur Martel —your errand was to fetch me; now it seems I must fetch you. Surely you too, do not fall under the spell of this mystic and quite indefinable charm that alone could capture poor Laurent?” “Long ago,” said Jean softly, “I fell under its spell, revoir, Madame St. Hilaire.”1 Wih a tender smile—a smile Yvonne, despite herself and her dis­ like of him, could not help but trust Jean Pierre Martel, having lightly touched Melusine’s arm, walked over to their waiting companions and all left the inn. At the door Jean Pierre glanced back at her and smil­ ed. She looked down at her plate lest she yield to the temptation, strong almost beyond resisting, to return that smile, so gay, so charm­ ing. Again, as the four riders passed the cedar hedge bordering the road by the Inn of the Fox, she saw his face turned toward her and drew back from the window taking shel­ ter behind the muslin, polka-dot cur­ tain of Louise Villeneuve’s stiff starching. She had lost all taste for the excellent spice-cakes and eider. The room, with its- gayly colored pic­ tures, its scarlet geraniums in big red ,clay pots, its great fire-place and wainscoted walls, was chill and lonely, and it seemed to her that the room took its- ehill, its loneliness from herself. She felt a sense of in­ sufficiency, of weakness, of being unable to cope with the unkindness of life. The brightness had gone from the day. She was of half-a- mind to turn back to- Quebec and would have done so only she feared she must again fall in with the four who had just left. Melusine d’Artois she never wished to see again, and Jean Pierre—well, perhaps it would be better for her not to see Jean Pierre again. Rogue and idler, rake and swashbuckler though he might be, he had a disarming and devas*- tating smile, a fascinating manner that made whom one Disloyal night was a ire—an the name of St. Hilaire in Quebqc had bemi honored as Jean Pierre Martel’s had not. Yvonne could not recall Laurent very well. She tried to picture him in her mind but his face would not form there. And Melusine had loved him, want­ ed him. Was it only out of chivalry that he had married her? But no. It might have been that at first; naw it was love. And she could love Laurent de St. Hilaire, who had been the idol of so many fond hearts in Quebec. She had thought, heard somewhere, that Laurent had been killed in an expedition against the English. Yes, of course, she had heard that. Why hadn’t she thought to question Melusine. Why did Laurent forsake his calling as a sol­ dier to become Captain Midnight? There was something—something she did not 'know— Abuptly, wearying of this specula­ tion that could, at best, be only idle, she called Alyre and- paid her reck- only. “Your grace milady—" He touch­ ed his forelock and executed a huge bow. “But—but is it you who are wed to—Captain Midnight who rides the great white horse?” “Yes, Alyre. It is I who am wed to Captain Midnight who rides the great white horse.” “Holy Mother!” muttered Alyre. “The loveliest of all. It is so strange. He is good, that one. All the time he helps poor people around Sillery, at Charlesbourg and Mont­ gomery)—all the time he gives them some money. God’s blessing be up­ on him. He is not then, as some wicked ones say, a werewolf?” Yvonne looked at the old man in wonderment. “A werewolf. But no—he is not that. Indeed no. He is just a man. Alyre—and a strong man.” “But—but” Alyre could not go on. The beau­ tiful milady married to Captain Mid­ night! Why, if he were not a were­ wolf and his kindness just a blind— why did men go mad and snarl like dogs, who had gazed upon his face? Poor old Alderic Morin dit Langlois, the woodcutter, now—what of him, who in the misty dawn by the Lake of Sorrows had seen the awful face of Captain Midnight and was be­ witched. Yvonne laughed at Alyre’s stam­ mering, hade him be not afraid or Captain Midnight, who was an excel­ lent husband, though he stayed out nights, and went to find Luitpoldel who, having received not two red apples but three from the floury hands of Louise, was ready and! wait­ ing, and' trotted off—clop-Clop, clop­ clop—quite merrily towards Sillery. Not chance alone nor more caprice had made Yvonne taike this road through the Sillery woods. She had wanted to come this way, .for here most often Captain Midnight rode and the good habitants who lived in the farmhouses scattered about swore that scarcely a night went by that did not hear in the silent hours the distant thunder of white Barca’s hooves. Aye, timidly peering from behind bolted shutters they could see the strange rider of the night, the nocturnal phantom— And along this road was. the hol­ low oak, leprous white and riven by the lightning that had killea it in all its stately pride, but had given it too, with death, a certain fantastic beauty. It stood on a knoll, some little distance from the road and near it the gray and crumbling walls of an abandoned windmill loomed forlornly against the darkening sky, its tattered, idle sails, stu|ck out like ears. Between the high road and the blasted oaik the ground was* boggy and the track that had once led to the windmill was almost obliterated by the thorns, the wild mustard and the rank growth of swamp grass. Still,, Yvonne must see the oak at close quarters, must look into its hollow shell. Perhaps there would be something, some message, left there for her. She guided Luitpoldel into the coarse grass, following the ruin­ ed corduroy road as best she could. Luitpoldel went unwillingly. It was near the close of day, the sun's fad­ ing lght was dimmed by rolling ' banks of smoke-grey cloud and the windmill, the dilapidated buildings that stood at its base, the gnarled, fantastic skeleton of the oaik, form­ ed a setting awful and repellent. Only by repeated urgings and a smart touch with the crop did Yvon­ ne succeed in making the horse climb the knoll and take her to the oak’s broad bole. Even there, he was still more restive and difficult to manage. Yvonne knew that horses and dogs have the faculty of seeing things that the human eyes sees not, but in the grimy windows of the mill she could pehceive noth­ ing to cause Luitpoldel such unfan- tastic beauty. It stood on a knoll, some ease. She could not descry be­ hind the dead gray pane a gargoyle face with .glittery eyes and slit-iilke mouth peering at her. But Luitpol­ del saw it, his eyes rolled with ter­ ror and his ears stood stiff and sharp. Yvonne chided him, bade him be quiet. She dismounted, but still held to the bridle for fear he would bolt. She led him over to the hol­ low oak and, kneeling, put her hand inside, dry leaves and earth, then her founds a crisp heart exulted* andi unfolded word written was enough, it and folding ■cket. ed. At first she felt only the the moist warm questing fingers of paper, she drew it There only one it—Beloved. It smiled, stared at Her out on. the devil’s The old1, man terror should Yvonne down her crop. z, In on the you mean—the white horse, and Once in the mist The Terrible Cough IDr. Wood’s Syrup Mrs. M. Dukart, Bradwell, Sask., writes!—"For a long time I suffered from a terrible cough which seemed to hang on despite numerous medicines I took. I was told about Dr. Wood’s Norway Pine Syrup, so started taking it right away. I took two bottles and my cough was gone. Now I always keep my medicine chest well supplied with it.” Price, 35c a bottle; large family size, 65c, at all drug and general stores; put up only by The T. Mil­ burn Co., Limited, Toronto, Ont. slip as it. on She it thrust it in her po- It was sweet to be remem'ber- Impulsively she put within the hollow oak a little lace kerc-hief with her initials on it. She laughed' glee­ fully. Her laughter had a terrible echo. For a moment, paralyzed with shock with unreasoning fear, she dared not, .could not turn, nor rise from her kneeling posture. Luitpoldel’s mad tugging at the bridle aroused her and she leaped to her feet. Close be­ side her was a creature, ancient as' the oaik; and like it, gnarled, .faded and fantastic; his hair was long and matted, his eyes so small and deep­ set that only by their brightness could one know them; his mouth was wide and grinning and toothless and a faded cloak hung to his ankles. “Who are you? What do you want?” demanded Yvonne. “You startled me. t Do you live here?” The creature pointed up at the windmill. “Up there.” he said in a whisper. “The Evil Eye cannot see me. I live up there since I gazed face.” Yvonne drew back, was mad. Luitpoldel’s have warned her not to come here. “Last night I saw him again,” croaked the ancient. “Right here, kneeling where you knelt and I saw the writing he put in the oaik tree. And who are you that have dealings with the devil?” “What do you mean?” with a great effort fought fear. She had her riding an instant she could leap back of her straining horse and' be away. “What do devil?” ’■’Who rides the has a devil’s face, of morning, the gray mist, I came to cut trees by the Lake of Sorrows and he was sitting by the marge and his white horse stood by him. As I watched he took of .his masque—the black masque that he wears)—only I have seen what is beneath that mas­ que—and I am accursed.” “Yes! Yes! But what—what did you see, mon vieux?” Something of the old man’s madness seemed to poss­ ess her, his fear and madness. “Tell me what you saw—” “The face of the King or Hell,” he muttered. “No face of man. All scarred and painted the- eyes—” He cross, d himself and glared wildly about, and leaning forward, whis­ pered still lowef. “Even to the Iu- tendant I did not say this—no lids —no lids on the eyes and the—” Yvonne shuddered, closed her eyes for almost she could see the picture this afflicted man had conjured up “-almost she could see those hideous stating, awful eyes—and his! His! “Never see that face, you,” said MECCA' OIHTMENT THE FAMILY FRIEND Stye Exeter ©imefi-Ahtmcate Established 1873 and 1887 Published every Thursday morning at Exeter, Ontario SUBSCRIPTION—$2.00 per year in advance. His face— to reveal on hers— could! not in a flash, the woodcutter. “Never gaze on it. Prad God you see it not milady. Or you will go mad—mad—like me— accursed!—.” With a terrible sound, half scream half growl, he covered his eyes with clawlike hands. Yvonne could stand no more. She leaped upon Luit­ poldel’s back and curbing his speed as best she could, galloped over the treacherous boggy ground towards the white sweep of the highroad— away from the nightmare, from that scene that had made her creep with horror, that had chilled her, that had sickened her heart, the masque—his refusal himself to her—his lips and she his wife—she think clearly. But now, she remembered Paul’s concern, the cruelty of Melusine d’Artois— By a miracle, Luitpoldel had cros­ sed the boggy tract without mishap, and once on the highroad he took the bit between his teeth, laid his ears flat and bolted. Yvonne tug­ ged in vain, sawed cruely with the bit at his frothing mouth, cried' and' pleoded. No use. She almost jolt­ ed from her saddle as once he stumb­ led; the trees that thickly lined the road were a blur and the wind sang in her ears, tugged at her hair and its waves blew the ately she hung on. . _ he would stumble, fall, th/ow her, She bent low over the flying mane of the terrified beast, shouting to his senseless ears that .heard only the echo of the madman’s laughter. Ahead, down the first aisle, Yvonne saw a horseman, and so swift was Luitpoldel’s progress that the other horse and its rider seemed to stand stock-still and yet to rush down upon her. But the rider was out of his saddle and she saw the set of Jean Pierre’s lean jaw as he leaped at the flying horse’s- head, seized the bridle and hung there doggedly, matching his own strength with that of the maddened brute, and besting it until it slowed, slow­ ed and finally, gleaming with sweat and quivering, stood still. Yvonne, white, shaken, both by the run-away and what had caused it, slid! from the saddle into the waiting arms, grateful for their support. He led her to the grassy bank by the roadside and stood a- bove her watching the swift rise and fall of her breast, the flutter of pulse at her white throat andi the .fright­ ened’ wildness, of her blaicik eyes. He thought he had. not before seen her so lovely; then smiled to recall that each time he saw her he thought precisely the same thing. “I am much in y-ot.r debt, Mon­ sieur Martel,” she said when her breathing had slowed! a little. ‘‘I— I thank you with al'l my heart.” “And you forgive me?” “I had, I assure you, thing to be forgiven, means aught to you, I boldness. I—” She hand over her brow wearily, closed her eyes for a moment. “I seem to have been in a horrible dream— that old man—at the mill'—” “Ah!” Jean Pierre was concern­ ed. He sat on the grass beside her resting on his elbow, gazing up at her. “You were therer—to the wind­ mill? And! you saw that crazy old fellow who wanders through the woods—Adelard Morin dit Langlois they call him. witched:, “Yes. poldei run away. I cannot repeat it to you- strange, so horrirble—” Jean Pierre stared at the grass, plucked a blade of it and sloXvly dis­ sected it into green strings'. “So he told you of Captain Mid­ night—” “Then you know. They all know —! And that is why Paul acted so strangely, and that girl you were with laughed at me—” “Do not mind them,” said Jean Pierre staunchly, .gravely. Yvonne felt a great relief to .hear him speak thus; she felt that in him she had one .who would not laugh, would not feel scorn. It was a strange sensa­ tion and vaguely, while it iconsoled, even gladdened her, she felt alarm­ ed. Finally she glanced down at his bronzed cheek, his thick, brown hair, (knotted at the nape of his neck —and looked away. “But—but is it true—what this old man said'—that his—his face-” “I am sorry to be the one to tell you Yvonne,” said Jean Pierre. “But others might say it less kind­ ly. The Iroquois held* him prisoner —they are fiends'—” “And now he dare not ever—?” “So one says,” nodded Jean Pier­ re. Shyly he laid his hand, on hers. “But, if you love him, what matter? It is only th© heart that counts, you know1.” He smiled iqueerly., “Of­ ten the smiling .face masques a Vogue’s heart.” She withdrew her hand quickly, sensing thO irony of his words. He was a rogue—one who had been exil­ ed from France for love di la Pom- breeze. Desper- At any moment forgotten the Yes, if it forgive your passed her They say he is be- He frightened you—” It was he who made Luit- He—he told me— ■it is so padour— “So it is said,’’ she retorted dully. “And I—I am wed to this man whose face must be hidden forever from the world. I—I know not what to think or say or do. He seemed so kind, so strong, so fearless—’’ “He would prove, I have no doubt, a stout defender, miledy.’’ “Yes.” Yvonne thought guiltily of Captain Midnight’s estimate of Jean Pierre, of his unwillingly sur­ rendered intention of crossing swords with the gay Parisian for presuming, to encroach upon her lips. “I know,” continued Jean Pierre, “that he was a good man, a brave soldier and a gentleman. There is nothing to prove that he has iceased to be any of these. I do fancy, though, that marrying you under such circumstances, he did not think to make you, other than in name, his wife.” “So he may have thought,” said Yvonne a bit proudly, “But since, then he has avowed his love for me and I—I have said I loved him.” “Then do not let what you have heard change you,” advised Jean Pierre dispassionately." And do not fear to follow the dictates of your heart—usually they are to be re­ lied on.” Jean Pierre’s casualness, his im­ personal manner, irritated, her, why she knew not. “You’re an authority on ssch mat­ ters, m’sieur, I know.” He bowed slightly. “I have had some little experience must admit.” ‘And—and you feel no pity for I me—?” “Because you are married to St. I Hilaire- I do not; He is all that I have said and more. And if they marred his face, the devils, they did not touch his heart. You see milady, I knew him in France.” “He—he did not tell me that!” “Ah, then, you discussed me with him! Did you tell him, perhaps, of my rashness, my temerity in—” “I did tell him.” “And what did he say?” “He would have fought with you, killed- you—” “But you dissuaded aim! You would not let him—” “I care not for bloodshed, m’sieur. It was not for love or you.’ “That I do not doubt,” said Jean Pierre humbly, and helped her to arise and rode baidk to Quebec with her, chatting amiably of nothing. CHAPTER IV Francis Bigot, Intendant of New France and Simon Girard, his friend and familiar, rode that selfsame night to Beaumanoir, the Intendant’s country residence, where, well-re­ moved from the observant yes of the scandalized nuns of 1’hotel dieu and from the disapproving gaze of the military governor, Vaudreuil- Cavagnal, he could pursue his drunk en dissipations in peace, dark starless guided mostly road was only thread, trotted chateau in the of. the flower of New France would shortly foregather to dice, play at cards and swill wine until the dawn­ ing. « The subject of conversation for this precious pair of Scamps had been, of late, much the same—Cap­ tain Midnight. For a week they had been free from the outlaw’s moles­ tations, but these periods of tran­ quillity were nerve-racking, inas­ much as no one could hazard a guess as to what Captain Midnight would do next or on whom would descend with his wild and awful laughter Bigot, harassed and fearful, could not make a move nor send forth a single courier without dreading the intervention of the masqued- rider. “I tell you, my friend Girard, af­ fairs cannot long go on in this man­ ner or presently it will be Captain Midnight and not Francois Bigot who will govern the colony,” “That would be disastrous,” greed Simon. “For Francois Bigot,” sajd the tendant dryly. “But what are to do? It is an ugly predicament wo are in, and to fight a hidden' foe —bah! We slio-uld have laid this fellow by the heels long ago. He is only human, however much of the devil his actions savor, This is what I would tell you—“the dagger of Melusine is gone—” “Gone, you say, my lord! It—” “All week it lay on my deslk where you saw it and the accursed ruby stared at me like an eye of fire. Then, one afternoon, I missed it. This was a night; the horses, by instinct, for the a faintly luminous .steadily towards the woods where a dozen a- In- we (Cnritinued neat week') RATES—Farm or Real Estate for sale 50c. each insertion for flr*l four insertions, quent insertion, tides, To Rent, Found 10c. per 1 Reading notices Card of Thanks vertising 12 and Memoriam, with extra verses 25 c. 25c. each subse- Miscellaneous ar- Wanted, LoBt, or line of six words. 10c. per line, 50c. Legal ad- 8c. per line. In one verse 50o. each. Member of The Canadian Weekly Newspaper Association Professional Cards ■A.A M a a . GLADMAN & STANBURY BARRISTERS, SOLICITORS, &o. 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