The two men stood facing each other in silence.
Then the priest turned to me: “Will you marry this man, my daughter?”
“Oh, mon père!” I cried, shuddering, and holding closer to him.
He stepped in front of me and faced the Canadian. “Go!” he commanded. “Go! You may succour Louisbourg or not, as you will, but before I would raise my hand in such a sacrilege as you have dared to insult your God in proffering, I would see it withered to the bone. I will try to believe you led astray by your evil passions, that you are not sane for the moment; and if God see fit to leave you in your present evil possession, He will have punished you more fearfully than any curse of mine can do. Go, and may God pity you! Come, my daughter,” he said to me.
Holding my hand in his strong, assuring grasp, he led me beside him, safe in his protecting presence. Before we gained the open path he stopped, and, motioning me to be seated on a log, he remained standing. The moment he withdrew his hand the distance between us seemed immeasurable; all his protection, all his comradeship were withdrawn with his grasp, and he stood before me as the priest and judge only.
“I have no wish to add to your trouble,” he began, slowly, and almost unwillingly, I thought, “but for your own safety I must make it clear to you, beyond further question or casuistry, what your position now is, and to what your disobedience has led. For yourself, you are in a position sevenfold worse than you were before; you have carried the harmless deception I authorised to a point that has placed you in a most dangerous and humiliating situation. Sarennes has become infatuated with you to an extent which threatens ruin to himself, disgrace to those nearest him, and, perhaps, disaster to greater and more important interests. Nay, do not rise or speak. I know you would disclaim any part in the matter, but unfortunately your intention does not alter facts; it is your presence here that is at fault. Beyond this you are personally in extreme peril; you must realise that this man knows nothing of the restrictions which should govern his conduct towards you. Blinded as he is by his passion, he will not hesitate a moment to carry you off, if need be, and his conscience will never suffer a moment's pang, provided he find a priest to patter the words of the marriage-service over you, if, indeed, he even hold such a concession to your feelings necessary. The presence of his mother and sister is no real protection, and even his absence is no assurance of safety, for he can readily find means to carry out his purpose without appearing on the scene himself. You had better stay within-doors, or at least within sight of the house, until the immediate danger is past. I will not go with you farther now, as I have no wish to offer more explanations than may be absolutely necessary, and I must follow this unhappy man, if haply I yet may turn him to his duty. Do you go on to the house, and when I return, perhaps on the morrow, I will see what can be done.”
“Oh, mon père, mon père, forgive me before I go!” I cried, kneeling at his feet.
“There is no question of my forgiveness,” he answered, coldly. “You must learn that wrong-doing need not be personal to produce evil. There is no question of me or thee in the matter at all. It is much greater, much more serious than any personal feeling, and the results may swell out of all proportion, that you can see, to your action. All that can be done now is to remedy it in so far as in us lies. Go, my daughter, go and ask for guidance, the one thing needful, far above any mere human forgiveness. But do not go thinking you have forfeited either my sympathy or my help. I owe both to you, as to every helpless creature God sends into my path; and, believe me, no one could appeal more strongly to my poor protection than do you. Go, my daughter, and may God keep and comfort you!”
I found my way back, dazed and confounded, and could only with the greatest effort command myself sufficiently to return some coherent answer to Angélique's inquiry as to her brother; but she covered my confusion with her own liveliness.
“Never marry a soldier, 'mademoiselle!'” she exclaimed. “They worry one's life out with their eternal comings and goings. As likely as not Charles is off again, and will never come near us to say farewell; but that is a bagatelle. The real trouble is that my mother is an old woman; she realises keenly that any day Charles may say good-bye for the last time, and to spare her the pain of parting, he has more than once slipped off quietly like this. Never was a man so tender of women as my brother Charles! But you are pale; you look tired out. It is often so in spring-time in this country. What you should do is to get to bed at once, and have Lucie bring you a tisane when you are ready for sleep. Go, that is wise.”
It was such a relief to be alone, to lie broken and wretched, but safe and by myself, in my own chamber, that for the moment this sufficed me; then sleep came to me, and when I awoke, quieted and refreshed, the house was still, and Lucy lay sleeping in her cot near by.
With the waking, came back the whole dreadful scene through which I had just passed, and in my ears rang the warnings of le père Jean touching my safety. Alas! I realised the danger only too vividly, and I trembled in the darkness at the pictures I could not help forming in my mind. There seemed no outlet and no end to my misery. Even the thought of facing the mother, who saw naught but the chivalrous soldier in her son, and the sister, who so firmly believed in the tenderness and magnanimity of her brother, was a torture to me. In Lucy it would be impossible as well as dishonourable to confide, and, with the priest gone, I stood alone against a danger the very existence of which would be a degradation to reveal.
Suddenly I remembered Gabriel and the promise which I had dismissed so lightly at the time of its making, and at once a way of escape opened before me.
I did not hesitate a moment; slipping noiselessly out of bed, I dressed myself, and taking my heavy cloak and shoes in my hand, I stole out of my room and into the kitchen, where I felt for the box with the steel and flint beside the fireplace, and then opening the door, I stood alone in the quiet night.
I was country-born, if not country-bred, which served me in good stead now; for the night had not the terrors for me I had feared, and I marvelled at my courage as I went on. I had only one anxiety in mind, and that was lest the beacon should not be in a fit state for firing. Thinking of nothing else, I hurried down the path by the Little River until I reached the Beacon Point, where, to my relief, I found the pile of wood dry and undisturbed.
I knelt beside it; but at first my hands trembled so I could not strike a spark; however, the very effort steadied me, and, gathering some small twigs, in a few minutes I had my tinder alight, the twigs caught, with them I lighted others, and when I rose to my feet the flame was curling up through the skilfully piled branches, and in a few moments a straight pillar of fire went leaping up into the night.
A straight pillar of fire went leaping up into the night.
ON THE ISLE AUX COUDRES
Now that the beacon was fairly alight my purpose was accomplished, and I was free to return to the house; but the night was warm, there was no sound save the lapping of the rising tide, or the short quick puff of some slowly turning porpoise from out the darkness beyond, and I stood there for what I suppose was a long time, held by the spell of the perfect quiet. At length I roused myself, and began to retrace my steps, but as I gained the line of the pine wood I turned aside and stood a moment for a last look at the friendly beacon flaring up into the darkness. The loud crackle of the wood seemed like joyous cries of encouragement, and the strong ruddy flame filled me with a fresh confidence. On the morrow, if Gabriel should appear, I would announce our departure for Quebec, and once there would place myself under the protection of M. de Montcalm until...
“Oh, Heaven!” I almost screamed, for I heard footsteps hurriedly approaching, and had only time to withdraw more completely into the shadow of the trees when Luntook, the Indian, came running down the path, and in an instant scattered the fire on all sides, hurling the blazing brands over the cliff and covering up the embers until not a spark remained.
When the fire was completely extinguished he looked about him slowly, while I cowered there in mortal terror, believing he would immediately search for and certainly discover me; but, to my surprise, he walked silently past my shelter and kept his way along the path.
I was simply paralysed with fear. I could not have screamed or made a move had my life depended on it; the very presence of the man struck terror to my soul, for he seemed the personification of all the possibility of evil in his master. He it was, I well knew, who would carry out any violence which might be determined against me, and the fact of his remaining about the place when his master was supposed to have left, filled me with alarm. I was persuaded I was to be carried off, perhaps on the morrow, and the priest's warning came back to me with renewed insistence.
My burden of fear so grew upon me that I dared not remain within the shadow of the wood, for every sound in its depths shook me with a new terror, and every moment I imagined I could feel the Indian stealing nearer me in the darkness. I dared not look behind me, I dared hardly move forward, but my dread of the wood was greater than that of the open beach, and I somehow managed to clamber down the cliff and took shelter behind a great bowlder, where I could hear the soothing ripple of the water and feel the soft wind against my face. It brought a sense of being removed from the land and men; I was more alone, but I felt safer.
The chill of the night struck through me to the bone, and I was burdened with its length; it seemed as if time were standing still. But at last I was roused by the hoarse call of birds passing high overhead, and saw the sky was paling in the east. Slowly, slowly the gray dawn came, trees began to detach themselves and stand out against the sky, rocks took a vague form against the sands, the wicker lines of the fishery grew distinct in the receding waters, while white wreaths of mist rose smoke-like from the Little River.
Slowly, slowly grew the glory in the east, and when at length the first beams of the sun struck strong and clear across the bay, making a shining pathway to my very feet, it seemed so actually a Heaven-sent way of escape that, trembling in every limb, I rose and staggered forward as if it were possible to tread it; and then, recovering my distracted senses, I fell to crying like a child.
The tears brought relief, and I began to bestir myself, to move about quickly, until I could feel my stiffened limbs again, and recovered some sense of warmth. I did not dare to leave the open security of the beach until the sun was higher, when I wandered out to the extreme end of the sands, looking anxiously for some answer to my signal from the Isle aux Coudres, but the opposite shore, was hidden by a close bank of white cloud, broken only by the rounded tops of the mountains above Les Eboulements. Presently the cloud began to lift and scatter, and I could make out the island lying low and dun against the higher main-land. But no answering smoke broke the clear morning air; indeed, it seemed impossible that my signal, which had not burned for an hour at most, could be seen at such a distance. I turned away with an empty heart, when I caught sight of a boat standing up close inshore, her sails filled with the freshening morning breeze.
The mere presence of a means of escape changed everything in a moment. I was filled with a new courage, and climbing to the top of the outermost bowlder, I drew the long white scarf from my neck and waved it to and fro above my head. To my intense joy, I was answered by the boat hauling round, and lowering and raising the point of one of her sails—the same signal I had seen Gabriel make to M. de Montcalm off Cap Tourmente. It was Gabriel himself! his signal assured me of it; and at the sight the morning took on a new glory, for the terror and bitterness of the night had passed as I watched the boat as my deliverance hastening towards me.
As she came on, I made out Gabriel distinctly, and before long the boat was lying motionless, Gabriel had his shallop over the side, and a moment later was splashing through the shallow water, and bowing as though he had parted from me only yesterday.
“'Bon chien chasse de race,' madame. I was cruising about, as I always am, ready for the first ship which appears, when I saw the light; and though it did not burn long enough for a signal, I thought it well to look it up; and now, madame, I am at your orders, as I promised. I was sure you would want me some day.”
“Oh, Gabriel, I do want you! I never stood in greater need. Take me on board, and I will tell you.”
He showed no surprise at my demand, but merely repeating his favourite proverb, “ce que femme vent, Dieu le veut,” lifted me in his arms like a child, and carried me through mud and water, and set me in his shallop, when a few strokes brought as alongside the boat, and I was in safety on her deck. Then the sails were once more set, and we stood away from the shore and up the river.
He carried me through mud and water, and set me in his shallop.
He did not question me, nor, indeed, would he allow me to speak, until he had provided a hot drink of some sweetened spirit, which brought back the glow to my blood, and then he set about preparing breakfast, keeping up an incessant chatter the while, until he had me laughing at his flow of talk.
“Aha! That is better!” he exclaimed, joyfully. “Now, madame, what are your orders?”
“Can you take me to Quebec?”
“I can—but—” and his face lengthened.
“But what?”
“Well, madame, to be truthful, I am expecting the first ships every day now; they are late as it is; and if I am off the ground, why, then the bread must drop into some one else's basket! That is all.”
“I can pay you well for what you may lose in this way.”
“It is not only the money, madame, 'l'argent est rond et çà roule,' but I have always brought up the first ship since I was twenty, and that was not last Sunday, as one may guess. Yet, if madame says so, I am at her orders.”
“I do not know what to say, Gabriel. I will not return to Beaulieu, and though I want to reach Quebec, I am unwilling you should miss your ship; but I certainly cannot remain on board here while you are with her.”
“Bedame! I have a plan, if it will answer. We are at no distance from the Island, my good wife is alone, as usual, and, if I do not ask too much, could you not put up with her for a week or two at most until I pick up my ship, and then the trick is done? Our house is clean, my wife is the best of managers, and will do everything to make you comfortable.”
“That will answer admirably, Gabriel.”
“Good! Madame, I can also return to Beaulieu and fetch your woman and such things as you may desire.”
For the first time I remembered Lucy, and was filled with remorse at the thought of my desertion of her. What could I do? To send word back to Beaulieu now would be to betray my retreat; and what explanation could I offer to my kindly hosts?
Gabriel, with ready tact, saw my distress.
“Pardon, madame; I am not asking questions; I am not even thinking them. You shall come and go as you like with me and mine, and no one shall dare to do aught but obey you. If my plan does not suit, say so freely, madame, and we will go on to Quebec without another thought, and the King's ship must wait, or go on with such bungler as she may find.”
“No, no, Gabriel; I will not have it so. I can remain on the Island for a week as well as not, and, in fact, will do nothing else. That is settled. And, Gabriel, because you are a brave and loyal man I shall trust you further—I do not wish any one to know where I am while on the Island, unless I can get word to le père Jean.”
“Oh, as for that, you are going to meet him; for he is due on the Island even now. He always comes about this time to see what is left of us after the winter.”
“Then I am quite satisfied. Now tell me, have you any news from Louisbourg?”
“Nothing, madame; no ship has come up yet; but it will not be long before we hear now.”
“Then I shall expect to hear when you return for me.”
“You will, madame; depend upon it, I will bring you news. And now, if I may offer a counsel, which I am sure is wise, I would say, madame, that you should lie down and try to sleep.”
The advice was as welcome as it was wise, and it was not long ere I carried it out.
When I awoke, it was well on in the afternoon, and we were close inshore.
“Yes, madame, it is the Island. There is my house—the one with the flag-staff. See, my good woman has the signal flying for me. I can never come within reach without her scenting me out.”
There was a fine pride in his words, and his house was worthy of it. A clean, honest, white face it presented, framed in young hop-vines carefully trained up the low curving roof, and set in a garden which already gave promise of much bloom. His wife, a plump, comely woman, waited for us at the landing-place.
“Ma bonne amie!” said Gabriel, embracing her. “Madame de St. Just has crossed with me from Beaulieu to await le père Jean here, and will stay with you until he comes.”
“Your servant, madame,” she answered, with a neat courtesy. “If my good man had let me know you were coming, I would have been better prepared.”
“'Qui n'a, ne peut,' ma bonne femme. You will do your best, and madame will not ask for more. Had she known of her coming herself, she would have travelled with her servant, as she is used; but she comes alone, because she has great need, and I assured her you would be proud to do all you can for her sake.”
“So I will, madame; do not let my husband make you believe I am not more than pleased to have you in my poor house. You do us too much honour in asking it. Come, madame, let me shew you the way.”
The house lost nothing of its charm on a nearer approach, and its interior spake volumes for its keeper's cleanliness—not a common quality in the country, as I discovered later. The furniture was of the simplest description, but the well-scrubbed floor was covered with bright-coloured strips of home-made carpeting—“les catalogues,” as she called it—and in one corner stood the pride of the family, the great bed—a huge construction, covered with a marvellous quilt of patchwork, and hung with spotless valance and curtains.
Gabriel was to set off by the next tide, and left only after charging his Amelia with numberless instructions as to my care and comfort.
“Oh, these men!” laughed the good-natured woman. “They think the world can't turn round without their advice!”
I was too tired and too safe not to sleep well, and when the smiling face of Madame Dufour appeared at my bedside in the morning, it was to inform me that le père Jean's canoe was already in sight, and he would be at the Island in less than an hour.
Eager as I was to see him, I could not but dread the meeting and what he might say of my desertion, though I begged my hostess to meet him and tell him I was awaiting his leisure.
“Oh, mon père, I did not know what to do!” I cried, when we were alone.
“Thank God you are safe and in good hands,” he returned, warmly. “How was it you came to take this step?”
Thereupon I told him of my attempt to signal for Gabriel, of the appearance of Luntook, of my terror, and of my sudden resolve on the pilot's appearance. “It was only when I felt myself safe, mon père, that I remembered what my action might mean to others; and now I am miserable at the thought of the anxiety I have caused. What can be done?”
“I cannot blame you, my daughter; you have been brought face to face with dangers you know nothing of, in surroundings which are strange to you; it is well for your own sake you should be removed from the constant dread of their recurrence. I guessed at your destination, for on landing the same morning you left, André and I saw the beacon had been lighted, and a very little looking about convinced us of what had happened, for we not only found your scarf, but Gabriel's marks in the sand were plain directions.”
“But, mon père, what of them at the house?”
“It is a time of war, my daughter,” he returned, smiling. “More than one person is moving about the country in a mysterious way; much greater freedom is allowed; and when I explained to Mme. de Sarennes that you were in my care, and it was necessary you should be absent for a time, she was satisfied with my word, and bade your woman make up a packet of necessaries for you, which André will bring presently. You cannot do better than remain where you are until I can arrange for your woman to meet you and go on to Quebec together. I soon shall know what opportunity offers for a passage to France, which will be somewhat uncertain now, as the English who wintered at Halifax are at sea again; but there is time enough to decide; the whole summer is before us.”
And all this without a word, without a look of reproach; how my heart went out to him for his forbearance!
At length I asked the question which was always with me: “Mon père, is there any news?”
“From Louisbourg? Nothing that is hopeful. A more formidable fleet than ever before has left England; we cannot expect any succour from France; and Louisbourg is probably invested by this time, if the enemy have made good their landing. Before another month the matter will be pushed to an issue, and it will be against us, unless the place can be relieved.”
Where the expected relief was to come from I did not dare to ask, as I could not doubt but that M. de Sarennes was an important factor in the plan.
Le père Jean had manifold duties to perform during his short stay; impatient couples were married, children were baptised, and many an anxious heart relieved of the burthen which it had borne alone through the long imprisonment of the winter. He did not suffer me to remain idle either, for he gathered the children about him, and showed me how to instruct them in the elements of our faith.
“Here is your work,” he said, smiling. “You have your education and sympathy on the one hand, and on the other are these little black and brown heads—Bergerons, Tremblays, Gauthiers, and so on—to be filled with some measure of the grace which God intended for each of them. It will be a comfort to me to think of them in your hands while I am sent on my Master's business, often into paths not of my own choosing. Do not on any account be tempted to leave here until I come or send for you. Even if M. de Sarennes should appear, be under no apprehension, for all you need do is to tell Mme. Dufour, and it will be a delight to her to balk his plans, as there is no love lost between these Islanders and the people of the main-land.”
“I will do my best, mon père. When may I look for your return?”
“I cannot tell, perhaps in a month or so; but do not let that disturb you; for, even if I am prevented, I will surely send you word what to do. Seek your quiet in your daily task, and your comfort in prayer.”
So he took his way, leaving me in such content as was possible. Had I dared I would have questioned him about the letter, but I could not bring myself to acknowledge this humiliation, even to him. I felt it so keenly, that I no longer wondered my tormentor had felt himself free to make any proposal, when it was but to one whom he believed to be the discarded wife of another, and I found a new misery in vain imaginings of what had been written to call forth so heartless a reply. I would comfort myself at one moment by thinking it was not intended for me, only to be met by the alternative of Hugh being married to another. Turn which way I might, I could frame no explanation which brought any comfort. If the letter were for me, then had no man ever betrayed love more cruelly; if for another, then I had thrown away my life.
My work with the children was the greatest boon which could have been granted me; it kept me sane and healthy, and my heart went out to the little ignorant souls so full of life and affection. It was no task; it was a welcome labour of love; and the children saw and felt it as such; on their side, their little feet were never too weary nor their little hands too tired to respond to any service I might ask of them.
But despite their love and the unfailing kindness of Mme. Dufour, it was impossible to escape from my pain. My daily refuge was the altar of the little church, where night and morn, often in company of some other lonely woman anxious for the safety of son or husband far at sea, I laid bare my soul in an agony of supplication for the safety of the one dear to me above all others; and I found support, too, in the thought of the devoted priest pursuing his lonely way, consecrating his life and effort for others, most of whom made no return, for they knew not the greatness of his sacrifice.
The rumours that reached us during the next two months brought no assuagement to our fears, and when le père Jean came, towards the middle of August, men, women, and children gathered on the beach to welcome him. His white, worn face and wearied bearing told his message before he spake a word, and my heart failed me at the sight.
With his unfailing consideration, he turned to me the moment he saw my distress. “Le Chevalier de Maxwell is safe; he escaped the night the capitulation was signed,” he whispered, and then turned with his news towards the anxious people.
Like one afar off I heard him tell of the long siege, of the hardships endured, the courage displayed, the surrender of the ruined fortress, and the removal of the garrison to the ships of war; but in the selfishness of love my heart was too full of gratitude to have understanding for aught else.
When the story was ended, and the eager questioners answered, he turned to me again, and, inviting me to follow, we took our way towards the church.
“You are anxious to hear more,” he said, gently. “Let me tell you all I know. M. de Maxwell left the town only after the capitulation was reluctantly agreed to by M. de Drucour, who, with all his officers, had protested against it, and would willingly have held out even beyond hope. He ran the gantlet of the batteries the whole length of the harbour in safety; he was at Miramichi only two days before I arrived there, and took command of some Canadians in charge of a number of English prisoners to lead them to Quebec. So you may comfort yourself with the thought of his safety, and that your prayers have been answered.”
“What will happen now, mon père?”
“That is impossible to say; except that the English will certainly push every advantage they have gained, and, unless substantial help comes from without, the outlook is desperate.”
“Did no help come to Louisbourg, mon père?”
“None,” he answered; and the one word sank into my heart like a knell. He parted from me at the church door, and I wandered down to the beach alone.
The loss of Louisbourg, as even I could see, might mean the loss of Canada, and, in the priest's eyes at least, its loss was due not so much to the weakness of the garrison as to the failure of the relief, and this relief could have come only by the man who had withstood his commands, holding out a shameful condition as the price of his obedience. Whether le père Jean was right or wrong I could not judge, but I surely knew he could but lay the source of this dishonour to the wilful act of the woman he had rescued and befriended in her hour of need.
The news of the gallant defence of Carillon went far to offset the disaster of Louisbourg, but not to allay our anxiety, and September was a trying month for us all; but Gabriel visited us twice, and was unshaken in his confidence.
“Time enough to cry out when we are beaten, madame. We have held them back at Carillon, and will do so again, if need be; they have been beaten in the Upper Country before this, and they will be clever indeed if they can come up the river.”
“They did so once before, Gabriel.”
“'Une fois n'est pas coutume,' madame; pilots cannot be picked up like pease.”
I expected word from le père Jean every day, and awaited it with conflicting feelings. I was most anxious to know the truth about Hugh, and yet to meet him was past my desire, if he were really married. Should that prove the case, then I would use my utmost effort to return to France without his knowing I had ever been in the country. Should he discover it, then I must bear the humiliation as best I might; but I could not bring myself to go away, and perhaps wreck my future as well as his, through a misunderstanding. I felt I had gone too far, had suffered too much, to throw it all away when the truth was within my reach.
In the beginning of October Gabriel came with the expected letter from le père Jean. Mme. de Sarennes and Angélique had gone on to Quebec to spend the winter there, and I was expected to join them whenever it might be convenient. I took affectionate farewells of my good friend, Mme. Dufour, and the infant population of the parish, and set forth with Gabriel. We made a grand run of it, and were in full view of the town before the sun had quite set. I had seen no place, except perhaps Edinburgh, with which I could compare it, and Quebec gained in the comparison. Gabriel saw my admiration, and was delighted.
“Look at it well, madame; it is the gate of the finest country le bon Dieu ever created, and we hold the key! No man need have a faint heart when he can look on Quebec. See the little fort there on the top of the Cape! It was made to signal a King's ships only. See the Château where it stands! It looks like the Governor himself. See the steeples of the Cathedral, of the Jesuits, of the Recollets! See the convents and the hospitals! It is like the Holy City of God! And then talk, if one can, of it falling into the hands of 'les goddams' and 'les Bostonnais.' Bah! It is impossible! If not, what is the use of going to church on Sunday?”
Truly he had every excuse for his pride; and when I looked on the majestic river, barred by the mighty cliff with its glittering crown of roofs and spires overlooking the beautiful sweep of the St. Charles, I felt that his outburst was more of a declaration than a boast.
I disembarked with a light heart, and, guided by Gabriel, climbed the steep ascent to the Haute Ville, at the head of which stood the Sarennes house, there to receive a welcome from Mme. de Sarennes and Angélique, for which none but a daughter and a sister might look.
AT QUEBEC
When our first greetings were over, I asked eagerly for Lucy.
“She is not with us at the moment, my dear,” said Mme. de Sarennes; “but we look for news of her soon now.”
“Where is she?” I asked, dreading to discover the hand of M. de Sarennes in the matter.
“When you left with le père Jean, she was much distressed, for she had not the same reliance on his assurance of your safety as we, and at first insisted that you would never have willingly gone without her, but after a while she seemed to be content. I did not know, until Angélique told me later, that she was possessed with the idea of her son being in Quebec, or I might have persuaded her of its folly. But I knew nothing of it, and thought she was quite content to await your return, when we were astonished by her disappearance. She left a note behind, which, however, did not tell us anything beyond the word Quebec, as it was, of course, in English. Angélique, fetch the note; it is in my red box. We had search made for her as soon as possible, and heard of her along the road as far as Beaumont, but there all trace was lost. Here is the note, my dear,” she said, as Angélique entered.
The poor little letter was not addressed, and was written in a trembling hand.
“I am going to Quebec to find my son” [I read]. “M. de Sarennes tells me he is there, and I need not stay from him now my mistress is gone. I am thankful to every one who was kind to me, and I will pray for each one every night. LUCY.”
“It is as I thought,” said Mme. de Sarennes. “Poor soul, I am more distressed at the thought of her unrest than for her safety, for our people are very good, particularly to any one they see is not of strong mind. She had some money, Angélique tells me. I have sent her description to the different convents, where they are likely to know of any one in want; and in a small place like this it will not be long before we hear of her.”
“But I am greatly distressed, madame, that you should have had this anxiety, in addition to what I have caused.”
“If we had not cared for her, we should have had no anxiety; and as for yourself, my dear, you must not think we were troubled when le père Jean told us you were under his direction; and now that you have come back to us in safety, your long absence is atoned for. I did not know I could have missed any one so much who was outside of my own family.”
This unexpected tenderness from one I had respected rather than loved, for I had stood somewhat in awe of the usually unresponsive old lady, touched me more than I can tell, and gave me a sense of home and protection which I had long missed, and it was a pain to think I was forced to hide the true reason of my flight from her loyal heart.
The Sarennes house made one of a tower-like group of dwellings forming a little island, as it were, at the head of the Côte de la Montagne, round which swept the streets to zigzag down the long, steep hill, and join, after many turnings, at its foot. Fronting it stood the bishop's palace, a modest enough edifice, and from my window at the back I could look on the house of Philibert, popularly known as “Le Chien d'Or,” from the curious carving over the door, hinting at some tragedy of patient waiting and revenge.
Immediately above was a bright little cul-de-sac, dignified by the name of la rue du Parloir—the theatre of many of the social doings of Quebec; behind this, on the one side, rose the simple apse of the Cathedral, and on the other the white walls and glistening roofs of the Seminary.
It was not long before I learned the gossip of the town from Angélique, who had already made her first triumphs in society, in which she rejoiced so frankly that I felt like a girl again as she chattered of her pleasures.
“It might not seem much to you, Marguerite, after Paris, but to me it is splendid, and we have all sorts of men here.”
“No doubt, chérie. And you find them all charming?”
“Well, they all try to please me, even the bad ones.”
“You have bad ones too, ma mie?”
“Indeed we have, Marguerite, as bad as you ever saw in Paris. You needn't laugh.”
“Heaven forbid! I never found them amusing in Paris, or else where.”
“Oh, but I do! There is M. Bigot, the Intendant. He is wicked, if you like! He is ugly too; but his manner!—it is simply enchanting. He dresses to perfection; and when he plays with a lady, he loses to her like a nobleman. I don't care what they say about him, c'est un galant homme! and the place would be very dull without him.”
“But he is not the only man, Angélique?”
“Dear no! And he wouldn't be so bad, I am sure, if it were not for that odious Mme. Péan; I am sure she is dreadful, and so pretty too! But there are other men; there is M. de Bougainville, who is young, and has le bel air, but is too serious. M. Poulariez, tall and gallant-looking—he is colonel of the Royal Rouissillon; there is Major Joannès—he remembers you on the yacht—he is the little officer who provided the wine for the toasts; then there is M. de Roquemaure and M. de la Rochebeaucourt, and, best of all, there is M. de Maxwell—M. le Chevalier de Maxwell de Kirkconnel—he is a countryman of your own, Marguerite;” and she paused and looked at me as if awaiting an answer.
“Yes, and what of him?” I asked, with a good shew of composure.
“Simply that he is the only man I have ever seen that I could fall in love with. That shocks you, I suppose? Well, don't be afraid. I am not nearly so bold as I pretend, and I don't mean a word of it. I am simply telling you how much I like him; besides, he is old enough to be my grandfather. Do you know why I like him?”
“No, chérie. Why?”
“Because when Mme. de Lanaudière, Mme. de Beaubassin, and others, were being good to me by patting me on the head and bidding me behave like a nice little girl, as it were, M. de Maxwell treated me as if I were the greatest lady in the room. He would leave the best dressed among them all to cross the floor openly and speak with me, and because he did so others followed, and I am in request. He is only 'Chevalier,' you know; but he could not have more weight here were he Duke or Prince.”
“And he is proud of the distinction, I suppose?”
“Perhaps so, but he does not shew it; but all this is nothing to his singing.”
“Tell me of that.”
“Only the other night, at Mme. de Lanaudière's, he sang so that even the players stopped in their game to listen. I know nothing of music, but I could have cried before he ended; and when he had sung again, as every one wished, Mme. de Lanaudière cried, before us all; 'Chevalier, you must not sing again or we cannot call our hearts our own!' And every one laughed and clapped their hands. That is what I call a triumph!”
“Yes, Angélique, I know. One of the dearest things I can remember is a loved voice singing.”
Only those who have known the hunger of the heart can realise the sweet comfort these innocent words brought to me. They pictured the Hugh I had carried all these years in my heart. How readily I could conceive the gentle consideration and the charm which won the gratitude of this simple girl as they had won my own!
As we settled down to our regular life, Angélique's one distress was that I would not go with her into the society she so dearly loved. She could not understand my refusal, and even her mother thought it would be well that I should shew myself, if merely to establish my position and put an end to the annoying questionings which began to circulate concerning my station and intentions. But on this point I was firm, and the only concession I would make was to send a note to M. de Montcalm, begging he would pay me the honour of a visit.
He came on the morrow, and his respect and courtesy towards me went far to establish my position in the eyes of Mme. de Sarennes, for he treated me with all the consideration one would shew towards an equal.
He informed me that his aide, M. de Bougainville, would sail for France almost immediately—we were then at the beginning of November—and if I would brave the discomforts of so late a passage, he would place me under his care; but Mme. de Sarennes protested so firmly against my undertaking such a voyage that I was spared a decision.
In truth I did not know what to do. My pride urged me to go; but my love, in spite of what had passed, drew me closer and closer to Quebec. I could not go without learning the truth, and yet I could not bring myself to meet Hugh at the moment, which I should have to do if I accepted M. de Montcalm's offer; so I allowed matters to shape themselves without my interference.
“Peace may be proclaimed this winter, and if so, Mme. de St. Just can go without danger in the spring. Besides, she cannot go until she knows of the safety of one she is interested in,” said Mme. de Sarennes, decidedly; and her reminder of my duty towards Lucy ended the discussion.
“Then, madame,” said M. de Montcalm, turning to me, “if you are to stay with us you must renounce your retirement, and give us your support in our little society. We are too few to spare any possible addition to it, the more so that if peace be not proclaimed before spring everything is likely to come to an end, so far as we are concerned.”
“Mon Dieu, Marquis! Do not speak so lightly of disaster,” interrupted Mme. de Sarennes, severely.
“Ma foi, madame! What is the use of shutting our eyes to the inevitable? We are hemmed in right and left, and the next move will be directed on us here. It needs no prophet to foretell that.”
“But is there not Carillon?”
“There is also the river.”
“They can never come up the river! See what befell them before! I remember well how their fleet was destroyed under their Admiral Walker.”
“Nothing happens but the impossible, madame; and we are no longer in an age that hopes for miracles.”
“Monsieur, it pains me to hear you speak thus. God is not less powerful now than He was fifty years ago.”
“I sincerely trust not, madame; but his Majesty will hardly acquit me if I rely on a chance tempest or a difficult channel. It is only the question of a pilot.”
“And think you, monsieur, a Canadian would ever consent to pilot an enemy up our river?”
“Madame, I cannot doubt that even a Canadian will act as other men, if he have a pistol at the back of his head. No, no, madame; believe me, the river is our danger, and I would that M. de Vaudreuil might see it as I do.”
“M. de Vaudreuil is a God-fearing man, monsieur.”
“So much the better for him, madame; but, unfortunately, I am responsible for military matters,” he answered, with a bitterness which made me most uncomfortable.
He saw my distress and added, quickly: “But such affairs should not be discussed before ladies; I forget myself. Mme. de Sarennes, I have every respect for your opinion, and it is only my anxiety for our common cause which urges me to exaggerate what may after all be merely possible dangers.”
“Now, Mme. de St. Just, to return to our society. We are dull now, and shall be until the last ships leave; but we will have balls and routs later on, and perhaps may even offer you a novelty in the shape of a winter pique-nique, a fête champêtre in four feet of snow.”
“That, I am sure, must be delightful,” I answered, pleased that the conversation had taken a different turn; “but I am afraid I have little interest in amusement as yet.”
“We have cards, madame, if you are ever tempted to woo the fickle goddess.”
“M. de Montcalm,” asked Mme. de Sarennes, in her severest manner, “do you intend to put an end to scandalous play this winter?”
“Eh, mon Dieu, madame! I must do something, I suppose. It is indeed a scandal that officers should ruin themselves, and I assure you I have had many a bad quarter of an hour over it. It cannot be forbidden altogether, for they must amuse themselves in some manner.”
“They exist without it in Montreal.”
“Possibly; but M. de Vaudreuil is there. We cannot hope to aspire to all his virtues.” And to my dismay I saw we were once more nearing dangerous ground.
To turn the conversation again, I asked for news of the English at Louisbourg.
“Some are still there, some in garrison at Beauséjour, some in New York and Boston, and others returned to England; but we will doubtless have an opportunity of inspecting most of them here next spring, unless, as Mme. de Sarennes suggests, peace be declared in the meantime.”
This was as bad as ever, but led to nothing more than a momentary stiffness, which Angélique's entrance dissipated, and made a merry ending to a visit not without its difficulties.
Before the Marquis left, he said to me: “You may not have heard, madame, but your brother, who is an officer in Fraser's, a Highland regiment, was captured in the first engagement, and was a prisoner in Louisbourg up to the capitulation. If you wish, I can obtain more definite news of him through M. de Maxwell, one of our officers who was in garrison there at the time.”
Nothing could have been more unlooked-for, and for a moment I was overwhelmed at the thought of this innocent betrayal of my presence to Hugh. I could hardly find courage to reply, and it was fortunate that my answer served as a cover to my confusion.
“M. de Montcalm, I have never heard from or written to my brother since he accepted his English commission,” I said, in a trembling voice.
“Pardon, madame; I had forgotten when I spoke.”
“Just as we forget, monsieur, that our Marguerite is not one of us by birth as she is in heart,” cried Angélique, enthusiastically, slipping her arm about me.
This shewed me more than any other happening how precarious my position was, for though neither Angélique, nor her mother, nor M. de Montcalm, would now mention my identity, any of them might already have spoken of my brother. M. de Sarennes knew my secret, and Hugh might discover it at any moment.
When the Marquis left, Mme. de Sarennes no longer made an effort to contain her indignation.
“They are all alike!” she burst forth. “They make not the slightest effort to understand us, nor to do aught but amuse themselves. You are quite right, Marguerite, to refuse to have any part in their gaieties! I shall never urge you again. To talk of balls and routs and gaming as necessities, when the people are starving within our very walls!
“What wonder is it our husbands and brothers and sons say these fainéants care naught what becomes of the country or the people, so long as they gain some little distinction which may entitle them to an early return and an empty decoration! They have neither pity, nor faith, nor the slightest interest in the cause for which they are fighting.
“If M. de Vaudreuil, whom they pretend to despise, were permitted to take the field himself, with a few thousand good Canadians behind him, we would hear a different story. Think you if my son had been permitted to reach Louisbourg it would have fallen? No, a thousand times no! And it is the same elsewhere. Who repulsed the English charge at Carillon? The Canadians. Who brings every important piece of news of the enemy? Some despised Canadian. Who know how to fight and how to handle themselves in the woods? Canadians, and only Canadians! And these are the men they affect to despise! And it is Canadian wives and sisters and daughters—more shame to them!—who lay themselves out to amuse and to be talked about by these same disdainful gentry!
“Go to your room, mademoiselle!” she ended, turning on Angélique. “I will hear nothing of your doings among a clique I despise from top to bottom;” and the indignant old lady stopped, worn out for very lack of breath, while Angélique made a little laughing grimace at me and fled.
The indictment was severe, but there was much truth in it at the same time. The condition of the people was pitiable in the extreme. Provisions were at ruinous prices, the wretched paper money was almost worthless, and even the officers were beggared by their necessary expenses. At the opening of the New Year the Intendance was invaded by a crowd of desperate women clamouring for relief, and the address of M. Bigot in ridding himself of his unwelcome visitors was laughed at as a joke. Worse than this, no attempt was made to lessen or even hide the gaieties that went on, play was as high and as ruinous as ever, and the town was all agog over the report of a ball to be given with unusual splendour by the Intendant on Twelfth-Night. It was true that he made a daily distribution of food at his doors, that he spake pleasant and reassuring words to the suffering people, that he even permitted the respectably dressed among them to enter and view his guests from the gallery of his ball-room, but this did but serve to intensify the bitterness and indignation of those who stood apart from him and his following. It would be unjust to brand M. de Montcalm, and perhaps others, as willing participants in these excesses; on account of their position, their presence at all formal entertainments was a necessity, and certainly the town offered no distraction of any other nature whatsoever.
Our inquiries had so far failed in discovering any trace of Lucy's whereabouts, and yet I felt certain she was in or about Quebec, and as she had acquired enough French to make her wants known, and was provided with money sufficient to meet them, we held it likely she was in some family, but probably seldom stirred abroad for fear she might be recognised and prevented from keeping her patient watch.
At length the great event of the winter came on—the ball at the Intendance on Twelfth-Night. Angélique was all impatience for the evening, and, when dressed, her excitement added to the charm of her girlish beauty.
“I wish you would come, Marguerite!” she exclaimed, longingly.
“I would like to, chérie, if only to see you.”
“And to see M. de Maxwell too. I should like you to see him. I assure you one does not see such a man every day. He has such brown eyes; they do not sparkle, but they are deep. He has lovely hands, as well cared for as a woman's, but strong and masterful, I am sure. He has a fine foot and a well-turned leg. That is nearly all—except his smile; he smiles, and you think he is smiling for you alone—and when he speaks, you are sure of it! Such a low, sweet voice! You are always certain he is never thinking of any one else when you are listening to it. And he dresses—plainly, perhaps—but it is perfection for him. But there—I must run; Denis has been at the door for an hour,” and, kissing me affectionately, she hurried off.
It was well for me she did so, for I could not have listened to her light-hearted babble longer without betraying myself. When I closed the door behind her, and had spent half an hour with Mme. de Sarennes, I regained my room overwhelmed by the storm of emotions raised within me. “Oh, why cannot I see him, I, of all women in the world?” I cried, aloud, and the words set free my tears to relieve me. As I regained control of myself I caught sight of Angélique's pretty fan, on my table, forgotten in her hurry; and the moment I saw it a plan flashed before me, and I determined to see with my own eyes what I had so long pictured in my heart.
Bathing my face until every trace of my outburst was removed, I dressed myself, and taking a large blue cloak with a hood, which might be worn by either a lady or her servant, I picked up the fan and stole quietly out into the street.
It was a beautiful, soft night, without a moon, and I went down by the rue St. Jean and the Palace Hill without interruption, and, passing beyond the walls, went straight to the Intendance, which was all aglow with light, and surrounded by a gaping crowd.
Quickly passing through the people, and saying to the grenadier on guard at the gate, “For Mademoiselle de Sarennes,” I was admitted to the court-yard, and passed the lackeys at the entrance with the same password.
Singling out one who looked civil, I drew him aside.
“I bring this fan for Mademoiselle de Sarennes, but I wish, now that I am here, to have a look at the ball. Is there any place where I can go besides the gallery?”
“Perfectly, mademoiselle; I can shew you just the place. You were lucky in coming to me. Do you know me?”
“No,” I answered, willing to flatter him; “but you look as if you would know what I want.”
“Aha!” he exclaimed, pluming himself. “You were right, perfectly right. You have only to follow me,” and he led the way down the corridor, and, unlocking a door, he motioned me to enter. I drew back as a rush of music and voices and the warm air of the ball-room swept out.
“Do not be afraid,” he whispered, “this is curtained off. You can stay here for an hour if you like, no one will come through before then; only, when you leave, be sure and turn the key again, and bring it to me.”
I thanked him, and he left, closing the door noiselessly behind him; and then approaching the curtains, I carefully parted them, and looked out on the ball-room.
I AWAKE FROM MY DREAM
It was a scene that would have done credit to a much larger centre than Quebec. It is true the walls were bare of any fitting decoration, the windows too small to break them with any effect, the chandeliers mean in size, and the sconces but makeshifts; still, the room was imposing in its proportions and the company brilliant.
I recognised the Intendant without difficulty. He was a small man, delicately formed, and wore his dark red hair with but little powder. He was most handsomely dressed, his carriage was dignified and easy, and the charm of which Angélique had spoken was at once apparent; I quite understood how one might forget the plain, sickly face, marked by the traces of excess, for it was frank and open, and one could not but acknowledge its strength.
I saw, too, M. Poulariez, looking very handsome in his new white uniform of the Royal Rouissillon; the Major Joannès, and others whom Angélique had described, or we had seen from our windows on their way to one or other of the three divinities of the rue du Parloir. They were all there, vying with each other, Mme. de Lanaudière, Mme. de Beaubassin, and Mme. Péan, and though their dresses were doubtless far behind the mode, they were all three noticeable women, and dressed with discretion.
At the opposite end were the musicians, whose efforts were surprisingly good; and in a long gallery down one side stood the onlookers, crowding it to its utmost capacity. Angélique sate the centre of an animated group at no great distance from where I was hidden, and her evident delight in the merry trifling that went on about her made a charming picture; but he whom I sought was not one of the little court before her, and I scanned the room eagerly. For the first time I realised that he might be changed; that I had changed much myself—for ten years is a long time out of one's life—and with a pang I thought of Angélique's girlish freshness, and wished I could have remained eighteen for his sake.
At last! My heart leaped within me, and my eyes swam so I could hardly see, for there was Hugh, the one and only love of my life! “Oh, Hugh! Hugh! my darling!” I murmured, forgetful of all, save that my dreamings had come true, and my eyes had been granted their desire.
He was coming slowly down the room, making his way gracefully through the crowd, bowing and occasionally speaking to other guests as he passed. It pained me to see how thin and worn his face had grown; but, if anything, it was handsomer than ever, though, like that of most of the officers, it was too brown from constant exposure. How could Angélique call him old? For his figure was as light and graceful as I ever pictured it, and his bearing as perfect as of yore. He was not in uniform, but was fittingly dressed in a puce-coloured coat, relieved with narrow silver braid, and his white satin waistcoat and small-clothes were ornamented in the same manner.
He came directly up to where Angélique sate, and, bowing low, answered her lively greeting with his winning smile, and I could almost catch the soft tones of his voice where I stood.