There is little I would not do to please le père Jean.
As he glanced over the note, I had opportunity to observe him more closely. I had often heard of him from Gaston in the old days, for they had been friends from boyhood, and had done much campaigning together in Germany and elsewhere. He looked worn, like a man who had grown old before his time, but I could trace the likeness to the warm-hearted, hot-headed young officer whom I had so often pictured, in his large eyes, which had lost nothing of their youthful fire, and in his smile, which had the charm that does not disappear with years.
“Madame de St. Just,” he said, when he had finished reading, “I can spare you the necessity of even asking my help, and must not lay you under any obligation greater than this little voyage from your boat to mine, to which you would not have been subject had I known of your relation to my friend le père Jean. He tells me your intention was to have gone to Louisbourg. If that be still your desire, madame, I can at least spare you the journey to Quebec, and can promise you an easy passage to Louisbourg as soon as the snow makes good travelling, for, in Canada, summer is no time for a long journey across country. But let us be seated and talk this matter over quietly,” and he waved his hand towards the stern of the yacht, where some of the officers hastened to arrange their cloaks into comfortable seats.
My heart was in the strangest commotion as I saw the drift of circumstance that was sweeping me onward, without effort on my part, towards the end I most desired; I had not spoken, and here was the arbiter of my fate putting into words all that I dared not ask. I resolved not even to think, but to leave the issue in his hands.
“Had you ever met le père Jean before, madame?” he resumed.
“No, monsieur. How could I? But I cannot help feeling I have met you. I was wont to hear your name very often when a young girl?”
“Indeed? And to whom did I owe that favour?”
“To your friend, the Vicomte de Trincardel.”
He stared at me as if in great amazement, and when he spake his tone was that of a man deeply puzzled.
“You know the Vicomte de Trincardel?”
“Assuredly, monsieur—that is, I did know him. He was a frequent visitor at my guardian's both in Paris and London,” and then I stupidly fell to blushing like a school-girl.
“Strange, very strange,” he muttered, in an absent manner.
“No, monsieur, not strange,” I answered, for I could not bear he should misunderstand; “my family name is Nairn, and my guardian was the late Lady Jane Drummond.”
“Oh, pardon me, madame; it was only the odd chance of my meeting with you that I marvelled at. But it is a narrow world, after all, for a few years ago, when in Italy, I heard of your brother from the Cardinal York: he spake of him in terms of the warmest affection.”
“Hélas! monsieur, my brother is dead to me. He has deserted the cause to which I and mine have been faithful; he now holds a commission in the English army.”
“Again I must ask for pardon; but to come back to your plans. Now as to Louisbourg, there is no danger, madame, either on the journey or when you reach there, provided you leave again before spring. You can be safely back in Quebec before the snows go, and on your way to France by the first ship, long ere any serious danger threatens. I am taking for granted, however, that you will hardly choose to remain in this enchanting colony longer than may be necessary. Would it meet your wish, if you were to return by the spring?”
“Oh, perfectly, perfectly, monsieur!” I exclaimed, overjoyed to answer a question which presented no difficulties and opened out a way before me.
“Then, madame, I would recommend the following plan: instead of going on to Quebec, by which you will lose little, save a glimpse at a society which is not without its charm, you should go back across the river and down as far as Beaulieu, where you will find Mme. de Sarennes and her charming daughter Angélique. I shall give you letters which will ensure you a welcome and a shelter for such time as you may have to remain under her care. Her son Charles, who is a noted figure in the colony, will be up and down between Louisbourg and Quebec during the winter, and I will see that he takes charge of you and conducts you safely on your journey.
“And now, madame, it is very probable that you are but ill supplied with money, if indeed you have any. Pardon my frankness, but I am old enough to be your father, and I know the awkwardness of such a position. If I be correct, I am sure you will not deny me the pleasure of helping you.”
“Monsieur, your kindness needs no excuse; but, with a thousand thanks, let me assure you I am well, even abundantly supplied, as I had nearly all my money sewn in my clothes before leaving, and I do not foresee any want of that kind, even though my stay be longer than now appears probable. But I shall be most grateful for your letter to Mme. de Sarennes, and it shall be my endeavour not to prove a burthen on her hospitality.”
“M. de Bougainville,” he said, beckoning to one of his officers, “will you come and tell Mme. de St. Just something of this charming country, while I write some letters?” So saying, he introduced his aide to me, and stepped into the cabin, leaving me to the amusing society of his officers. The moments passed quickly until the Marquis reappeared bearing two letters.
“Do not disappear, gentlemen, unless it be to seek a glass of wine in which to wish madame 'bon voyage.'
“This, madame,” he said, handing me one of the letters, “is to Mme. de Sarennes; but with it I have taken care to enclose that of le père Jean, for our good Canadians, as you will find, attach more value to the simple word of a priest—and in this instance I will not say they are wrong—than to the command of any lay authority. His letter will spare you all explanations with the mother, and this other will serve as an order for that gallant coureur de bois, her son, when he puts in an appearance, in the event of his visiting Beaulieu before I see him in Quebec. Let me assure you, further, that you have only to command my services, should you need them, either before or after you may reach Louisbourg. The Chevalier de Drucour, I am persuaded, will be only too ready to do me a service, should I ask it either on my behalf or on that of another. I shall esteem it, if you will consider yourself as under my protection.”
“But, monsieur, what claim have I to all this kindness?” I asked, overwhelmed at the possibilities I saw before me.
“You are the friend of my friend; I would do anything for his sake,” he answered, simply, disdaining any of those compliments which would so readily suggest themselves to a man of less nice breeding.
“I am sorry we cannot offer you any fitting hospitality here,” he said, as he rose. Then, turning towards the others, he added: “Gentlemen, I am apologising for our scanty larder, which prevents our detaining Mme. de St. Just for supper. M. de Bougainville, as a mathematician, might have seen to a less exact but more generous provision.”
“His head was among the stars,” explained a jovial-looking officer, in a rueful tone, “and we less-exalted mortals are the losers, alas!”
“But surely we have somewhat to drink to the success of madame's journey?” said M. de Montcalm, in mock alarm.
“Assuredly, mon général! I at least was not star-gazing when I laid in the Bordeaux. I can even provide a glass of Frontignan for madame,” responded a little bright-eyed officer.
“Bravo, Joannès!” laughed the general. “Frontignan! That brings back the whole South, madame; its very name makes me homesick. Homesickness makes us all young, makes us all little children again. Ma foi! I believe that is why the Spaniard pretended the Fountain of Youth was to be found in the New World. I defy any one to remain here and not have perpetual youth, if my theory be correct.”
“But at least madame did not come to seek it,” responded M. de Bougainville, gallantly, “and we are keeping her standing.”
Thereupon they touched my glass, in order, each with a prettily turned wish for my good fortunes, and I tasted the sweet wine of Frontignan in return to the toast they drank together. No wishes could have been more welcome, and the little friendly ceremony meant much to me; indeed my heart was very full when M. de Montcalm bent over and kissed my hand as he helped me into the shallop and we pulled off into the dusk. Did I need anything further to set my uneasy mind at rest, I found it in the quiet words of Lucy when I told her of the outcome of my visit.
“Oh, my dear mistress,” she exclaimed, in a voice full of feeling, “He hath made our path straight to our feet!”
AT BEAULIEU
Gabriel altered his course with the satisfaction of a man confirmed in his superior judgment. “'II y a remède à tout, fors à la mort,' madame, and this has come at the last hour,” he cried, in great satisfaction. “I suppose le père Jean would say you were going to Louisbourg all the time, only it would look to an ordinary sinner like a precious long way round,” and he chuckled at his jest as he bustled about, filling every one with somewhat of his brimming content.
Favoured by the tide and a strong wind, we made a good run during the night, and when we awoke we were again coasting along the peaceful reaches of the South Shore with its frequent settlements and clearings—a pleasant change after the wilderness of the North.
Early in the afternoon, Gabriel pointed to a long point stretching out into the river.
“That is the Beacon Point of Beaulieu, madame. A beacon is piled there, ready for firing, winter and summer. The entrance to the river is just on this side, and on the other is the great bay where the porpoise fishery takes place. The manor cannot be seen from the river; it is safe and snug from the storms, a little inland.”
Before long we entered the mouth of the little river, to the right of which stretched a broad expanse of tidal meadow, dotted with small platforms, each supporting its load of coarse salt hay, safe above the reach of the highest tides; to the left was the dense pine wood covering the Beacon Point. Fields and woods wore the sombre colours, the browns and purples of autumn, though here and there a sturdy maple still hung out its banner of yellow or red, lighting up the dark greens of the unchanging pines. As we advanced, the windings of the river disclosed stretches of bare meadow and empty fields, for the harvest had long been gathered. The whole was set in a background of low, purple hills. But soon we caught a new interest, as a windmill, and then a long wooden house, having a high-pitched roof, broken by a row of pointed dormer-windows, with a detached tower at each end, came into view.
“There, madame, that is the manor!” Gabriel announced with evident pride, to which I made suitable return, for despite its humble form, like a substantial farm-house, its great length and the two towers gave to it an appearance which removed it out of the common.
Our boat was made fast to a little landing-place, and we disembarked; but, to my surprise, no one appeared to welcome or to question us. Gabriel led the way up to the house through a garden, which must have been a model of neatness in summer-time, but was now stripped and blackened by the early frosts. Though the door of the house stood hospitably open to us, no answer came to our echoing knock.
Going round to the back proved equally fruitless, but I espied two women working in a field at a short distance, and, bidding Gabriel await me, I took my way towards them. I found them engaged with spade and fork digging up reddish-looking roots, which they piled in little heaps.
“I bring letters to Mme. de Sarennes,” I said, addressing the younger woman, who seemed confused, but whose face I could barely see for the great bonnet which covered her head like a cowl, “but I find no one in the house. Can you tell me what to do?”
“If madame will return and find a seat in the house, I shall bring some one,” she answered, prettily enough, and, dropping her fork, she ran towards the house.
“What are those things you are digging up?” I asked the elder woman.
“Potatoes, madame.”
“But do the people eat them?” I inquired, for I knew they were not used in France.
“'Only the Bostonnais and cattle,' we used to say, madame, but now the Intendant has ordered them to be planted and eaten by all.”
“And they will obey?”
“'Le miel n'est pas pour les ânes,' madame; those who do not, will go hungry,” she answered, laughing.
I was interested in the news, as well as in the calm philosophy with which the innovation was accepted, and after a few more questions I returned to the front of the house.
The room into which the entrance gave—for it was more of a room than a hall—was large and low, with a ceiling painted white, supported by heavy beams; it was carpeted and furnished with much comfort—much more than one would find in a similar house either in Scotland or France.
In a short time a young lady entered, her dark olive face well set off by her brown hair, becomingly though simply dressed, with a light girlish figure showing to advantage in her flowered gown.
“I am Mlle. de Sarennes, madame, and I regret that you should have been kept waiting.” She began gravely enough, but catching some wonderment in my face, she continued, laughing merrily: “Oh, 'tis of no use; I can never masquerade! I am Queen of the Fields, madame, and you surprised me a moment ago, sceptre in hand,” whereupon she made me a grand courtesy, nearly sinking to the floor.
“And I am Mme. de St. Just,” I answered, joining in her girlish fun, “a poor rescued prisoner seeking for shelter; and this is my waiting-woman and very good friend, Lucy Routh. I come to you with letters from M. de Montcalm, trusting our presence may not prove a burthen to you.”
“But here is my mother,” said the young girl, quickly. “Not a word to her of how you discovered me; she will never acknowledge that such a thing as field-work is necessary, though there is not a man left to share it, except myself. We hide it from her as we would a sin.”
At the words a gray-haired lady supporting herself on a cane entered. In a few moments all explanations were made, and I received from her a welcome scarcely less warm than that of her daughter, but with the difference, that it was only given after she had carefully read the letter of the Marquis de Montcalm and its enclosure.
“Your own presence would command my hospitality in any case, madame; but these letters, and especially that of le père Jean, change a duty into a pleasure; it is much to have gained the friendship of such a man. I fear, though, you will have to put up with our poor company for some time, as my son has but left for his post in Acadie, and I do not look for his return until the snows come; but we will do all we can to make you happy until such time as you can leave to join your friends.”
These letters change a duty into a pleasure.
Nothing could be more charming than her address, even though it bore a trace of condescendence; but that was merely the reflection of an older school of manners, to which I had been well accustomed in Lady Jane.
As soon as we had settled these matters, I agreed with Gabriel that he should go on to Quebec, there to obtain some necessaries of which I stood in much need, as did poor Lucy.
“You do not expect to find shops there, surely!” laughed mademoiselle. “But my friend Mme, de Lanaudière will gladly undertake the buying of the material, and we will make such shift for the fitting as is possible here.”
So we were installed as guests, and on the morrow Gabriel was despatched on his important errand; before he returned we had taken our places as members of the little household.
Mlle. de Sarennes—Angélique, as she insisted on my calling her—would not consent to my helping in the fields, so Lucy and I took charge in the house, where Lucy did marvels in the kitchen, even to eliciting approbation from Mme. de Sarennes, which Angélique assured us was praise indeed, for her mother was a housekeeper of the school which did not acknowledge that excellence of performance called for anything beyond a refraining from criticism. How could I be other than content? I was surrounded by a daily round of interest, almost of affection, and, most precious of all, by a gentle courtesy which accepted me as a guest without question or curiosity as to my past. Le père Jean had answered for me, and that was enough.
When Gabriel returned I paid him for his services, though it was only when I had assured the honest fellow I was amply able to do so that he consented to receive anything from me. When he was leaving me he charged me with great earnestness:
“Madame, should you need me at any time, either by day or night, all you have to do is to light the beacon. If by night, let it burn brightly; if by day, do as you saw le père Jean, and go on repeating it, until you see the answering smoke from the Island, or my sail.”
“But, my good Gabriel, I am not likely to trouble you, as when I go from here it will be by land, and in a different direction.”
“'Qui dit averti, dit muni,' madame; no one can tell what may happen, and it may do no harm to know you have one near at hand who would be proud if you called on him for help.”
I was greatly touched by his thoughtfulness, a frank offer coming direct from the heart of a brave man to a woman whom he fears may some day be in need of his service.
“Gabriel, is every one kind in Canada? I do not know why I should meet with such care.”
“We are all saints, no doubt, madame; but that is not the reason!” he returned, gaily, and set off for his boat.
After his departure our life together went on without interruption. By the end of November the whole country was covered with snow, which we hailed with delight, for it meant the speedy arrival of M. de Sarennes, and then—Louisbourg! I had often seen snow as a child at home in Scotland, but there it meant storm and desolation, and, alas! only too frequently suffering and death to man and beast; while here it came as a beauty and a blessing, welcomed by all. Angélique took us over miles of snow-covered fields and through woods that had a charm of softness unknown in summer-time, until we could manage our snow-shoes without mishap.
“You must harden your muscles and exercise your lungs for the journey you have before you,” she declared, “and not shame my training when you take the high-road with Charles.”
Like her mother, she was never tired of talking of M. de Sarennes. He was their only pride, and never was son or brother more precious than was their Charles to them, so I looked forward with keen satisfaction to the day I should start under his care.
They hoped for him by the New-Year, and we all busied ourselves in preparation for the little feast which we agreed should be delayed, if necessary, to welcome his return.
On the last night of the year we sate together about the fire, Angélique laughing and chattering incessantly; her mother sitting with her spinning-wheel, her wedding-gift from the Marquis de Beauharnois—a dainty construction of mahogany tipped with ivory and silver—whirring peacefully, as with skilful fingers she guided the fine flax from her spindle; Lucy at a little distance knitting methodically; and I expectant, excited by Angélique's unrest.
“Ah, Marguerite, what a shame Charles must tack on that odious 'madame,' every time he addresses you!” exclaimed Angélique, merrily. “Had I my way, I'd banish the 'madame,' as I would banish every one who has a claim on you, and keep you all for our very own. What nonsense! to have other people in the world when we want you so much! Stay with us! I'll marry you myself; I'm sure I'm worth all the men in the world put together!”
“Be sensible, my daughter! be sensible,” interrupted Mme. de Sarennes, in her unruffled voice. “I cannot think how you find such nonsense amusing.”
“Now, maman, be fair! Do you know any man in the whole world, except Charles, you like better than me? There! There! I told you! And my mother has the very best taste in the world—eh, 'Mademoiselle' Marguerite?” And the madcap jumped up, and running over to her mother, embraced her in spite of her remonstrances.
In the midst of this turmoil a soft knock was heard, and we all sprang to our feet.
“Come in! Come in!” called Angélique, running to the door; but it opened before she could reach it, and there, in the bright light, stood an Indian holding his snow-shoes in his hand.
As soon as I saw him I could not repress a cry of terror, for he was the very chief from whom le père Jean had rescued me.
“Do not be alarmed, Marguerite. He is Luntook, my son's man. He always brings word of my son's return.”
The Indian explained to Angélique, in his broken French, that his master had but sent him to announce his coming, and paid not the slightest attention either to Lucy or myself. As soon as he had answered Angélique's eager questionings, he took himself off again, and we began our preparations.
“He will be here in an hour!” sang Angélique, as she danced about the room like a mad thing. Fresh wood was piled on the fire; the table was set with the best linen and silver, and loaded with every delicacy we had prepared; candles were placed in each window, of which the heavy wooden shutters were thrown back, and soon the whole house was a blaze of light.
Into all this entered the long-expected guest, who, after tenderly embracing his mother, was caught in a whirl of kisses and questionings showered on him by Angélique. Suddenly she released him, crying: “But stop, Charles! you make me forget myself. Here is Mme. de St. Just, for whose sake, most of all, we have been waiting for you.”
While I acknowledged his salutation, Angélique rattled on: “She has waited for you all this time to take her to Louisbourg, she and her waiting-woman. Where is Lucie? Oh, she has gone—frightened by the Indian, no doubt. She—I mean Marguerite—is so glad you have come. When do you go back?”
“Not to-night, at all events, ma belle. I'm sure even madame would not ask that. In any case not until I've tasted some of these good things. We can boast no such table at Miré.”
With much laughter we gradually settled down. When M. de Sarennes had doffed his outer wrappings and appeared in a close-fitting suit of some dark blue stuff, I thought I had seldom seen a handsomer type of man, and did not wonder at the pride his womenkind displayed. He was very tall, had a dark olive face like his sister, great flashing eyes, and black hair that rolled handsomely off his well-shaped forehead; and I could easily imagine that more usual clothing would transform him into a prince among his fellows.
Before taking his place at table he left us for a little to see after his men, who were provided for in the kitchen. When he returned, he said:
“Luntook, my Indian, tells me that it was he who carried you off, madame. He had taken you for English women, and even now can scarce be persuaded he was mistaken, though he gave you up to le père Jean.”
“We are English women, monsieur.”
“And you would go to Louisbourg?” he asked, I thought sharply, with a flash of his great eyes.
“Yes, monsieur,” I said, quietly.
But he said nothing further, beyond assuring me that the Indian was thoroughly trustworthy, and I need be in no fear of him.
Thereupon we sate down to table, and as her brother ate, Angélique related to him our story, or, rather, a merry burlesque of our adventures, at which he laughed heartily.
“Well, madame, I have news for your waiting-woman, at least; though why she should run away when she must be dying to hear it, is more than I can imagine. Tell her that her son arrived safely at Louisbourg, where he was soon a hot favourite with every one in the garrison, and most of all with the Chevalier de Maxwell.” Here he paused to raise his glass, looking hard at me the while. To my distress, the tell-tale blood leaped to my face at the unexpected mention of that dear name. “Being a stirring lad and much attached to me,” he continued, without apparently noticing my confusion, “he begged to be allowed to join me on an expedition. We were surprised by the English, and he was slightly wounded—oh, nothing, I assure you, madame, a mere scratch!—and carried off a prisoner, but no doubt is even now as great a favourite with them as he was with us. Should they come to look us up in the spring, I doubt not he will be found in their ranks. At all events, he is with his friends, and is safe.”
So rejoiced was I to hear this news for Lucy's sake, that I excused myself and withdrew to my room, where I found the dear, patient soul on her knees, awaiting whatever tidings I might bring.
“Oh, my dear mistress,” she said, quietly, when I had told her all, “I have prayed and hoped, but at times my poor faith would almost fail me; and even now, when trembling at what I might have to bear, His message comes, that all is well with the child.”
I FIND MYSELF IN A FALSE POSITION
The rest of the week passed quickly, in one sense, though every hour of it dragged for me. I was burning with impatience to hear M. de Sarennes speak some word of his intended departure, and yet could not bring myself to put the ungracious question, when I saw the dear pleasure his stay meant to his mother. Never had I seen more tender, respectful attention than that with which he surrounded her. He would sit by her for hours listening to her tales of his father, or relating his own adventures and successes against the English.
“Have a care, my son,” she would say, with an anxiety, not unmixed with pride; “they will not forget these things. They may try to work us evil for them some day.”
“No fear, ma mère! not while I am by to defend you,” he would answer, with a protecting love that redeemed his confidence from bravado.
He accompanied Angélique and me on all our walks, explaining to us the simpler mysteries of his wonderful woodcraft, and keenly enjoying our ready admiration. But my mind was uneasy. With the assuredness of a man accustomed to facile conquest, he pressed his attentions upon me in a manner to which I was unaccustomed, greatly to my embarrassment.
No woman of my day could, in ordinary circumstances, be at a loss to interpret any attentions she might receive. In our world, gallantry was a science well understood; as exact as war, its every move had its meaning; its rules were rigidly defined, and no one ever thought of transgressing them; so there reigned a freedom which made society a pleasure, and the intercourse with men was exactly what one chose it should be.
But now, I was brought face to face with a man who, whatever might be his birth, had neither breeding nor education; who was accustomed to see his desire and attain it, if possible; who could not understand that freedom was a compliment to his quality, not an acknowledgment of his personality; and who, in consequence, misinterpreted mere courtesies in a sense humiliating to the bestower.
Our life was necessarily so intimate, my need of his good-will so great, and my regard for his mother and sister so warm, that I was bound to conceal my annoyance; but at length he forced me to a declaration, when, hoping that frankness might avail me better than evasion, I spake so plainly that I left him in no doubt as to the manner in which I received his attentions. He resented it with all the bitterness of a man unaccustomed to rebuke, and my heart failed me as I thought of the weeks I must pass in his company.
This made me the more anxious to push matters to a conclusion, and my opportunity came one afternoon, when Angélique snapped the end of her snow-shoe, and was forced to return, leaving us to finish our walk together.
We moved on in silence for some time before I could summon up courage to venture the question on which I felt so much depended.
“Have you decided on your return to Louisbourg, monsieur?”
“I must first go to Quebec and report to M. de Montcalm,” he began, in an ordinary voice, and then, to my surprise, he suddenly broke into invective. “We have a new order here now; everything must be reported in a quarter where nothing is known of the needs of the country, or the character of the service. If those idiots in Paris would only mind matters in their own country and leave Canada to those who know it best, if they would send us troops and not generals, if they would send us money and not priests, we should do better. What can you expect of men who think of nothing but parade and their own precious dignity? Who never speak of a Canadian but with derision? But I forgot. Madame is too recently from Paris herself to take an interest in such matters; to her, doubtless, we are all 'colonists,' and M. de Montcalm is Pope and King.”
He stopped and faced me at his last words, and though not unprepared for some outburst, I was appalled at the fierceness of his tone and the bitterness he threw into his charge. Before I could reply, he went on:
“My sister has handed me the orders which M. le Marquis de Montcalm et de St. Véran, has been pleased to lay on my mother and myself concerning you, but she tells me nothing of your friends in Louisbourg. May I ask whom you would join there?”
“M. de Sarennes, your mother and sister have treated me with a consideration beyond words. They have subjected me to no questionings, to no inquiries, beyond what I have chosen to reveal myself, and surely I can look for the same courtesy from you.”
“O, madame, madame—I am no courtier from Versailles. Your M. de Montcalm will probably tell you I am a mere 'coureur de bois,' and, if that be the case, you must lay it to my condition if I ask again: Who is it you go to meet in Louisbourg? Is it, by chance, Mme. de St. Julhien?”
I remembered the Chevalier de St. Julhien was Hugh's colonel, and eagerly caught at the opening, for I had begun to be seriously frightened.
“Yes, monsieur, since you must know, it is Mme. de St. Julhien.”
“Oh, ho! ho! Nom de Ciel! But that is a good one!” He roared like a peasant, and I almost screamed in terror. “That is a good one! I have been in and out of Louisbourg for the last ten years and more, and I have yet to hear of a Mme. de St. Julhien. Come, come, ma belle! I'll wager my head you are no more Mme. de St. Just, than I am. You have been playing a pretty comedy to these simple spectators, who were too scrupulous to venture a question. It took the barbarous coureur de bois to see through the paint! There! There! Don't look so frightened. I can guess, readily enough, what brings a pretty woman to the walls of a garrison town.”
Oh, the shame, the miserable shame and degradation which overwhelmed me at the brutal insinuations of this well-born clown! And, to crown it all, he stepped close beside me, and before I had a suspicion of his intent, he threw his arms about my waist and kissed me.
“You wretch! you cowardly hound!” I cried, beside myself at this last insult. “How dare you treat me thus? I will appeal to M. de Montcalm, and you shall rue this day beyond any you have ever lived. I will appeal to your mother—”
“O, là, là, là, my charming little Mme. Je-Ne-Sais-Quoi, you can complain to M. de Montcalm when you see him. As for my mother, I hardly imagine you will dare to tell her anything which will not excuse my action. But come, madame, we are not getting on with our conversation at all. Believe me, I am not a bad fellow at bottom. Tell me who it is you are really going to meet in Louisbourg, and we shall see if it be not possible to further your plans.”
“Let me go, M. de Sarennes, let me go!” I implored.
“Now, madame, let us talk sensibly. Consider how awkward it may be if I have to pursue these inquiries before others. In any event, I can guess fairly well. Let us see: Madame is an Englishwoman; is well born, wealthy, and, if she will not resent my saying so, is of a certain age. Good! Monsieur is an Englishman; well born, poor, and also of a suitable age. Good! Monsieur is unfortunate in his present position; is practically in exile. Madame comes overseas alone, save for a chance waiting-woman she picks up. Why? Surely not for the delights of travel. Monsieur's name is Le Chevalier Maxwell de Kirkconnel. Madame's name is—Ma foi! I haven't the slightest idea what it is. There! madame, have I not drawn the outline of the comedy cleverly enough, for a mere coureur de bois, a mere Canadian?”
“Let me go, monsieur, let me go!”
“Tell me first, are you not Madame de Maxwell?”
“Yes, yes,” I cried, in desperation, eager to seize any chance of escape.
“Then, madame, believe me, you were very foolish not to say so at once. I guessed it the very first night I saw you. Now I know the Chevalier intimately; in fact, I am under obligation to him for much good advice; but I will confess he has never seen fit to impart to me the fact of his marriage, which will be a surprise to many.”
“O, monsieur, I beg of you that you will never mention it,” I cried, in an agony of shame and self-reproach.
“Never, madame; believe me, it was too disappointing a piece of news in my own case, for me to have any desire to place others in the like unhappy position. But allow me first to apologise for frightening you; pardon me that I cannot look upon it as an insult; and now that I have made the amende honorable, I will go back and answer your first question. I shall start for Quebec in two days; I shall be back in a week, and then leave for Louisbourg at once, if you feel you can trust yourself with me.”
I was so completely in his power that I mastered up all my courage, and replied, bravely enough: “M. de Sarennes, I cannot but believe I am safe in the charge of one whom I know as so loving a son, so fond a brother. I trust you, too, as the friend of M. de Maxwell; and I trust you, most of all, because you have learned my secret, and, being a gentleman, I believe you will not betray it.”
“I don't know how far I accept the compliment, but at all events, madame, I shall say nothing of your affairs. Remember, though, it rests chiefly with you to prevent suspicion. You must keep the same free intercourse with me, and never allow my mother or sister to gather by word, or sign, that the nature of our conference to-day has been otherwise than pleasant. Now that we have come to an understanding, no doubt some news of Louisbourg will be welcome.”
As he spake we turned back towards the manor; his whole bearing so changed in a moment that it was hard to believe the bright, pleasant-spoken man by my side was the same creature of rough, brutal instincts and feelings who had tortured and alarmed me so cruelly. Little by little I recovered my composure, as he told of the life in the fortress, of the probable investment by the English in the spring—if they could then muster a sufficient fleet—of M. de Drucour, of M. Prévost, and, best of all, of Hugh, though he tried to disturb my peace by hinting at some understanding between him and Madame Prévost.
“It all depends on you now, madame,” he said, significantly, as he held the door open for me to enter, and fortunately I had firmness enough to control myself through the long evening and until I could gain my room.
There I broke down utterly, as I knelt beside my bed, unable to rise, or to control the sobs which shook my whole body.
Lucy was beside me in a moment.
“Dear heart! Dear heart! Let me help you,” she murmured, raising me to my feet, and beginning to undress me like a child, crooning over me and quieting me with tender touches and gentle words.
“Oh, Lucy, speak to me, say something to comfort me. I am the most unhappy woman alive.”
“My dear, dear mistress, no one can be so unhappy that our Father cannot comfort her. This is the time of all others when He is nearest to you. You have but to stretch forth your hand to touch His robe; you have but to open your heart to have Him come in and fill it with the Peace which passeth understanding. I am an ignorant woman, but I have this knowledge. I went through a sorrow, and what I believed to be a disgrace, helpless and alone, and knew of no comfort till He sent me His.
“I do not know your sorrow, I might not understand it if you told me, but beside this bed is standing One who knew what it was to be alone more than any other, and He is saying to you, 'Come, and I will give you rest.'”
“Dear Lucy, you are such a comfort to me. I do not understand these things in the way you do. I have never heard them so spoken of; but oh! I feel so safe while you speak!”
“Now, mistress, I will sing to you”—and she sang her sweet songs of comfort in trouble, of deliverance in danger, of love awaiting us, until my sorrow was stilled and I fell asleep.
M. de Sarennes kept his word in so far as further annoyance was concerned, but he displayed a familiarity towards me which called forth laughing comments from Angélique, and kept me constantly on the rack. At the end of the week he left on his mission to Quebec, promising to return within ten days, and charging us to prepare for our long journey.
I was at my wits' end to know what to do. I could not refuse to go with him, no matter what my distrust. I could not make any explanation to his mother or sister which would not expose me to a position I shuddered even to contemplate. Would Charles, their idol, behave towards any woman worthy of respect as he had behaved to me? I was completely in his power; no matter what he had done or might do, he had but to appear and say, “Come!” and I must follow, no matter how my heart might fail me.
All too late I realised what I had brought upon myself by my cowardly evasion of le père Jean's commands. I had deceived myself, or rather, I had pretended to be led by outward chance, instead of honestly following our compact, and now, I was reaping my reward. That this man was in love with me I could not doubt, but it was a love that made me sick to my very soul when I thought of it. Yet, he was a gentleman, by birth at least; he was answerable to the Marquis for my safe-keeping; and no matter what uneasiness or unquiet I might suffer on the journey, he would not dare to offer me any indignity with Lucy by me and Hugh awaiting me at its end.
With this I was forced to be content, and busied myself with Angélique and Lucy in our preparations. Angélique chattered merrily, regretting she could not take the journey with us; her brother knew the woods as others knew the town; he could tell every track, whether of bird or beast; he was so cunning that no storm surprised him, and so tender he would care for us like children.
“No one is so good to women as Charles! He never gets out of patience with me or maman. Let me tell you, you are a lucky girl, 'Mademoiselle' Marguerite, to have such a beau cavalier for your escort. Really, I am jealous of your opportunity; my brother is nearly as fine a man as I am, and I am sure any woman would be proud of my attentions.” Thus she ran on, while I listened, heart-sick at the thought of being in the power of that brother, whom I knew far, far better than she.
But my fortitude was not put to any test, for, on the very evening of M. de Sarennes's return, Lucy fell ill of some violent fever, and by the morning it was clear that our departure was an impossibility.
“Never mind, madame,” said M. de Sarennes, evidently not ill pleased; “I can as well go to my post at Miramichi. I have business there which will detain me about a month; no doubt by that time you will be ready to start.”
“Will you take a letter for Louisbourg?” I asked.
He laughed. “You are like all Paris-bred folk, madame! Miramichi is a good hundred leagues from Louisbourg as the crow flies, and more than twice that as a man can travel. No, no, madame! You must keep your letter until you can deliver it in person.”
He made a pretence of laughing heartily at my discomfiture, and Angélique innocently joined in, thinking the jest to be my ignorance of the country, while my heart was bursting with indignation that he should thus make a mock of my helplessness, for he knew well what it meant to me that Hugh should be ignorant of my whereabouts.
I AM RESCUED FROM A GREAT DANGER
Lucy's illness proved so serious that all thought of Louisbourg had to be abandoned during the long weeks she lay between life and death. Now it was that I realised the full dreariness of winter. The snow-covered fields and woods had a stillness and emptiness that weighed upon me; my eyes grew weary of the dead whiteness; and that the earth should again be green, and warm, and living, seemed to call for something little short of a miracle. By the water-side it was worse: the drift-ice was piled along the shore in the wildest confusion, magnified and distorted by great banks and fantastic wreaths of snow. Beyond this was the black, open water, bearing the floating ice backward and forward with the changing tides, never at rest, grinding ceaselessly against the frozen barrier between it and the shore, and heralding a coming change of weather with strange, hollow explosions and moanings. The shortness of the days, the desolation of the sweeping storms which imprisoned us, the unbroken isolation, and the disappointment of long delay told heavily on my spirits, which might have failed me had it not been for the constant care demanded by Lucy.
Before she gained strength to be about once more, the feeling of spring was in the air, crows were calling to one another, here and there a rounded hill-top showed a dun, sodden patch under the strengthening sun, and a trickling and gurgling told that, underneath the snow, the waters were gathering to free the rivers and send their burthen of ice sweeping into the St. Lawrence.
M. de Sarennes had come and gone with promises of return. He won my gratitude by his forbearance to me as well as by his unlooked-for gentleness towards poor Lucy, whose heart he filled with admiration by kindly words of her boy, and assurances of his safety.
She, poor thing, had not recovered her full mental condition with her strength, and was possessed of an idea that Christopher was at Quebec, and that she should be on her way there to meet him. This idea I did my utmost to dissipate, but M. de Sarennes, possibly to quiet or please her, had let fall something which she had taken as an assurance that the English troops were there, and her son with them, and however successfully I might persuade her at the moment of the truth, she would as regularly come back to her delusion when alone.
Distressing as this was as an indication of her condition, it was the more disturbing to me as it was the last blow to my hopes for Louisbourg. It would be sheer madness to trust myself to M. de Sarennes without her protection; a protection which had vanished now, in the complete ascendency he had gained over her by his ready acquiescence in her imaginings, and I could not but feel he was skilfully withdrawing her affections from me.
However, he was called away to his post so suddenly that I was spared the difficulty of a decision, and I had almost determined that I would go on to Quebec and place myself under the care of M. de Montcalm, when, towards the end of May, he returned, unexpected by any of us, even by his mother, who, it was patent, was much disturbed; but her unwavering belief in his superior judgment kept her silent. “He is my son, and knows his duty better than we,” was her only reply to Angélique's questionings at any time, and it did not fail her now. It was touching to mark her effort to carry things off, to cover his preoccupation, and, distraught though he was, he remitted nothing of his attentions towards her, and so each comforted and shielded the other. I felt like an intruder, and when Angélique proposed a visit to the porpoise-fishery for the afternoon, I eagerly accepted the chance of escape.
We wandered off towards the beach, and by it made our way round to the great bay where the porpoise-fishing once took place.
“Look at the bones of the old days, and you can imagine what it meant to us,” said Angélique, pointing to the line of great ribs, and skulls, and skeletons which made a grotesque barrier to the highest tides, almost completely round the wide semicircle of the bay. “We fought for this many a long year, both with men and at law, and now, alas, we have neither men nor law to work it for us. The porpoise can swim in and out of the broken park unharmed. There, just as that fellow is doing now I Look at him!” As she spoke, a huge white mass rose slowly above the water within the bounds of the fishery, and then came forward with a rush in pursuit of the smelts and capelans, shooting up showers of spray, which broke into rainbows in the brilliant sunlight.
“It is like everything else, going to rack and ruin; with the people starving in the sight of plenty, because this wretched war must drag on,” sighed Angélique. “The men feel nothing of it; they have all the fighting and glory, while we sit at home helpless, good for nothing.”
“Don't say that, ma belle!” called out her brother, cheerily; and we turned to find him behind us. “Do you think we could have the heart to keep it up, if it were not for the thought of you? But there, you are tired and out of sorts, little one. Go back to the mother, and I will take madame round by the end of the bay and back by the sucrerie.”
It was impossible for me to object, and Angélique left us, while we took our way along the sands. M. de Sarennes seemed to have thrown aside his former cares, and rattled on in his natural way, noting and explaining everything which might interest me, and had I not known him better, I might have been misled by his openness; but all the time I kept asking myself: “When will he speak? What will he say?” So that it was a relief when, as we turned away from the shore into the woods, he suddenly dropped his former tone, and addressed me without pretence:
“Well, madame, are you as anxious as before to get to Louisbourg?”
“No; I have decided not to go. It is too late.”
“Why too late? Are you fearful M. de Maxwell may have wearied waiting for you?”
“Monsieur, your words are an insult! If this be all you have to say to me, I beg you will let me return to the house.”
“Not so fast, madame. I have a question or two yet which require to be answered, unless you prefer I should put them before my mother and sister. No? Then will you tell me who this boy Christophe really is? From his first appearance below there I was much puzzled why M. de Maxwell should have taken so unusual an interest in him. He was as jealous of the boy's liking for me as a doting mother could be, and was more distressed over his capture than many a father would have been over the loss of his son.”
“Monsieur,” I answered, trying to conceal my alarm, “M. de Maxwell lodged for some time in London in the house of this boy's mother, my waiting-woman, Lucy Routh. Surely his meeting again with the lad he knew as a child will explain his interest.”
“Indeed? And may I ask when it was that he lodged with this convenient waiting-woman?” he said, with a sneer that set my blood boiling.
“It was ten years ago, monsieur. Why do you ask me these questions?”
“Because I wish to try a small problem in calculation. I was rude enough to hazard a guess at your age the first time we came to an understanding. Perhaps it was ungallant, but still, it remains. I said then, you were 'of a certain age,' but now, to be exact, we will say you are twenty-seven, perhaps twenty-six. This boy in whom such a paternal interest was displayed must be fifteen or sixteen. No, that will not adjust itself. Forgive my thinking out loud.”
“Monsieur, this is intolerable! What is it you wish to know?”
“Simply if M. de Maxwell was acquainted with this paragon of waiting-women before he lodged with her ten years ago?”
“You coward! Why do you not put such a question to M. de Maxwell himself?”
“It might prove embarrassing, madame. Almost as embarrassing as if I had obeyed the orders of your friend M. le Marquis de Montcalm, and brought you to M. le Chevalier de Maxwell, as you desired.”
“I am completely at a loss to know what you mean,” I said, boldly, but my heart sank at his words.
“Simply this, madame,” and he handed me an open letter.
“MONSIEUR” [I read],—“If you have any regard for me, keep the lady claiming to be my wife at such a distance that I may never set eyes on her again. Should she be in want, I will gladly reimburse you for any expenditure you may make on her account.
“LE CHEVR DE MAXWELL.”
It was almost like a blow, and for a moment I stood numb and bewildered; but the realisation of my danger, from the man who stood there smiling at my degradation, was a spur to me, and I neither fainted nor cried aloud.
“A pitiable situation, truly! Believe me, my dear madame, my heart bleeds for you.”
“You are a liar, as well as a coward, monsieur. I know not what you have said or written to M. de Maxwell, but neither he nor any man can ever cast me off. I am not his wife!”
“Thank God for that!” he cried, in so different a voice that I looked at him in surprise. “Thank God for that! Marguerite, I love you with my whole heart, and body, and life. I know I am nothing but a rough coureur de bois, in spite of my birth. I have been cruel to you. I have tortured you. Forgive me, forgive me! I knew of no other way to woo you. Teach me to be gentle, and I will be gentle for your sake. But, God in heaven! do not ask me to give you up! I cannot live without you. I have lost my soul to you. I have lost everything, for I should not be beside you even now!”
“No, you should not!” rang out a clear voice, and le père Jean stepped into the path before us. “Man never spake truer words, Sarennes. I have followed you night and day to bring you back to your duty. You are waited for every hour at Louisbourg, for the Indians will not move without you.”
He spake rapidly, like one accustomed to command, and at the same time held forth his hand to me, as one might to a child, and I seized it in both mine, and stepped close to his side.
At the first sound of the priest's voice M. de Sarennes's whole aspect changed; his face took on a hard, obstinate look, and he scowled as if he would have struck the man before him, but he answered him not a word.
“Go!” again commanded the priest. “Go back to Louisbourg! You need no word of mine to urge you; if you do, I will tell you the Cross of St. Louis awaits you there.”
“What care I for your Cross of St. Louis? I am not a French popinjay to be dazzled by your gewgaws from Versailles.”
“Then go because your honour calls!”
“Who are you to prate about honour? What does a priest know about honour? Keep to your pater-nosters and aves!” he cried, with an insulting laugh.
“You clown!” cried the priest, trembling with indignation. “My ancestors carried their own banner to the Sepulchre of Our Lord, when yours were hewers of wood and drawers of water! But, forgive me,” he added, almost in the same breath, “this is beside the question. M. de Sarennes, you are a soldier, and as such your honour is dear to you; there are hundreds of men, aye, and there are women too, whose honour and safety in a few weeks, perhaps sooner, will depend on your succour. You know your help is absolutely necessary in the event of the place being invested. M. de Montcalm expects you to be at your post; M. de Vaudreuil has himself given you his orders; your Indians will follow no other than yourself, and are only waiting for you to lead them. No one knows better than yourself with what suspicion they will look on your disappearance. Your name will be on every lip in Louisbourg, and every eye will hourly watch for your coming. You carry the safety of the fortress, perhaps of the country, in your keeping.”
“What you say is no doubt true, mon père. But it rests with you whether I go or not,” he returned, in a quiet voice, without a trace of the passion which had swayed him a moment since.
“How? In what way can it rest with me? I have given you my message, your orders.”
“Yes, mon père, but I require more; I wish for your blessing.”
“You shall have that, my son, my blessing and my constant prayers.”
“That is well, mon père, but I require more; I would have your blessing for another also.”
“For whom?”
“For this lady, mon père. If you wish me to leave for Louisbourg, you will marry me first,” he said, with a laugh.
“Madame de St. Just.”
“No, not 'Madame de St. Just!' But she will then have the right to style herself 'Madame de Sarennes.' Don't attempt any heroics!” he went on, raising his voice angrily, while I shrank close to the priest in terror. “I know all about this pretended Madame de St. Just, perhaps even better than do you. If I choose to give her an honourable name, it is my own affair. Don't prate to me about honour! I am here because it does not weigh with me for the moment. Don't talk to me of the safety of the country; it is in your hands. I tell you plainly I will not go otherwise. Marry me to-day, and I will start to-night; if not, then any blame there may be will lie not on my head, but on yours. Now, monsieur, you have my answer.”
The two men stood facing each other for a moment in silence.