We made a sad little procession.
We were thankful to escape out of the hubbub and distraction of the streets to the quiet within the walls of the Hôtel-Dieu; but, alas! the next night the bombardment recommenced, and it was apparent we could not long hope for safety, as the English fire became more exact and far-reaching.
The white-robed nuns moved about their duties with calm resignation, though often the trembling lips or the involuntary start told of the strain it cost to control the natural alarm which shook the heart when some nearer crash foretold approaching disaster.
Lucy lay calm and unmoved; every day that brought the English nearer, was bringing her nearer to Kit. The thunder of the bombardment was to her like the knocking on the gate which shut her in from her one object in life, and that it was being shattered meant only deliverance. When orders came to remove to the General Hospital, without the walls of the town and beyond all immediate danger, she was more disturbed than at any time during the siege.
The Hospital stood in the valley of the St. Charles, somewhat less than a mile from the town, with the river sweeping in a great bend on the one side, and the steep Heights, at the end of which the town stood, rising on the other. We were cut off from any view of the St. Lawrence, but the sight of the bridge of boats, with its hornwork, across the tongue of land enclosed by the sweep of the river, and the walls of the town crowning the Heights, kept us in touch with the struggle going on between us and the English, who still held the St. Lawrence, with its opposite shore.
The convent itself was a pile of grey stone buildings forming a quadrangle with wings, begun by the Recollect fathers nearly a century before. It was in two of their curious little cells that Mme. de Sarennes, Angélique, and I were lodged. The chapel opened out of the square entry—it scarce could be dignified as a hall—on which the principal doorway gave, and to the right of this was the long, low-ceilinged room, lighted by many-paned windows down one side, which now served as a common meeting-place for the nuns of the three congregations and their numerous guests.
Here all who were willing and able to work placed themselves under the direction of the Superior, for the nuns had more than they could well attend to, with the invalids of the Hôtel-Dieu added to their own, as well as the wounded, who now began to come in.
On the last day of July we heard heavy firing towards Montmorenci, beginning about mid-day, and towards five o'clock it increased to a continuous dull roar. It was dark before the first messenger reached us, and our hearts were lifted by the tidings he bore. It was victory, perhaps complete and final; the English had left hundreds of dead behind them, and our loss was nothing.
Scarce an hour after this the wounded began to arrive, and being but a novice to such sights, I was glad when the Superior, noticing my pale face, called Angélique to bid us go out into the court-yard and get a breath of fresh air. It was a welcome relief to us both, and we were walking up and down, eagerly discussing the news, when an officer rode in at the gate, supporting a wounded man before him.
“It is M. de Maxwell!” cried Angélique, joyfully, and my impulse was to turn and fly, but he had already recognised Angélique, and called to her without ceremony:
“Mademoiselle de Sarennes, will you and your companion support this lad into the Hospital? He is not seriously wounded, only weak from the loss of blood,” and as though counting on our help without question, he let the boy slip tenderly to the ground, and I was forced to step forward with Angélique to his support.
Bending down from his horse, he held the boy as he directed us how to aid him, and then whispered encouragingly: “Keep up, my lad; you are among friends! Make your best effort before these ladies!”
Keep up, my lad; you are among friends!
He certainly had no suspicion of who I was, for when he was satisfied that we were equal to our task he turned his horse, and crying, “A thousand thanks, mesdames. Good-night!” he rode slowly back through the gates.
The lad was in Highland uniform, and I spake to him in Gaelic, thinking to enhearten him, but he made no reply as he staggered forward between us towards the door.
Once within, we summoned aid, and, as the lad sank into a chair, the light fell full on his upturned face, and I saw it was that of Christopher Routh. Hugh had gone far to redeem himself in my eyes.
THE HEIGHTS OF QUEBEC
Christopher was at once examined by M. Arnoux, the surgeon, who obligingly came at Angélique's request, and before long he met us to report that his patient was in no danger; his wound was dressed, and a night's sleep would go far to put him on his feet again. He could be seen without even fatigue on the morrow. I left word with the sister in charge that she should tell him I was in the convent, and would come to him about eleven.
I had no hesitation in telling Lucy the news; indeed, the suspense of every day that passed was wearing her frail body away so rapidly that, had not God seen fit to send His answer to her prayer at this very time, she would have passed beyond its comfort. As it was, the news acted on her like some generous wine, strengthening without exciting her, her only request being that Christopher should not be brought to her until he was quite able for the exertion.
When I entered Christopher's room he was already sitting up in bed, his eyes fairly dancing with delight.
“Oh, Madame de St. Just! Think of my being brought here, to find you and my mother under the same roof, and that it was Captain Maxwell who brought me! He saved me when I was down with an Indian over me, and did not get me off without standing some hard knocks himself. He carried me into the French lines, and as soon as the affair was over, rode with me before him all this distance, keeping my heart up the time by saying, 'Kit, my boy, I am taking you to your mother,' and I so near swooning with this stupid arm I could scarce hear him. You know I was with him in Louisbourg, and when I was a child in London he lodged with us, as he was in hiding on account of the Scotch rising and calling himself Captain Geraldine. But tell me of my mother, madame. Can I not see her now?”
I told him as discreetly as I could of poor Lucy's condition, and he bore up astonishingly well. What seemed to trouble him greatly was the thought that he had never dreamed of the possibility of her being ill. “Even though she was a prisoner I never feared she would be hardly treated; no one could so cruel to my mother, she is so gentle!” the poor lad continued. “I knew you were with her, and I never thought of the other danger at all. I was so happy when I fell into English hands and was allowed to enlist in Boston, and in Fraser's Highlanders, too, not in a Colony regiment; and when we found there was no danger of peace being proclaimed, and that we were for Quebec, we were all mad with joy to have another crack at the French. Oh, pardon me, madame; I forgot you were on their side,” he cried, with a sudden confusion; “and I never doubted for a moment I should find her here.”
The next day the surgeon pronounced him out of all possible danger, and added, significantly, “If his mother is to see him, it is best it should be at once.” Thereupon I obtained the necessary permission, and never have I seen greater joy in a face than in Lucy's, when I ushered Christopher into her room.
That same evening, as I sate beside her, though she lay quiet and composed, I noticed a grave change had come over her, and calling one of the sisters who had had much experience, she at once said the end was near.
With the permission of the Superior I went for Christopher, and led him, white and awe—struck, to the bedside of his mother. She asked that I would not leave—“if it be not a trouble to you, madame,” the poor thing pleaded, pitifully—and I remained beside them.
“Christopher,” she said, with an effort, “I made a promise years ago that when this hour came I would tell you the truth about yourself. Our name is not Routh, but Maxwell; you are the son of the Captain Maxwell who saved you—and brought you back to me. You remember him as the 'Captain Geraldine' who lodged with us in London? He had married me six years before, when we were but little more than boy and girl, and when you were born he was wandering a shipwrecked man in Russia, seeking eagerly some means of return to us, though I was persuaded he had deserted me. When he returned, and was willing to acknowledge me as his wife, I was hardened into a heartless woman, believing myself separated, by what I ignorantly called God's grace, from him and the world to which he belonged. In my pride I refused to let him come into our lives, though he implored me to let him make such restitution as was in his power. He behaved as few men would have done; for the sake of the old love, he bore with me and accepted my conditions—that he would never mention our marriage, and would never come between you and me. He let you go away from his side in Louisbourg, though his heart was yearning for you; because his honour, a quality which I pretended not to understand, forbade him to forget his promise to me. He was always good to me, far beyond my deserts, and my hope, now that my eyes are opened, is that you, Christopher, will remember my debt to him.
“Try and be gentle, my boy. Be true to him. He has had a sad, lonely life, but you may make it up to him yet. When you see him, tell him from me... tell Hugh...”—but here I silently withdrew, leaving the mother to whisper her last message of contrition to the boy kneeling beside her bed.
Pitiful as was poor Lucy's story, I could gather but little comfort from it. It seemed to me that in marrying out of his own class Hugh had committed so grave a fault that whatever followed in the way of misunderstanding was but to be expected. He had been kind, forbearing, larger-minded than she had known; she had not even realised the sense of honour which had made her a wife and not a mistress. It had gone the way of all mistakes, and produced nothing but bitterness and regret. From it I could gather no excuse, no justification of his conduct towards me; he had allowed my affection to grow up and centre in him without a warning I could understand of the heart-break which confronted me, and I could not see that his obligation towards her who had cast his love aside was more sacred than to her to whom it was all in all.
We laid Lucy to rest in the garden of the Hospital—without the rites of the Church, it is true, but not without both prayers and tears, and then took up the daily round of duty once more.
Christopher, being no longer a patient, was ordered off to the town as a prisoner, but I sent with him a note to M. Joannès which secured him generous treatment. Through the month of August the wounded continued to come in, and though our troops were starving as they stood behind their lines of defence, they were one and all hopeful of the result. The bombardment from the Lévy shore continued until the town was little more than a heap of ruins, and night after night the sky was red with the glare of burning buildings. Part of the enemy's fleet had passed the city and threatened to cut off all supplies from the upper parishes. There were ugly rumours, too, of the Canadians deserting, for the tidings of the loss of Carillon and Niagara had gone far to dishearten them. On the other hand, we had authentic news of the desperate illness of the English general, Wolfe, and even though M. de Lévis was forced to march to the support of Montreal, the unfaltering courage of M. de Montcalm so inspired our troops that they held on successfully, praying for relief or the coming of winter.
About the beginning of September Angélique came to me greatly excited.
“Oh, Marguerite, Charles is here! He is very ill. Will you come and see him?”
“Is he wounded?”
“No. But he has suffered incredible hardships in Acadie, and he is ill—so ill that he cannot be in his place in the field. Come, he has just been asking my mother for you. Come!”
“Impossible, chérie; M. Arnoux is depending on my supply of lint for a patient,” I replied, and so escaped for the moment. But with the persistency of innocence she returned to her demand as we sate with her mother that evening.
“Marguerite, Charles has been asking for you again this afternoon. Will you see him the first thing in the morning?”
“I do not know, chérie; neither your mother nor the Superior has given her permission as yet,” I answered, much troubled at her insistence.
“Oh, Marguerite, this is ungenerous of you!” cried the warm-hearted girl. “Think, how ready Charles was to serve you when you wished to go to Louisbourg! This is no time to stand on trifles.”
“Angélique take care you are not ungenerous yourself,” said Mme. de Sarennes, much to my relief. “Charles must not be childish in his demands. There is no reason why Marguerite should visit him until he is up and prepared to receive her fittingly, for there is no reason why war should banish every rule of decorum.” And with these decided words the difficulty was dismissed, though not at all to Angélique's satisfaction.
At daybreak on the 13th of September we were awakened by the sound of guns above the city, and hastened to the attic windows; but drift of passing showers hid the valley from us, while the Heights loomed grey and shrouded above. There was nothing to enlighten us, and in company with our fears we descended to wait uneasily for tidings.
I grew so anxious and depressed in the half-lighted halls that I could not remain below, and returned towards our room. But just as I approached the door some one came hurriedly along the corridor, and to my dismay I recognised M. de Sarennes.
“Stay one moment, mademoiselle; I must speak with you.” His voice was trembling, and even in the struggling light I could see his dark face was drawn and haggard, though his black eyes burned with a fiercer light than before.
“It is useless, M. de Sarennes; I can hear nothing you have to say. Remember your mother and sister are here within call, and you will only cause them pain if you force me to summon aid, which I will certainly do. Have some pity for them if you have none for me.”
“Answer me but one question. Do you love this Maxwell?”
“M. de Sarennes, I will tell you nothing. You have no right to question me.”
“My God, Marguerite! have I not done everything for you?”
“You have done me every injury in your power. You have never spoken to me that you have not tortured me so I cannot look on you without fear and loathing.”
At my words he stepped close to me, but before either could utter a sound, a shrill cry came from above:
“O mon Dieu! mon Dieu! The English are on the Heights.”
Doors were thrown open, and in an instant the corridors were filled with white faces, and hurrying feet were flying towards the stairways.
“Nonsense!” cried a reassuring voice when we gained the upper windows. “Those are our troops! See, they are crossing the bridge!”
“No. Here! Here! See! Just opposite us, over the edge of the hill.” And as we crowded to the side whence the cry came our hearts sank as we saw a little patch of red against the morning sky.
“Bah! They are only a handful. See how our men are crossing the St. Charles! There! They are coming out of the St. John's Gate now!”
“Mes soeurs, we will descend to the chapel,” said the calm voice of la mère de Ste. Claude, and at her words the obedient nuns recovered their usual air of quiet and flocked after her, as did many of the others; but Angélique and I remained.
We could plainly see our troops defiling out of the town in a seemingly unending line, and could distinguish their officers riding to and fro giving orders; but the little point of red remained immovable, and we could not tell whether it was an army or a single detachment.
Regulars, Canadians, and Indians continued to pour across the bridge of boats, and to cross through the town from the Palais to the St. John's Gate, whence they issued, and moved off towards the left, hidden from us by the rising ground.
We stood there hour after hour, forgetful of fatigue and hunger in our anxiety. We could hear the faint reports of musketry and the dull growl of cannon, but could not tell whence they came. Soon we discovered scattered figures stealing along under the shelter of the hill towards the point of red, and as they drew nearer could distinguish the blue and grey of our Canadians and the head-dresses of Indians. At length spurts of smoke began to leap from the bushes all along the crest of the hill opposite us, extending far beyond the point where the red had been, and, from the sensible increase in the firing, we judged the battle had begun.
But about ten o'clock we heard such a general discharge of cannon and musketry, and marked such instantaneous movement along the line of skirmishers, that we knew what we had taken for the battle was but child's play. Suddenly the confused noise and firing were dominated by one sharp roar like to the clap of a thunder-bolt, followed by a second, and then by a long rolling fire. To this succeeded cheers, different from any we had heard before, above which I caught the shrill skirl of the bagpipes, while a great cloud of smoke slowly rose and drifted to and fro in the heavy air.
Out of this, on a sudden, burst a screaming mob of men in mad, death-driven disorder, some sweeping towards the St. John's Gate, while others plunged down over the side of the hill to gain the bridge of boats. After them, in as wild pursuit, came the enemy, foremost of whom were the Highlanders, with flying tartans, shouting their slogan as they leaped and clambered recklessly down the hill-side, slashing at the fugitives with their claymores, while the pipes screamed in maddening encouragement above.
The disaster was so unexpected, so instantaneous, that we could not comprehend it, and stood there in silent awe absorbed in the dreadful tragedy before us.
“O ciel! Marguerite! See, there is M. de Maxwell! On the Côte Ste. Geneviève!” cried Angélique, in a hoarse, strained voice, pointing as she spake.
The Côte Ste. Geneviève, a long and dangerous descent from the Heights, beginning near the town, down to the level on which the Hospital stood, was exposed in all its length not only to the fire of the enemy above, but also to that of a number of Canadians, who, though driven down and across it, had rallied at its base and were disputing the descent of the Highlanders and other of the English.
Down this rode Hugh. He was mounted on a powerful black horse and came on at perilous speed. But the pursuers had marked him also, and just as he gained the middle of the descent the hill-side above him blazed out in a sweeping volley, and down he went on the neck of his horse. An involuntary cry burst from us both, but even as it sped he was erect again, and with hat in hand came spurring on, waving and cheering to the brave fellows below. In another moment he was in their midst, where, dismounting, he seemed to give the needed orders for their guidance. Unofficered and undirected, they had stubbornly disputed every inch of ground when all others had given way, and now, under a few words of encouragement from a gallant man, to our amazement, we saw them actually attempt to scale the hill, firing upwards as they climbed. They were not regulars; they made no pretence to the science of war; they had been despised and belittled probably by every officer in the service for their manner of fighting; yet now in the hour of need they alone stood firm between the flying army and destruction.
With hat in hand came spurring on.
As soon as he saw them steadied in their advance, Hugh mounted and rode off towards another group busied in an attempt to drag a heavy gun from some soft ground where it was deeply bogged, and then on again towards the bridge of boats, the only way of escape for the defeated troops.
“O mon Dieu! They will never cross! The bridge is blocked!” cried a despairing voice, and we trembled together as we watched the rabble gathering in a mad rush towards the narrow passage, mixed in hideous confusion, with the exception of the Royal Roussillon, which stood as firm as if on parade.
The struggle still went on along the foot of the hill, where the Canadians manfully held their ground; but, to our dismay, we saw that some fresh disaster had happened at the bridge.
“O mon Dieu! They are cutting it! The whole army will be lost!” But there was more efficient aid at hand than our useless cries. Even as we despaired we saw Hugh with other officers struggle through the mob, and, sword in hand, beat back the terror-stricken crowd until they gained the head of the bridge, when the Royal Roussillon moved into position, and soon the straggling columns took form and passed rapidly over beyond the shelter of the hornwork.
The pursuit was checked, as far as we could see, by the unaided efforts of the Canadians; the English halted, reformed, and slowly withdrew; the last of our troops recrossed the St. Charles; and in the twilight we saw our colours still flying on the ramparts of Quebec.
There was nothing more for us to see, perhaps nothing more to hope, and broken in body and in spirit we wearily descended the stairways, and traversed the long corridors in silence until we reached the main hall on the ground-floor.
The room was barely lighted by a few candles at one end, and was filled to overflowing by the nuns of the three orders, mingled with those who had shared their generous hospitality—old and feeble gentlemen whose fighting days had long passed; grey-haired gentlewomen, patient and resigned, others in the full bloom of youth, and young girls and children, pale and anxious-eyed; while in the circle of light beneath the great black crucifix on the white wall stood the commanding figure of la mère de Ste. Claude, and with her la mère de Ste. Hélène of the Hôtel-Dieu, and la mère de la Nativité of the Ursulines.
All were listening with breathless attention to the words that fell from the venerable Bishop of Quebec, Monseignieur de Pontbriand, whose quiet bearing and measured tones carried assurance to many a fainting heart.
“My children,” he was saying, as we entered, “do not forget, in our day of disaster, that we are not left helpless. Let us for our comfort say together those words, which we learned to lisp as children, but perhaps only to understand to-night.” And, as he raised his hand, the people knelt, and with voices that gained confidence as the familiar words fell from his lips, they repeated the “Qui habitat” in unison: “He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.”
He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High.
The common danger, the common worship, drew us together. Each succeeding verse, with its divine assurance of safety and protection, brought to us a quiet and a confidence which renewed our strength.
But even as all hearts were lifted there came a commanding knock at the outer door opposite the chapel, which was immediately repeated, and la mère Ste. Claude signed it should be opened.
Angélique and I, being at the threshold of the hall, hastened to obey, and found ourselves in the presence of a general officer, behind whom was a detachment of soldiers in Highland uniform. The officer stepped into the hall as one who takes possession, and demanded the Superior, in accurate French.
She came forward followed by the principal nuns and ladies.
“Have no fear, mesdames,” he said, bowing low with much elegance of manner; “I am General Townshend. You will suffer no harm; but we must take possession of your convent, for your protection as well as our own.”
“You are victors, monsieur, and can command,” she said, bitterly.
“We are victors, madame,” he returned, gravely, “but we have bought our honours dearly. Our general lies dead on the plain above.”
“C'est sur le champ d'honneur, monsieur,” she instantly responded, in a tone of much feeling.
“A thousand thanks for your sympathy, madame; we will use every diligence to preserve it. Captain Nairn will take charge here, and will give you assurance of safety and protection from insult. In return, you will kindly offer such shelter to the wounded as is possible, and furnish him with every information as to the number of rooms available, for I must ask for all accommodation in your power.”
He introduced Captain Nairn and withdrew at once, followed by the assurances of the Superior that everything would be done for the comfort of the wounded.
It was with a curious feeling that I looked on my brother, for I could not doubt that it was he, though I had not seen him since we were children. Despite the disorder of his dress and his evident fatigue, he was a handsome man, though not much taller than myself. His address was natural and easy, and certainly his French was perfect; I had but a moment to gather this, for we were at once dismissed from our attendance by the Superior, who remained alone to arrange with our new masters.
“O, ciel! Marguerite! is that your brother?” whispered Angélique, excitedly.
“Yes, chérie, I have no doubt it is,” I answered, sadly.
“I should not sigh over such a misfortune,” she cried, gayly. “You are cold-blooded creatures, you Scotch! Why, I should have been weeping on his neck long ago, no matter what had happened! He has eyes like yours.”
RECONCILIATION
We found Mme. de Sarennes awaiting us in her room, with a generous bouillon warming over a lamp. “Hunger and faintness will not add to your courage, my daughters; sit down and eat. We shall have need of all our strength for the morrow,” she said, cheerfully. We were eager to discuss the events of the day, but she would not listen to a word. “You must be good soldiers now and obey orders; eat first, and then to bed. Angélique, do you set an example and go at once.”
“La cérémonie faite, chacun s'en fut coucher,” repeated Angélique, sleepily, as she kissed us and went. Then I turned to her mother.
“Mme. de Sarennes, I am in a difficulty. May I ask your help?”
“Marguerite, ma chérie, I am afraid I am thought a stern woman; but you know how dear those I love are to me, and I have learned to love you. You may speak to me as you would have spoken to your own mother,” she said, with a tenderness that went to my heart.
I arose and seated myself beside her, and with my hand in hers I told her of my home, of my life with Lady Jane, and my devotion to the cause of the Prince; of my pride in my only brother, and of what I considered his desertion, which led to my girlish renunciation and my estrangement from him. “He is the Captain Nairn who came with General Townshend to-night. What shall I do, madame?”
“You must go to him on the morrow, my child, without hesitation. Such a tie is too sacred to be thrown away lightly.” Here she paused, and laying her hand on my arm, said, in tones of the deepest feeling, “Marguerite, when you are an old woman like me, I pray you may never have to look back with regret on an opportunity for reconciliation cast aside.” She spake with such intense emotion that I could not doubt I had unwittingly stirred some painful memory of her past, but in a moment she recovered, and said, tenderly: “Remember, you both lay on the same breast; you looked into the same mother's eyes. Think of the pain it would cause her to know that there is anything in her children's hearts towards each other, save the love with which she filled them. But I need not say more; I see your intent in your face. Remember, too, we need all the interest we can command with our new guests. Now get some rest, my child; you are worn out.”
When I awakened in the morning I found the whole community astir, for all night long the wounded had been brought in, until every bed and corner was occupied, and even the barns, sheds, and outhouses were filled to overflowing.
French and English lay side by side, helpless and patient. As I crossed the hall I noticed a big Highland sergeant lying on a stretcher, waiting until some place was found for him, with the sweat standing in great beads on his forehead. He muttered some kind of a prayer in Gaelic as I passed, and at the sound of the once familiar tongue I stopped, and, bending over him, wiped away the perspiration, and spake to him in his own language. He stared at me in the utmost astonishment, and then swore a great oath, and the tears filled his eyes.
I at last found a soldier who was not on duty, and by him sent a message to Captain Nairn that a lady desired speech with him when he was at liberty.
He returned with word that the Captain fixed eleven o'clock, and at that hour I awaited in the parlour. As I waited I wondered that I had ever made any question of meeting him; I could even see that his choice of life had its defence, from a man's point of view. A soldier is first of all a soldier, and waiting the heaviest of his duties; though he is ready to suffer incredibly for his cause when it is active, it is the women who keep the personal attachments alive through the weary days when everything but hope is dead.
I spake at once on his entrance.
“Archie, I am your sister Margaret.”
“My dearest Peggy!” was all he said, but he caught me in his strong arms and nearly crushed the breath out of me. He petted and fondled me, calling me by every dear name of childhood, until my heart was nigh to bursting with this treasure of love lavished upon me when I least expected it.
I was brought back to the present when he questioned me on the reason of my being in Canada, and though it cost me a bitter struggle with my pride, I told him the whole story of my folly. I could not spare myself when he took me so on trust.
“And you say that Maxwell was married all this time?” he asked, sternly.
“Yes, but—”
“There are no 'buts'!” he interrupted, fiercely. “I will kill him on sight!”
“Archie, my brother, think what you say! I do not know that he deceived me, and I do know I deceived myself.
“I can't help that! If he had not been there, you never would have made the mistake. The only pity is I was not on the ground at the time.”
“But, Archie, think of me. Think what an open scandal will mean. No one but you and me, and one other,” I added—remembering le père Jean—“knows anything of this now.”
“And what do we care about other people, Peggy? We Nairns are not used to asking leave for our actions; and so long as you yourself are not ashamed, I do not give a rotten nut for the rest of the world. It is no question of the personal feeling at all; it is the principle! I have no personal quarrel with Maxwell; on the contrary, I like him. He was a brother to me in Louisbourg; but, thank God! I can sink my likings and dislikings, when it comes to a case such as this. No, no, Peggy; you'd best leave things in my hands.”
“No, Archie, I will not! There has been heart-break and misery enough over this as it is, without adding more.”
“But this will wipe it all out. Cannot you understand?” he said, with a touch of impatience.
“Archie, cannot you understand that, however clearly I regret my own folly, I cannot in a moment stamp out the feeling in which I have lived all these years?”
“You don't tell me you care for the fellow yet, Peggy?” he cried, in a tone of genuine astonishment.
“I am afraid I do.”
“God bless my soul! That is beyond me.”
“You are not a woman, Archie.”
“No, thank God I am not,” he answered, without the vestige of a smile. “Of all the wearisome things in the world, I can imagine nothing worse than being a woman.”
“And yet there are a good many who have to put up with this weariness.”
“The Lord help them! But we must not fall to quarrelling at our first meeting; that would be altogether too much like boy and girl again. Peggy, do you remember how we used to fight over the plovers' nests?” and he laughed merrily at the thought. “Don't be put out by a little thing like this. I'll not kill the gentleman behind a hedge or in the dark; he shall have nothing to complain of, rest assured. But I have sad news for your friends, Margaret. M. de Montcalm died at daybreak this morning.”
“Oh, Archie! We did not even know that he was wounded.”
“Nor did we until late last night, for he was seen on his horse during the retreat. He was a fine soldier.”
“He was more than that, Archie. He was a man of honour and the soul of his army—and he was very good to me,” I sobbed, breaking down at the remembrance of his chivalrous protection.
To my surprise, Archie put his arm about me. “Cry on, Peggy, my lamb,” he said, in the soft endearment of the Gaelic. And the soldier who had so readily decided on the death of a man a moment since, now melted at the sight of a woman's grief, and offered her that best of all consolation, sympathy. Nothing else could so quickly have revealed to me the wrong I had been guilty of in holding aloof from this strong affection that had held fast in simple, unwavering loyalty to the love of childhood. To him I had always remained the Peggy of the old home; in his generous heart the thought of any necessity for reconciliation had no place, for he held himself as the head of the family, from whom protection for the weaker must necessarily flow.
“By-the-way, Peggy,” he said, suddenly, “it was you, no doubt, who spake to one of my men in Gaelic this morning. That was Neil, son of Angus Dubh, the tacksman on the old place, one of my best sergeants. You did as much for him as the surgeon, and when I tell him who you are he will think you an angel from heaven. Come when you can and say a word to our poor fellows; they are wearying for home like children, now they are past fighting for a bit.”
Days of unceasing work now followed for all who would assist in nursing and the innumerable little duties necessitated by the presence of so large a body of invalids, and, to their honour, even the most frivolous of the women took their share uncomplainingly, making no distinction between friend and foe. The most conflicting rumours reached us as to the movements of our army, and of the intentions of M. de Ramesay, governor of the city, but we fortunately had little leisure for speculation, and our doubts were ended by the formal capitulation, on the eighteenth of the month.
After the troops had taken possession and quiet was restored, permission was given to us to enter the town, should we so desire. It must have been a welcome relief to la mère de Ste. Claude when her numerous guests took their departure. The nuns of the Hôtel-Dieu and the Ursulines returned to their respective convents, and in that of the latter Mme. de Sarennes secured rooms for the winter.
It was pitiful to see the condition of the town, for the destruction by the bombardment had been almost complete. The Lower Town no longer existed, and scarce a building remained along the front of the Upper. Angélique and I wandered towards the familiar rue du Parloir, to find but a line of crumbling walls, blackened and roofless; before it our little isle of houses, as well as the Bishop's Palace, lay a mass of ruin, and behind it stood the wrecked Cathedral. Every building that could serve as a mark had suffered in some measure, and the chapel of our convent was the only sacred place left in this city of churches where worship could be celebrated. Here mass and vespers alternated with the services of the Episcopalian and Presbyterian divines, and I am certain none suffered from the near fellowship of the other.
A detachment of Archie's regiment, the Fraser Highlanders, was quartered on us for the winter, and with them the community shared their diminished hospitality; they, in turn, lent us their services in collecting firewood and in drawing water, and it was surprising to mark the good-will that was shown on both sides. Not only were they granted full permission to smoke in the quarters assigned to them, but the nuns, taking compassion on their unsuitable, and, in their eyes, almost indecent, dress, fell to work at knitting for them long stockings of the heaviest wool, which occasioned loud laughter and much sly jesting among the men, and on our side Angélique provoked some of the younger nuns to such merriment by her sallies on the subject that they thereby incurred the disapprobation of their more serious-minded elders.
For this attention General Murray sent to the Superior a most gracious acknowledgment of his gratitude towards the community, but it remained for the men themselves to cap the climax.
Every morning it was the practice of the Superior to make a round of the convent, including those portions set apart for the Highlanders, and on this duty I was in the habit of accompanying her, as the men took a great pleasure in my Gaelic; and it was an acceptable service to me to cultivate their good-will towards the community by this simple favour. I knew many of them by name, and indeed some of them could claim kinship with me, notably Neil, the sergeant, whom I have already mentioned, a fine specimen of our people, standing well over six feet in his buckled shoes.
One morning, as we entered the hall set aside for the men, we heard a sharp command from the sergeant, and to our surprise we found the men not only drawn up in line to meet us—which was a voluntary mark of respect they paid the Superior—but now, there stood every man in full dress, with cocked and feathered bonnet on his head, claymore by his side, and firelock in his hand, and every pair of sturdy legs encased in the long grey stockings knitted by the nuns.
The sergeant gravely stepped forward, and, saluting the Superior, addressed her in his most correct English:
“Reverend madam, I am put forward on account of my rank, and not for my poor abilities, to thank the ladies who would think so much of us poor fellows as to be doing us this kindness this day. As long as we live, yes, and long after we are dead, moreover, you may be sure that Fraser's will always remember this; and when we will be telling even to our grandchildren of Quebec and what we did there, we will not forget to speak of your name and of the names of the ladies under your command. And, madam, our solemn hope is that you will never have more cause to blush at our bare knees, saving your presence, than we will have to blush at your kindness, madam.”
Then turning quickly to me, he whispered, in Gaelic: “Speak to her, Miss Margaret, and tell her what we would say. It is God's own truth I am speaking when I say that we are thankful, even though some will be wondering what put such a notion into the poor ladies' heads.” Whereupon he wheeled about and roared out his command to the men, as if to check the grin that was spreading over his own honest face from appearing on any other. There was an instantaneous movement at his command, and the Superior received the full honours of a grand salute.
She was greatly pleased, as indeed she might be, for the poor fellows had shown their gratitude in the most honourable fashion they knew, and she begged me to return her thanks and the assurances of her interest in them all, which I did in terms that, however they might have violated her ideas of rhetoric, were best understood by the men before me:
“Neil, son of Angus, remember,” I concluded, “and remember, too, every one who hears me, that though these good sisters do not understand us nor our ways, they have knitted their hearts' kindness into every stitch that has gone into those stockings, and there is not a man of you who has a mother, or a sister, or a wife, at home, who, if she knew what had been done for you this day, but would be down on her knees praying for these good women. In the mean time, see you don't forget to do it yourselves!”
When I finished they were nearer crying than saluting, and I am not sure that I was far from it myself; for, as I spake, the once familiar hills and glens, the humble dwellings, the quiet-faced women, the yellow-haired children, all that meant home to these brave fellows, came before me like in a dream, and I found myself longing for something I thought I had parted with forever.
The winter proved unusually severe, and the suffering of the troops and the few people of condition who remained was excessive, but there was no disorder to speak of, and the hardships were borne uncomplainingly. From time to time we had news of our army encamped on the Jacques Cartier, not only by the legitimate channel of the foraging and reconnoitring parties, but even by means of some who carried on a business of trafficking between the two camps, the greed of gain triumphing over war and famine, and even over ordinary patriotism. It was reported that M. de Lévis had said he would eat his Christmas dinner in Quebec under his own flag; but he was not given to such empty boasts, that I had ever heard, and the day passed unmarked for us save by the services in our chapel.
Towards the end of January, Archie came to me with a letter. “There, Peggy, this, I take it, should go into your hands, as it is addressed to your care. It is fortunate that Maxwell governs himself like a gentleman in some things, for if he had attempted to send his letter by any underhand means it might have placed you in an unpleasant position, and even exposed me to suspicion. Listen to this—I wish I could write like the fellow:
“CAMP ON THE JACQUES CARTIER,22Jan'y, 1760.
Sir,—I have the honour to be known to your Excellency's brother, Lord Elibank, and though Fate had thrown me on the side opposed to your command, I venture to beg your courtesy in remitting the enclosed letter to the care of Mme. de St. Just, at present in your lines. I have left it unsealed, should you deem it your duty to peruse it, but I give you my word of honour it contains nothing but the most private matters affecting one in whom Mme. de St. Just is interested. Should your regulations, however, forbid such a favour, I beg that you will burn it yourself, and I will none the less hold myself to be,
Sir,Your very obliged and humble servant,Hugh Maxwell of Kirkconnel.
To the Hon'ble James Murray,Commanding in Quebec.'
“I give you my word, Peggy, the general would allow such a letter to pass did it contain all the treason between here and Mozambique. He bids me give it you with his compliments, and assure you that not only is it unread, but that should you wish to answer it under the same restriction as to news, he will enclose your reply the first time he has occasion to communicate with the French general.”
The letter was addressed to “Mistress Lucy Routh, in the care of Mme. de St. Just,” and much as I shrank from opening it, I did so, as it might contain matters which concerned their son. And so it proved. The letter read:
“22Jan'y1760.
Dear Lucy,—I send this, trusting to the courtesy of General Murray that it may reach your hands safely. I was so suddenly called away that there was much left unsaid when we parted, and there has been no time for personal matters since. In the event of anything happening to me, I wish you to impress on Christopher that Mr. Drummond, the banker of Charing Cross, holds in trust a small sum deposited there for me by my cousin, the late Lady Jane Drummond. I have placed my will in the hands of M. de Vaudreuil, and whichever way things fall out, this will serve as a receipt, and insure its delivery. I would be glad to know of your well-being.
Hugh Maxwell.”
I sent for Christopher, who was not with us but stationed at the General Hospital with others of his regiment, and made known the matter to him, and through the general he sent to his father his acknowledgments and the news of Lucy's death.
I was pleased at the consideration of which the letter was proof, and it was a satisfaction to hear Archie's acknowledgment of Hugh's charm; but beyond this the letter awoke in me no farther feeling, and I was surprised to find I could look at his writing and read his words with so little emotion. The truth is, I was living in a new world; the discovery of my brother's love, the revelation of Mme. de Sarennes's affection towards me, had gone far to fill the hunger and emptiness of my life, and the old spell which had so long dominated every thought and aspiration was no longer paramount. Then, too, the long strain of feverish hope and unrest, the disappointments and dangers, through which I had passed, had rendered me peculiarly sensible to the charm of the quiet convent life by which I was surrounded. Therein I found work into which I threw myself with ardour, and was encouraged by the Superior towards that way of peace upon which the convent doors gave entrance. Could I once determine to cut myself free from the unrest and struggle of the world, I felt that before me opened a life of usefulness which promised amends for all suffering and atonement for all error. My life had so far been lived for myself alone, and I saw about me women who had attained happiness through a complete sacrifice of self. Could I only be sure I had the strength, was not the same reward held out to me?
A FORLORN HOPE
Absorbed though I was in my work, I could not but mark what was passing between Angélique and Archie—how unconsciously my single-hearted brother was following her in that path in which the feeblest maid can lead the strongest of his sex.
Her imagination had been fired by the romance of his finding me, and the story of his early adventures found in her a skilful listener, who could extract every detail from his somewhat unwilling lips. His endeavours to catch her nimble wit as it flew, and the expression of awakening wonder on his face when he suspected her of nonsense, would many a time send us into peals of laughter. Even Mme. de Sarennes was interested, though she frankly professed nothing beyond an armed neutrality towards our hosts.
So the winter dragged on. There was much suffering among the people, much anxiety and constant alarms for those in command; but each heart loved or hoped, waited or wearied, as in time of peace, and every one looked forward with impatience or anxiety towards the coming of spring, which would bring the dénouement.
By April everything was astir once more. The familiar intercourse of the long winter was interrupted, officers and men went about their duties so earnestly we could not but feel that all relations were suspended until the result should be determined. Soon news came of the movements of our army about Montreal and elsewhere, and the English garrison was marched out for daily exercise and duty on the plains, and as far as Ste. Foye.
At length it was clear that some movement was imminent. Orders were issued that the inhabitants were to leave the city—that is, all the common people—and word was sent to the Ursulines and the other communities that they were free to leave, did they so choose, otherwise they must remain through the siege, should the city be invested, and must share the fortunes of the garrison. La mère de la Nativité, our Superior, decided at once that her community should remain, and Mme. de Sarennes said the same for our little party.
Angélique and I stood in la rue St. Jean, and our hearts were stirred by the wailings and lamentations of the people leaving the town in long procession.
“Courage!” cried Angélique, to a despairing woman. “We will welcome you all back again. You will come in with our army!”
“Malbrook s'en va-t-en guerreNe sait quand reviendra,”
trolled out a lusty fellow, with a laugh.
“Tais-toi, v'limeux!” cried the woman, angrily.
“il reviendra-z-à Pâques,Ou à la Trinité,”
he continued, unconcernedly, and the crowd catching at his humour, joined in the lilting refrain, and involuntarily quickened their steps to the “mironton, ton, taine” of the old war song, at which Angélique clapped her hands in delight, and was rewarded with a shout of admiration.
“They would have done better to have fed that fellow,” she said, decidedly, as we turned away; “he will do some fighting, depend upon it.”
“You are confident, Angélique?”
“Certainly, chérie; the town cannot be defended. We know that, and if General Murray goes out, as he is sure to, he will but march to his fate, as did our poor marquis.”
On the 22d of April we were up before daybreak, and saw the garrison march out with their cannon under a leaden sky and a cold drizzling rain. I went about my tasks weighed down by a sickening anxiety, for though I had renounced Hugh, it was impossible to banish him at all times from my thoughts, and I could not but remember that, in addition to the ordinary chances of battle, he had among his enemies a sworn foe in my brother, and among his friends a treacherous enemy in Sarennes. Against these dangers, at least, I could pray for him with an undivided heart.
Noise of firing came to us through the day, which we spent in Perpetual Adoration, but at evening the troops re-entered the town and the battle was still unfought.
On the morrow they were again assembled, and again we watched them march through the sodden streets.
We had not long to wait for news of the combat; every gust of wind swept down on us the faint crackle of musketry and the deep boom of cannon; it seemed interminable, but before the afternoon was well advanced the first stragglers had reached the gates. They were followed later by a mad, ungovernable mob of English troops, and soon the streets were choked with men, shrieking, crying, and swearing at their defeat. Their officers, with swords drawn, rode among them, threatening and striking, entreating and commanding to deaf ears, for the men were like wild beasts, and could not be controlled. It was not fear; it was like to a frenzy of rage and shame at their rout. They broke into taverns and even private houses, and presently the madness of drink added to the pandemonium. The wounded were with the greatest difficulty carried through the streets, and before evening our convent and every other refuge was crowded to the utmost.
It was a strange position for all of us; the wounded were our nominal enemies, it is true, but we had been living with them on terms of the kindliest intimacy for a long winter, and there was no stimulus of duty needed to make the nuns put forth every effort for their relief. To me they were more than generous enemies—they were countrymen and kinsmen for whom I was bound to work with a whole heart.
I was interrupted in my task by the appearance of Christopher. “Madam, I have come to tell you that your brother, the Captain, is safe.”
“Is he wounded?” I asked, with swift anxiety.
“Yes, madam, but our surgeon says a fine clean cut; and I believe him too, for he went off to sleep the moment it was dressed, more tired than hurt. He is in his own room, where you may look at him if you will promise not to speak,” he said, with an air of the greatest importance. “I gave Miss Angélique his clothes to attend to as she asked, for she was there when he was brought in, and waited until she heard the surgeon say there was no danger. She would have liked to watch, too, but I was put in charge.”
Christopher cautiously opened the door and allowed me to peep in, and my heart was lightened at the sight of Archie sleeping quietly, his brown curls hidden beneath a mass of bandages, but his face composed and natural.
“Thank you, Christopher,” I said. “You are a brave lad.”
“There were lots more better than me,” he said, modestly, “but we didn't have a chance, for all that.”
“Tell me something of what happened.”
“I don't know what happened after it began. I only saw the back of the man in front of me, and was too busy with my piece to think of anything else, until I saw my Captain in trouble, and then my hands were full, for the rest of the day. After I hear some of the old powder-eaters talk, madam, I'll be able to make up a fine story for you,” he said, with a bright laugh that to me sounded like an echo.
I hastened to our room, and there found Angélique in a state of exultation.
“Victory, Marguerite! As I told you! Our troops are on the Heights and hold the General Hospital, and the English are trapped in these crazy walls!” But in an instant she calmed herself and said, earnestly, “Now is the time for you to save us all!”
“I save you all? What do you mean?”
“Mean, Marguerite? Listen to those cries and the fighting. Do you know what they mean? They mean that the men, the whole garrison on which the English depend, is mad with drink and defeat—and Lévis scarce a mile away with his victorious army! Just one word to him, Marguerite, and we are saved; he will be in the town before the morning.”
“Yes, but how can it be sent? What can I do?”
“Carry it to him!”
“Angélique, are you mad? How could I carry it?”
“There is your answer,” she cried, pointing to Archie's uniform. “You will put these things on, and you can pass the gate without a question. Come, undress at once.”
“Oh, Angélique, I cannot! Let me go as I am and I will not hesitate, but—”
“For shame, Marguerite!” cried the high-spirited girl. “For shame! to think of yourself and such school-girl prudery at such a time! But forgive me, chérie; I did not quite mean that. I know what you feel. But do you think I would hesitate had I your height and could I speak English? No, a thousand times no! Marguerite, it must be done! You are the only woman—the only person, man or woman—in Quebec who can do it.”
“Angélique,” I cried, in an agony of distress, “think of my own people here; it would be almost like betraying them.”
“Well, think of them, but think of them as soldiers of King George against whom you were praying night and day, not so many years ago, as you have said yourself.”
“But there is my brother!”
“He is safe in bed down-stairs; and when he is a prisoner, Marguerite, I give you my word of honour I will go to M. de Lévis and claim him for myself, like a squaw;” and she laughed merrily.
“How can you laugh, Angélique? Don't you see what it means to me?”
“Don't you see what it means to us, Marguerite? You know how we have hoped and suffered. You have lived among us and shared everything we had to give, joy and sorrow alike. Do you owe nothing to us? You were defended by him who lies in his grave below when a jealous woman would have branded you as a spy. Do you owe nothing to the Marquis de Montcalm? Do you owe nothing to those others who stood between you and her malice?”
“Angélique, do you think you need remind me of these things?”
“Forgive me, chérie, if I am ungracious enough to urge the claim of benefits bestowed. This is no time for pretty speeches. I would urge anything to decide you.”
“It is not that. If I could go as I am, and simply risk capture, or even death, I would not hesitate.”
“You cannot go as you are! A woman could not even pass through the streets to-night; but no one will look twice at a uniform.”
“But I cannot. Think what it will mean to me if I am discovered; think what it will mean even if I succeed.”
“Marguerite, Marguerite, you must forget what you are! You must forget what you can do, and what you cannot do! Forget everything, save that these tidings must reach M. de Lévis to-night, and that you are the only one who can carry them. There! Begin to undress at once! Quick! Quick! Any further delay may render all useless.”
Might this not be the reparation for any share I had had in the failure of Sarennes to return to succour Louisbourg? If I accepted it and proved successful, would not I carry into my new vocation something more than the failure of a life that had sought but its own ends? If I failed, would not I have attempted at least something for those who had so generously befriended me? Was not my shrinking from the ordeal of the disguise but a harking back to those little conventions which I had resolved to cast aside forever? Could I make a better use of my life than to lay it down, if need be, in such a cause?
Reasoning thus, I caught something of the intensity of purpose which dominated Angélique, and with fingers as eager as her own I prepared myself for my venture.
“What if I am stopped and spoken to in the town?”
“Don't be stopped,” she laughed, “and you mustn't speak unless your life depends on it. Carry your sword in your hand, so it won't trip you up, square your shoulders, and try to swagger like a man. Once outside the walls, you run no danger at all. Keep on the Ste. Foye Road, and you are sure to fall in with our people and be captured in due form. Then say, 'Gentlemen, I am a most important prisoner; take me at once to M. le général!' et v'là! the trick is done! Nothing easier; if I had only learned to speak your barbarous language, and were a little taller, I would be in your shoes to-night, and wouldn't change places with the best lady in Versailles!”
Chattering and laughing thus in her excitement, she shortened up straps and adjusted buckles with as many jests as though dressing me for a masquerade.