A Little Girl in Old Quebec Part 24

And miladi! There had been so few women in his life that he knew nothing of contrast, or a.n.a.lysis. Some of the men took Indian wives for a year or so: that had never appealed to him. He had been charmed by Madame Giffard from the very first meeting with her, but she was another man's wife, and she loved her husband. The pretty coquetries were a part of the civilized world over in France and meant only a graceful desire to please. Then in her sorrow he pitied her profoundly, and felt that he owed her the highest and most sacred duty.

But as he studied Rose now, and thought of a suggested lover in Pierre Gaudrion, his whole soul rose in revolt. And the other thought of sending her away was equally distasteful. Why, she was the light and sweetness of the settlement. In a different fas.h.i.+on, she captured the hearts of the Indian women, and taught them the love of home-making, roused in some of them intelligence. How did she come by it? There was Wanamee.

He did not dream that he had awakened a desire for knowledge in the girl's breast and brain. But she had gone beyond him in the lore of the sea and the sky, and the romance of the trees, that to him were promising materials for houses and boats. They were her friends. She could translate the soft murmur that ran through their leaves, or the sweet, wild whistle of the wind that blew in from the river or down from the high hills,--from the ice and snow of the fur country. And sometimes he had seen her run races with the foaming river, where it whirled and eddied and fretted against a spur of the mighty rocks. All her life, from the day he found her on the rocks, seemed to pa.s.s before him in one great flash. He exulted that she belonged to no one, that he had the best right to her. He could not have told why. Heaven had denied him a child of his very own, and he had learned that miladi considered babies a wearisome burthen, fit only for peasants and Indian women.

Did the saintly and beautiful Helene think so as well? he wondered. He had learned a good deal about womankind since his marriage, but he made a grand mistake, he had learned only about one woman; and she was not the n.o.blest of her kind.

Rose turned suddenly and saw him in that half-waiting att.i.tude. There was little introspection, or a.n.a.lysis, in those days; people simply lived, felt without understanding. She had outgrown her first feeling of aversion. In a vague fas.h.i.+on she realized that miladi needed protection and care that no one but M. Destournier could give her. She was sorry she could not ramble about, that she never brightened up, and sung and danced any more. And this was why she, Rose, did not want to grow old and give up the delights of vivid, enchanting exercise.

Why miladi was captious and changeful, never of the same mind twice, she could not understand. What suited her to-day bored her to-morrow. She gave up trying to please, though she was generally ready and gracious.

But she remarked it was the same way with M. Ralph, and he bore the captiousness with so sweet a temper that she felt moved to emulate him.

In the depths of her heart there was a great pity, and it was sweet to him, though neither ever adverted to it.

CHAPTER XI

A FEAST OF SUMMER

As if his eyes had summoned her, she turned toward him. Out here in G.o.d's wide, beautiful world they could be the same friends, and not fret any one. It might have been dangerous if he had not been so upright a man, with no subtle reasonings, and she less simple-hearted.

"I have been helping Evening Star arrange her house. She is anxious to be like a Frenchwoman, and has put off many Indian ways since she became a convert."

"But you do not give her her Christian name," and he smiled.

"Maria a.s.sunta! It isn't half as pretty. She has such lovely deep eyes, and such velvety skin that her Indian name suits her best. What does it matter?"

"Perhaps it helps them to break away from Indian superst.i.tions. I do see some improvement in the women, but the men----"

She laughed lightly. "The women were better in the beginning. They were used to work. And all the braves care for is hunting and drinking bouts.

If I were a priest, I should consider them hardly worth the trouble."

"A fine priest you would make. They consider you half a heretic."

"I go to chapel, M'sieu, when one can get there. I know a great many prayers, but they are much alike. I would like all the world to be upright and good, but I do not want to stay in a stifling little box until my breath is almost gone, and my knees stiff, saying a thing over and over. M'sieu, I can feel the Great Presence out on the beautiful rocks, as I look down on the river and watch the colors come and go, amber and rose, and greens of so many tints; and the music that is always so different. Then I think G.o.d does not mean us to shut it all out and be melancholy."

"You were ever a wild little thing."

"I can be grave, M'sieu, and silent, when there is need, for others. But I cannot give up all of my own life. I say to my heart--'Be still, it is only for a little while'--then comes the dance of freedom."

She laughed, with a ripple of music.

"I wonder," he began, after a pause, watching her lithe step and the proud way she carried her head--"I wonder if you would like to cross the ocean, to go to France?"

"With the beautiful Madame? It is said she is to sail as soon as the boats are loaded."

"Miladi might go with her. I could not be spared. And you----"

He saw the sudden, great throb that moved her breast up to her very shoulders.

"I should not want to go," in a quiet tone.

"But if I found at the last hour that I could go?"

She drew a long breath. "M'sieu, I have no desire to see France. I hear you and the Governor talk about it, and the great court where the King spends his time in foolishness, and the Queen Mother plots wicked schemes. And they throw people in prison for religion's sake. Did I hear a story of some people who were burned at the stake? Why, that is as cruel as the untaught Indians. And to cross the big, fearful ocean. Last summer we sailed up to the great gulf, you know, and you could see where the ocean and sky met. No, I like this old, rocky place the best."

"But if miladi wanted you to go very much?"

"She will not want me very much, in her heart," and she glanced up so straightforwardly that he flushed. "No, you will leave me here and I will be very religious. I will go to the chapel every Sunday and pray. I will have a _prie-dieu_ in one corner, and kneel many times a day, praying that you will come back safely. I shall have something real to pray for then. And--miladi will be very happy."

There was a fervor, touching in its earnestness, that penetrated his soul.

"You will not miss me much," he ventured.

The quick tears sprang to her eyes.

"Oh, yes, I should miss you," and her voice had a little tremble in it.

"But you would return. Oh, yes, I know the good G.o.d would send you back.

See how many times he has sent the Sieur de Champlain back!"

She raised her face to his, and though the tears still beaded her long lashes, the lips smiled adorably. He could have kissed her, but his fine respect told him that endearment was sacred to another man now.

"I do not think I shall go. Some one must be here to see that things do not go to wreck."

She wondered if miladi would go without him. They walked on silently. He was thinking of the other man. The Sieur hoped to persuade some better-cla.s.s emigrants on his next voyage.

Whether miladi would have gone or not could not be known. She was taken quite ill. The doctor came down from Tadoussac, and said she would not be strong enough to stand such a long voyage.

Wanamee was her indefatigable nurse when her husband was away, as he was compelled to be in the daytime. On a few occasions she insisted that Rose should read from some old volumes of poems. She used to watch, with strange, longing eyes. Ah, if she could be young again, and strong. Did M'sieu Ralph often think of the years between, and that some time in the future she would be an old woman! He appeared to grow more vigorous and younger.

There were busy times in the little town. The traders seemed to be rougher every year. They were not much inside the palisade, but they set up booths and tents on the sh.o.r.e edge, and there was much drinking and chaffering.

"Thou must not go outside of the palisade," said Destournier to Rose.

"There are many rude, drunken men about."

She did not demur. In truth she spent many hours comforting the Indian women for the loss of their angel lady, whom they had truly wors.h.i.+pped, and whom, in their vague ignorant fas.h.i.+on, they had confused with the Virgin. But she had wearied of the wildness and the lack of the society of the nuns that she loved so dearly. Two of her maids would return with her, the other had married.

And though she had not made very warm friends with Madame Destournier, she would have liked her companions.h.i.+p on the long voyage. And miladi was really sorry to have the break, since there were so few women, even if she did tire of her religion.

"If we do not meet again here," Madame Helene said, in her sweetly-modulated voice, that savored of the convent, "it is to be hoped we shall reach the home where we shall rest with the saints, when the Divine has had His will with us. Farewell, my sister, and may the Holy Virgin come to your a.s.sistance in the darkest hours."

Then she knelt and prayed. Miladi shuddered. Was she going to die? Oh, no, she could not.

The vessel came down from Tadoussac. All the river was afloat, as usual, at this season. A young man sprang off and pressed his sister's hand warmly.

The Heberts, with their son and daughter, the married maid and her husband and several others, who had stood a little in awe of the Governor's lady, were there to wish her _bon voyage_. Her husband a.s.sisted her, with the tenderest care. Was he happy with her, when she was only half his age? M. Destournier wondered.