Henri Beaumont, although a native of Quebec, was a graduate of an
English university, and it was in London, after obtaining his degree,
that he received his appointment on the medical staff of a British
regiment under orders for Canada. For two years now he had been
stationed in Halifax, and although during the war with the United States
he had seen some active service, his duties had been chiefly confined to
professional work among the troops stationed at the Citadel.
It was there that Maud met him. Perhaps if she had been less
indifferent, the conquest would not have been so easily accomplished.
But the impression was made at the beginning, and notwithstanding her
apparent coolness, time seemed only to strengthen the one-sided bond
that existed between them.
His heart was in a tumult as he entered the house that night--hope and
expectation did not balance each other--and minutes elapsed after
meeting Maud before the loud throbs beneath his jerkin ceased.
"I am sure you heard the news?" he said retaining the hand which she
attempted to withdraw. "I am ordered to be ready to march with Sir
George's men in two days."
"Yes," she replied, finally retracting her hand, "and I congratulate
you. Your friends, while sorry to lose you, will be glad of your
promotion."
"That is very kind; but I would give the world to know that some one
really cared."
He was growing serious already. So she threw back her head and with a
gentle laugh exclaimed:
"Oh, my dear doctor, you don't know how much we shall miss you!"
"Mon Dieu, Miss Maud! That is very well. But you know what I mean. When
I go away I can't return for a year at least. It is the time, the
absence, that I think of. Won't you give me a chance at all? You know
how I love you."
"You have your chance now, Doctor--founding a fort--establishing a
settlement--perhaps building a city. That should be enough for any man
to face."
"But it is not enough, mon ami." The doctor's face flushed and his eyes
glittered as he drew his chair nearer. "I want my love returned. I have
kept myself straight and pure for love of you, Mademoiselle. Do you care
for me at all? Will you not give me one promise before I go?"
He was pleading very earnestly, a gleam of intense love illuminating his
face. Maud's manner softened a little, although she felt no responsive
thrill. She was not sure of her own heart, and was too wise to commit
herself when she experienced no warmer feeling than that of friendship.
"You ask for more than I can give," she said. "If I do not love you, how
can I promise?"
"Have I a rival then?" he asked with passionate earnestness.
"How dare you ask such a question!" she answered with flushed face. "I
am in love with no one."
"Then why not grant my desire? In my heart no one can take your place.
For long months I shall see only one other lady, and she the wife of a
brother officer. But I will found a settlement and build a city, too, if
you will only promise to be my--my sweetheart--when I come back again."
"Oh, you silly man! I promise nothing. Why not simply wait and see. When
away on your long march (she did not tell him how gladly she would have
undertaken it herself if he had not been going) your mind and time will
be occupied with other things. You will never think of me."
"Never think of you!" he exclaimed passionately. "Perhaps it would be
better for me if I never did. But I shall think of you every day when on
the march, and every night when in the woods we pitch our camp. When the
smoke arises from the pipes of the men around our fires, my thoughts
will be of you; and when rolled in blanket and buffalo robes, during
the long winter nights, I may see the stars through the tall trees, and
hear the owls hooting in the forest; but beyond the stars I shall see
your face, and in my dreams I shall hear your voice. No, Maud Manning, I
may go away, but you cannot get away from me. You fill my soul, my
heart, my whole being. You are my star, my light, my love--and it will
be the same in Penetang, no matter where you are."
Spite of herself his words thrilled her, and unconsciously she rose to
her feet. She could not sit still any longer. What manner of man was
this French-Scotchman? This passionate pleader, this determined lover?
This soldierly fellow, who, while he worshipped her, accepted the order
to march to the end of the earth, for time indefinite, without a single
murmur of regret? She had never until now been seriously impressed with
his personality. She had seen the passionate, demonstrative side of his
nature; but its integrity and strength, its staunch chivalry and
unselfish devotion, were something new to her--and it was with a feeling
not unlike reverence that she heard his last words. A species of
humility almost akin to love was gradually stealing over her.
"I am sorry," she said at last, but her voice this time was low and
sweet. "I should have told you sooner."
"Told me what?" he exclaimed eagerly. "That you never could love me?"
"No, not that." His intensity was so great, so real, that she dreaded
the future that seemed imminent in his face. She must give him hope,
however slight, until time could soothe the vivid chords of his being,
and until she could read aright the inmost thoughts of her own heart.
"What then?" was his question.
"Can you not suggest something else? We have always been friends," she
said.
"Promise me to remain free for a year. I will do my best and come back
then," he said.
"Yes, _Monsieur le Docteur_, for one more year I will not love any one,
for one more year I will be free." And the tone filled his soul with
music. The cloud was raised--the veil was lifted.
"And I will write," he said. "Will you answer?"
"Yes," was her quiet response.
"Oh, Mon Dieu! I thank you," was his comment. His face had lost its
sadness.
They stood together under the chandelier. He, excited, determined,
passionate, with love in every look and gesture, but controlling himself
by a strong effort. She, introspective, observant, wary; and yet with a
warmer kindliness towards her companion than she had ever felt before.
"I must go," he said at last. "Just a kiss to seal our promise." And he
threw his arm out to clasp her to him. But with one step backward she
raised the hand that was held in his and the kiss fell upon it instead.
"Good-bye and God be with you," she said.
"And may He keep you until I return," was his prayer; "but shall I not
see you again? There may be time enough to-morrow?"
"It would be better not."
She stood at the door and watched him descend the steps. Then he turned
and, with a last look and a sweep of his chapeau, he disappeared into
the darkness.