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MARIE GOURDON:
A Romance of the Lower St. Lawrence.
by
MAUD OGILVY
Montreal:
Published by John Lovell & Son
1890
TO MY FRIEND
Lady Helen Munro-Ferguson of Raith,
THIS LITTLE STORY IS DEDICATED
IN REMEMBRANCE OF
_Many happy days spent on the banks of the Lower St. Lawrence._
INTRODUCTION
This little story is founded on an episode in Canadian history which
I found an interesting study, namely, the disbanding of a regiment of
Scottish soldiers in the neighborhood of Rimouski and the district
about Father Point. Many of these stalwart sons of old Scotia who were
thus left adrift strangers in a strange land accepted the situation
philosophically, intermarried amongst the French families already in
that part of the country, and settled down as farmers in a small way.
A visit to that part of the country will show what their industry has
effected.
Before having been in the district, I had always thought that the coasts
of Lower St. Lawrence were almost incapable of any degree of cultivation,
and practically of no agricultural value; but when at Father Point, some
three summers ago, I was delighted to see all along the sandy road-sides
long ridges of ploughed land, with potatoes, cabbages and beans growing
in abundance. Back of these ridges, extending for many miles, are large
tracts of most luxuriant pasture land on which browse cattle in very
excellent condition.
The manners of the people of this district, who, "far from the madding
crowd's ignoble strife," live in Utopian simplicity, are most gentle and
courteous, and would put to shame those of the dwellers of many a more
civilized spot.
It is very curious to trace the Scottish names of these people, handed
down as they have been from generation to generation, though their
pronunciation is much altered, and in most instances given a French turn,
as, for example, Gourdon for Gordon, Noël for Nowell, and many others.
However, in a few cases the names are such as even the most ingenious
French tongue finds impossible to alter, and they remain in their
original form, for example, Burns, Fraser and McAllister. It is strange
to hear these names spoken by people who know no language but the French,
and I was much struck by the incongruity.
M. O.
Montreal, June, 1890.
CONTENTS.
Introduction
I--"Wae's me for Prince Chairlie"
II--"Oh! Canada! mon pays, terre adorée,
Sol si cher à mes amours."
III--"Il y a longtemps que je t'aime,
Jamais je ne t'oublierai."
IV--"Red o'er the forest peers the setting sun,
The line of yellow light dies fast away."
V--"A parish priest was of the pilgrim train;
An awful, reverend and religious man.
His eyes diffused a venerable grace,
And charity itself was in his face.
Rich was his soul, though his attire was poor
(As God hath clothed his own ambassador),
For such, on earth, his bless'd Redeemer bore."
VI--"The love of money is the root of all evil."
VII--"Oh! world! thy slippery turns! Friends now fast sworn in love
inseparable shall within this hour break out to bitterest enmity."
VIII--TEN YEARS AFTER.
"Oh! wouldst thou set thy rank before thyself?
Wouldst thou be honored for thyself or that?
Rank that excels the wearer doth degrade,
Riches impoverish that divide respect."
IX--"Alas! Our memories may retrace
Each circumstance of time and place;
Season and scene come back again,
And outward things unchanged remain:
The rest we cannot reinstate:
Ourselves we cannot re-create,
Nor get our souls to the same key
Of the remember'd harmony."
X--"O! primavera gioventù dell' anno!
O! gioventù primavera della vitæ!!!"
XI--"Because thou hast believed the wheels of life
Stand never idle, but go always round;
Hast labor'd, but with purpose; hast become
Laborious, persevering, serious, firm--
For this thy track across the fretful foam
Of vehement actions without scope or term,
Call'd history, keeps a splendor, due to wit,
Which saw one clue to life and followed it."
XII--"I know, dear heart! that in our lot
May mingle tears and sorrow;
But love's rich rainbow's built from tears
To-day, with smiles to-morrow,
The sunshine from our sky may die,
The greenness from life's tree,
But ever 'mid the warring storm
Thy nest shall shelter'd be.
The world may never know, dear heart!
What I have found in thee;
But, though nought to the world, dear heart!
Thou'rt all the world to me."
EPILOGUE.
"Our acts our angels are, or good or ill,
The fatal shadows that walk by us still."
MARIE GOURDON.
CHAPTER I.
"Wae's me for Prince Chairlie."
Old Scotch Song.
It was a dark gloomy night in the year 1745. Huge clouds hung in heavy
masses over the sky, ready to discharge their heavy burden at any moment.
The thunder echoed and re-echoed with deafening crashes, as if the whole
artillery of heaven were arrayed in mighty warfare, and shook even the
giant crag on which the castle of Dunmorton was situated.
Fierce indeed was the tempest without, but within the castle raged one
still fiercer--that of two strong natures fighting a bitter battle. So
loud were their voices raised in altercation that the storm without was
scarce heeded.
Dunmorton was a fine old castle of the Norman type, with a large moat
surrounding it, and having all the characteristics appertaining to the
feudal state. To the rear of the moat, behind the castle, stretched broad
lands, on which were scattered many cottages, whose occupants had paid
feu-duty to the Lords of Dunmorton for many a generation. To the left of
these cottages stretched a large pinewood, with thickly grown underbrush,
where, in blissful ignorance of their coming fate, luxuriated golden
pheasants and many a fat brace of partridge. That night, the depths of
the pine forest were shaken, for the storm was worse than usual even for
the east coast of Scotland, where storms are so frequent.
Crossing the drawbridge, and coming to the low Norman arched doorway, one
entered at once into the hall. This was a lofty room some twelve feet
wide. At one end of it was a broad fire-place, where huge resinous pine
logs sent up an odor most grateful to the senses and emitted a pleasant,
fitful blaze, lighting up, ever and anon, the faces of The McAllister and
his second son Ivan.
On the walls hung huge antlers and heads of deer, the trophies of many a
hard day's sport, for they had been a race of sportsmen for generations,
these McAllisters, a hardy, strong, self-reliant people, like their own
harsh mountain breezes.
The two representatives of the race now quarrelling in the hall were both
fine looking men, though of somewhat different types. The McAllister was
a tall old man over six feet in height, well and strongly built. His hair
was iron-grey, his eyes blue and piercing, his nose rather inclined to
the Roman type, his mouth large and determined, and his chin firm, square
and somewhat obstinate. His eyebrows were very thick and bushy, thus
lending to his face a sinister and rather forbidding expression. He wore
a rough home-spun shooting suit, and had folded round his shoulders a
tartan of the McAllister plaid, which from time to time he pushed from
him with a hasty impatient gesture, as he addressed his son in angry,
menacing tones,--
"An' I tell ye, Ivan, though ye be my son, never mair shall I call ye so,
if ye join the rabble that young scamp has got together, and never mair
shall ye darken the doors of Dunmorton if ye gae wi' him. Noo choose
between that young pretender and your ain people."
"Father," said Ivan, "he is not a pretender, of that I am convinced, and
you will be soon. He is the descendant of our own King James VI. (whose
mother was bonnie Queen Mary), and you paid fealty at Holyrood many years
ago to King James. My bonnie Prince Chairlie should by rights be sitting
on the throne of Scotland, aye, and of England too, and, by the help of
Heaven and our guid Scotch laddies, he will be there ere long."
"Never," sneered The McAllister, scornfully. "I am not afraid of that."
"Well, that is comforting to you at any rate, sir; then why care about
my going to join his army, for I am going, nothing can stop me now." And
Ivan McAllister's bonnie face glowed with an enthusiasm almost pathetic
as he thought of his beloved leader, for whom he would stake all his
worldly prospects, aye, and if need be his very life.
"Ivan McAllister," said his father, "I thought ye had mair common sense,
though it is rare in lads o' your age. Ye can never imagine that a pack
o' young idiots are going to overturn the whole country."
"No, sir, I do not, but a mighty army is to join us from the south; in
England Prince Chairlie has many friends, and to-morrow I go to join
them. The next day a mighty host will move to the west coast to welcome
our future King. And then----"
"Do you know, Ivan, that by your mad folly you seriously endanger the
McAllister estates? An' though it is well known at court that I am not
a Jacobite, yet I have many enemies who will soon tell the King my son
is with the rebels. You endanger, too, your brother Nowell's position at
court."
"Well, father, I have promised to go, and a McAllister never breaks his
word."
"What! you are determined? You persist in your selfish course of folly?
You will go in spite of all I say?"
"Yes, father, I must go, my word is pledged."
The McAllister's ruddy face grew white with anger, he clenched his hands
as if he would strike his son and by main force reduce him to obedience,
then with a great effort he controlled his anger and said in an ominously
calm voice: "Then, Ivan McAllister, I tell ye, never mair shall ye set
foot in this house, at least, when I am above ground; never mair call
yourself son of mine, and may----" raising his right hand solemnly as
if invoking supernatural aid.
But here he was interrupted by a gentle voice which said:
"Nay, nay, Nowell, ye shall not curse your son," and a soft hand was laid
on his upraised arm.
The McAllister paused and turned towards the speaker, a gentler
expression coming over his stern face, for Lady Jean had the greatest
influence over her husband, an influence which was always for good.
She was a tall, slightly built woman of some fifty-eight years of age.
Her hair was snow-white, contrasting admirably with her clear complexion
and dark eyes, and was combed back high above her forehead, and
surmounted by a mutch (cap) of finest lace. She was dressed in a gown
of pale green silk, which trailed in soft folds behind her and made a
rustling noise as she walked.
A most distinguished lady was Jean McAllister, for the blood of the
Stuarts ran in her veins.
Her face was beautiful, though not altogether with the beauty of correct
features, and certainly not with the beauty of youth, but it had in it
that indescribable loveliness, which one sees only in the faces of very
good women. It was what might be called a helpful face, and had upon it
that reflection of a divine light--all sympathetic natures possess, to
some degree.
"No angel, but a dearer being all dipt in angel instincts,
breathing Paradise."
Her voice was of soft and gentle _timbre_, soothing and tranquillizing
even at this heated moment, as she turned to her son and said:--
"Oh, me bairn, me bonnie bairn, could ye no' stay wi' us a while longer?
It is sair and lonely wi'out ye here, and Prince Chairlie has many mair
to fight for him. Can ye not stay wi' us?"
"No, mother dear; much as I should like to be wi' ye all, I fear I
cannot. A promise is a promise, you know. _You_ have always taught
me that. Remember our motto, 'For God and the truth.' You would not wish
me to be the first McAllister who broke his word."
"Ah! my dear one," sobbed his mother, now fairly breaking down and
weeping piteously, "must ye go, must ye go?"
"Yes, mother dear; but don't distress yourself about me, I shall be all
right, and when bonnie Prince Chairlie comes into his own, we shall meet
again, and you, my ain bonnie mither, will be one of the first ladies at
the court of Holyrood. Now I must go. Father," he said, turning to The
McAllister, who was watching the scene in grim silence with folded arms
and countenance cold and stern. "Father, do you mean what you said just
now? Do you mean to say you will never forgive me if I go to my prince?"
"Yes," the old man thundered out. "Yes, by heaven, I do mean it."
"Then you have driven me for ever from you, and I leave your house
to-night. You are hard, unjust, cruel," and, kissing Lady Jean, hastily,
without more ado, Ivan left the hall. Then he walked swiftly into the
court yard, saddled his favorite horse, and whistling to his collie dog
rode off into the dark tempestuous night to face the unknown.
The unknown is always terrible, but at three and twenty the heart is
light, care is easily shaken off, and hope springs up eternal. A merciful
gift of the good God this, and more especially so in the case of Ivan
McAllister, for, poor lad, he was doomed to have many disappointments.
Some weeks after leaving his father's house, he joined the troops of the
young Pretender, Charles Edward; and three days afterwards was fought the
battle of Culloden, a battle fraught with such disastrous results to the
hopes of many gallant and enthusiastic Scotchmen.