I AM DIRECTED INTO A NEW PATH
The following morning, when we resumed our quiet way in the canoe,
le pere Jean asked, "Well, my daughter, did any light come to you
through the darkness?"
"No, my father, but I have found a little quiet."
"That is much. Now I shall ask you to listen to me patiently, for
I may say much with which you will not agree, but you will trust
me that I only say that which I know to be best. We have every
reason to believe a serious descent will be made on Louisbourg in
the spring, so that, apart from any other reason, your presence in
a town which will in all probability suffer a bombardment, would
be unwise and undesirable in the last degree. You have no idea of
what war actually means; it is a horror that would haunt you to
your dying day."
"But, my father, in that case I should at least be by his side.
That in itself would mean everything to us both."
"That is a point I had not intended to touch on, my daughter. I
know the world. I know that men, banished to such exile as that in
which M. de Maxwell has lived, change much with the years. Think
how you have changed yourself, in happier surroundings than he has
known. Think what new connections he may have formed. Did you never
think that he--"
"Oh, my father, what would you tell me? Do you know M. de Maxwell?"
"I have never been in Louisbourg," he answered, somewhat coldly,
as if my earnestness had hurt him.
"But you do not mean that he may be married?"
"He may be. It would surely not be unnatural."
"It might not in another man, but in him it would be impossible.
He is not as other men."
"May I inquire, my daughter, if he ever asked you in marriage?"
"No, my father; I told you how he was situate. Besides, my guardian
then wished me to marry another."
"And you would not?"
"I did not," I answered, with some little hauteur, for I held this
was beside the matter, and a subject on which even he had no right
to question me.
"Well, that can make but little difference now," he said, after a
short pause. "What does make the difference is that Louisbourg is
an impossibility for you at the present. Your best course is to go
on to Quebec. I shall give you letters to M. de Montcalm, who is
so old and intimate a friend that I may ask him any favour. He will
see that you have passage in the first fitting vessel for France.
In order that you may not be subject to embarrassing surmises, I
hold your best plan is to continue to style yourself Mme. de St.
Just; in fact, that has now become a necessity. Once in France,
you can, with the influence at your command--for I will see that
M. de Montcalm furthers your desire--procure the recall of M. de
Maxwell in the spring, and so realise the dream which has now led
you so far astray.
"Do not think I am blaming you overmuch," he added, quickly; "you
have been led astray because you could not see as the world sees.
Your heart and motive were pure, were generous, but none the less
are you subject to those rules which govern so rigorously the class
to which you belong, whose very existence depends on their observance.
In a romance, the world would no doubt have wept over your
perplexities; but in real life, it would crush you, because you
have sinned against the only code it acknowledges. Your purity and
faithfulness would count for nothing. Believe me, my child, I know
it and its ways."
So it was decided; and at once I began to plan with new hope for
the desire of my heart; and such was the change it wrought in me
that the whole world took on a new interest to my eyes.
For the first time I realised the grandeur of the river into which
we had now fully entered; the sullen sweep of black water in the
depths, the dance of silver over the shallows, the race of waves
down the rapids between its ever-changing banks, now like imprisoning
walls with great sombre pines, now open and radiant with the gold
and scarlet of the maples, marshalled in order by the white lances
of the slender birches.
At times Lucy and I were allowed to walk along the reaches of level
sand to relieve the strain on the paddlers, where the river ran
swift and strong, and when we at length gained the great stretch
of the lake called Matapediac, like the river, my heart was full
of the beauty and charm about me.
"The span o' Life's nae lang eneugh,
Nor deep eneugh the sea,
Nor braid eneugh this weary warld,
To part my Love frae me," ...
I sang in my heart, for was it not all so wonderful, so beyond all
planning, this way of Love? It might be long, it might be wearying,
but it would lead aright in the end.
When the head of the lake was reached, the canoes were lifted from
the water; that of the strange Indians was left behind, but ours
they raised on their shoulders, and, Andre carrying the scanty
baggage of the priest, we set off on a long carry, or portage, as
they call it. This occupied two days, as the path was difficult,
and we found a sad encumbrance in our skirts, which suffered much
in the traverse. We took the water again at a tiny stream, and
finally gained another, called the Metis, leading to the St.
Lawrence, our highway for Quebec. At the Metis the strange Indians
left us and returned to join their fellows.
Late one afternoon le pere Jean ran the canoe inshore, and, nothing
loath, we left her in charge of Andre, to follow the priest up the
high bank and take our way on foot under the great pines.
A low breeze was moving almost silently among the trees, bringing
an unwonted freshness we could verily taste. Soon we marked the
screen of undergrowth, which hid the sun, grow thinner and thinner,
until his rays came shining low through a halo of golden leaves,
with gleams like to glancing water. Breathless, we hurried on until
we swept aside the last veil and found ourselves on the open cliff,
overlooking mile beyond mile of dancing water, which the setting
sun covered with a trail of glory breaking in ripples on a beach
of golden sand, that stretched below the cliff on which we stood.
"Oh, the sea! the sea!" I cried, sinking to the ground, overwhelmed
by the flood of feeling which broke upon me. It was the promise of
a new world of light and safety, after the black, swift river and
the sombre forest from which we had escaped.
"No, my daughter, not the sea; la Grande Riviere, the St. Lawrence!"
said le pere Jean, almost reverently. "Do you wonder these poor
Indians worship it?"
"Oh, it is blessed! blessed! It means home! It is like to heaven!"
I whispered, and then I fell a-crying with very happiness.
Presently Lucy touched me on the shoulder. "See! there is Andre!"
And below we saw the Indian paddling out into the open. He went
cutting through the golden water until he was some distance from
the shore, when he stood upright, gently rocking as he balanced,
gazing up the river. Suddenly he crouched down, again and made all
haste towards us, crying, as he came within call: "Mon pere! Dufour!
Dufour! Gabriel Dufour!"
"This is fortunate, most fortunate," exclaimed the priest. "It will
save us many a weary mile, and perhaps weeks of waiting. Gabriel
is a pilot, with one of the best boats on the river, and your way
to Quebec is now easy. It could not have fallen out better."
"'One of those disarrangements we name Accident,' mon pere?" I
said.
"No, my daughter; when we are schooled sufficiently to read aright,
we name it 'Providence,'" he returned, gravely.
We took our places in the canoe once more, and with deep, long
strokes she was forced through the current across the mouth of the
stream. We disembarked on the farther side, and all made our way
out to the end of the low point, which stretched far into the wide
river. My disappointment was great when I could make out nothing
of the object to which Andre triumphantly pointed, but this the
priest pronounced, without hesitation, to be the pilot's boat.
"Andre, dry wood," he commanded; and to us he added, "You can help,
if you will."
We ran back to where a fringe of bleached drift-wood marked the
line of the highest tides, and returned with our arms laden with
the dry, tindery stuff. Carefully selecting the smallest pieces,
the Indian skilfully built a little pile, but so small I wondered
at his purpose. The priest, kneeling by it, soon had it alight,
and kept adding to it constantly, while Andre ran off again to
return with a supply of green brush; by this time a heap of glowing
coals was ready, and on this the Indian carefully laid his green
branches, one after another. In a few minutes a strong, thick smoke
arose, and went curling out in a long thin line over the now quiet
waters of the river.
Meantime le pere Jean had a second pile of wood in readiness, and
at his word Andre quickly smothered up the first with sand, and,
after waiting for the smoke to drift completely away, soon had a
second thread trailing out after the first. This was repeated again,
and the fire extinguished as before.
"There, my daughter! that is the manner in which we sometimes send
a message in this country, and the answer will be the appearance
of Maitre Gabriel himself by the morning."
We then withdrew to the shelter of the wood, for the smoothest sand
makes but a sorry bed, and made our camp for the night.
After our meal, le pere Jean bade Andre pile more drift-wood on
our fire, and, producing the little journal in which he kept the
brief record of his labours, as required by his Order, he fell to
writing.
"Here," he said, when he had finished, handing me the folded paper,
"is your letter to my good friend M. de Montcalm. It is not
over-long, as paper is much too precious to waste in compliments;
I have used so much, as it is, in fully explaining your position,
so that you may not be exposed to embarrassing inquiries; in
demanding his fullest assistance, so that you may be under the
lightest personal obligation, that I have left no space to set
forth your future movements; these you must yourself lay before
him, and so spare me the sacrifice of another page of my precious
journal."
The next morning, as the priest had foretold, we were awakened by
Andre's announcement of the pilot's arrival, and before long,
Gabriel Dufour was presented in due form. He was a stout, thick-set
man, much reddened by exposure, with his dark hair gathered into
a well-oiled pigtail, comfortably dressed in grey, home-spun jacket
and breeches, with bright blue stockings, and a short canvas apron,
like to the fishermen in France.
He at once expressed himself ready to take us to Quebec.
"What day have you chosen for your return, Gabriel?" asked le pere
Jean.
"Qui choisit, prend le pire, mon pere. All days are alike for me.
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, I find much the same as Thursday,
Friday, Saturday. I can start to-day, to-morrow, or the day after
that, as madame may say."
"Then I shall speak for madame, and say to-day," returned the
priest; and added, in his quiet way: "I bid you beware of Master
Gabriel's fair words, madame. To quote from his favourite proverb,
'il est ne dimanche, il aime besogne faite,' he will promise you
anything."
"'Ce que femme veut, Dieu le veut,' mon pere," he answered, laughing.
"Well, I am ready at once, if madame can support the poverty of my
poor cabin."
"Ah, Maitre Gabriel, if you knew how much your care will mean to
us, you would make no apologies."
"Come, come, Gabriel! No more proverbs, no more delays," exclaimed
le pere Jean, and, as the pilot hurried off to his shallop, he took
both my hands in his.
"My child, remember God goes with you by land and water, by day
and night, and He will surely bring you to the goal which He alone
can see," and then he raised his hand, and I knelt while he blessed
us both.