_Across the River_
To Marianne the little trip across the river to the Canada side where
her grandmother lived was always a pleasant outing, and on this June
morning when she set out with Victor to row over, it was as fair a day
as one could wish.
"Tell Royal I want him," Mrs. Reyburn had whispered at the last moment.
There was a troubled look on her face which Marianne understood, and
she was a little more quiet than usual when she joined Victor and
the two stepped into the light canoe which was to take them over. A
short walk beyond the landing and they would reach the house of her
grandmother,--a typical country mansion of the French period. The house
was but one story high, but its sloping roof gave ample space for
bedrooms above, where peaked dormer windows let in the light. Though
but one room deep, the house stretched along for nearly a hundred feet,
and with its many outbuildings was a cosey and comfortable abode.
"My husband was a seigneur on his own domain," Madame Desvouges was
wont to tell her granddaughter proudly; "and though the old régime
has passed away, we do not forget what we have been." A quick, alert,
bright-eyed, little woman was Madame, despite her seventy years;
independent to a degree, and with the help of Victor, her adopted
son, she managed her estate fairly well. The old French customs were
religiously observed, and Madame never failed to impress upon the
younger generation that they should not forget their family pride
however much their fortunes were altered.
"You are very silent, Marianne," remarked Victor, as the canoe sped
through the water.
"I am thinking," she replied, dabbling her fingers softly in the
ripples. "Out upon the war! as they used to say in Shakespeare's day.
Isn't it funny, Victor, that I like Shakespeare, and Royal does not
care a sou for him? That in itself should prove me more English than
French--not English, but American," she added quickly. "And yet when I
listen to grandmother's tales and hear how my grandfather fought under
Montcalm and De Levis, I feel myself glow all over. My father would
have been on the English side then if he had been of that day, and--O
dear! who can tell just what is right?"
"One cannot," returned Victor, "and that is what I say when I am urged
by these bombasts to join the army. Fine enough, say I, when the war
is all on paper, but to go through life maimed is not so fine. If I
must defend yonder home, I will shed my life's blood for grand'mère
and Victorine, but--" He shrugged his shoulders, and Marianne lapsed
again into silence until they had reached their landing-place. She was
full of the thought of her brother Royal, and of how he would take her
mother's message.
When she arrived at her grandmother's door she was greeted in voluble
French: "But yes, you have arrived. I told Royal you would come, ma
chère, though he would not be certain of it."
"Where is he?" Marianne asked eagerly, after kissing her grandmother on
each brown cheek.
"He?" Madame spread out her fingers. "Who knows? He is at Queenston or
perhaps at Fort George. One knows not just where. He is not like Victor
whom one can always count upon." She patted the girl upon the shoulder
and led her into the house. In the corner of the large room by a clumsy
loom stood a little figure busy at work over the threads of flax. Above
the clatter of the shuttles arose a voice sweet, clear, and pathetic,
singing a Canadian boat-song through which thrilled a wild note.
Marianne stopped short to listen.
Suddenly the clattering stopped and the figure turned, showing a face
beautiful by reason of wild-rose color, soft luminous hazel eyes,
a mouth whose sweetness hid its sad curves. A mass of auburn hair
touched by glints of sunlight fell over the shoulders, unhappily much
misshapen, and the long arms were those of a hunchback. This was
Victor's twin sister, Victorine La Rue, born in that terrific "Hungry
Year," and left motherless and fatherless by reason of it. But for
Madame Desvouges the two tiny babies would have followed their mother,
but wrapped in softest skins they were carried to the seigniory; and
cuddled side by side in a basket like two kittens, they were tended,
nursed, and saved from starvation, becoming as her own children to
Madame Desvouges. In her tenth year the little Victorine had developed
spinal trouble; and though by means of an outdoor life she finally grew
quite strong and well, the twist in her back could never be lessened
and she arrived at womanhood a hunchback. Yet withal, so sweet and
lovable she was that she seemed a sunbeam in the house and had her
compensations in the love given her and in the power to use a beautiful
voice. Her face lighted up as she saw Marianne, and she made a swift
step forward.
"I knew you would come when Victor stayed all night."
Marianne laughed. "That is what grandma said. I wanted to come,
Victorine, and Victor said he would bring me. I have something to show.
See, isn't it pretty?" She held up her arm, from which dangled the
Indian bracelet.
Victorine showed immediate interest. Like most afflicted persons, she
had an intense love of adornment, and decked her own person almost
fantastically. "It is not so pretty as it is curious," she replied,
examining the bawble. "Where did you get it?"
"Victor got it for me of a pedler." She dived down into her pocket and
produced the ribbon. "And this is for you. Victor is too generous to
me." She shook out the ribbon and held it against Victorine's hair. "It
looks well with those curly locks; it is blue and green, and you must
wear it."
"Oh, no," protested Victorine, "not when Victor bought it for you."
"He had no business to," laughed Marianne; "and after all, he did not
really buy it, for the pedler threw it in for good measure. Besides, as
I said before, Victor is too generous to me."
Victorine looked at her steadily, stroking the silken bit of ribbon
with her slim fingers. "I wonder if you really think so, Marianne."
"What? That Victor is generous? Of course. Don't you know he is?"
"You are a sly puss," said Victorine, "but in my opinion the ribbon
will be much more becoming to you than to me."
"Nonsense! nothing of the kind! I won't have it. I told Victor so as we
were coming over. I'll tie it around the cat's neck if you don't take
it." And she darted across the room to catch up a sedate tabby which
was blinking in the doorway.
"Stop, Marianne!" cried Victorine. "You shall not do that. I will take
it and keep it; and when you want it, come to me."
"I'll do nothing of the kind. You must promise to wear it, or I'll do
as I said. Here, Gris-Gris, come and have your collar on."
Victorine caught the ribbon away and shook her head at the laughing
girl. "There is no doing anything with you, Marianne. I'll take it,
since you will have it so. Come, tell me what is the news."
The roguish smile died from Marianne's face, and she said soberly:
"News enough and of an ill sort. My father is pleased to join the
American forces in their fight against the British, and Royal--" She
paused. "You know about Royal, Victorine."
"Yes," she replied slowly. "He has joined the loyalists of Canada."
Marianne started. "Do you mean that he has really enlisted? Are you
sure?"
"He said last night that he meant to do so to-day."
"Dreadful! dreadful!" murmured Marianne. "If I could but see him and
dissuade him before it is too late. My mother's last words were to bid
him come home at once."
"There is a bare chance of his not having gone," returned Victorine.
"Wait a moment. He will not come back if he knows you are here."
"But he will come for you,--yes, I know that,--or for grandmother." She
turned to where her grandmother was covering the bake-kettle with coals.
After the fleur-de-lis ceased to wave over Canada Madame Desvouges had
been obliged to live very frugally and simply. Though many of the old
customs were kept up, the retinue of servants had dwindled to one stout
maid for the house, and the manor was let out in parcels to those who
lived humbly in their log houses. Madame Desvouges declared herself a
loyal subject of Great Britain, but it was none the less a sore trial
to her when her daughter married a man of the English-speaking race.
She comforted herself later with the knowledge that her grandson was
more French than English, and she adored him. It had been a dream,
which even now she could not relinquish, that Royal and Victorine
would marry, and for Victor there was Marianne. So would the younger
generation return to the French side of the border, and all would
be as she desired. No one spoke English in her household, and at
Marianne's "Grand'mère, j'ai quelque chose de vous dire," she smiled
and straightened herself up from bending over the bake-kettle.
"I wait to hear," she replied. "What is the secret?"
"Grandma, Royal will bear arms against his own father. Think how
terrible, how terrible! He did not know, perhaps, that our father
really intended to fight; but he will, my father will, and it will
break my mother's heart. Dear grandma, I beg you will entreat Royal to
leave fighting for others to do, and to come home. If my father must
leave his home, what will my mother and I do with no natural protector?"
"You will come here; that is easy enough," returned her grandmother,
with some satisfaction. But immediately after she said: "It is indeed,
my child, a sad condition of affairs, yet I fear it is too late to
change it. Thank Heaven, Victor has no palm-itching for a soldier's
pay. He will not fight unless driven to it in order to defend his home.
For my own part, I see no use in this war--a folly all around. We, who
are neither English nor Americans, what have we to do with the quarrels
of Great Britain and the States? Why cannot Royal, and your father,
too, be content to remain at home peaceably and let others fight out
their differences?"
"For the same reason," returned Marianne, slowly, "that my grandfather
could not content himself; he made his stand for France in the New
World. My father comes of Revolutionary stock, and he will not stand by
and see his country threatened a second time by British oppression."
"Mon Dieu de la France!" cried Madame, lifting her hands dramatically.
"Hear the child talk. Had your grandfather lived, he would have
returned to France, as did many of his comrades; and I am not less
French because we did not go, nor is your mother less French."
"And it was France who helped America win her freedom in the
Revolutionary War; so now will I, who am half French, become
indifferent to the cause which La Fayette made his own?"
Her grandmother threw her arms around her and hugged her. "You are
such an orator, of such a persuasive tongue, that I have no more to
say. This all may be as a bag of wind; a prick in the side, and pouf!
it goes. Yet I will have a word with Royal if it be not too late. See,
here he comes with Victorine."
Marianne looked up to see a young man, tall of stature, dark-eyed, and
dark-haired. Just now his eyes were bent upon the ground as he listened
to what Victorine had to say to him. He stopped short when he reached
the door.
"Royal, my son," said his grandmother, "your mother wants her boy. She
will need you, Royal, if your father goes to the war. And as you are a
dutiful son, you will go home to-day and say: Here I am, my mother, to
be your comfort and protection when my father is gone." She spoke in a
gentle, half-questioning voice.
The young man made no reply, but dropped upon the bench by the door,
and with elbows on knees and head held between hands he kept his eyes
fixed upon the ground. Marianne went up to him. "Royal," she said,
imitating her grandmother's gentle tone, "mother wants you. Her last
words to me as I left home were: 'Tell Royal I want him.' You will go,
brother?"
He rose to his feet. "Yes, I will go."
"And you will stay," urged his grandmother.
He was silent a moment, and then he faced them with: "That must be
as I am ordered. I shall hardly be allowed on the American side, for
to-morrow I report for duty."
Marianne recoiled aghast. "For duty! Oh, Royal, have you--"
"Yes, I have joined the army under Brock."
Marianne's eyes showed the distress she felt as she said: "And that
means you will arm yourself against your own father. A shot fired by
you may be the cause of his death."
"Don't!" Royal lifted his hand. "It may be the other way. At all
events, it is too late. I cannot retreat from the step I have taken."
"Oh, but why, why did you need to fight at all?" cried his sister, with
tears in her voice.
"Because I come of a fighting race, I suppose," he replied with a half
attempt at a smile. "There is no use in saying anything now, Marianne;
the thing is done, and I have as good a right to fight for my cause as
father has for his."
"No, but his ought to be yours, too. Are you not an American born? Did
not your father's father fight for your country's freedom? and how
could you join hands with his enemies?" cried Marianne, passionately.
"Hold, my children," interrupted their grandmother. "Do not quarrel
here on the verge of a separation. Royal may have been hasty, but he
thinks he is right, and if he finds he is not, he can lay down his arms
and remain at home. No doubt, after all, it is all bluster; much smoke
and no fire. Go home, Royal, and see your mother and then return to us;
that is, if the way is open to you."
"Oh, hostilities have not begun; one can cross as he wills, if he but
knows how."
"And I will go, too," decided Marianne.
Royal looked uneasy.
"You don't want me," pouted Marianne. "I think, when you are so soon
going to leave home, that you are very unfeeling not to want your only
sister to be with you all she can."
"It is not that," returned Royal, "but I do not want my father to know,
for more than one reason."
"I would not tell him."
"It would only make it that much harder for you to have to guard your
speech, and to feel that you were keeping a secret from him."
"Yes, I know, for you do not love father as I do, else you could not do
this thing."
"Tut, tut!" Madame Desvouges interfered. "I would not say such things,
Marianne."
"But it is true. He cannot love his father if he be willing to side
with his mortal enemies."
"I do love my father," said Royal, sullenly; "but he will not
understand me, and he never has tried to. He has always been annoyed
because I am not like his people."
"Oh, no, Royal, not annoyed. He has wished you were like them; that is
all. And you are like them in self-will," she added, under her breath.
"At all events," she went on after a miserable pause, "he loves you,
and so does mother, and it will break their hearts to have you do this."
"But I have told you I cannot undo it. Don't you understand?" said
Royal, impatiently. "Would you rather I were shot as a deserter? There
is no use staying here arguing the question. I will go home and see
them. I shall tell my mother, and I will take leave of my father, but
I will not let him know that it is a real farewell. And I want you to
stay here, Marianne."
His grandmother nodded. "It will be better all around, Marianne."
"But I want to go," persisted the girl.
"You will remain," said her grandmother, drawing herself up to her
fullest height, and speaking in the voice that Marianne had learned as
a little child to obey. There was no appeal when grand'mère spoke in
that way, and the girl yielded, turning away with tears in her eyes to
enter the house. She sat down by the loom which Victorine had left, and
idly fingered the linen threads. She was hurt and indignant at Royal's
attitude, and half resentful at her grandmother's authoritative manner.
"I've a mind to go, after all," she murmured.
"You wouldn't do that," said a voice at the vine-covered window.
Marianne started. "Victor!" she exclaimed. "You heard it all?"
"Yes, and you would not make it harder for your mother and father."
"No, of course not; but how could I?"
"By that telltale face of yours, which cannot hide a secret. Your
father would be sure to suspect something unusual; then your sense
of loyalty would make it hard for you not to tell him he had one of
Brock's soldiers under his roof, and it would be hard for him to have
to give up that soldier to the authorities."
"Oh!" Marianne's eyes grew big. "Would all that happen? Would he have
to give him up?"
"He might consider it his duty."
"How dreadful! but Roy is not a Britisher."
"He is the same thing in the eyes of the Americans."
Marianne sighed and repeated: "How dreadful! I wish Royal had sense
enough to stay at home and let the real Britishers fight their own
battles."
"If your father goes, you and your mother will come here?" Victor spoke
with more than indifferent curiosity.
"I don't know. It will be as mother and father say, of course; and--oh,
Victor, is it really getting dangerous to cross the river? Will it make
any difference which side one is on?"
"Yes, I suppose so. This will be the enemy's country; it is so even
now; and one must be known to be a non-combatant to get over."
"O dear! O dear! what a mess it all is! I don't like it at all." She
arose and began to pace the room. Victor, leaning on the window-sill,
watched her.
Presently she came back to the window. "Has Royal gone?"
"I believe so. Your grandmother and Victorine are coming in."
Marianne scrambled over the window-sill. "I want to get out of this
enemy's country," she explained, half laughing. "I am afraid I shall
be captured. I am going to hide, and then grand'mère will be sorry she
told me I must stay."
"Where are you going to hide?" Victor asked, smiling.
"It wouldn't be hiding if I told; and if you dare to watch me, I'll
never forgive you. I won't speak to you for a week if you say a word
about it; you must just say that you don't know where I am. Promise."
"What will you give me if I promise?"
"I'm sure I don't know. What do you want?"
"A kiss will do."
"That's easy enough given; yet what have you done with all those I have
been giving you ever since I was a baby?"
"I have them all, and I will give them back to you whenever you say so."
Marianne laughed. "You silly old Victor; if you are so ready to return
what I give you, I'll give you no more. You'll have to promise anyhow,
or I'll never, never give you one more. I'm getting too big to kiss,
anyhow, even if I am not as tall as you."
"You're only a foolish little girl still," returned Victor, teasingly;
"and I'm your uncle, so you must obey me."
"I never did, and I'm not going to begin now, at my age. Besides, it
is different from what it would be if you were really my uncle; then
perhaps I would obey you. I am glad you are not."
"So am I, monstrously glad."
"You unkind creature! My uncle, Tom Reyburn, adores me."
"I am willing he should, but that is not saying that I--"
"What? That you do or you don't?"
"Why didn't you wait for me to finish? You have broken the thread of my
speech now, and I cannot tell what I meant to say."
Marianne gave her shoulders a shrug and made a face at him. "Stay right
here for five minutes," she commanded. "Don't dare to move or you'll be
sorry." She gave one look back to see if he intended to do as she had
ordered, and then ran off, not pausing till she had reached the river.
She was in time to see her brother's canoe half over, but she had no
intention of following him; though she unfastened a little boat from
where it was tied, and, getting in, was soon paddling up-stream.
It was nearly dark when she reappeared at her grandmother's, looking
half ashamed and half defiant.
"Have you been over to your home?" asked Victorine, quickly.
"No, I have not," replied Marianne, nonchalantly, "I have simply
been entertaining myself as I could. I have been where I was neither
scolded, starved, nor frowned upon."
"You are a saucy girl," said her grandmother. "You ought to have known
that we would worry about you."
"You needn't have done that. You know I am perfectly at home anywhere
around here. I know the country thoroughly."
"But you do not know war," returned her grandmother, gravely. "Girls
would best bide at home when battles are in prospect."
"Where were you, Manny?" asked Victorine, coaxingly.
"Oh, up the river a little way. I went to see some of my Indian
friends, if you must know, and I learned several things I did not know
before."
"I hope one of them was obedience to your elders," said grand'mère.
Marianne put her head to one side with an air of giving serious thought
to the remark. "I didn't have to learn that. I never disobey," she
said after a moment.
"You were bidden to remain this side the river."
"Well, grand'mère, and can you say I did not?" laughed Marianne. Then
she went up and kissed her. "I didn't disobey; please say I didn't."
"Nevertheless you might as well have done so for all the peace of
mind I have had over it, as if it were not enough to worry over one
grandchild's impetuosity; but I must needs have another's naughtiness
to keep me in an affright all day."
Marianne was at once penitent. "I was naughty; I confess it, granny,
dear. I wanted to do something to tease you, but I didn't think it
would really put you in an affright. I am sorry. I am, really."
"Then go and call Victor, and come eat your supper," replied her
grandmother, mollified by this contriteness.
Marianne was only too glad to obey. She had expected a scolding and had
escaped better than she had any reason to think she deserved.