"Ah, mademoiselle, you are come to tell me of Andre, my brother? You
are more than welcome. And how goes it with Andre and my nephew? Did
he send me a pair of moccasins for my old feet, such as he sent by the
seignior last year?"
She left her work and, still holding my hand, drew me to the little
porch, where we sat down on a bench beneath a mass of wild cucumber
vines.
I kept her hand in mine--that old hand, which for nearly one hundred
years had wrought and toiled, dug, planted, watered, hoed, milked the
cow, cut the wood, woven cloth and carpets, harvested her tobacco!
That prehensile thing which, in its youth, clasped the hand of her
"mate" at the altar, cooked for him, sewed for him, piecing together
the skins from the wilds, when he was at home from the trappers'
haunts; and, meanwhile, it had found time to rock the cradle for her
seven children and sew the shrouds for six of them!
To me it was a marvellous thing--that hand!
I looked at it, while I was trying to find words to tell her of Andre.
It was thin to emaciation, misshapen from hard work--a frail mechanism,
but still powerful because of the life-blood coursing within it. The
dark blue veins were veritable bas-reliefs.
"Dear Mere Guillardeau, we have had such a lovely summer with
Andre--dear old Andre, so young in heart."
"It was ever like that. Is he well, my brother?"
"I hope it may be well with him soon."
The old woman looked at me earnestly with her small deep-set eyes,
faded with having looked so long on the sunshine and shadows of life.
"He is dead, my brother?"
"No, not yet. Mr. Ewart wanted me to tell you just as it is." I gave
her the details.
She sat quietly, her hand still in mine. Into her faded eyes there
crept a shadow of some memory.
"I have not seen him for many years, mademoiselle."
"Was that when he made his voyage to Chicago?"
"Yes. On his return he spent the winter with me. We had comfort
together. We could talk of old times; we knew Canada when we were
young--that was long ago." She sat quiet, thoughtful. Then she spoke
again.
"You will tell me when the seignior sends word?"
"Oh, yes; at once."
"I will pray for him. I will have masses said for his soul."
"Your grandfather was born in the seigniory of Lamoral, so Andre said."
"Yes; and my father, and I, and my brothers and sisters. My
grandfather's seignior was French. Afterwards, the English seigniors
had no love for the place. It is our seignior, the Canadian, who cares
for it. He carries it on his heart--and us, too, mademoiselle. You
know this land is mine now?"
"Yes; I am so glad for you. It should have been yours long ago."
"Yes, it is mine now for a little while; afterwards it will be my
daughter's."
"Do you know the old manor well? Have you ever lived there?"
"Yes, I have lived at the manor house."
"When was that, mother?"
"Let me think.--It was ten years, counting by seedtime and harvest,
before Andre spent that winter with me. It was a hard one; he helped
me as a brother should. It was then he was shriven. I was in one of
the pews in our church, waiting my turn. There were hundreds come for
the shriving. The priest stood in the aisle, the great middle aisle,
and all the time there were two kneeling besides him, one confessing,
the other waiting his turn."
"Did they have no confessional?"
"We confessed in the aisle, mademoiselle, before all the world,--we all
knew we were sinners,--and the crowd was so great. Andre, too, I saw
by the side of the priest, whispering in his ear."
"Andre! What could his simple life show for sin?"
"He is human like the rest of us, mademoiselle."
She took her pipe from her pocket. It reminded me of Andre. I filled
and lighted it for her, and placed it between her still strong teeth.
"Andre's was the sin of silence, as was mine. I, too, confessed it."
I wondered if she would tell me further. I waited in suspense for her
next words.
"You ask me have I ever lived at the manor? I lived there one
winter--a cruel winter even for us Canadians. It is so long ago, I may
speak of it now. My brother will never speak of it more. It eases me
to speak of it. It was Martinmas when an Englishman came to this very
door. It was after dark. He said he had permission from the English
seignior, who was in England, to stay in the manor as long as he would.
The agent of the estate was with him--a hard man. He said it was all
right, and showed me a paper which I could not read. My daughter read
for me. It was signed by the English seignior; he, too, was a Ewart.
The English gentleman asked me if I would come and keep the house for
him and his wife; he was here for her health. Would I stay till spring?
"He offered me twenty _pieces_ the month, mademoiselle--twenty
_pieces_! That meant ease of mind for me and my daughter. I was not
to leave the manor to go home, he said. I must stay there on account
of his wife.
"I took time to think; but the twenty _pieces_, mademoiselle! My
daughter said, 'Go; it will keep us for three years.'
"I went because I was paid twenty _pieces_ the month--but,
mademoiselle, I would have stayed and worked for her for nothing, for
love of her alone. Mademoiselle, look in your mirror when you are at
home. You will see her again--so much you are like her; but not in
your ways. You remember the first time you came to my daughter to buy
the carpets? I said to myself then, 'I have lived to see her again.'"
"How long ago was this, Mere Guillardeau?"
"I have said ten years, counting by seedtime and harvest, before Andre
made that voyage into the west. I loved her--and my brother loved her.
She made sunshine in the manor. It was not as it is now; there was
little to do with. She made light of everything; made the best of
everything. She had a cow, for the warm milk; and hens, for the
new-laid eggs--all nourishing and good, mademoiselle. I milked the cow
and tended to everything. I was strong. I did all the work. The
agent bought provisions in the village and brought them to us. They
came, also, from Montreal. The house was full of sunshine, the
sunshine of love, mademoiselle.
"They were not married--but how they loved each other! I carried their
sin on my soul. I never confessed till Andre, too, confessed. We
confessed the same sin--the sin of silence.
"In the spring I sent them to Andre, into the wilderness of the
northern rivers. My brother loved her too, my poor brother.
"It is long past, mademoiselle, but I can not forget."
"And the present seignior never knew of this?"
"The present seignior? Oh, no; he did not own Lamoral then.
Sometimes, it is true, I think I see in him a look of that other; but
it is not he. I never knew their names.
"After they left, that agent took that cow from me, mademoiselle, a
fine cow she was. He is dead these many years, but he was a hard man;
I have not forgotten or forgiven, mademoiselle." She crossed herself.
"The cow was mine; he took her, mademoiselle; a fine cow with a bag as
pink as thorn blossoms, and seven quarts to the milking--I cannot
forget."
I rose to go, for the old woman threatened to become garrulous.
Moreover, I had heard enough. The Doctor was mistaken. I had learned
what I came to find out. I felt fortified to speak with Cale.
"Goodby, Mere Guillardeau."
"Goodby, mademoiselle. You will come again and tell me of my brother?"
"Yes; so soon as I have any word."
She stood in the porch to watch me down the road. I went on to the
village. As I neared the steamboat landing, I noticed a large river
sloop, tacking in the light breeze to the bank. I stopped to watch it.
Soon it was abreast of me. I walked rapidly on to keep up with it. It
came to anchor nearly opposite the cabaret. Its white hull was filled
with apples. There must have been a ton or two--early harvest apples,
red, yellow, and green; Astrachan, Porters and early Pippins.
Surely this was the apple-boat which Jamie delighted in and described
with such enthusiasm! I walked to the bank. A low trestle, laid in a
width of two boards, gave passage to the boat. What a picture it made!
The low green bank, the white sloop, the blue lively waters of the St.
Lawrence, and, beyond, the islands stacked with the second cutting of
hay!
I went on board; bought a few apples; promised to come for a bushel or
two the next day, and asked a few questions of the owner and his wife,
French both of them.
"How long do you stay?"
"Only a week. This cargo is perishable. We sell here, then we go back
for the harvest of winter apples. We come again in October."
She showed me with pride her cabin and the bunk under the companionway,
wherein lay her eighteen-months-old baby. "We could not leave him,"
she said, wiping a bead of perspiration from his forehead. "The others
are at home; they take care of themselves."
The little cabin was absolutely neat.
I bade her goodby, made a few purchases in the village, and walked back
to Lamoral with a lighter heart than I had carried since I left camp.
The old place looked so beautiful in the mellow September sunlight.
I felt less burdened, less restless, less desperate, less doubtful of
the future, after that walk. But I determined to wait a few days
before speaking to Cale. I wanted to go over the whole matter, collate
facts, sort evidence, before speaking.
We had five pleasant days together, Cale and I. We grew confidential,
as became relations. We talked of the Macleods; Cale wagered the
Doctor would marry Mrs. Macleod in the end. At which I sniffed, and
pretended to think he would lose his wager, but deep down in my
heart--well, I had my doubts.
I told him of Andre, of the Doctor's enjoyment of camp life. He did
not ask me about Mr. Ewart directly, and I volunteered no information,
except that we might expect a telegram from him any day.
On the sixth day word came:
"Andre has crossed the last portage; return Wednesday."
He would be here in five days! My first thought was of him, not of
Andre.
O Andre, dear old guide and voyageur! You were only a withered leaf
falling from the great Ygdrasil Tree of Empire--falling there in the
wilds of the Upper Saguenay. But it is by such as you--and succeeding
generations of millions of such--that the great Tree of Empire has
thriven, thrives, and still keeps in abundant foliage!