immediately at his ease by saying:
"I am a poor solitary being, M. Belmont, severed from all the world, cut
off from the present, living only in the past, and hoping for nothing in
the future except the welfare of this little orphan girl. Nobody cares
for me, and I have cared for nobody, but I am ready to do you any
service in my power. I have learned a secret to-night, and--who
knows?--perhaps life has changed for me during the last hour."
M. Belmont listened attentively to these words. He knew in the presence
of what strange being he was, and that the language which he heard had
perhaps a deeper meaning than appeared upon the surface. But the manner
of Batoche was quiet in its earnestness, his eye had none of its strange
fire, and there was no wild incoherent gesture of his to indicate that
he was speaking outside of his most rational mood. M. Belmont therefore
contented himself with thanking the hermit for his good will. A lull
then ensued in the conversation, when suddenly a low howl was heard in
the forest beyond the high road. By a simultaneous impulse, both men
sprang to their feet and glared at each other. Little Blanche's head had
fallen on her shoulder and she was sweetly sleeping unconscious of all
harm, while Velours, though, she stirred once or twice, would not
abandon her warm bed on her mistress' knees.
"Wolf!" muttered Batoche.
"Wolf!" replied M. Belmont
And the two men fell into each other's embrace.
"We are brothers once more," said M. Belmont, pressing the hand of the
old man, while the tears flowed down his cheeks.
"Yes, and in the holiest of causes," responded Batoche.
"There is no more mystery between us now," resumed M. Belmont. "That
call was for me. I must be away at once. I have delayed too long
already. What I came to you particularly for, Batoche, was this."
And he produced, from the interior of his huge wild-cat overcoat, a
small casket bound with clasps of silver.
"In this small casket, Batoche, are all my family relics and treasures.
For my money I care nothing; for this I care so much that I would give
my life rather than that it should perish. You are the man to hide it
for me. You know of secret places which no mortal can penetrate. I
confide it to you. This has been a dark day for me; what to-morrow has
in store I almost fear to guess. The times will probably go hard with
all of us, including you, Batoche. For ourselves the loss will be
nothing. We are old and useless. But Pauline and little Blanche! They
must survive the ruin. Should I perish, this casket is to go to my
daughter, and should you too come to grief, entrust the secret of its
hiding place to Blanche that she may deliver it. Take it, and good
night. I must go."
Without waiting for a word of reply, M. Belmont embraced the old man on
the cheek, stooped to imprint a kiss on the forehead of the sleeping
child, rushed out of the cabin, threw himself into his cariole and drove
away.
As he disappeared, the same low cry of the wolf was borne plaintively
from the forest.
XI.
THE SPIRIT OF THE WATERFALL.
Batoche gave a single moment to deliberation. He stood silently holding
the latch of the closed door. Then he walked slowly across the room and
entered behind the chintz curtains of the little alcove. What he did
there is unknown, but when he issued forth his face was hard set, every
lineament bearing the stamp of resolution. He took up the silver casket
which had been left in his charge and balanced it in his hands. It was
heavy, but heavier still appeared to him the responsibility which it
entailed, if one might judge from the deep sigh which escaped him. He
glanced at little Blanche, but she still slumbered quietly, with her
head resting on the wall and bent over her shoulder. Velours was more
wakeful, looking furtively at her master from the corners of her eyes
but, knowing his habits well, she did not deem it prudent to stir from
her nest or make any noise.
"There is a place of all others," murmured Batoche, "where I may hide
this beyond all fear of detection. There neither the birds of the air,
nor the beasts of the forests, nor the eye of man will ever discover it.
Blanche only will know, but I will not tell her now. She sleeps and it
is well."
He then placed the casket under his arm and stole out of the house. He
took a footpath leading from his cabin to the Falls, and having reached
their summit, turned to the right, descending from one rock to another,
until he reached the depths of the basin. There he paused a moment,
looking up, as if to ascertain his bearings. An instant later, he had
disappeared under the Fall itself. Grasping the casket more tightly
under his right arm, he used his left to grope his way along the cold,
wet wall of granite. The rocks underneath his feet, some round, some
angular, some flat, were slippery with the ooze of the earth fissures
above and the refluent foam of the cascade. Beside these dangers, there
was the additional peril of darkness, the immense volume of descending
waters effectually curtaining out the light of heaven. When he had
attained about the middle of the distance between the two banks of the
river, Batoche paused and stooped at the mouth of an aperture which
would admit only his bent body. Without faltering, and as if sure of his
locality, he thus entered into the subterranean cavity. He was gone for
fully half an hour, but when he issued forth, he straightened himself up
with ease, and by the assistance of his two hands, rapidly retraced his
steps to the foot of the Falls. There he stopped, looking above and
around him, to assure himself that he was really alone with his secret.
But no, he was not alone. Upon the brow of the waterfall, along the
perilous ridge, where the torrent plunges sheer into the chasm below, a
fragile figure in white glided slowly with face turned towards him. Her
yellow hair, bound with a fillet about her forehead, fell loose upon her
shoulders; there was the light of love in her eyes and a sweet smile
irradiated her lips. Her white hands hung at her sides, and from under
the hem of her flowing garb, a tiny, snowy foot appeared barely touching
the surface of the water.
What was it--a phantom or a reality? A mockery of the vapor and the
night, or a spirit of God truly walking over the waters? We cannot say,
or rather we shall not stop to inquire. Enough that the poor old hermit
saw it, and seeing, was transported into ecstacy. His whole being
appeared transfused into the ethereal vision which shone before him. The
gross outlines of old age and shabby costume were melted into the
beautiful forms of exultation and reverence. Under the misty moon, under
the faint light of the stars, he fell upon his knees, stretched out his
arms, and his face turned eagerly upwards in the absorption of prayer.
"Once more, O Clara! Once more, O my daughter! It is long since I have
seen you, and my days have passed sadly in the lonesomeness of solitude.
You come once more to smile upon your old father, and bring a blessing
upon your orphan child. She sleeps sweetly yonder near the hearth.
Protect her from the harm which I know must be impending and of which
your visitation is the warning. You are the guardian angel of my cabin,
shielding it from all the dangers which have threatened it these many
years. Give me a sign of your assistance and I shall be content."
These were the words the old man uttered as he knelt upon the wet rocks.
Let no one smile as he reads them, for even the ravings of a diseased
brain are beautiful when they have a spiritual significance.
Batoche rose and advanced nearer, with arms still outstretched, as if he
would clasp the Spirit of the Waterfall, and seize the token which he
implored. But in this he was disappointed.
Not a word her lips did utter, and without a start or flutter,
She crossed her hands upon her bosom in the attitude of prayer;
And his stricken soul beguiling with the sweetness of her smiling,
Raised her bright eyes up to heaven, and slowly melted into air.
A thick bank of cloud floated in the sky, veiling the moon. The stars
paled, and it was very dark. The great Falls thundered with a sullen
roar. The wind beat against the forest trees with a moan. The hermit
knelt once more and engaged for a long time in silent prayer; then
rising, returned directly to his hut. He found little Blanche standing
in the middle of the room and in the full light of the hearth, with a
scared look in her brilliant, black eyes. He stooped to kiss her, and
noticing the supper still untasted on the table, said:
"You have eaten nothing, my dear."
"I cannot eat, grandpapa."
"Then go to sleep. It is late."
"I cannot sleep."
The old man understood. The white wings of the mother's spirit had
hovered over the child.
"Then pray," he said.
And dropping on her knees, little Blanche repeated all the prayers which
her godmother, Pauline Belmont, had taught her.
XII.
THREE RIVERS.
Roderick Hardinge's mission to Three Rivers was completely successful.
He found that town and the surrounding country in a state of alarm and
excitement consequent on the march of events in the upper part of the
province. The whole Richelieu peninsula was overrun with Continental
troops and the Montreal district was virtually in their power. The only
chance was that the British army might make a stand at Sorel, which
commanded the Richelieu and the St. Lawrence, at the confluence of these
two rivers, and accordingly around that point concentrated the interest
of the war in the first week of November. It was only natural,
therefore, that the people of Three Rivers should be in a turmoil of
excitement, for if the British were unable to hold their own at Sorel,
the whole of the St. Lawrence would be swept by the Americans, and Three
Rivers would be the very next place which they would occupy.
The arrival of Hardinge was not calculated to allay the excitement, and
the tidings which he brought were spread through the town that very
night notwithstanding all attempts at official secrecy. The Commandant
of the town was considerably alarmed.
"The news from above was bad enough," he said to his principal
secretary, after reading Hardinge's despatches, "but the intelligence
from below is not more reassuring. Three Rivers thus finds itself
between two fires. Montgomery from the west, and now Arnold from the
east. I am very much afraid that we shall have to succumb. And the worst
of all is that being masters of the intervening country, with emissaries
in all the villages along their route, they improve their opportunity
by tampering with our simple-minded farmers. Here in Three Rivers the
disaffection among our own people is already quite marked, and I very
much fear that this new source of danger will only increase it."
The secretary was a very old man who listened attentively to his
superior, biting the feathers of his pen and giving other signs of
nervous excitement.
"I am certain, sir, that you do not exaggerate the situation," he said,
speaking slowly, but with emphasis. "We are on the eve of a crisis, and
I suspect that this time next week the town of Three Rivers will be in
the hands of the Bastonnais. We have no means of resistance, and even if
we had, there is too much dissension in our midst to attempt it with any
hope of success. The next question which arises is whether it were best
for you to provide for your own safety as well as that of the archives
and registers of the town."
"I will do neither," replied the Commandant with dignity. "As for
myself, the duty of my office is to remain in charge until I am
dispossessed by force. Personal violence I do not fear, but should I be
subjected to such, I will endure it. Remember that you and I know what
war is. We both passed through the terrible years of the Conquest. With
respect to the archives, you will see that they are properly guarded,
but they must not be removed. The enemy are not barbarians. On the
contrary it is their policy to conciliate as much as possible. Besides,
they will only pass through Three Rivers."
"They will do more than that, sir. As they intend to march upon Quebec,
around whose walls they will more than probably spend the winter, it
will be a matter of military necessity for them to occupy all the little
towns and villages on their route between Quebec and Montreal, both for
the sake of their commissariat and as recruiting stations."
"Recruiting stations! Don't use those hateful words."
"They are hateful words, sir. But they express a fact which we must
face. Unless we are very careful, this war will be aggravated by the
circumstance of many of our countrymen turning their arms against us."
This conversation which we have briefly introduced in order to afford
the reader glimpses of the situation, relieved as much as possible from
the dryness of mere historical detail, was interrupted by the arrival of
a messenger who delivered a letter to the Governor.
"This is from Sorel," exclaimed the official. "It comes just in time to
throw light upon our affairs and will enable Lieutenant Hardinge, who
returns to-morrow, to bring the latest news to Quebec."
Saying which, he read the despatch.
XIII.
A SUCCESSFUL MISSION.
At ten o'clock, on the morning of the 8th November, the day after his
arrival, Roderick Hardinge presented himself at the residence of the
Commandant of Three Rivers. It was the hour agreed upon between them for
a conference, which circumstance did not prevent the Commandant from
manifesting some surprise on seeing the young officer.
"You surely are not ready to start for Quebec already?" he asked.
"If possible, sir, I should very much like to do so. My horse is not as
fresh as he was yesterday, and he will delay me longer, and besides I
think my presence will be required in Quebec before midnight."
"Very well. Time is pressing, I know. I have jotted down a few lines
giving Lieutenant-Governor Cramahé all the information in my possession.
Here is the letter. But you have doubtless wandered about the town a
little this morning, and thus learned many details which have escaped
me."
"I have heard much more than I am willing to believe," said Hardinge,
with a laugh.
"Tell me briefly what you have heard, and I will correct or confirm it."
"I have heard that Montreal has fallen."
"Not yet. Montgomery is still on the plateau between St. Johns, which he
captured about a week ago, and Montreal, which is his next point of
attack. But there are two obstacles which retard him. The first of these
is the skirmishing of the British troops on his flank, and the second,
the discontent among his own soldiers. Many men from Vermont and New
York have returned home. Montreal is, however, really defenceless, and
cannot hold out more than a few days, especially as Montgomery is
anxious to get there in order to house and clothe his naked, suffering
men. What else have you heard?"
"That the French of Montreal are secretly working for the enemy."
"It is false. Those who told you so are treacherous friends, and we have
several here in Three Rivers. Next?"
"That the Indians under LaCorne have dug up the hatchet which they
buried in the Recollets church, one month ago, and declared against us."
"That would be terrible news if true, but it is not true. My last
courier from the west, who arrived not an hour ago, has particular
information from the Indians about Montreal. They still maintain the
neutrality pledged in the Recollets church. I admit, however, that it
would not take much to turn them into foes, and I know that Montgomery
has already his emissaries among them. But LaCorne is a true Frenchman,
and so long as our own people retain their allegiance, he will maintain
his."
After a pause, Hardinge said:
"I have heard, sir, in addition, that Colonel McLean, at the head of his
Highlanders, has not been able to form a junction with Governor
Carleton, at Longueuil, so as to intercept Montgomery between St. Johns
and Montreal."
"It is true."
"That, owing to the defeat of Governor Carleton at Longueuil by a
Vermont detachment, and the spread of Continental troops through the
Richelieu peninsula, Colonel McLean was forced to fall back
precipitately to Sorel."
"That is unfortunately too true. Do you know more?"
"That is all."
"Then, I will tell you more. McLean will have to retreat from Sorel. My
_coureurs des bois_ and Indian messengers have been arriving in
succession all last night and this morning. They inform me that while
Montgomery is marching on Montreal, a considerable body, under one of
his best officers, is moving towards Sorel, with a view of occupying it,
and thus commanding the river. McLean is in no condition to withstand
this attack. What will hasten his retreat is the news he has by this
time received from Quebec. Last night, so soon as I had read the
despatches which you brought me, I sent him one of my fleetest
messengers with the intelligence. The messenger must have reached Sorel
early this morning. The special messenger to Governor Carleton, with the
same news, will arrive in Montreal about noon to-day."
During the whole of this conversation, Hardinge's face had been grave
and almost downcast. But at the last words of his interlocutor, it
suddenly flushed with an expression of enthusiasm.
"If Colonel McLean and Governor Carleton know exactly how we stand at
Quebec, I am content," he exclaimed.
"Then you may be content. I have stated all this briefly to
Lieutenant-Governor Cramahé, but you may repeat it to him with
emphasis."
"I will not fail."
And after a few parting words, he respectfully took his leave.
When he had cleared the streets of Three Rivers, and was alone upon the
road, he could not restrain a long, loud whoop of exultation.
"The game is up," he cried. "The war is in full blaze. In twenty-four
hours, my name has gone from one end of the province to the other. My
mission has indeed succeeded. How proud little Pauline will be of her
cavalier."
With such thoughts uppermost in his mind, he forgot his bodily fatigue,
and rode back to Quebec with more eagerness than he had gone from it.
XIV.
CROSSING THE BOATS.
Notwithstanding the late hour at which he arrived in Quebec--it was
considerably after midnight--Hardinge repaired directly to the Chateau
St. Louis. There was no bustle in the Castle, but his eye noticed signs
of unusual vigilance. The guard about the entry was a double one, and
many of the lower windows were lighted. It was evident also that his
coming was expected, for, immediately on his dismounting, his horse was
taken charge of by a soldier, and he was at once ushered into the
presence of the Lieutenant-Governor. Cramahé was in the Council chamber,
and several members of the Council were seated around the centre table,
on which was spread a number of papers.
"Welcome back, Lieutenant," said the Governor, with a weary smile and
extending both his hands.
Hardinge bowed and at once delivered his despatches. Cramahé having
rapidly glanced over them, handed them to his colleagues, then turning
to the young officer, said:
"It is clear that the storm which has been gathering over this province
must break upon Quebec. This is the old city of destiny. And we shall
accept our destiny, Lieutenant," said the Governor, rising from the
table, and advancing toward Roderick. "We have not been idle during your
absence. Much can be done in a day and a half, and we have done it. We
have done so much that we can await the arrival of Arnold with some
assurance. I see, however, from the despatches you bring me, that
Colonel McLean is in some danger at Sorel. I had calculated on his
arrival and that of Governor Carleton who knows our exact position by
this time. Should they have come to harm, it will go hard with us, but
we will do our best all the same."
Hardinge replied that he was exceedingly glad to hear this, because the
people of the upper country, through which he had ridden, looked to
Quebec for the ultimate salvation of the province. It was pretty well
understood that the rest of the country was lost.
"Your despatches make that painfully clear," replied the Governor, "and
increase our responsibility. I rely upon you particularly, Lieutenant. I
appreciate so much all that you have done, that I look to you, for
something more. This is our last day, remember."
"Our last day?"
"Yes, Arnold will be at Point Levis to-morrow."
Hardinge could not help smiling.
"You may well smile. Your prediction was correct. I saw Donald last
night. He had been hovering around the enemy all day and informed me
that by direct and forced marches they would surely be at Levis
to-morrow. This being the case, I have a duty for you to perform. But
first, you must take some rest."
"I will be ready for orders at daylight, Your Excellency."
"Ten o'clock will be quite early enough. If we worked during the dark we
should excite too much curiosity. The city is really ignorant of what is
impending, though there are many rumors. The excitement of yesterday has
entirely subsided, and it would be very unwise to renew it. At ten
o'clock therefore, you will quietly cross to the other side of the
river, with two or three of your men, and under pretence of wanting them
for some service or other--I leave you to imagine a plausible
pretext--you will cause every species of embarkation, canoe, skiff,
flat-boat or punt, to be taken over to this side. Not a floating plank
must be left at Levis. If Arnold wants to get over, he will have to hew
his boats out of the trees of the forest. Donald will be there to assist
you, and may possibly be in possession of fresh news."
Roderick thanked His Excellency for entrusting to him this task which he
regarded as the crowning act of the services which he had been rendering
the cause of his country in the past two days. After giving expression
to his obligation, he added:
"The removal of the boats, sir, will give us three or four days of
respite, for I suppose Donald repeated to you that Arnold has no
artillery and must procure boats if he really intends to attack the
city. In the interval, we may look for Colonel McLean and Governor
Carleton."
The Lieutenant-Governor nodded assent, and ordering the subaltern to
report to him when his work was done, he dismissed him to his quarters.
When the appointed hour came, Hardinge set about his business which he
conducted very quietly and judiciously. In those days everybody living
on or near the river owned a boat which was almost the only conveyance
whereby to reach the markets of Quebec. And the inhabitants had learned
from the Indians how to use their craft with skill, so that women were
as expert at the oars as men. Those who resided on the banks of the St.
Lawrence usually kept their boats chained near a little house on the
water's edge, where the women did their washing. The practice is
maintained to this day along many parts of the river which are distant
from large cities and where there are no ferries. Those who lived a
short distance in the interior were in the habit of drawing their boats
a little way into the woods, after they had used them, and leaving them
there in some marked spot till they were required again. It thus
happened that, at the time of which we write, there were perhaps no less
than a thousand boats within a radius of three miles up and down from
Quebec and on both sides of the St. Lawrence. Directly opposite the
city there were probably about a hundred, not belonging only to Point
Levis, for that was then an insignificant village, but mostly to farmers
of the neighboring parishes. The number was important if Arnold had been
able to lay hold of the craft, but it gave Hardinge little or no
difficulty to dispose of. Some thirty or forty of them that were leaky,
or otherwise disabled, he quietly broke up, sending the fragments afloat
down the river. The remainder he despatched over to the other side, at
intervals and from different points, with the aid of a dozen men whom he
had joined to his party. Operating thus from ten in the forenoon till
five in the afternoon, he succeeded in clearing the south shore of all
its boats, without exciting undue attention in the city.
He himself came over with the last canoe, about twenty minutes after the
sun had gone down and just as the twilight was creeping over the waters.
As he neared the landing, he distinguished a female figure walking very
slowly along the bank. He could not be mistaken. It was she. A few
vigorous strokes of the paddle having brought the boat to its
destination, he leaped ashore and approached.
Yes, it was Pauline.
XV.
THE MEETING OF THE LOVERS.
Swift as the lightning's flash are the instincts of love. Before a word
had been spoken and without being able to read her face in the dusk,
Roderick felt in his heart that Pauline's presence there was an omen of
ill. But, like a true man, he smothered the suspicion and spoke out
bravely.
"Why, Pauline, what an agreeable surprise. How did you know that I had
returned? I should have sent you word this morning, but I was so
occupied that it was impossible.... You probably heard it from
others.... But I am so glad to see you.... How is your father?... And
you, darling, I hope you are well...."
To these words of the young officer, broken by breathing spaces so as to
admit of replies, not an answer was returned. But when he had finished,
all that Pauline did was to stretch out her arms and lay her two
ungloved hands in the hands of Hardinge, while her face looked
imploringly into his and she murmured:
"O, Roddy, Roddy!"
They were then standing alone near the water, the two companions of
Roderick having ascended to the city. Gently and silently, he drew the
yielding form toward him until he could scan her features and learn in
those eyes, which he knew so well, the secret of her sorrow. But the
light of the eyes was totally quenched in tears, and the usually mobile
face was veiled by a blank expression of misery. Hardinge was
thunderstruck. All sorts of wild conjectures leaped through his brain.
"Speak to me, Pauline, and tell me what this means," he said
imploringly. "Has anything befallen you? Has any one injured you? Or am
I the cause of this grief?"
Still holding her extended hands clasped in his, and casting her eyes
upon the ground, she replied:
"O, Roddy, you cannot tell, and you will never know how wretched I am,
but it is some comfort that I can speak to you at least once more."
"At least once more!" These words quivered through him, chilling him
from head to foot.
"Pauline, I entreat you, explain the meaning of all this," he exclaimed.
"It means, Roddy, that I who have never disobeyed my father, in my life,
have had the weakness to disobey him this evening. I did not mean to do
it. I did it unconsciously."
"Disobeyed your father?"
"Yes, in seeing you again."
"Surely, you do not mean--?"
"Alas! dearest, I mean that my father has forbidden me ever to meet
you."
Roderick was so astonished that he staggered, and the power of utterance
for a moment was denied him. At last he whispered falteringly:
"Really, there must be some mistake, Pauline."
She shook her head, and looking up at him with a sad smile, replied:
"Ah! I also thought it was a mistake, but, Roddy, it is only too true.
These two days I have brooded over it, and these two nights. To-day,
hearing that you had returned, I could endure the burden no longer. I
thought of writing to you, but I had not the heart to put the terrible
injunction on paper. I have wandered the whole afternoon in the hope of
meeting you. I walked as in a dream, feeling indeed that I was doing
wrong, but with this faint excuse for my disobedience, that, by telling
you of it myself, I would spare you the terrible disgrace of being
driven from my father's door, if you presented yourself there without
knowing his determination. For myself such a misfortune would have been
a death blow."
Every word went burning to Roderick's heart, but he had to master his
own agony a moment, in the effort to support Pauline who had utterly
broken down. When she had recovered sufficiently, he protested tenderly
that there was a mystery in all this which he was unable to fathom, and
entreated her to help him discover it by telling him minutely all that
had happened since they had last met. She gradually summoned strength
and composure enough to do so, relating in detail the scene in Cathedral
square; the arrival of the Lieutenant-Governor's aide-de-camp; his
delivering of a letter to her father; the conversation that took place
between the latter and the officer; her father's visit to the Chateau;
his return therefrom; and, relapsing into tears, she narrated how her
father had found her reading a note from Roderick, and how he had
ordered her to cast it into the fire.
The young officer did not lose the significance of a word. At first the
mystery remained as impenetrable as ever, but after a while a thread of
suspicion wove itself into his brain. He tried to brush it away,
however, by rubbing his hand violently over his brow and eyes. It was
too painful. It was too odious. Finally, he asked:
"Did your father give any reason why you should burn my note?"
"Ah! Roddy, why do you force me to say it? When I told him that you had
sent him your regards, he replied '_he has just sent me his hate!_'"
These words solved the mystery. Hardinge saw through it all, distinctly,
sharply, unmistakeably. He drew a long breath, and his broad chest
swelled with the fresh air from the river.
"Pauline, my dear," he said with that tender authority with which a
strong man can miraculously revive a weak, drooping woman, "Pauline,
take heart. It is all a terrible mistake and it will be explained. Your
father has suspected me of a dreadful thing, but I am innocent and will
convince him of it. I will see him this very night and make him and you
happy."
She raised her hands imploringly.
"Fear nothing, darling, I am as certain as that we are standing here
together, that it is all a fearful misunderstanding, and that I will
make it clear to your father, in a quarter of an hour's conversation."
"But why not tell me, and I will tell him?"
"Because there are several points connected with the matter with which
you are not familiar, and because he might misconstrue both your motives
and mine. No. It is a matter to be settled between man and man. Besides,
it is late and your absence must not be prolonged. I, too, have a
military report to make to the authorities without delay."
Pauline suffered herself to be convinced, and the two, after a few
mutual words of love, which wonderfully recuperated them, bent their way
up Mountain Hill. At the gate they separated.
"I will be with you within two hours," said Hardinge, as he took the
direction of the Chateau.
Pauline stepped into the old church on her way, and in its consecrated
gloom poured out a prayer at the feet of Her whom she worshipped as the
Comforter of the Afflicted. _Consolatrix Afflictorum_.
XVI.
THE ROUND TABLE.
There was high festival at the Chateau St. Louis. Sieur Hector Théophile
Cramahé, Lieutenant-Governor of the Province of Quebec, and Commander of
the Forces in the capital, during the absence of Guy Carleton, Captain
General and Governor Chief, was a man of convivial spirit. He had for
years presided over a choice circle of friends, men of wealth and
standing in the ancient city. They were known as the Barons of the Round
Table. An invariable rule with them was to dine together once a week,
when they would rehearse the memories of old times, and conduct revels
worthy of the famous Intendant Bigot himself. They numbered twenty-four,
and it so happened that in five years not one of them had missed the
hebdomadal banquet--a remarkable circumstance well worthy the attention
of those who study the mathematical curiosities of the chapter of
accidents.
The ninth of November was dinner night. The Lieutenant-Governor had a
moment's hesitation about the propriety of holding it, but all
objections were at once drowned in a flood of valid reasons in favor of
the repast. In the first place, His Excellency had been particularly
burdened with the cares of office during the past two days. That young
fellow Hardinge had kept him as busy as he could be. In the next place,
though the citizens of Quebec really knew nothing of the true state of
affairs, they were making all kinds of conjecture, and if the dinner did
not take place, the gossips would hear of it immediately, and interpret
it as the worst possible sign of impending trouble. In the third place,
if the banquet were postponed for a day or two, that villain Arnold
might turn up and prevent it altogether. Cramahé paced up and down in
his drawing room, rubbing his hands and smiling as these fancies flitted
through his brain. If he had been serious, which he was not, his doubts
would all have been dissipated by the arrival of the Barons almost in a
body. Up they came through the spacious entrance and illuminated hall,
in claret-colored coats, lace bosom-frills and cuffs, velvet breeches,
silken hose, silver-buckled shoes, and powdered wigs, holding their
gold-knobbed canes aslant in their left hand, and waving salutations to
their host with their feathered tricorns. A lordlier band never ascended
the marble stairs of Versailles. Handsome for the most part, exquisite
in manners, worldly in the elevated sense of the term, they represented
a race which had transplanted the courtly refinement of the old world
into the wilds of the new--a race the more interesting that it did not
survive beyond the second generation after the Conquest, and is at
present only seen at glimpses amid the wreck of the ancient seigniorial
families about Quebec.
It was not long before the company was ushered into the banquet hall,
brilliantly lighted with waxen candles. A round table stood in the
centre of the floor charged with a treasure of plate and crystal. There
were twenty-four seats and a guest for every seat. We need not enter
into the details of the entertainment. It is enough to state that it was
literally festive with its succulent viands, its inspiriting wines and
its dazzling cross-fire of wit and anecdote. The present was forgotten,
as it should always be at well-regulated dinners; the future was not
thought of, for the diners were old men; the past was the only thing
which occupied them. They talked of their early loves, they laughed at
their youthful escapades, they sang snatches of old songs, while now and
again the memory of a common sorrow would circulate around the table,
suddenly deadening its uproar into silence, or the remembrance of a
mutual joy would flash merrily before their eyes like the glinting
bubbles of their wine cups.
It was five o'clock when the Barons sat down to their first course. It
was nine when they reached the _gloria_. Just at that supreme moment, a
waiter handed a paper to the Lieutenant-Governor. He opened it, and
having read it, exclaimed:
"Another glass, gentlemen. The rebel Jockey will have to swim the St.
Lawrence on horseback, if he wishes to pay us a visit."
The allusion was readily understood and hailed with a bumper.
The note was from Hardinge who, on arriving at the Chateau and finding
the Lieutenant-Governor engaged with his guests, wrote a line to inform
him that he had safely crossed all the boats. As the matter was not
particularly pressing, he had requested the orderly not to have the note
delivered before nine o'clock.
Scarcely had the noise of the toast subsided, when another waiter
advanced with another note.
"This news will not be as good as the other," whispered one of the
Barons to his neighbor, while the host was reading the despatch.
"And why, pray?"
"Because alternation is the law of life."
The old Baron was not mistaken. M. Cramahé perused the paper with a very
grave face, and folding it slowly, said:
"My friends, I regret that I must leave you for to-night. But first, let
us sip our cognac with the hope that nothing will prevent us from
meeting again next week."
A few moments later the guests had retired.
The message which the Lieutenant-Governor had received was from the
faithful Donald who informed him that the enemy had arrived within five
miles of Point Levis and encamped for the night.
XVII.
A NOBLE REPARATION.
After leaving the Chateau, Roderick Hardinge repaired to his quarters,
where he refreshed himself with a copious supper and then arrayed
himself in civilian evening dress for his visit to M. Belmont. His mind
was intensely occupied with the details of Pauline's conversation at the
waterside, but his love for her was so ardent, and he felt so strong in
the consciousness of duty accomplished, that he experienced no serious
misgivings as to the result of the interview which he was about to hold.
His feeling, however was the reverse of enthusiastic. The more he
reflected on the incident, the more he appreciated both the extent of M.
Belmont's mistake and the profundity of the wound that must rankle in
his proud spirit. He, therefore, resolved to hold himself purely on the
defensive and to enter upon explanations to the simple extent of direct
replies to direct charges. The stake was Pauline herself. On her account
he was prepared to push prudence to the limit of his own humiliation,
and to make every concession that would not directly clash with his
loyalty as a soldier.
Having fully made up his mind on these points, he threw his long
military cloak over his shoulders and issued from the barracks. In less
than ten minutes, he found himself at the door of M. Belmont's
residence. In spite of all his resolution, he paused before the lower
step and looked about him with that vague feeling of relief which a
moment's delay always afford on the threshold of disagreeable
circumstance. The lower portion of the house was silent and dark, but
above, a faint light appeared in the window of Pauline's room. In other
days, that light had been his beacon and guiding star, beckoning him
from every part of the city and attracting him away from the society of
all other friends. In other days, when he approached, that light would
suddenly rise to the ceiling, flash along the stairway and hall, and
meet him glistening at the open door, held high over Pauline's raven
hair. But to-night, he knew that he could expect no such welcome. He
summoned all his courage, however, and struck the hammer. The door was
opened by the maid, but as the vestibule remained in darkness, she did
not recognize him.
"Is M. Belmont at home?" he asked in a low voice.
"Yes, sir, he is."
"Is he visible?"
The maid hesitated a moment, then said falteringly, "I will see, sir,"
and left him standing in the obscure passage.
Without loss of time, M. Belmont himself stepped forward. Bowing stiffly
and looking up in the vain attempt to distinguish the features of his
visitor, he said:
"To whom am I indebted for this call?"
There was a tone of sarcasm in the query which almost threw Roderick off
his guard. He saw that M. Belmont was racked by suspicions and must be
approached with caution. He, therefore, extended his right hand and
said:
"M. Belmont, do you not know me?"
That gentleman did not accept the proferred hand, but stepping backward
and drawing himself up to his full height, exclaimed:
"Lieutenant Hardinge!"
Roderick made a slight inclination, but said nothing. M. Belmont
continued:
"Do you come here, sir, in your military capacity?"
For all answer, Hardinge threw open his long cloak.
"Ah! you are in citizen's dress. Then I cannot understand the object of
your visit. If you came as an officer of the King, the house would be
yours and you could do as you liked. But if you come as a private
citizen, I would remind you that this house is mine and that I will do
as I like. To-night, I would particularly like not to be disturbed."
This was said with a polite sneer which cut the young officer to the
quick, but he contained himself, and began quietly:
"M. Belmont...."
"Sir," was the sharp interruption, "I have given no explanations and
require none. You will oblige me by...," and he finished the sentence
with a wave of his hand toward the door.
Roderick did not stir, but made another attempt to be heard.
"Really, M. Belmont...."
"Sir, do you mean to force yourself upon me? I know that there is a sort
of martial law in the city. You are an officer. You may search my house
from cellar to garret. You may quarter yourself in it. You may detain me
as a prisoner. In fact, you may do whatever you please. If such is your
intention, say so, and I will not resist. But if such is not your
intention, I stand by my right of inviolability. Your boast is that
every British subject's house is his own castle. My desire is to
maintain this privilege in the present instance."
At this third summons of ejection, Hardinge's equanimity was completely
shaken, and he was about to turn on his heel when, on looking up, his
eye caught the hem of a white dress fluttering at the head of the stair.
The sight suddenly altered his determination. Pauline was there
listening to the interview upon which the future of both depended, and
her presence was omnipotent to nerve his courage, as well as to inspire
him with the means of successfully extricating himself from his
difficult position. Roderick at once resolved to change his tactics.
Drawing his cloak tightly across his chest and flinging the border of
the cape over his right shoulder, in the manner of a man who has come to
a decision, he said calmly:
"M. Belmont, I cannot be treated thus. I _must_ be heard."
These words were slightly emphasized, but without bluster or defiance,
and they had a visible effect on the listener, for he immediately folded
his arms as if to listen. Hardinge continued:
"It is true, sir, that I came to your house as a private citizen and as
a presumed old friend of your family."
M. Belmont uttered a moan and made a gesture of deprecation.
"But since it is plain that my presence in that capacity is distasteful,
I will add now that I am also here in my quality as a soldier. The
object of my visit is really a military one, and as such I beg you to
hear me."
"Why did you not say so at first?" exclaimed M. Belmont with a bitter
laugh. "Mr. Hardinge I do not know. Lieutenant Hardinge I cannot choose
but hear. Lieutenant, please step into my parlor."
Lights were immediately brought into that apartment and the two took
their stand before the fire-place, Hardinge having declined a seat.
Glancing at M. Belmont, Roderick was shocked at the change that had come
upon him within three days. He seemed like another man, his features
being pinched, his eyes sunken, and his manner quick and nervous. The
normal calm of his demeanor was gone, and his stately courtesy was
replaced by a restless petulance of hands. He stood uneasily near the
mantel waiting for the young officer to speak. Hardinge at length said:
"M. Belmont, this interview shall be brief, because it is painful to
both of us. Indeed, so far as I am concerned, there is only one word to
say, and it is this--that, although I have had some important military
duties to perform in the last few days, not one of these was or could be
directed against you."
M. Belmont looked dubiously at Hardinge and shook his head, but answered
nothing. Roderick bit his lip and resumed:
"The statement that I make, sir, though brief, covers the whole ground
of your suspicions and accusations. I know what these are and hence my
statement is very deliberate. I ask you to accept it as my complete
defence."
M. Belmont looked into the fire and still kept silent.
"Must I construe your silence as incredulity, sir? If so, I will
instantly leave your house, nevermore to enter it. But before taking
what to me will be a fatal step, I must observe that I had never
believed that a perfect French gentleman like you, M. Belmont, would
doubt the faith of a British officer like me, and my distress will be
intensified by the reflection that your daughter, who formerly favored
me with her esteem, will hereafter see in me only the brand of dishonor
stamped upon my character by her own father. For her sake I will say no
more, but take my departure at once."
At these words there were heard the rustling of a dress and suppressed
sobs outside the parlor door. Both the men noticed the sounds and
instinctively looked at each other. The eyes of Hardinge were suffused
with tears, while those of M. Belmont mellowed with an expression of
solemn pity.
"Stay, Lieutenant," he said in a low voice. "It strikes me all at once
that my silence may possibly be unjust. If I thought your statement
embraced all the circumstances of the case, I should not hesitate to
accept it, but I fear that you do not know how far my grievances
extend."
"I am certain that I know all," said Hardinge in a significant tone,
which was not lost upon his interlocutor, who immediately subjoined:
"This can be easily ascertained if you will answer me a few questions.
You called upon Lieutenant-Governor Cramahé early on the morning of the
seventh?"
"I did so."
"You delivered to him a parcel of letters purporting to have come from
Colonel Arnold, the commander of the Bastonnais?"
"Yes, sir."
"Some of those letters were addressed to citizens of Quebec?"
"They were."
"You know the names of those citizens?"
"I do not."
"Did not the Lieutenant-Governor open the letters before you."
"He did."
"And read them?"
"Yes, and read them."
M. Belmont's lip curled in scorn and his eyes darted fire at Hardinge,
who responded with a smile:
"The Lieutenant-Governor opened and read the letters in my presence and,
after reading, made his comments aloud, but in no instance did he reveal
the name of the persons to whom the letters were addressed, so that I
am, to this moment, in profound ignorance of them. Except by inference
from what has occurred between us, I should not know that one of those
letters was addressed to you, and, indeed, as yet I have no positive
proof that such was the case."
"Such is the case," cried M. Belmont in a voice of thunder. "I received
such a letter and it has brought me into trouble. I was summoned to the
Chateau in the face of the whole city. I have been suspected and
threatened, and the consequence is that I have been driven to...."
"Stop, M. Belmont," said Hardinge quietly, and interposing his hand.
"Tell me nothing of your plans. I do not want to know them. I will do my
duty to my King and Country. I believe you will do yours, but should
your principles lead you to another course, I prefer to ignore the fact,
and thus avoid becoming your enemy."
"You are not and will not be my enemy," exclaimed M. Belmont, clasping
the extended hand of Hardinge in both of his, and then embracing him on
the cheek. "I owe you a full apology. My suspicions were cruelly
unjust, but you have dispelled them. My treatment of you this evening
was outrageous, and I beg you to pardon me. Your explanations are
thoroughly satisfactory. You did your duty as a soldier in delivering
those letters to the Lieutenant-Governor, and even if you had known to
whom they were addressed, your obligation would have been no less."
"I did not need to be told my duty," said Hardinge with just a shade of
haughtiness, which he immediately qualified by adding, "but I am
flattered to know that I have the approval of one who has always
appeared to me a model of honor."
"You have my unqualified approval, Lieutenant. Although you were the
indirect instrument of the crisis through which I am passing, I am
satisfied that you are clear of the imputation of traitor and spy to me
which I had charged upon you in my indignation and despair. We are on
the eve of important events. Within a few days war with all its
anxieties and horrors will be upon us. You have high duties to perform
both as a citizen and a soldier. Perform them with all the energy of
your nature. It is your sacred duty. I will watch your course with the
deepest interest. Your successes will be a source of personal pleasure
to me, and I sincerely trust that no harm will befall you."
Roderick was quite overcome by this cordial speech, which was to him
more than a reparation for all he had endured during the interview. He
rejoiced, too, at his own perspicacity in having so accurately divined
the real cause of M. Belmont's misunderstanding. It was lamentable,
indeed, that Arnold's letters which he had delivered to the
Lieutenant-Governor should have implicated M. Belmont--if they did
implicate him, a fact of which he had yet no proof, and which he still
refused to credit--but they had been the means of awakening the
authorities to a sense of the peril with which Quebec was threatened,
and that was some compensation for what he had suffered. But there was,
however, another compensation for which he longed, notwithstanding that
the hour was considerably advanced and he had to return to his quarters.
Approaching closer to M. Belmont, with a pleasantly malicious smile on
his lips, he said:
"I have to thank you, sir, for the kind words which you have spoken. I
regard them in the light of the reparation which I knew you would not
withhold so soon as you became acquainted with the facts, but you will
excuse me for saying that there is just one little thing wanting to make
the reparation complete."
M. Belmont looked up in some surprise, but when he saw the expression on
Roderick's face, he comprehended the allusion at once, and replied with
genuine French good-humor and vivacity:
"Oh, of course, there is a woman in the case. You want to be
rehabilitated in the eyes of Pauline as well. It is only just, and it
shall be done. I told her all my suspicions against you, and repeated
all my charges to her. And, by the way, that reminds me that I never
told anybody else about the matter. How, then, pray, did it come to your
ears? You must have known of it before you came here to-night."
"I did, sir, and came expressly on that account."
"Who in the world could have told you?"
Hardinge broke out into a hearty laugh. The laugh was re-echoed by a
silvery voice in the passage.
"Treason is indeed rampant," roared out M. Belmont, cheerily. "A man's
worst enemies are those of his own household." Saying which, he advanced
rapidly to the door and opened it wide. Pauline stood before him, her
eyes swimming in tears, but with a smile of ineffable joy playing on her
white lips.
"Don't embrace me, don't speak to me," said M. Belmont, with mock
gravity. "I will hear no explanations. Settle the matter with this
gentleman here. If he forgives you, as he has forgiven your father, then
I will see what I can do for you."
He went out of the room, leaving Pauline and Roderick together for a
full quarter of an hour. There is no need to say that the twain laughed
and wept in turns over their victory.
When M. Belmont returned from his cellar, with a choice bottle of old
Burgundy, the reconciliation was complete, and that night the happiest
hearts in Quebec were those of Roderick Hardinge and Pauline Belmont. M.
Belmont was content at having done a good deed, but he was not really
happy. Why, the sequel will tell.
XVIII.
RODERICK HARDINGE.
It was a little before nine o'clock when Hardinge entered his quarters
at the barracks. He had passed through an eventful day, and he felt
weary. The interview which he had just held with M. Belmont was,
however, so absolutely the object of his pre-occupation, that he
appeared in nowise disposed to seek the rest required by his exhausted
physical powers. Mechanically divesting himself of his civilian costume
and assuming the undress uniform of his rank, he moved absently about
his little room, muttering to himself, humming fragments of song, and
occasionally breaking out into low laughter. Arnold and his rebel crew
were clean forgotten, the military events through which he had passed,
during the preceding few days, were blotted from his mind, and the
coming and going of the troops in the courtyard below completely escaped
his attention. It has been said, and with easily assignable cause, that
the soldier on the eve of battle is more sensitive to the softer
passions of the heart and the oblivion of all else which these passions
induce, than any other mortal. Such was the case with Roderick on this
evening. He keenly appreciated the extent of the dangers which he had
experienced, and the importance of the victory which he had won within
the last hour. What to him would have been the glory of arms, the fame
of patriotic service, if he had lost Pauline? And--if the whole truth
must be told--would the country itself have been worth saving without
her?
Roderick Hardinge was seven and twenty years of age. He was a Scotchman
by birth, but the best part of his life had been spent in Canada. His
father was an officer in Fraser's famous Highland regiment, whose
history is so intimately associated with the conquest of New France.
After the battle of the Plains of Abraham, in which it took a leading
part, his regiment was quartered in the city of Quebec for some time,
and when it finally disbanded, most of its members, officers as well as
men, settled in the country, having obtained from the Imperial
Government large tracts of land in the Gulf region. This colony has made
its mark in the history of Canada, and to the present day the Scotch
families of Murray Bay rank among the most distinguished in the public
annals of the Province. While retaining many of the best characteristics
of their origin, they have thoroughly identified themselves with their
new home, and by intermarriage with the French natives, have almost
completely lost the use of the English language.
Roderick's father imitated the example of many of his brother officers,
and in the autumn of 1760, a few weeks after the capitulation of
Vaudreuil at Montreal, and the definitive establishment of British power
in Canada, he resigned his position in the army, and settled on a fine
domain in Montmagny, a short distance from Quebec, on the south shore of
the St. Lawrence. Thither he summoned his family from Scotland.
Roderick, his only son, was twelve years of age when he landed in
Canada, and thus grew up as a child of the soil. He never left the
country afterwards, and, on the death of his parents, he succeeded to
the paternal estates which he greatly improved, and cultivated with
considerable success. Much of his leisure time was spent in the city of
Quebec where his position, wealth and accomplishments procured him
admission into the most select circles of the small but exclusive
capital. From the circumstances of the times, the French language was
almost more familiar to him than the English, and the reader will have
readily understood that most of the conversations, which we have
represented him as holding, were carried on in that language. This was
more particularly the case in his intercourse with Pauline and her
father, neither of whom spoke a word of English.
When the first news of the invasion of Canada by the Continentals
reached his ears, he immediately abandoned his estates to the care of
his old friend Donald, and buckling on his father's sword, rode in haste
to Quebec, and enrolled himself in the service. The remnants of Fraser's
Highlanders, with other recruits, were formed into a regiment, called
the Royal Emigrants, under Colonel Allan McLean, and we should naturally
have expected that Roderick would have joined it, but for some reason or
other, he did not do so. He took a regular commission in a regiment of
Quebec militia, commanded by Colonel Caldwell. It was in this capacity
that he performed the notable services which we have recorded in the
preceding chapters.
Roderick Hardinge was tall, robust, athletic and active. He was very
fond of field sports. He had made many a tramp on snow-shoes with the
_coureurs des bois_ far into the heart of the wilderness. He had often
wandered for months with some of the young Hurons of Lorette in quest of
the deer and the bison. He was a magnificent horseman, as his ride to
Three Rivers has proven.
His education had not been neglected, and his good native parts were
well cultivated by the instruction of his father and the best tuition
which the learned French ecclesiastics of Quebec could impart. He was
very fair complexioned, with flossy hair and flaxen beard. As man is
usually ruled by contrast, this was probably the reason why he loved the
dark-tressed, brown-eyed Pauline. He was ten years her senior, and had
known her from her childhood, but his florid air and perfect health made
him look much younger, and, as the two walked together, there appeared
no undue disparity of age.
Roderick had just fastened the last button of his fatigue jacket when
there was a call at the door, and Donald entered the room. After a few
words of hearty greeting, he informed his master that his reconnoitering
of the rebels was over, and that they would speak for themselves the
next day. He stated that he had just come from the Chateau, where he had
conveyed that intelligence to the Lieutenant-Governor. Hardinge thanked
him for his diligence and fidelity, and as a recompense, in answer to an
inquiry of Donald, ordered him not to return to the farm, but remain in
the city to take part in its defence. While the country was in danger
the Montmagny estate might take care of itself.
XIX.
THE FRIGHTENED DOVES.
Pauline had few or no misgivings. Her little being was all heart, and
her mind could not grasp the significance of the political events which
passed before her eyes, and on which her future more or less depended.
For her, loyalty to France consisted simply in reverence and obedience
towards her father. For her, fealty to the King did not extend much
beyond love for his handsome, manly representative, Roderick Hardinge.
Happy woman that need not walk beyond the beautiful round of the
affections. Noble woman whose heroism is purely of the heart, not of the
head. There are many species of martyrdom, but that of mere love is the
grandest in the concentration of its own singleness.
After Roderick's departure, Pauline felt the need of being alone for a
brief period in order to go over quietly in her own conscience all the
varied pathetic scenes of that evening. It was not a process of
analysis. Her mind was incapable of that. It was merely a quiet
rehearsal of all the facts, that their vividness might be made more
vivid, and their effect brought home more tenderly to her heart. For a
long hour she sat on the foot of her bed, now weeping, now smiling, now
tossing her lovely head backwards, then burying her sweet face in her
hands. At times a shadow would flit over the delicate features, but it
would soon be replaced by a glamor of serenity, until finally her whole
demeanor settled into an air of prayerful content. Her hands joined upon
her knee, her brow was bent, and her lips murmured words of gratitude.
Beautiful Pauline! Sitting there with inclined body, and her whole being
divided between her love on the earth and her duty to heaven, she was
the true type of the loveable woman.
It was eleven o'clock at the small ivory clock over the mantel, when a
scratch was heard at the door. What was Pauline's surprise, on answering
the call, to see little Blanche step into the room.
"Why, my little wood-flower, what could have brought you here to-night?"
she exclaimed.
The child sidled up to her godmother and did not answer at first, but
there was that in her eye which at once led to suspicion that everything
was not right. Her very presence there at such an hour was the
indication of an unusual event, for Pauline knew that Blanche had never
passed a night out of Batoche's cabin.
"Are you alone, my dear?" she asked.
"Oh no, godmother, grandfather is with me."
"Where?"
"Down stairs."
"And is any one with him?"
"Yes, M. Belmont is with him. He came to see M. Belmont."
These words somewhat reassured Pauline. She knew that Batoche seldom, if
ever, came to the city, but probably the circumstances of the time
forced him to do so this night, and he had carried his granddaughter
with him in case he should have to tarry too long. She, therefore,
proceeded to unfasten the child's hood and cloak.
"Come to the fire," she said, "and warm yourself, while I get you some
cakes and sweets from the cup-board."
As she said this, she noticed the same peculiar look in the eyes of the
little girl.
"Tell me, Blanche, what is the matter?" she asked.
"I don't know, godmother, except that I must spend the night with you."
"Spend the night with me? Well, that is right. I will take good care of
you, my dear. But are you sure of what you say? Who told you so?"
"M. Belmont himself."
"My father sent you up to me."
"Yes, and he said I must remain with you until he and grandfather called
for me."
"And they are both downstairs?"
The child's face put on that strange look again, as she answered:
"They were there just now, but--"
A great fear fell on the heart of poor Pauline. She knew instinctively
that something was amiss.
"Come down with me, Blanche," she whispered, taking the child by the
hand and leading her, on tip-toe, to the lower rooms. There was silence
in the passage. The lights in the parlor were extinguished. The sitting
apartment behind was deserted. Her father's cap and great coat were gone
from their hooks in the hall. She went to the maid's room and found the
girl fast asleep, in consequence of which there was no information to be
obtained from that quarter. She went to the front door and looked out
upon the street. She could easily distinguish the footprints of men in
the snow on the steps, and the trace of a carriole's runners describing
a sharp curve from the edge of the sidewalk.
"They are gone," she murmured.
And folding Blanche in her embrace, she returned to her chamber.
"Don't cry, little godmother," said Blanche, throwing her arms around
Pauline's neck. "Grandfather told me he would come for me before
morning."
Just then the muffled tread of soldiers was heard along the street, and
low words of command reached the listening ears of Pauline. She
understood that something momentous was going on. She closed her
shutters tight, drew down the heavy curtains of her windows, mended the
fire on the hearth, and crouching there, on low seats, like two
frightened doves, she and Blanche awaited the coming of the dawn.
XX.
THE SPECTRAL ARMY.
After leaving the banquet hall, the Lieutenant-Governor immediately set
about acting upon the important intelligence which he had received from
Donald. Now that the long suspense was over, and that the threatened
invasion of the Bastonnais had become a reality, he felt himself imbued
with the energy demanded by the occasion. Some of the ancient
chroniclers, Sanguinet more particularly, have accused Mr. Cramahé of
remissness in preparing for the defence of Quebec, but the researches we
have made, in the composition of the present work, convince us that the
charge is only partially true. He acted slowly in the earlier stages of
the campaign because he shared the general disbelief in the seriousness
of the Continental attack. Montgomery's movement from the west he had no
pressing reasons to dread, inasmuch as that officer was confronted in
the Montreal district by the Governor-General and Commander-in-Chief,
Guy Carleton himself. Carleton had nearly emptied Quebec of regular
troops for his army, and as long as he employed them in keeping back
Montgomery, Cramahé had really little or no responsibility to bear.
Arnold's march from the east, through the forests of Maine, was known to
be aimed directly at Quebec, but the Canadians of that day, who
understood all the hardships and perils of winter in the primeval woods,
had no idea that Arnold's column would ever reach its destination. And,
as we shall see, in the next book, when describing the principal
episodes of this heroic march, there was every good reason for the
scepticism.
But when at length, after many contradictory rumors and much false
information which would have bewildered any commander, Cramahé learned
from the intercepted letters of Arnold, and from the volunteer
reconnoitering of such faithful men as Donald, that the Continental army
was really approaching Quebec, it is due to the memory of a worthy
officer, even in these pages of romance, to say that he acted with
judgment and activity in making all the preliminary preparations
necessary to protect Quebec, until the arrival of Governor Carleton, and
reinforcements of regular troops.
After leaving the banquet hall, he put on his uniform, and wrapping
himself closely in his military cloak, he resolved upon making a
personal inspection of all the defensive posts of the city. He first
repaired to the barracks in Cathedral-square, where he had a brief
conference with the principal officers. He next visited every gate and
the approaches to the citadel, where he was pleased to find that the
sentries were unusually alert, and quite alive to the exigencies of the
situation, without precisely knowing what they were. The
Lieutenant-Governor then walked down into the darkness of Lower Town and
wandered a long time in silence along the dusky bank of the St.
Lawrence.
About three o'clock in the morning a sleigh drew up at the door of a
large square house in a retired street. Two men issued from it, one
middle-aged, erect and dressed in rather costly furs; the other old,
thin and arrayed like an Indian hunter, with a large fox-skin cap on his
head. As they stepped across the footpath from the sleigh to the front
steps of the mansion, a tall muffled figure stalked slowly on the other
side of the street.
"It is the Governor," whispered the younger man to his companion. "I
know his stature and carriage! Let us enter."
"I wonder what Belmont is doing out at this unseasonable hour," muttered
the tall man in the folds of his cloak. And he walked on, while the
door of the mansion closed with a thud upon the two sleighmen.
* * * * *
It was five o'clock on the morning of the 10th November, 1775. The first
faint light of the morning was touching the tops of the far mountains.
The air was frosty, with indications of snow.
Two men stood at an angle of the ramparts, on the highest point of the
citadel of Quebec. They were looking eastward.
"See, Lieutenant," said one pointing his gloved hand across the river.
"Ay, there they are, Your Excellency, issuing from the woods and
ascending the hill," replied the other.
"They are _on_ the hill, swarming up in hundreds," rejoined the
Governor.
Cramahé pressed the hand of Hardinge, and the two descended rapidly but
silently into the city. On their way, they heard the confused mutter of
the streets:
"The Bastonnais have come!"
Yes, there they were. Arnold's men stood like a spectral army on the
Heights of Levis.
END OF BOOK THE FIRST.