play. At first there were slow broad notes drawn out with a long bow,
then a succession of rapid sounds rippling over one another. The
alternation was natural and pleasing, but as he warmed to his work, the
old musician indulged in a revelry of sounds--the crash of the tempest,
the murmur of the breeze, the sparkling clatter of rain drops, the
monotone of lapsing water. The left hand would lie immoveable on the
neck, and a grand unison issued from the strings like a solemn warning;
then the fingers would dance backwards and forwards to the bridge, and
the chords vibrated in a series of short, sharp echoes like the petulant
cries of children. A number of ravishing melodies glided and wove into
each other like the flowers of a nosegay, producing a harmonious whole
of charming effect, and sweetening the very atmosphere in which they
palpitated. Then the perverse old man would shatter them all by one fell
sweep of his arm, causing a terrific discord that almost made his cabin
lurch from its seat. For one full hour, standing there in the middle of
the room, with the flickering light of the fire falling upon his face,
Batoche played on without any notable interval of rest. At the end of
that time he stopped, tightened his keys, swung his bow-arm in a circle
two or three times as if to distend his muscles, and then attacked the
single E string. It was there that he expected the secret which he
sought. He rounded his shoulders, bent his ear close to the board,
peered with his grey eyes into the serpentine fissures of the
instrument, pressed his left-hand fingers nervously up and down, while
his bow caressed the string in an infinite series of mysterious
evolutions. The music produced was weird and preternatural. The demon
that lay crouched in the body of the instrument was speaking to Batoche.
Now loud as an explosion, then soft as a whisper; now shrill as the
scream of a night bird, then sweet as the breath of an infant, the
violin uttered its varied and magical language, responsive to the touch
of the wizard. There were moments when the air throbbed and the room
rocked with the sound, and other moments when the music was all absorbed
in the soul of the performer. Finally the old man drew himself up, threw
his head backward, ran his fingers raspingly up towards the bridge and
made a desperate plunge with his bow. A loud snap was heard like the
report of a pistol. The string had broken. Batoche quietly lowered the
instrument and looked around him. Little Blanche was sitting up in the
bed gazing about with wide vacant eyes. The black cat stood glaring on
the hearth with bristling fur and back rounded into a semi-circle.
"Good!" muttered Batoche, as he walked to the alcove and laid by his
violin. Then going as quietly to the door, he opened it wide. Barbin and
two other men, closely wrapped in hoods, stood before him.
"Come in," said Batoche, "I expected you."
There was no agitation or eccentricity in his manner, but his features
were pinched, and his grey eyes shed a sombre light upon the deep
shadows of their cavities.
"We have come for you, Batoche," said Barbin.
"I knew it."
"Are you ready?"
"I am ready."
And he stepped forward to take his old carbine from its hooks.
"No gun," said Barbin, laying his hand upon the old man's arm. "You are
not to attack, nor will you be attacked."
"Ah! I see," muttered Batoche, throwing his wild-cat great coat over his
shoulders.
"You know the news?"
"I know there is some news."
"The day of deliverance has come."
"At last!" exclaimed the hermit, raising his eyes to the ceiling.
"The Bastonnais have surrounded the city."
"And will the Wolves be trapped?" asked Batoche in a voice of thunder.
"Ha! ha! I heard it all in the song of my old violin. I heard the roar
of their march through the forest; their shout of triumph when they
reached the Heights of Levis, and first saw the rock of the citadel;
the splash of their oars in crossing the river; the deep murmur of their
columns forming on the Plains of Abraham. Thus far have they come, have
they not?"
"Yes, thus far," responded the three men together, amazed at the
accuracy of the information which they knew that Batoche had not
obtained that day from any human lip.
"But they will go farther," resumed the hermit, "because I have heard
more. I have heard the boom of cannon, the rattle of musketry, the hiss
of rockets, the wail of the wounded, the shriek of the dying, the
malediction over the dead. Then a long interval, and after it, I have
heard the crackling of flames, the cry of the hungry, the moan of those
who suffered, the lamentation of the sick, and the loud, terrible voice
of insurrection. And all this in the camp of our friends, while within
the city, where the Wolves are gathered, I have heard the clink of
glasses, the song of revelry, the shout of defiance, the threat against
treason,--mark the word, my friends. Are we traitors, you and I, because
we love our old motherland too well, and hate the Wolves that have
devoured our inheritance? Yes, I repeat, I have heard to-night the shout
of defiance, the threat against treason, the mocking laugh against
weakness, and the deep growl of inebriate repletion. Another interval
and then the catastrophe. I heard the soft voice of the night, the fall
of the snow, the muffled tread of advancing regiments, the low word of
command,--then all at once a thunderous explosion of cannon,--and,
finally, silence, defeat and death."
Barbin and his two companions stood listening to the old man in rapt
wonder. To them he appeared like a prophet, as he unfolded before their
eyes the vision of war and desolation which the genius of music had
evoked for him. And when he had concluded, they looked at each other, as
doubtful of what to say. Batoche added:
"I fear that things will not turn out as favorably as we could wish. We
may hurt, but shall not succeed in destroying the pack of wolves.
However, we must do our best."
The men did not reply, but abruptly changed the current of the old
hermit's thoughts by walking towards the door, and urging him to follow
them.
"It is late," said Barbin. "We have work to do and must hurry."
The four then walked out of the house, leaving little Blanche and
Velours to the calm slumbers which they had resumed, so soon as the
voice of the violin was hushed.
X.
BLOOD THICKER THAN WATER.
Batoche and his companions plunged into the forest. On the way, the
object of the expedition was fully explained to the old man. He was
expected to have an interview that night with some officer of the
Continental army for the purpose of organizing a system of action
between them and the malcontents of the environs of Quebec. These
malcontents were of various degrees of earnestness, courage and
activity. Some had boasted a great deal of what they would do when the
Americans came, but when the Americans did come, and the loyalist troops
showed a determined front of opposition, they quietly slunk into the
background or even betrayed their former professions. Others of these
malcontents confined themselves to secret action, such as furnishing
information of what was going on within the city, harboring those who
were tracked for treason, or affording supplies of food and ammunition
to such of their friends as needed them for use. Finally, there were a
determined few, chiefly old soldiers or the sons of old soldiers of
Montcalm and Lévis, who, having never become reconciled to their English
masters, in the sixteen years which had elapsed since the Conquest,
hailed the appearance of the Americans as the prelude of deliverance,
and openly raised the standard of revolt. Of these there were again two
classes. One formed into a duly equipped battalion which joined the army
of Arnold and took part in all the subsequent events of the siege. The
second class consisted of farmers around Quebec, who, not being able to
quit their families and perform regular military service, engaged in a
species of guerilla warfare which was both effective and romantic.
Among these were ranged Barbin and his companions. Among them Batoche
was called to take a position. His well-known skill with the carbine,
his rare knowledge of all the woods for miles in circumference, his
remarkable powers of endurance, his reckless bravery and fertility of
expedient in the midst of most critical danger, all fitted him for the
trying events which circumstances thrust upon him and his friends. But
the oddities of his mode of life, the eccentricities of his character,
his generally accredited relations with the spirits of the departed, and
the gift of divination which all the country-side accorded him, spite of
occasional and deriding criticism, went still further to point him out
as a foremost man in the secret insurrection of the farmers. He himself,
in his own way, favored the movement with enthusiasm. He was not a
Canadian, but a Frenchman born. His youth had been spent in the wars of
his country. When the great Marquis de Montcalm was ordered to New
France, he followed him as a member of the famous Roussillon regiment In
that capacity, he fought at Carillon, and shared the glory of the
campaign of 1758. In the same capacity, he shared the stupendous defeat
of Sept. 13th, 1759, on the Plains of Abraham. He had the sad
consolation of having been one of those who bore the wounded Marquis
from the field, and accompanied him to the Hospice of the Ursulines
where he died, and where his glorious remains still rest. This
circumstance saved him from the ignominy of capture. Before Murray, the
successor of Wolfe, entered the vanquished city in triumph, he effected
his escape by creeping along the valley of the St. Charles during the
darkness, and making his way into the country. After wandering some
miles, he paused near the Falls of Montmorenci, and built himself a kind
of rustic tent on the very spot where he afterwards erected his lonely
cabin. He chose this place not only on account of the beauty of its
scenery, and the shelter from hostile intrusion which it afforded, but
also because it was in the immediate neighborhood of the
fortifications--visible even to this day--which his beloved commander
had constructed there, and from which he repulsed Wolfe with great loss,
only two months before the disastrous battle of the Plains of Abraham.
"Alas!" Batoche would often exclaim, standing over those earthworks, "if
the great Marquis had relied upon the walls of Quebec, as he did upon
these fortifications, we should still be masters of the country. Wolfe
owed his success solely to the imprudence of Montcalm."
In the spring of the following year, Batoche joined the army of the
Chevalier de Lévis, and was present at the great victory of Ste. Foye.
But the successful retreat of the British army, under Murray, behind the
walls of Quebec; the inability of Lévis to press the siege of the city;
the gradual disbanding of the French forces throughout the Province, and
the final surrender of Vaudreuil, at Montreal, whereby the whole French
possessions in America, were ceded to Britain--one of the most momentous
events of modern times in its gradual results--forced Batoche to return
to his Montmorenci solitude.
He might have gone back to France, if he had been so minded, but after
lingering some time in indecision, a circumstance occurred which
determined him to fix his abode definitively in the new world. This was
the receipt of a letter from his family, informing him of the death of
his wife and the utter poverty in which his daughter, a girl of
seventeen, was left. The girl herself appended a note stating that she
intended to sail by the first occasion to join her father in Canada. The
old soldier wrote at once to dissuade her from taking the step, giving
the characteristic reason that he did not want her to become a servant
of the detested English, but before his letter reached France, the girl
landed in Quebec, and thus the course of Batoche's destiny was changed.
His daughter was bright, intelligent and good looking, and received at
once advantageous offers of situations in several of the best families
of the capital, but the old man would not listen to any proposition of
the kind.
"Come with me, into the woods," he said to her. "We will live there
happily together. I don't want an Englishman to set his eyes upon you. I
am still able to work. You will help me. We shall want for nothing."
And he took her into his lonely habitation beside the Falls of
Montmorenci, where in effect the two spent a tranquil, easy existence.
At the end of three years, the son of a farmer of Charlesbourg fell in
love with the girl, and spite of his attachment, Batoche consented to a
marriage between them. It was a rude blow when the bride went forth from
his cabin to take up her residence in her husband's house, about twelve
miles away, but the sacrifice was generously made, and when ten or
eleven months later, a grandchild was born to him, Batoche felt that he
had received sufficient compensation for his loss.
"Little Blanche will live with me," he said, "and replace her mother."
He did not know how sad was the prophecy that he uttered.
XI.
DEATH IN THE FALLS.
It was a beautiful summer evening. The young mother, having recovered
from her illness, decided that her first visit should be to the cabin of
her old father, and, of course, the baby went with her. After resting
awhile, and receiving the caresses of the hermit, the daughter, with the
child in her arms, wandered about the familiar environs to enjoy once
more all the pleasures attached to her old home. It was a beautiful
summer evening. The forest was charged with perfume; a thousand birds
fluttered from branch to branch; the earth was spangled with an endless
variety of wild flowers; brilliant insects flashed and buzzed in the
slanting beams of the sunset; the whole air gently undulated in a
rhythmic wave that disposed the soul to revery and prayer. The young
woman felt this influence, without, of course, being able to define it,
and yielding to its sway, she wandered farther than she had intended, or
than her bodily strength justified, from the hut of her father. It was
so delightful to revisit all these scenes which she had learned to love
so much, and to see them again under such different circumstances. Even
the inanimate world is not the same to the wife as it is to the girl.
Marriage for woman seems to alter the form, color, scent and effect of
material things, giving them a character of pathos, if not of sadness,
which they never wore in the pleasant days when the body owed no service
to a master, and the mind was, in very literalness, fancy-free.
With her child in her arms--the flesh-and-blood pledge of her altered
life--the young woman strayed away along the avenues of the forest, and
out into the open spaces, until she reached the skirt of the high road,
fully half a mile from Batoche's hut. The white dusty stretch of the
road brought her to a pause, being as it were a dividing line between
the expanses of greenery over which she was wandering. Feeling now the
fatigue which she had not experienced before, she sat down upon the warm
tufted grass to rest, and, like all mothers, became oblivious of self in
attention to the wants of her babe. She had been nursing it at her
breast about ten minutes, while her eyes were fixed on its rosy limbs,
and her mind revelled in the half-sensuous, half-spiritual delights of
maternity, when all at once a mighty clatter of hoofs was heard along
the road, followed immediately after by loud shouts of men, the flash of
red coats and the clang of sabre-sheaths on the flanks of rushing
horses. What ensued was never fully known, but the young mother, with
disordered dress, hair streaming behind, and babe convulsively pressed
against her bosom, fled like a deer through the wood in the direction of
the Falls. Behind her went two pursuers, fleet as fate, but indistinct
as spectres in the twilight. Unfortunately the poor woman was on the
side of the Falls opposite her father's cabin. When she reached the top
of the headland, the cataract roared on her right, and the broad St.
Lawrence flowed at her feet. There was no outlet of escape. Disgrace and
death behind her; death and oblivion before her. There was not a moment
to waste. In the highest access of her despair, she heard a voice across
the Falls. It was that of her father, who, with hand and word, directed
her to go down the steep side of the promontory to the foot of the
cascade. He himself immediately disappeared under the overhanging rock
and curtain of water, and joined her just as she had attained the
desired spot. No time was lost in explanations. Seizing the babe in his
right arm, and encircling his left around the waist of his daughter, the
valiant old man turned and disappeared again under the Fall. Overhead a
yell of baffled rage was heard above the thunder of the torrent, but it
was not repeated.
Batoche had not advanced many steps when he noticed that the burden on
his left arm was growing heavier and heavier--and, on looking down, he
observed with terror that his daughter had swooned. The grand flower of
love was broken on its stem. This circumstance added tenfold to the old
man's peril. The slightest slip of his foot, the slightest jolt from the
perpendicular, the slightest deviation from the protecting line of the
granite wall, would hurl him and his precious freight into destruction.
If he could only reach the subterranean cavity which opened about midway
on his path, he might stop there to rest and all would be well. He
dragged along slowly in this hope; his eyes strained till they saw the
welcome haven approaching. A few more steps and he would reach it. He
_did_ reach it. As he bent down, on his right, to place the babe on a
ledge of rock within the cave, he felt a sudden wrench on his left arm,
then a sense of looseness, and to his horror he found that the circle
made by his arm upon his hip was empty. His daughter had glided like a
broken lily into the seething basin, at the point where the waters of
the cataract fall sheer like lead, and where they at once battered the
life out of her bare white breast.
"Great God of earth and heaven! What is this?" cried the old man, with
eyes starting from their sockets.
Then, with a gesture of despair, he took up the child, held it aloft on
his arm, and would have jumped into the gulf with it to complete the
sacrifice of misery. But his fierce eye turned and caught that of the
babe which was mellow with laughing light. There was also a smile upon
its lip, and its chubby little hand flourished a wisp of grass plucked
from a fissure in the ledge. That look, that smile, were like a flash of
Paradise. The old man lowered the child to his breast, folded both arms
over it, and rapidly passed out under the Fall. From that moment little
Blanche never left him.
Such was the story gathered from Batoche himself, and which is still
repeated as one of the traditions of Montmorenci. The hermit always
insisted that his daughter's death was caused by two drunken British
cavalry men. The version was never proven, but it was impossible to
dissuade the old man of its truth. Hence his abiding, ineradicable
hatred for the English, which, added to his aversion as a French
soldier, rendered him the most bitter of foes during the war of 1775-76.
Hence, also, the eccentricity of his character and subsequent mode of
life, which have been described in preceding chapters.
XII.
ADVICE AND WARNING.
The rallying cry of the band of malcontent farmers was the yelp of a
wolf. This was adopted out of hatred of the very name of Wolfe, the
conqueror of Quebec. "Loup" was the title applied by them to every
English resident, and more especially to the British soldier. We have
seen how the sound was used to gather the conspirators in the forest at
night, and how Batoche recognized it. Although the Americans had been
only forty-eight hours in the environs of Quebec, they had already
learned the meaning of the signal. This was apparent when the hermit
with his three companions reached the bridge which spanned the little
river St. Charles, on the high road leading directly to the town. There
a squad of New Jersey militiamen were posted as sentry. As the Canadians
approached they were challenged, and on uttering the cry of the wolf,
were immediately admitted within the lines. The officer in command
understood French, and Batoche was the spokesman of his party. The
following colloquy took place:
"What is your desire?"
"We have come to offer you our services."
"In what capacity?"
"As scouts."
"Do you live in the town?"
"No, at Beauport."
"You are farmers?"
"Yes."
"Have you arms?"
"Yes, for we are also hunters."
"You know the country then?"
"For ten leagues around."
"And the town?"
"We know all our countrymen in it."
"Can you communicate with them?"
"We have many means of doing so."
"That is well. We shall need your services."
We have said that the object of Barbin and his companions was to enter
into direct communication with some of the Continental officers, make
known their plans of operation and devise some mode of systematising
their services. This they partially accomplished in the course of a
further conversation, and were told to return in a few days to receive
direct commissions from headquarters. But they had a second duty to
perform, or rather Batoche had, as he informed his companions on their
way to the rendezvous, after hearing full particulars of everything that
had taken place in the two days since the Americans had invested Quebec.
Batoche delivered his ideas somewhat as follows. Addressing the officer,
he said:
"You are aware that my countrymen within the town are divided in
sentiment?"
"So we have heard."
"One party espouses the cause of England and has formed a regiment to
fight for it."
"That we know."
"That party is now particularly incensed against you."
"Ah!"
"Another party favors the cause of liberty and liberation."
"Yes, they are our friends."
"Well, they are very much discouraged at what has recently happened."
"Indeed? How so?"
"May I speak freely?"
"As soldier to soldier."
"And will you believe my words?"
The officer fixed his eyes on the quaint energetic face of the old
hermit and answered emphatically:
"I will."
"And you will report my words to your commander?"
"Yes."
"Then, listen to me. The day before yesterday, after landing on the
north shore, you deployed your forces on the Plains of Abraham?"
Batoche went into this and the following other particulars, which he had
learned from Barbin, in order to have them confirmed by the American
officers, so that there be no mistake about the conclusion which he drew
from them.
"We did," was the reply.
"And you sent forward a flag of truce?"
"Yes."
"That was for a parley."
"It was a summons to surrender."
"That makes matters worse. In the town it was supposed to be for a mere
parley. When the truth is known, the effect will be still more
disagreeable."
"What do you mean?" exclaimed the officer.
"Excuse me a moment. Your messenger was dismissed?"
"He was," replied the officer with impatience.
"And the flag fired upon?"
"Yes," was the answer accompanied by an oath.
"Then, this is what I mean. Your friends within the town are indignant
and disheartened because you did not resent this double insult. They
cannot explain it to themselves. They reason thus: either the Bastonnais
were strong enough to avenge and punish this outrage, or they were not.
If they were strong enough, why did they not sweep to the assault? If
they were not strong enough, why expose themselves and us to this
terrible humiliation? In the first instance, their inaction was
cowardice. In the second supposition, their drawing up in line and
sending a flag to demand surrender was a painful fanfaronade."
Batoche had warmed up to his old weird manner, as he spoke these words.
He did not gesticulate, neither did he elevate his voice, but the light
of the camp-fire flickering upon his face revealed an expression of
earnestness and conscious strength. Advancing a step or two towards the
officer he said in a lower voice:
"Have I spoken too much?"
"You have spoken the truth!" roared the officer, stamping his foot
violently, and then muttered in English:
"Just what I said at the time. This old Frenchman has told the truth in
all its naked harshness."
The officer was Major Meigs, one of those who had most strenuously
disapproved of the despatch of the flag of truce, and whose opinion of
the event is recorded in history.
He thanked Batoche for his valuable information and assured him that he
would repeat all he had said to Colonel Arnold.
"Perhaps you would allow an old soldier to add another word," continued
the hermit, as they were about to separate.
The officer was so impressed with what he had heard, and with the
peculiar manner of the strange being who addressed him, that he granted
an eager permission.
"As a lover of liberty, as an enemy of the English, as a friend of the
Bastonnais, I think, after what has happened, it would be better for
your troops to withdraw for a time from within sight of the walls of
Quebec."
The officer looked up dubiously.
"They might retire to some village a little up the river. There they
could revictual at leisure."
No answer.
"And wait for reinforcements."
The officer smiled approvingly.
"And give their friends in and around the town time to organize and
complete their arrangements. As yet we have done little or nothing. But
in a week or ten days we could do a great deal."
"The idea is an excellent one, and will be considered," said the
officer, shaking the hand of Batoche, after which the interview
terminated.
Whether the old man's advice had any weight or not, the very course
which he suggested was adopted a couple of days later. Feeling his
inability to press the siege unaided, and learning that Colonel McLean,
with his Royal Emigrants, had succeeded in reaching Quebec from Sorel,
on the very day that he himself had crossed from Point Levis, thus
strengthening the garrison of the town with a few regulars, Arnold, on
the 18th November, broke up his camp and retired to Pointe-aux-Trembles,
to await the arrival of Montgomery from Montreal.
XIII.
A WOMAN'S TACTICS.
When Zulma Sarpy reached home on the evening of her eventful journey to
Quebec, her aged father observed that she was under the influence of
strong emotions. She would have preferred keeping to herself all that
she had seen or heard, but he questioned her closely and she could not
well evade replies. It was quite natural, as she fully understood, that
he should be anxious to obtain information about the state of affairs,
especially as he had heard several rumors from his servants and
neighbors during the day. When, therefore, she had composed herself
somewhat, after the abundant and deliberate meal of a healthy, sensible
woman, she narrated to him in detail all the events which she had
witnessed. Sieur Sarpy frequently interrupted her with passionate
exclamations which surprised her considerably, as they showed that he
took a deeper interest in the impending war than he had intended or she
had expected. The incident of the bridge particularly moved him.
"And you are certain," he asked, "that the young officer was the same
who was fired at from the walls?"
"I am positive I cannot be mistaken," she replied. "His stature, his
noble carriage, his handsome face would distinguish him among a
thousand."
"But you do not know his name?"
"Alas! no."
"You should have inquired. The man who treated my daughter with such
high courtesy should not be a stranger to me."
"Ah! never mind, papa, I shall find out his name yet," said Zulma with a
laugh.
"Perhaps not. Who can tell what will happen? War is a whirlwind. It may
blow him out of sight and remembrance before we know it."
"Never fear," interrupted Zulma with a magnificent wave of her white
arm. "I have a presentiment that we shall meet again. I have my eye on
him and----"
"He has his eye on you," added Sieur Sarpy, breaking out into a little
merriment which was unusual with him.
His daughter did not answer, but an ineffable light passed like an
illumination over her beautiful face, and words which she would have
uttered, but did not, died away in a delicious smile at the corners of
her rich, sanguine lips. She rose from her chair, and stood immoveable
for a moment, gazing at a vase of red and white flowers that stood on
the mantel before her eyes. Her snowy night dress fell negligently about
her person, but its loose folds could not conceal the outline of her
bosom which rose and fell under the touch of some strong mastering
feeling. Sieur Sarpy, as he looked up at her, could not dissimulate his
admiration of the lovely creature who was the comfort and glory of his
life, nor restrain his tears at the thought, vague and improbable though
it was, that perhaps this war might, in some unaccountable way, carry
with it the destiny of his daughter, and change for ever the current of
their mutual existence. As she stood there before him, knowing her as he
did, or perhaps because he did not know her so well as he might have
done, he felt that she was about to make an important communication to
him, ask him something or pledge him to some course which would affect
him and her, and bring on precisely that mysterious result of which the
shadow was already in his mind. But before he had the time to say a word
either to quiet his fear or dissipate his conjecture, Zulma moved slowly
from her place and dropped softly before his knees. All the color of
her face, as she upturned it to his, was gone, but there was a melting
pathos in those blue eyes which fascinated the old man.
"Papa," she said, "will you allow me to ask you a favor?"
Sieur Sarpy felt a twinge in his heart, and his lips contracted. Zulma
noticed his emotion and immediately added:--
"I know that you are feeble, papa, and must not bear excitement, but
what I have to ask you is simple and easy of accomplishment. Besides, I
will leave you to judge and abide unreservedly by your decision."
Sieur Sarpy took his daughter's hand in his and replied:
"Speak, my dear, you know that I can refuse you nothing."
"You have resolved to be neutral in this war."
"That was my intention."
"Did you come to this resolution solely for your own sake?"
"For your sake and mine, dear. I am old and infirm, and cannot take part
in the struggles of strong men. You are young and I must guard your
future."
Zulma remained silent for a few moments, as if she could find no further
words to say. Her father, observing her embarrassment, brought back the
conversation to its original drift, by inquiring into the nature of the
demand which she had intended to make.
"I had intended to ask you my liberty of action," she said, with
suddenly recovered energy. "But I will not do so now. Circumstances will
perhaps occur to modify the situation for both of us before hostilities
have progressed very far. All I shall ask of you now is that you will
allow me to see that young officer again."
The old man, on hearing this innocent request, breathed more freely, as
he exclaimed:
"Why, is that all, my darling? You certainly may see him again. I would
like to see him myself and make his acquaintance. As I told you before,
I have great admiration for his bravery and gallantry towards you. And,
Zulma, the next time you see him, don't fail to learn his name."
"That is precisely what I want to obtain," said the girl with a smile.
"Then we are quite agreed," rejoined her father, tapping her on the
cheek and rising to close the interview.
He was now in great good humor, and she also affected to be gay, but
there was a flush on her cheek which told of an interior flame that
glowed, and when her father had departed, she walked up and down the
floor of her bedchamber with the slow measured step of deep, anxious
reflection.
XIV.
THE ROMANCE OF LOVE.
Four days later, the village of Pointe-aux-Trembles was startled by the
approach of Arnold's men. Their appearance was so sudden and unexpected
that the people did not know how to explain it, and the most of them
barricaded their houses. But the American advance was very orderly. The
vanguard wheeled to the left from the village and took up its quarters
on the extreme edge of the St. Lawrence. The main body stacked arms in
front of the church, and billets were at once secured in all the houses
of the village. Arnold himself took up his residence with the curé who
treated him well, and frequently during their short stay invited the
principal officers to his table. This clergyman was opposed to the
American invasion, in obedience to the mandate of the Bishop of Quebec,
but for the sake of his people he judged it advisable to use the
Continentals with as much respect as possible. And his courtesy was
properly rewarded, as during their whole sojourn at Pointe-aux-Trembles,
the Americans treated the inhabitants with unusual consideration. The
rear guard passed through the village and echelonned along the road for
a distance of fifteen or twenty miles. This division was mainly composed
of cavalry and riflemen whose duty it was to scour the country in search
of provisions, and to keep up communication with the upper country
whence the reinforcements from Montgomery's army were daily expected.
All Arnold's officers approved of his temporary retreat, for the precise
reasons which had been laid down by old Batoche appeared to every one of
them urgent under the circumstances. But if there was any one of them
more pleased than another it was Cary Singleton. He had other than
military reasons for applauding this measure. The opportunity was
afforded him--at least so he fancied--of recovering the treasure which
he had lost under the dark covered bridge, of seeing once more the
vision which, since that eventful night, had always floated before his
memory. Glorious illusion of youth! At that favored period of existence
so little appreciated while it lasts, and which, when it is gone, is the
object of bitter lamentation for the rest of life, even hardship gives
zest to enjoyment when the heart is buoyed--as what youthful heart is
not?--by the sweet potency of woman's love. Fatigue, hunger, thirst,
disease, and poverty are only trifles that are laughed at, so long as
there is seen in the background of it all the lambent light of tender
eyes speaking, as nothing else can, the language of the devoted heart.
For many of his brother officers, men with families, or already,
advanced in years, this American invasion was a dreary reality, made up
of a dismal succession of marches and counter-marches, parades and
bivouackings, attacks and repulses, privations of every description,
with the prospective of defeat at the last. But to Cary Singleton the
war had been, up to the present, a constant scene of pleasurable
excitement, as he will have occasion to testify himself in a subsequent
chapter, while from this point to its close it rose with him to the
proportions of a romance.
His single clue was that the beautiful girl whom he sought lived in the
neighborhood of his present encampment. Whether it was above or below,
on the line of the river, or somewhere in the interior, he could not of
course tell, but he was determined to find out. He knew that the present
quarters of the army were only temporary, that within eight or ten days,
at the furthest, they would be on the forward march again, when the
hurry of battle would ensue and his fate might be a bloody grave under
the walls of the old capital. Hence the necessity for diligence. He
thought he should be willing to die if his eyes were blessed only once
more with the sight of the object of his worship.
These thoughts were passing through his brain, as he slowly rode along
the road one quiet afternoon while the sun lay white on the frozen
ground, tinging the leafless branches of the beeches and birches with a
silver light. He little knew what was in store for him as he
mechanically pulled in the reins, and looked up an avenue of maple
leading to a mansion on his right.
XV.
ON THE HIGH ROAD.
The house attracted Cary's attention by the beauty of its site and its
appearance of wealth and comfort. He at once concluded that it belonged
to some old French seigneur who, after the conquest of the Province by
the British, had retired to the seclusion of his estates, and there
spent the evening of his life in the philosophic calm of solitude. He
had no further curiosity about it, however, and would probably have
passed on, had he not casually caught sight of a couple of figures
coming down the stairs to the open space in front. The distance was
considerable, and the intervening trees broke the line of vision
somewhat, but he thought he could distinguish the forms of a young woman
and an elderly man. He tarried a moment longer to look on. Presently he
saw a horse led to the foot of the stairs, and the young lady assisted
to her seat in the saddle. The site stirred him considerably. A
suspicion--but it was only a suspicion--crossed his mind. What if it
were she? He dismissed the thought, however, as altogether too good to
be true. It was impossible that she should thus throw herself into his
arms. Half the romance of all this adventure would be lost if it had so
simple and easy a conclusion. No! He had to seek for her, he had to
toil, to wait, to suffer still more before he could expect to attain the
object of his desire. Thus do we add to our pain in the intensity of our
love's longings, and Cary took grim pleasure in magnifying his own
wretchedness. But somehow he kept his eye sharply fastened on the
distant rider. After conferring with the elderly man for some moments,
she drew herself up, settled herself in her saddle, and moved away from
the front of the house. The avenue of maples, at the foot of which stood
the young officer, lay directly in her path, and for a moment Cary
thought she would take it. She halted her horse at the head of it and
looked down toward the gate. She sat full in his sight. He sat full in
hers. She must have seen him, as he certainly saw her. Did they
recognize each other? O Love, that is so sharp-eyed ever, how perversely
blind it is sometimes. Cary should have pulled up his horse's reins,
cleared the fence and ridden like mad up the avenue. The lady should
have waved her kerchief in token of a tryst and cantered down the path
to meet her cavalier. Instead of which he sat dazed in his saddle, and
she quietly walked her pony away from the opening of the avenue, and
slowly passed along a narrow road through her father's grounds.
There is often a revelation in disappearance, as there is a light in
darkness. Scarcely had he lost sight of the lady rider than Cary felt an
irresistible impulse to meet her and discover who she was. Now that she
was gone, the suspicion arose again that perhaps she was the loved one
whom he sought. Had he frightened her? That was not probable from the
ease and deliberation of her manner. Would he catch another glimpse of
her? He felt that that depended entirely on himself, and he determined
that if he did see her again, the sight would be a decisive one. He
paused a moment longer before making up his mind what to do. He thought
of opening the gate, sauntering up the avenue and turning down the path
which she had taken. But the trespass on private property, and the fear
of being stopped at the mansion to make explanations, deterred him from
taking the step. He judged it wiser to spur up the main road and trust
to luck. Perhaps he might find an outlet for that bridal path whence she
would issue. In this surmise he was not mistaken. After riding about
half a mile he came to the mouth of a rugged, unfrequented country
road, the bed of which was moist from the ooze of rills on one of its
banks. Here he stopped and reconnoitred with the keen eye of the
soldier. To his surprise and delight he observed the fresh prints of
pony's hoofs leading outward. He was satisfied that she had gone along
this route, and pursued her journey further up the highway. The course
was therefore clear for him. All he had to do was to follow, and he did
so without delay.
Meantime the afternoon had worn on, and the sun was slowly sinking to
the rim of the sky. There was the promise of a full hour of daylight
yet, but the air was getting chilly and banks of pinkish clouds
spreading fan-like in the western heavens gave portent of wind and
storm. For a whole hour did Cary Singleton ride along that solitary
road, watching the line of forest on his right and the steep embankment
of the river on his left. But he heard nothing save the low lapsing
sound of the water, and the monotonous simmer of the trees. He saw
nothing that could divert his attention from the one object of his
search. A fear came over him that his pursuit would be in vain. He was
already far away from quarters and, without special cause, could not
well prolong his absence much further. He therefore with a heavy heart
resolved to turn his horse's head in the direction of the camp. As he
advanced on a few steps slowly, deliberating sadly on this, he came to a
sharp bend in the road, and a few hundred yards before him, observed the
blue smoke of a little farm-house that stood in the clearing of the
wood. Before the house there was a group of men, women and children
standing around a saddled horse. To say that Cary was surprised would be
using a very mild term indeed. He was so astounded that he did not
venture to proceed another step. His presence excited a tumult among the
people. The children ran into the house, the women retreated to the
door, but a lady in riding-habit pacified them with a laughing gesture,
and immediately mounted her horse. Addressing them a few words of
farewell, she turned into the road and, a moment later, stood at the
side of the young officer.
"Is it possible, mademoiselle?" was all that Cary could whisper, his
agitation being so great that he had to hold on to his pommel for
support. It would be falsehood to say that the lady was not similarly
agitated, but she had that magnificent secret of disguise which places
women far above men in many of the most critical passes of life.
Her answer was a delicious smile of recognition, and the offer of her
gauntleted right hand.
"I never expected to meet you on this lonely road," said Cary, after
recovering a little, in saying which he uttered a most palpable but
unconscious falsehood. Else why had he ridden so far? Why had he
suffered the torments of doubt and expectation the live-long afternoon?
The lady was more direct and simple. The frankness of her reply almost
startled Cary from his saddle.
"I expected to meet you, sir," she said, and broke out in one of her
merriest laughs.
Explanations followed fast. The lady avowed that she had recognized Cary
from the head of the avenue, had purposely avoided going down to meet
him at the gate, had taken the bridle-path through her father's grounds
instead, with the certainty that he would follow her. She only half
intimated the reasons why she acted thus, but her partial reticence was
the most charming portion of her revelations, and as he listened Cary
was in a very ecstacy of delight. She knew that he would follow her!
What adorable feminine ingenuousness in the confession! What
consciousness of superiority and power!
The conversation, started from this point, did not flag. The young
officer recovered full possession of his senses and the two rode briskly
homeward in the roseate twilight which to them seemed the harbinger of a
happy dawn flushed with the glories of an Eastern sunrise.
XVI.
AN EPIC MARCH.
The next day Cary Singleton sat with Zulma and her father in a room of
the Sarpy mansion. A great fire glowed in front of them, and at their
side was a little table bearing cakes and wine. Cary sat at one angle of
the chimney, Sieur Sarpy at the other, and Zulma occupied a low chair in
the apex of the semi-circle. After many topics of conversation had been
exhausted, and the young officer had been made to feel quite at home,
Sieur Sarpy demanded an account of Cary's march with Arnold through the
forests of Maine.
"I have heard something about the hardships of that expedition," said
he, "and I know enough about the nature of our woods and prairies to
understand that yours must have been a particularly trying fate."
"We have a great deal of wood country in Maryland," replied Cary, "but
nothing like this in your Northern climates. I am strong and healthy,
but there were many times when I almost despaired of reaching Quebec in
safety."
"Where did your army organize?"
"In Cambridge, at the headquarters of General Washington."
"When?"
"In the middle of August."
"What was your definite object?"
"Well, when war against Great Britain became inevitable, we had to
prepare ourselves for the worse. The battles of Lexington, Concord and
Breed's Hill threw us on the defensive. But we could not be satisfied
with that. We must act on the offensive. Congress then resolved to
attack the English in Canada."
"The English?" exclaimed Sieur Sarpy.
"Yes, the English," said Zulma, turning towards her father with
animation of look and gesture. "The English, not the French."
"Precisely, mademoiselle," resumed Cary, with a smile and a profound
bow. "The French in Canada are our brothers and have as much reason as
we to detest the British yoke."
"Alas!" murmured Sieur Sarpy, raising his eyes to the ceiling and
striking the arm of his chair with his palm.
A look from Zulma caused Cary to pass rapidly over this part of his
narrative. He continued to say in general terms that Congress, having
determined to invade Canada by way of the Northern lakes, judged it
expedient to send a second expedition by way of the South, along the
Kennebec river.
"It was a beautiful morning in September," he said, "when we marched out
of Cambridge, under the eye of General Washington. Our first stopping
place was at Newburyport. There we took to the water. Eleven transports
conveyed us to the mouth of the Kennebec. Two hundred boats were
awaiting us there, constructed by carpenters who had been sent ahead of
us for that purpose. This place was the verge of civilization. Beyond
it, for hundreds of miles in the interior, was the primeval forest. An
advance party having been thrown forward for the purpose of
reconnoitering and exploration, the main body proceeded in four
divisions, of which our corps of riflemen held the van. After a pleasant
march of six days, we came to Norridgewock Falls."
"Norridgewock?" said Sieur Sarpy, as if speaking to himself. "I think I
remember that name."
"No doubt, you do, sir. It is a consecrated name. It recalls a great and
good man, Father Ralle."
"Ah, I remember. It was about forty years ago, and I was very young,
but I recollect with what horror the Superior of the Missions at Quebec
heard of the massacre of the saintly apostle of the Abnakis."
"Who murdered him?" enquired Zulma.
"The English settlers in Massachusetts," replied her father with
emphasis. "A party of them fell on the settlement and killed and scalped
the missionary and thirty of his Indians."
The eyes of Zulma flashed fire, but she said nothing.
"Yes," said Cary, "the foundation of the church and altar of the
Norridgewocks are still visible, but the Indians have disappeared and
desolation reigns over the scene of blood. At these Falls we had our
first portage."
"I know," said Sieur Sarpy, smiling.
"For a mile and a half we had to drag our boats over the rocks, through
the eddies, and at times even along the woods. The boats were leaky, the
provisions spoiled. We had to call oxen to our aid. Seven days were
spent in this fatiguing work. When we arrived at the junction of Dead
River with the Kennebec, one hundred and fifty men were off the rolls
through sickness and desertion."
"Was the weather cold?"
"Not in the first part of our journey. The sky was balmy, the sun shone
nearly every day, the watercourses were filled with salmon-trout, the
trees were magnificent in their autumn foliage, and the tranquil
atmosphere of the landscape was soothing to our wearied limbs. But in
the middle of October, the scene suddenly changed. All the leaves of the
forest had fallen, the wind blew chill through the openings, and
suddenly there appeared before us a mountain of snow. Our commander
pitched his tent and unfurled the Continental flag. One of our officers
ran up to its summit, in the hope of seeing the spires of Quebec."
Sieur Sarpy smiled again and shook his head.
"That officer should have given his name to the mountain," said Zulma,
laughing.
"So he did. We named it Mount Bigelow."
"And what did he see from the top of it?"
"Nothing but a wintry waste, and desolate woods. From this point, our
sufferings and dangers increased until they became almost unbearable.
Wading fords, trudging through the snow, hauling boats--it seemed that
we should never cross the distance which separated us from the
headwaters of the Chaudière. A council of war was held, the sick and
disabled were ordered back to the rear, and, to add to our
discouragement, Colonel Enos, the second in command, gave up the
expedition and returned to Cambridge with his whole division."
"Traitor!" exclaimed Zulma, with characteristic enthusiasm.
"But the rest of us pressed on, spurred by the energy of despair.
Seventeen falls were passed, and on a terrible October day, amid a
blinding snow-storm, we reached the height of land which separates New
England from Canada. A portage of four miles brought us to a small
stream upon which we launched our boats and floated into Lake Megantic,
the principal source of the Chaudière. We encamped here, and the next
day, our commander with a party of fifty-five men on shore, and thirteen
men with himself, proceeded down the Chaudière to the first French
settlements, there to obtain provisions and send them back to us. They
experienced unprecedented hardship. As soon as they entered the river,
the current ran with great rapidity, boiling and foaming over a rocky
bottom. They had no guide. Taking their baggage and stores to the boats,
they allowed themselves to drift with the stream. After a time the roar
of cascades and cataracts sounded upon their ears, and before they could
help themselves, they were drifting among rapids. Three of the boats
were dashed to pieces, and their contents lost. Six men were thrown into
the water, but were fortunately rescued. For seventy miles falls and
rapids succeeded each other, until at length, by a providential escape,
the party reached Sertigan, the first French outpost."
"Saved!" exclaimed Zulma.
"And how were they treated there?" asked Sieur Sarpy with much
curiosity.
"As friends. I am thankful to say that our wearied men received shelter
and provisions from the French inhabitants who freely accepted our
Continental scrip which they regarded as good money. But for their aid
we should all have perished."
"The rest of the army did not follow at once?"
"It could not. We had to wait for provisions from our commander, else we
should all have perished. We ate roots raw which we had to dig out of
the sand on the river bank. We killed all our dogs for food. We washed
our moose-skin moccasins, scraped away the dirt and sand, boiled them in
the kettle and drank the mucilage which they produced. When the first
flour and cattle reached us from Sertigan, the most of us had been
forty-eight hours without eating. Refreshed in this way, encouraged by
the friendship of the French inhabitants, and reinforced by a band of
forty Norridgewocks, under their chiefs Natanis and Sabatis, to serve as
guides for the remainder of the journey, we took up our march again and
reached Levis two months after our departure from Cambridge."
"It was an epic march!" cried Zulma rising from her seat and pouring out
wine into the glasses on the table. Sieur Sarpy pledged his guest in a
bumper of Burgundy. And the compliment was deserved. That march of the
Continental army was one of the most remarkable and heroic on record.
XVII.
O GIOVENTU PRIMAVERA DELLA VITA.
In the fortnight that followed, Zulma and Cary met nearly every day,
sometimes more than once a day. It was impossible that it should be
otherwise. There is no power on this earth that can restrain two
youthful hearts thrilling and surging with the first impulses of love.
When the imagination is all aglow with the purple pictures of destiny;
when the soul throbs with the unspeakably delicious sentiments of an
affection that is requited; when the nerves are in tension and quiver
like the strings of a harp; when the hot blood runs wild through the
veins, suffusing lip and cheek and brow; and the eyes look out upon the
roseate world through a mist of tears that are pleasureable pain and
painful pleasure inexplicably blended, then there is no force of cold
conventionality to check the outcomes of the spirit, no bolts or bars or
chains to fetter the bounding limbs that go forth rejoicing through the
enchanted landscape which the good God has opened to all of us, at least
once in life, as an exquisite foretaste of Paradise.
What mattered it to Zulma and Cary that the autumn skies were low, that
the winds moaned dismally through the leafless woods, that the snow
clouded the face of the sun and charged the atmosphere with inclement
moisture? They sat together before the blazing fire-place, and conversed
for hours, quite forgetful of the dreary winter that was setting in. Or
they stood together at the window, and as they conversed, unconsciously
contrasted the light and warmth that reigned in their hearts with the
cold and gloom of the waning year outside. Or they lingered on the
portico, loath to part for the day, and never minded the bleakness of
the weather, in the hope of meeting again. What mattered it that
Singleton had military duties to perform which retained him in camp for
many hours of each day, or sent him at the head of scouting parties,
over the country in search of provisions or to watch the movements of
the enemy? He managed his time so well that while never, in a single
instance, neglecting his business as a soldier, he found the means of
satisfying the claims of the lover. These very difficulties only gave
zest to the excitement in which he lived, and he was happy to know,
although she never said it, that they added to Zulma's sense of
appreciation.
Another circumstance deserving of mention is that the young rifleman's
visits to the Sarpy mansion were so conducted as to be a secret to his
companions-in-arms. There was a purpose in this, although neither Cary,
nor Zulma, nor M. Sarpy ever exchanged a word about it together. The
stay of the Continental army at Pointe-aux-Trembles was only temporary.
Its stay around Quebec, after it returned there, would be at least
rather precarious. It was, therefore, hardly desirable that one of its
officers should be known to have contracted other than military
engagements which might bind his good name among the vicissitudes of a
most hazardous war. Thus there was a dash of calculation in the romance
of Cary's love, a reserve of good sense amid all the impetuousness which
buoyed his heart. It is ever thus with men. They are rarely whole
lovers. Their ingrained selfishness always pierces, however slightly, to
mar the completeness of their sacrifice.
It was not so with the Canadian girl. She had that glorious
independence--the gift of superior women--which cares not for the prying
eyes of all the world. She did not mind who knew of the American
soldier's visit to her father's home. She would not have concealed a
single one of his interviews with herself. She liked him; she was
delighted to think that he liked her; they were happy in each other's
company--what more did she need for present happiness, and what harm if
others knew that she was happy?
Neither had her father any of the misgivings so common and so hateful in
meticulous old men. He was a loyal, frank character. He had unbounded
confidence in his daughter, and his absorbing love for her made him
rejoice in the present little episode as a bright spot amid the
gathering gloom of war. He had taken a fancy to Cary from the first. He
relished his conversation. He appreciated his attentions to Zulma with
the proud consciousness that she fully deserved them. Apart altogether
from political consideration, into which he never entered, and which the
young officer had the delicacy never to approach, he was pleased to
judge for himself of the men who came to invade his country in the
sacred name of liberty, and of extending the hospitality of his house to
a representative among them, as proof that he too was a friend of
humanity and chose to regard the impending war only from the standpoint
of right.
Fortunately, however, for all concerned, it so happened that the visits
of Cary were known to very few of those who habitually went to the Sarpy
mansion. The daily beggar hobbled up as usual, with his basket under his
arm, or meal bag slung across his shoulder, to gather the abundant
crumbs of the table, but he never penetrated beyond the kitchen. The
poor widow of the neighborhood appeared regularly for the broken
victuals that were almost the sole sustenance of her brood of little
orphans, but she was a model woman of her class, not given to gossip and
so devoted to her benefactors that she would repeat nothing likely to
satisfy the vulgar curiosity of outsiders. The farmers and villagers, of
Pointe-aux-Trembles were kept so busy providing food and lodgings for
the army, or were so deterred from moving about by the sight of the
patrols along the roads, that almost none of them called at the mansion
during the whole period of occupation.
And so passed the fortnight away. It was all too short considered by the
number of days. The mornings rose and the twilights came with a calm
remorseless rapidity that had no regard for the calculations of the
heart, but when the recapitulation was made, it was found that a mighty
distance had been travelled, and that the vague impressions of each
succeeding interview had verged at last into a blazing focus, whence the
illumination of two youthful lives burst upon the view.
XVIII.
BRAIDING ST. CATHERINE'S TRESSES.
One incident of this eventful period must not be passed over in silence.
The reader himself will judge of its importance. It was the 25th
November, St. Catherine's Day. In Italy and the South of Europe, the
Virgin-Martyr is venerated as the patron of philosophical students, and
the collegiate bodies celebrate her festival with public disputations on
logical and metaphysical subjects. But in Belgium and France, the day is
kept as one of social rejoicing by the young, and in Canada, from the
earliest times, probably because it marks the closing day of the
navigation of the St. Lawrence and the beginning of the long dreary
winter, it is observed with song, dance, games, and other tokens of
revelry. One special feature is the making of taffy which the young
girls engage in during the evening, and with which they regale their
friends and lovers.
The day itself had been melancholy enough. Snow had fallen continually
until it had piled a foot high on the level roads. The wind howled
dismally around the gables, and the branches of a maple beat doleful
music against the window of Zulma's room. She felt the influence of the
inhospitable weather. A feeling of weariness weighed upon her from the
early hours of the morning. Nothing that she attempted to do could
distract her mind or dispel her loneliness. The book which she had taken
up over and over again lay with its face down upon the table. The
harpsichord was open, but the music on its rack was tossed and tumbled.
Zulma was a good musician and passionately fond of her instrument, but
could not abide it when her spirits were depressed. She used to declare
that, even in her best moods, the simplest melody had for her a tinge of
sadness, which, when she herself was sorrowful, became a positive pain.
She scarcely left her room during the whole day. The house was silent
and could afford her no relief. There was nobody stirring in the
courtyard or around the kitchen. Even the great watch dog had retired to
sleep in his kennel. The snow fell noiselessly, curtaining out all the
world; the line of the sky was low and leaden, and nothing was heard to
break the death-like stillness of the air, save occasional gusts of wind
sullenly booming in the hollows.
If Zulma could have slept! More than once she threw herself wearily upon
her couch, but the eyelids which she would have closed remained rigidly
open, and she surprised herself gazing with intense stare upon the
arabesques of the window shades or the flowered patterns of her bed
curtains, while all sorts of wild, incongruous fancies trooped through
her brain, causing her brow to ache. She would then spring with
impatience to her feet, stretch out her white arms, clasp her hands
behind her neck, roll up the coils of golden hair that had fallen on her
shoulders, and then walk up to the window, where she gazed vacantly out
upon the bleak prospect.
"If he would only come," she murmured, as she stood there. "But it is
impossible. There is no riding on horseback through such snow, or I
should have gone out myself."
At length the weary afternoon had worn away. Five o'clock rang through
the house from the old French clock at the head of the stair. Zulma had
just finished counting the strokes with a feeling of relief when the
tinkling of sleigh bells fell upon her ear. She rushed to the window,
shot a glance upon the court, uttered an exclamation of joy and ran out
of her room.
"No, it cannot be, my darling, and in such weather!"
But it was Pauline nevertheless. The two friends fell into each other's
arms, kissed each other over and over again, and repaired together to
Zulma's room, where, amid the work of unwrapping, and warming feet, and
sipping a glass of wine, the congratulations and expostulations went
briskly on. Pauline had come with Eugene Sarpy, as that young gentleman
himself testified when he entered the house in noisy boyish fashion,
after having put up the horse. It was a holiday at the Seminary where
the youth was immured, and he had the opportunity to drive out to the
old home once more. He had asked Pauline to accompany him, and she
declared herself only too glad of the occasion to see Zulma again.
"It may be our last chance, you know," she said, half laughing, but with
a slight shadow on her sweet face.
"And those horrid rebels," rejoined Zulma very merrily. "How did you
make up you mind to encounter them?"
"We did not encounter them."
Zulma's face suddenly turned white.
"What? Are they gone?"
The fear flashed upon her mind that perhaps the Americans had left the
neighborhood, which would account for the absence of Cary during the
day, but she was reassured by Pauline, who informed her that Eugene had
avoided the American camp by taking a roundabout way through the
concessions.
"That must have increased your distance."
"It did at least by four leagues, but I didn't mind that so long as we
were free from danger."
"You do not like these soldiers?"
"I dislike them all, except, perhaps, one."
Zulma looked up in surprise.
"And pray who may that one be?"
"Don't you remember the bearer of the flag?"
"Oh!" was the only exclamation that Zulma uttered, while cheeks were fit
to burst with the rush of conscious blood.
"Roderick has spoken to me of him in the highest terms of admiration,"
continued Pauline quietly.
"He will doubtless be flattered to hear of this," said Zulma, with just
a touch of sarcasm in her tone.
But it was lost upon the gentle, unsuspicious Pauline, and Zulma,
regretting the remark, immediately said:
"If you had met him on your passage, he would have treated you kindly,
depend upon it," and she proceeded to relate the incident of the covered
bridge. One detail brought on another, and the two friends, sat for two
hours talking together, and much of the conversation turned on the
American officer. What two young women can tell each other in the course
of two hours is something stupendous, and he would be presumptuous,
indeed, who would venture upon the enumeration of even the topics of
converse. One thing, however, may be taken for granted--that when they
were called to supper, they kissed each other with a smack and trotted
down stairs in jolly good humor.
After supper the table was cleared, a large basin of maple syrup was
produced, and after it was sufficiently boiled, the two friends began
drawing the coils of taffy, with the assistance of Eugene, and under the
eyes of Sieur Sarpy, who sat at the table sipping his wine and enjoying
the amusement of the young people. Zulma's spirits had completely
revived; and she was in high feather, enlivening the occasion by songs,
and anecdote and banter, while she bustled around the table playing
tricks upon her brother, and teasing the gentle Pauline. Now and then
she would stop suddenly as if to listen, and her face would assume an
expression of disappointed expectancy, but the shadow would disappear as
rapidly as it came. Pauline was less boisterous and talkative. She was,
however, in the pleasantest state of mind, as if for this one evening,
at least, she had unburdened herself of the cares which had weighed her
down during the past eventful days. Eugene, like all schoolboys escaped
from the master's eye, was perfectly ridiculous in his wild gambols and
inconsequential talk, but his nonsense gave zest to the merriment
precisely because it was suggestive of that freedom with which the
horrid front of war and the constant spectacle of armed men in the
neighborhood afforded so sad a contrast.
An hour had been spent in this pastime, when Zulma again checked herself
in the conversation, and as she turned her eyes to the window, they
flashed with a ray of exultation. Her long waiting had not been in vain.
The weary day would still have an agreeable ending. She was certain that
she heard the music of sleigh bells, and she knew who it was that had
come. A moment later, there was a rap at the door of the dining-room,
and Cary Singleton stood on the threshold. Zulma went rapidly forward to
meet him, receiving him with a cordiality and enthusiasm which she had
never previously manifested. After the formal introduction was made,
Cary excused himself for calling so late in the evening.
"Better late than never," exclaimed Zulma with an earnest indiscretion
which she tried to turn off by a laugh, but which the rapid wandering of
her great blue eyes showed that she was ashamed of.
Singleton bowed low, but there was no responsive smile upon his lip.
"Thank you, mademoiselle," said he, "but a little more and I should
perhaps _never_ have returned here."
There was a general expression of surprise.
The young officer explained that a forward movement of the American army
was about to take place, and that he had received orders that very
afternoon to abandon his quarters.
"The order was peremptory," he added, "and I should have had to obey it
without delay, but fortunately the snow-storm came on with such violence
towards evening that our departure was postponed till to-morrow morning.
The opportunity I regarded as providential and seized it to make what
may be my last visit."
The light went out of Zulma's eyes and she bowed her head. Her father
broke the perplexing silence by saying cheerily:
"I trust that this will not be your last visit, sir. Indeed, I feel
certain that we shall meet each other again. If in the varying fortunes
of war, you should ever need my help, only let me know and you shall
have it."
Zulma looked up and there was that imploring tenderness in her eyes
which gave Cary to understand that she too, in the hour of need, would
fly to his assistance.
While this conversation was going on, Pauline sat a little in the
background. She said not a word, but her eyes were full of tears. Cary,
as he glanced around, to relieve himself of the melancholy of the
moment, noticed her emotion and was strangely touched by it. He knew
well who she was, as Zulma had often mentioned her name to him,
explaining the embarrassing situation which the war had created for
herself and family, and the relations in which she stood towards
Roderick Hardinge. These marks of silent sympathy from one of the
besieged in Quebec, and one who was tenderly attached to a leading
British officer, moved him profoundly, and, from that moment, he took
steps to enlarge his acquaintance with Pauline. By degrees the
conversation turned into a more cheerful channel, and the anxiety of the
morrow being temporarily forgotten, as young hearts will forget and are
blest in forgetting, the evening passed agreeably on, and Cary had
abundant opportunity of enjoying the society of Pauline. His manner and
his words proved how much he was impressed with the charms of her
person, and the beauty of her character, and the admiration which he
expressed was reciprocated by Pauline in those half advances and still
more eloquent reticences which are the delicious secret of loving women.
Zulma was so little disconcerted by this mutual good understanding,
that she openly favored it, being unable to conceal her delight that her
own two best friends should be friends together. Far seeing girl as she
was, she was rejoiced that, on the eve of separation and the consequent
resumption of hostilities, the young Continental officer should have
made the acquaintance of one who might perhaps be his saviour if the
storm of war whirled him torn and bleeding within the walls of the
beleaguered city. Divine instinct of women! How often it stands in good
stead the headlong rashness of man amid the wildering strokes of fate!
Genuine gaiety resumed its sway, and the work of taffy-making was taken
up again. Cary was fed with choice titbits until he was fairly satisfied
and had to beg for quarter. Then, taking up a large roll of the _tire_,
Zulma twisted it into a series of elegant and intricate plaits. The long
coil flashed like a beautiful brazen serpent, as she held it up to the
light, and set it beside her own golden hair.
"These are Saint Catherine's tresses!" she cried. "Who will wear them,
you or I, Pauline?"
And the sally was greeted by the loud laughter of all the company,
except Cary who did not understand its significance. When it was
explained to him that she would wear the mystical tresses who was
destined to remain an old maid, he smiled as he murmured to himself:
"I will see to that!"
XIX.
PAR NOBILE.
The evening had come to an end. Midnight had sounded and Cary Singleton
had to take his departure. The whole family accompanied him to the outer
door, where his sleigh was in waiting. The last words of farewell still
lingered on the faltering lips of the two young women, as they stood in
the embrasure of the entrance, when, through the darkness and the
pelting of the storm, Zulma noticed a shadow leaning against the house,
at a few feet from her. She at once, in a loud voice, challenged it to
come forward. It did so. By the feeble light of the passage she saw
before her a strange, uncouth figure, wrapped in a wild-cat coat, and
covered with a huge cap of fox-skin. The form was bent and the face was
that of an old man, but the eyes flashed like stars. The man stood on
snow-shoes, and he carried a long staff in his hand.
Pauline shrank behind Zulma as she saw the apparition, and murmured:
"It is Batoche!"
"Yes, child, that is my name," said the old man, "and I am come to fetch
you."
"To fetch her?" asked Zulma with a tone of authority.
"Yes, at her father's request."
"Come in and explain what you mean."
"No. It is unnecessary. Besides, the night is too far advanced. We must
return together at once."
A few hurried words revealed Batoche's mission. The Bastonnais were on
the forward march again. Quebec would be invested within a few hours.
Large reinforcements would enable the Americans to make the blockade
complete. Pauline's father was extremely anxious about the return of his
daughter. Batoche, who was within Quebec, escaped from it, promising his
friend to carry out his wishes. If Pauline tarried she would not be
allowed within the gates. Father and child would be separated. There was
no time to lose. A resolution had to be made. Would Pauline come?
Lamentations and condolences were out of the question. It needed only a
few words of consultation to decide upon following the old man's
instructions. Cary avowed that the information given concerning military
movements was correct, and offered to escort Pauline securely through
the American lines. A further hardship was the parting of Sieur Sarpy
and Zulma from Eugene, under the circumstances, but they made the
sacrifice bravely, and the youth, it is only fair to say, acted his part
with pluck. He had brought Pauline out; he would take her back. If Zulma
had followed her own impulses, she would have accompanied her brother
and friend till she had seen them safe within the walls, but she was
obliged to renounce this pleasure in consideration of her aged father.
Batoche declined a seat in either sleigh. He returned on snow-shoes as
he had gone; and so fleet was his march through the by-ways and short
paths of the country which he knew so well, that he reached the
appointed destination ahead of the party.
It was after six o'clock, and the dawn was just breaking when the
sleighs came within sight of the gates. Cary Singleton approached as
near as he durst, when he stopped to take leave of his fair charge.
Batoche walked directly up to the sentry, where, after a brief parley,
he returned, accompanied by a single man.
"Pauline!" exclaimed the new comer, as he stood beside her, "I have been
anxiously waiting for you. Come in to the town at once."
She bent down to him and whispered something in his ear. He turned and,
smiling, bowed profoundly to the American officer, who returned the
salute.
Cary Singleton and Roderick Hardinge had met a second time.
A moment after, the whole party had disappeared and the snow covered
their tracks.
END OF BOOK THE SECOND.