I.
THE CONFESSIONAL.
It was the eve of the New Year. The snow-storm continued in unabated
violence, and the weather was so gray that the lines of earth and sky
were blended and utterly undistinguishable. A little after the hour of
noon, Zulma Sarpy knelt in the little church of Pointe-aux-Trembles.
Beside her there were only a few worshippers--some old men mumbling
their rosaries, and some women crouched on their heels before the
shrine. A solitary lamp hung from a silver chain in the sanctuary,
casting a feeble ray amid the premature gloom. An awful silence reigned
throughout the aisles. Opposite the place where Zulma was stationed
stood a square box through the bars of which faintly gleamed the white
surplice of the parish priest, who sat there awaiting the confessions of
his flock. The New Year is the chief of festal days among the French,
and it is always ushered in by exercises of devotion. After going
through all the needful preparation, Zulma rose from her seat and
approached the dread confessional. Her demeanour was full of gravity, a
pallor overspread her beautiful features, her eyes were cast down, her
hands joined upon her breast. The influence of prayer and of silent
communion with God could never be more perceptible. She looked like a
totally distinct being from the one whom we have known in the preceding
pages. Zulma moved slowly, and when she reached the door of the
confessional, she paused a moment. But it was not through hesitation.
She was recollecting herself for a supreme act of religion. At length
she disappeared behind the long green curtain, knelt on the narrow stool
within, and through the lattice poured forth her soul into the bended
and keenly listening ear of the pastor. What she said we may not know,
for the secrets of this tribunal are inviolable, but it is allowed to
believe that the lengthy whisperings consisted of something more than a
mere accusation of faults. They conveyed demands of counsel for guidance
in the trying circumstances amid which the girl found herself, and in
response the grave voice of the priest was heard in an undertone,
advising, warning, and exhorting. Finally, the rite was concluded. The
fair penitent bent her white forehead, the pastor signed the sign of
salvation in the air, the stool was pushed back, the green curtain
arose, and Zulma stepped forth to resume the place which she had at
first occupied. We are dispensed from further describing her appearance.
Longfellow, in speaking of Evangeline, has put it forth in one pregnant
line.
"Serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her."
An hour passed, during which Zulma knelt immoveable, absorbed in prayer,
and most of the other persons in the church followed her example by
visiting the confessional in turns. At the end of that time, the priest,
assuring himself that there were no further ministrations to be made,
rose from his seat, opened the little door that held him in, and walked
forward into the aisle. As he passed Zulma, he tapped her gently upon
the shoulder as a sign that she should follow him. She did so at once,
and the two glided noiselessly into the vestry. There the priest, after
divesting himself of his surplice, turned towards the girl, and in the
gentlest manner inquired after her health and that of her father. He
then signified his pleasure at her punctual discharge of her devotions,
in spite of the extremely inclement weather.
"It is a great festival, but it will bring no joy this year," he said.
Zulma, whose countenance still preserved its paleness and expression of
extreme gravity, replied that the times were indeed melancholy, but that
she nevertheless hoped to enjoy a quiet _Jour de l'An_ with her father
and immediate neighbours, having made all the necessary preparations to
that end.
"You have not heard then, my daughter?" said the priest.
"Heard what, sir?"
"Of the terrible events which took place this night while we were
sleeping."
Zulma looked up with a movement of deep anxiety and asked:
"What has happened sir?"
"Two great battles have been fought."
"Is it possible?"
"Many killed, wounded, and prisoners."
"Who, where, how?" gasped Zulma in agony.
"Quebec was attacked in two places."
"And captured?" demanded Zulma, unable to restrain herself.
"No, my daughter. Both attacks were repulsed."
Zulma clasped her hands to her forehead and would have sunk to the floor
had she not been sustained by the good priest.
"Courage, my dear," he said "Excuse me for telling you these things, but
I saw from your deportment in the church that you knew nothing of them,
and I thought it would be well that I should be the first to inform
you."
"Pardon my weakness, Monsieur Le Curé," was the meek reply. "I had
indeed expected this, but the news is terribly sudden all the same. I
entreat you to give me all the particulars which you know. I feel
stronger now and can hear anything."
"I know little that is definite. In the general excitement, all sorts of
rumours are aggravated when they reach us at this distance. But I am
assured that General Montgomery has been killed and Colonel Arnold
wounded. I knew these gentlemen. They dined several times at my table.
They were fine men and I liked them well. I am distressed to hear of
their misfortune."
"Have you heard of the fate of any other officers?"
"Of none by name, except that it was a certain Morgan who replaced
Arnold and surrendered his army."
"Morgan?" exclaimed Zulma, and this time she was so overcome that she
fell exhausted in a chair.
The priest was considerably surprised. Notwithstanding that his
periodical visits to the Sarpy mansion had been interrupted during the
American occupation of Pointe-aux-Trembles, he knew in a general way
that Zulma had become acquainted with one or the other of the officers,
which was the main reason why he judged that the early communication of
the war news from his lips would be particularly interesting to Sieur
Sarpy and his daughter, but he had no suspicion that Zulma's feelings
went further, and had thus no idea of the effect which his words
produced upon her. It was only when he saw her extreme depression and
sorrow that he surmised something of the truth, with that instinct which
is characteristic of men, who, themselves separated from the world by
the stern law of celibacy, devote all their attention to the spiritual
and temporal concerns of their flocks.
"Do not be depressed," he said, approaching Zulma's chair, and bending
towards her with the kindness of a father towards his child. "Perhaps
the news is exaggerated. We shall hear more towards evening, and it may
turn out that the losses are not so great as represented. At least there
may be no loss personal to yourself, my dear, and I trust that such will
prove to be the fact. Therefore take heart. It is getting late. The snow
continues falling and the roads must be blocking up. Return home and
endeavour to maintain your soul in peace. To-morrow, you will come to
early mass, when I trust that we shall have better news to tell each
other."
In spite of the cheering words of the pastor, Zulma drove homeward with
a heavy heart. She spoke not a word to her servant. Instead of raising
her face to the storm and allowing the flakes to beat upon it, as was
her wont, when her spirits were high, she kept her veil down, and the
handkerchief which she frequently drew from under it gave proof that she
was silently weeping. It often happens, that the most boisterous, lofty
women bear their grief in unostentatious quiet, giving it a more
forcible relief from contrast. Thus was it in the present instance with
Zulma. Revolving in her mind all that the priest had told her, and
having full leisure during the journey to appreciate all its terrible
contingencies, she was completely prostrated when she reached home. On
descending from the sleigh she glided softly to her room, where she
locked herself in so as to be absolutely alone. She remained thus until
nearly the supper hour, and after the shadows of evening had enveloped
her.
II.
BLANCHE'S PROPHECY.
When Sieur Sarpy met his daughter at the table, he divined at once that
something was wrong. He himself had heard nothing. The prevalence of the
snow-storm had prevented any one from calling at his mansion, except the
few needy neighbours who had gone early in the morning to receive their
regular alms. The day had passed in solitude, and as the old gentleman
had had no misgivings whatever, he spent his time most agreeably in the
perusal of his favourite books. He must have happened on light and
cheerful literature, because, when he concluded his reading and came
down to supper, he was in more than his usual enlivened mood. But the
spectacle of Zulma's swollen eyes, pinched features and constrained
manner, checked his flow of good humour and arrested the pleasant
anecdote which his lips were about to utter. Naturally enough he did not
suspect the real cause of his daughter's sorrow. He knew that she had
driven down to the village church for her devotions, and of course
presumed that something had happened to her there. He was once on the
point of teasing her about the scolding which he supposed that the
priest had administered to her, but he immediately checked himself. With
the well-bred old French gentleman deep respect formed perhaps the chief
ingredient of the ardent love which he bore his daughter. He carried his
consideration so far that he would not even question her. It became
therefore incumbent on Zulma to break the painful silence. She detailed
the narrative which the priest had given her, supplementing it largely
with the comments dictated by her fears. The effect upon Sieur Sarpy
was hardly less than it had been upon his daughter. He listened in
profound silence, but with an anxiety and surprise which he did not
attempt to conceal. For a long time he ventured to make no reply, and
when at length he did so, it was in such hesitating language as showed
that he was haunted by the same apprehensions which besieged his
daughter. He had therefore scant consolation to offer her, and the
evening meal thus passed without any break in that mental gloom which
was deeper than the darkness which rolled in the exterior heavens.
Little Blanche sat at Zulma's side listening to the discourse with wide
distended eyes, and that expression of vacancy which was so frequent
with this strange child. Not a word had escaped her, and it was evident
that the effect was as great upon her acute mind as upon that of her two
companions.
"If Batoche would only come," murmured Zulma, passing her hand over her
weary brow. "He would tell us everything. I wonder he is not here
already."
"His absence is an additional cause for fear," replied Sieur Sarpy in a
low voice.
"Still, I do not despair. He may arrive before the night is over."
"If he is alive."
"What, papa? You do not suppose that Batoche took part in the attack?"
"I do. I am sure he never quitted the side of Cary Singleton."
"I did not think of that. Alas! I fear you are right. In that case, who
knows?"
"Yes, the worst may have happened to our old friend, and he may never
return."
Both Zulma and her father instinctively looked at little Blanche. An
angelic smile played upon her lips and her eyes were far away.
"Blanche," said Zulma, laying her hand softly on the child's shoulder.
"Yes, Mademoiselle. Grandpapa when he left me, two days ago, said _au
révoir_. That means, 'I will see you again.'"
"But perhaps those bad men have killed him."
"What bad men? The Wolves?"
Zulma did not understand, but Sieur Sarpy understood very well.
"Yes, the Wolves, my dear," he said with a sad smile.
"Oh, my grandfather does not fear the Wolves. The Wolves fear him. They
cannot catch him, no matter what great dangers he may be in. He may
suffer, he may be wounded, but he will not die except near our cabin at
the Falls, under the eye of my mother and with a blessing for me. He has
often told me this at night as he held me on his knee, and I believe all
that my grandfather says. No, Mademoiselle, he is not dead and will soon
arrive to console you."
Zulma could not restrain her tears as she heard the simple pathos of
these childish words, and suddenly a confidence sprung up in her heart,
which sacerdotal speech had been unable to infuse. She pushed her chair
from the table, lifted Blanche from her seat and set her on her own
knees, pillowing the little head on her bosom, and imprinting warm
kisses of gratitude on the slight forehead. Sieur Sarpy looked on, and
appeared pleased. No doubt a similar assurance awoke within him.
"If Batoche comes at all, he will come to-night. We know his punctuality
and his readiness to do a service. The weather is bad and the roads must
be in a wretched state, but this will be no obstacle to his reaching the
mansion. We learn, however, that a great many prisoners have been taken.
Batoche may possibly be among them. In that case, we shall, of course,
resign ourselves not to see him to-night."
Raising her head from Zulma's shoulder, Blanche said rapidly and with
some animation:
"No, M. Sarpy, grandpapa is not a prisoner. He has always said that the
Wolves would never catch him and I believe all that he says."
Sieur Sarpy smiled, and made no reply, but he had a vague belief that
perhaps the child might be right after all.
III.
THE PROPHECY FULFILLED.
She was right. The evening wore away slowly. The servant cleared the
table and trimmed the fire. Sieur Sarpy, instead of retiring to his
private chamber, wheeled his chair to the hearth, and resumed the
reading which he had interrupted before supper. Zulma continued to hold
Blanche on her knee and, sitting before the glowing fire, they both
dropped off into sleep. With the child, it was genuine slumber mingled
with pleasant dreams, as the smile upon her lips and the lines that
played upon her brow and cheeks clearly testified. With Zulma it was not
real sleep, but somnolence, or rather the torpor of dim meditations. Her
eyes were closed, her head was thrown back upon the rocking chair, her
limbs were somewhat extended, while an air of forced resignation or
preparation for the worse was set upon her noble features. The blue and
yellow flames of the chimney flickered wantonly upon her face; the moan
of the wind around the gable drummed into her ear, while the slow flight
of the hours which she heeded not, yet noted distinctly from the strokes
of the old clock, lapsed her soul farther and farther away into the
vague spaces of oblivion. Gradually Sieur Sarpy, yielding to the
influence of heat and solitude, dropped his book upon his knee, and
closed his eyes for a brief respite of repose. But for the outside
sounds of nature and an occasional gust in the fire place, everything
within that room was as silent as the grave. The respiration of its
three living beings was barely audible, a proof that at least none of
them suffered from physical pain. Everything betokened peace and
security. If the rest of the country-side was wild with war or the
rumours of war, the Sarpy mansion lay in the bliss of a profound
unconsciousness.
Suddenly Zulma moved about in her seat, and rolled her head from side to
side on the chair, as if a vision was flitting before her and the light
of the hearthstone. She slowly opened her eyes, closed them again
tightly in order to strengthen their force, and opened them a second
time. Ten o'clock struck. She had been resting for two hours. It was
time that she should rise and retire to her room. She sat up erect and,
in doing so, looked directly forward again. She could not be mistaken.
There was really a shadow between her and the fire. By a rapid effort of
her strong will, she acquired full consciousness and recognized Batoche.
Another glance of almost aching velocity revealed to her that his brow
was placid, his eye soft, and that the traces of a smile lingered at the
corners of his lips. This spectacle at once reassured her. She felt that
all was not as bad as it might have been or as she had fancied it was.
"Batoche," she said holding out her right hand, "you have surprised me,
but it is a delicious surprise. You cannot imagine how glad I am to see
you. Sit down."
Then little Blanche awoke and sprang from Zulma's knee into the arms of
her grandfather.
"I knew it," she sobbed. "I knew he would come."
"Yes," replied Zulma. "Blanche told us, when we feared evil had befallen
you, that you would surely come. She is a dear girl, and a prophetess
like her grandfather."
A moment later Zulma had aroused Sieur Sarpy, and after a few
preliminary words of welcome, Batoche was installed in a chair before
the fire, with Blanche upon his knees, and asked to recount his story in
its minutest details. Zulma had not dared to put him the single
predominant question which was present in her mind, partially trusting,
as we have seen, to the serenity of the old man's countenance, but he,
with his usual keen insight, answered it before entering upon the
course of his narration.
"It is all wrong and yet all right," he said with a swift wave of his
arm.
Zulma looked at him imploringly.
"We have been beaten," continued Batoche. "The Wolves have triumphed.
Many of our bravest officers were killed, but Captain Singleton was only
wounded."
"Wounded again!" exclaimed Zulma.
"But not very seriously. He fell, but I raised him from the snow and he
was able to stand alone, and walk."
"Did he escape?"
"He could not. I tried to induce him to follow me. He ordered me to fly,
but he declared that he must remain with his command."
"What then?"
"He was taken prisoner, but, be easy. He is in good hands."
"In good hands?"
"Yes. I saw Roderick Hardinge directly in front, and I am sure that he
recognized him."
"Heaven be praised for that."
"He is now within the walls of Quebec, but he will be well cared for."
Batoche then took up the account from the beginning and detailed all its
circumstances, both from what he had witnessed himself and from what he
had afterwards heard at headquarters. The report was graphic and lucid,
such as might be expected from so intelligent a soldier. It was midnight
before he had closed the history, and his companions listened to it with
the most absorbed attention.
"And now about yourself," said Sieur Sarpy. "How did you manage to
escape?"
Both Batoche and little Blanche smiled, the child nestling more closely
and lovingly in his arms.
"Have I not always told you that the Wolves could not capture me? At
least they will never take me alive. Although I and my men had enlisted
only as scouts, when the final attack on the town was determined upon, I
resolved to be present. I wished to be associated in that great revenge
if it was successful, and, if unsuccessful, I wished to share the
dangers of those who fought for our liberty. Besides I could not abandon
Cary Singleton, my dear friend and the friend of the kind lady who had
taken my granddaughter under her care."
Zulma accepted the compliment with a bow and the tribute of grateful
tears.
"At first everything appeared in our favour, but after Colonel Arnold
was wounded, the men fell into disorder, and I knew that we should have
trouble. What added to our discomfiture, was that we were confronted
mainly by our own countrymen. Our own countrymen, Sieur Sarpy. There was
Dumas who led them. There was Dambourges who performed prodigies of
valour. There was a giant, named Charland, who sprang upon the barrier
and pulled our ladders over it to his own side. The sight of these
things enraged and paralyzed me. If we had had only the English to deal
with, we should have succeeded, but when the French lent a hand it was
too much. When at length we were completely surrounded and our men fell
on every side, Captain Singleton, as I have said, ordered me to escape.
'You can do no good now,' he said. 'We are lost. Fly and tell our
friends all that has happened. Tell M. Sarpy and Mademoiselle Zulma that
I have not forgotten them in this most terrible of all my misfortunes.'
I obeyed these orders. The flight was almost as desperate as the
advance. Accompanied by my men and several Indians, we threw ourselves
into a narrow path along the river, till we reached the frozen bed of
the St. Charles, which we crossed with the greatest difficulty. We had
to run two miles over shoal ice formed by the high tides, and
encountering numerous air-holes hidden from us by the darkness and the
falling snow. After countless hardships and dangers, we succeeded in
reaching the opposite bank, whence we could hear the last sounds of
battle in the distance. We stopped to listen until all was quiet and we
knew that the fate of our unfortunate companions was sealed. Then we
made our way to the headquarters at St. Foye, where we were the first to
convey the terrible intelligence to Colonel Arnold. There too we learned
full particulars of Montgomery's defeat. After taking the needful rest,
I disbanded my men to their houses for a brief furlough, while I turned
my steps directly to this mansion. Here I am and I have told my story.
Was I not justified in saying that it is all wrong and yet all right?"
IV.
DAYS OF SUSPENSE.
Now that Zulma knew all, her anxiety was hardly less than when she was
left to her own painful surmises. It was a relief, of course, to be
certain that Cary's wound was not a dangerous one, and that, as he was
doomed to be a prisoner, he would have the good offices of Roderick
Hardinge. Of the latter's kindly disposition towards her friend she had
not the least doubt. Indeed, it added to her satisfaction to believe
that he would treat Cary well precisely for her own sake. Thinking over
this subject she found herself more than once mentally expressing a deep
admiration of the British officer. She pictured to herself with intense
vividness the beauty of his person, the manliness of his carriage, and
the hearty warmth, ease, and culture of his conversation. At times she
almost fancied that Cary's lot was not such a hard one after all, free
from further dangers, exempt from the winter hardships of his former
quarters, and enjoying the society of so congenial a character as
Roderick Hardinge. A sad smile glided across her face as she thought
that she would be disposed to bear a little captivity herself for the
sake of such companionship. But all these feelings lay only on the
surface. In the recesses of her heart, she grieved over the utter
failure of the Americans, over their blasted hopes, their ruined
expectations, and over the terrible catastrophe which had overtaken so
many of their principal officers. She particularly bewailed the unequal
share of misfortune which had overtaken Cary Singleton. Twice wounded
and now a prisoner--surely this was an unusually rude experience for a
youth of one and twenty. And then she was deprived of his company as he
of hers. She wondered--and the thought, in spite of her, was an
additional pang--whether he would feel the isolation as much as she. She
had no knowledge how long the captivity would last. Batoche had not been
able to enlighten her on this head. If the remnant of the Continental
army retreated, these unfortunate men would doubtless be left behind to
pine in their prisons. If the siege was to continue during the remainder
of the winter, they would be kept to prevent them from swelling the
ranks of the invaders. In either case, the prospect was very dark.
Zulma remained in this state of doubt and depression for a week, during
which she and her father received further particulars of the great
battles, so that now they understood their nature fully, but they
learned absolutely nothing concerning the prisoners, nor indeed
concerning any one within the walls of the town. Batoche, who came out
to them a couple of times during that interval, stated that he had tried
every night to contrive an entrance, but found all the avenues so
closely guarded that he had to abandon each attempt. He added, however,
that he was sure this extraordinary vigilance would not be kept up a
length of time. So soon as the garrison became satisfied that the
besieging army did not meditate a renewal of the attack--at least a
speedy renewal--they would relax their watchfulness, which must be a
severe strain upon the comparatively small number of the troops. This
assurance afforded Zulma only slender consolation. It pointed to a
further delay, and delay, with all its uncertainties, was what she was
then incapable of enduring. A further source of society was that she and
her father had no tidings whatever of Eugene since the great event.
Previously they heard of and from him frequently through the visits
which Batoche paid the Belmonts.
At the end of a fortnight, Batoche arrived at the Sarpy mansion with a
bit of more definite news. He had not himself succeeded in penetrating
to the interior of the town, but he had unexpectedly met in the woods,
near his hut, at Montmorenci, a poor broken down countryman of his who
had deserted from the militia. From him he heard that the prisoners were
confined in a portion of the Seminary, occupying comfortable quarters,
and precisely one of the causes of his desertion was that he and his
companions were deprived of their best rations for the benefit of these
fellows. He further stated that, at the battle at Sault-au-Matelot, the
young students of the Seminary found themselves engaged and behaved
pretty well, but none of them suffered. This was a source of great
pleasure to both Sieur Sarpy and Zulma and it dispelled their misgivings
about Eugene. Another piece of news brought by this deserter was that,
after firing the fatal shot at Près-de-ville, the little garrison of the
block-house fell into a panic and fled in the utmost precipitation, and
it was only when they found that they were not pursued that they
ventured to return.
"Ah!" exclaimed Batoche, "if the officer, who took the command after the
brave Montgomery, had only pressed on, the block-house would have been
carried, Arnold would have been reinforced, the combined assault would
have been a complete success, and Quebec would now be ours."
"What is the name of that officer?" inquired Zulma.
"I do not know him, but I believe they call him Campbell."
"Coward, if not a traitor," exclaimed the girl, rising from her seat and
exhibiting her scorn by a strange contraction of features.
Whatever the cause, the conduct of Campbell was inexplicable. There
appears no doubt that he could have continued the assault successfully
after Montgomery's death, and it is more than probable that his triumph
would have insured that of Arnold. But there is no use speculating on
this. A great commander has said that war is largely made up of
accidents, favourable and unfavourable.
V.
THE INVALID.
Batoche displayed his usual foresight when he predicted that the
garrison of Quebec would soon slacken its vigilance. Arnold with the
small remnant of his shattered forces gave up all attempt at a complete
investment, but confined himself to an alert blockade. He burned the
houses in the suburbs that interfered with his plan of operations. On
his side, Carleton made a sortie or two to burn the rest of the houses
in St. Roch's, with the double purpose of clearing the spaces before his
guns and supplying the town with fire-wood, which was getting short.
With his two thousand men he could easily have pounced upon the five or
six hundred Americans and routed or captured them, thus effectually
raising the siege, but for some reason or other, which has never been
satisfactorily explained, he preferred to pursue the Fabian policy, and
trust to the return of spring and the arrival of reinforcements from the
sea for ultimate deliverance. He kept his troops well in hand, but it
was natural with the weary length of the siege and the long inaction
which followed the attack on New Year's eve, his men should get more or
less demoralized. The desertion mentioned in the preceding chapter was
followed by many others, especially of American soldiers whom he had
unwisely enlisted in one of his corps, instead of keeping them rigidly
as prisoners.
These men seized every opportunity to escape, and through them Arnold
soon became acquainted with all that was going on within the town. Among
these sources of information were long letters written by his captive
officers, in one of which it was stated that Captain Singleton's wound
having induced a serious inflamation of the lungs, he had been allowed
to be transported to the house of a private family. When Batoche became
possessed of this important intelligence he immediately repaired to the
Sarpy mansion and acquainted Zulma with it.
"I wonder who are the kind friends that have taken him in," said Zulma,
after lamenting this new danger that threatened her friend.
"Can't you guess?" asked Batoche, and his knowing smile went straight to
the heart of his companion.
"I hope that _you_ guess true."
"Be assured of it, but to clear away all doubts, I am resolved to find
my way into Quebec to-night. I have a plan that will succeed. The
deserter whom I met the other day has given me his uniform in exchange
for other clothing which will enable him to move about the country in
safety. I will disguise myself in this uniform. The Wolves will take me
for one of themselves. I will carry musket, knapsack, and all. If you
have any message or letters for your friends, prepare them at once. I
will carry them about me in such a manner that they shall not be
discovered, and I will safely deliver them. I have made up my mind to
get into the town to-night, and I will do it. I have a definite purpose
and it shall be accomplished. Captain Singleton is sick and I must see
him in person."
As Batoche spoke these words, his face was marked by a calm
determination which was proof against every obstacle, and there was an
expression of sadness besides, indicative of the concern which he felt
for the safety of Cary Singleton's life.
The old man was as good as his word. On returning to quarters, he donned
the disguise of the deserter, and, when the proper hour of the night
came, went off to reconnoitre under the walls. He travelled long and
wearily. Several times he was espied, or fancied he was espied, by the
sentinels on the rampart. Once he was fired upon. But at length by dint
of skill, courage, and perseverance, he managed to scale a parapet and
drop quietly into a dark street, just as the sentry, returning on his
beat, remained above him with glistening weapon. He crouched in a corner
to make sure that he had been unseen and unheard. Very provocatively,
the guard stood a considerable time gazing at nothing, but he stepped
forward finally, and Batoche slipped away. He went directly to the house
of M. Belmont, where, as his time was short, he would be best able to
get all the information that he wanted.
"I promised M. Belmont," he muttered to himself, "that I would not go
near his house again, but that was because I was a rebel. Now I am a
loyalist, a devoted servant of King George, and I wear his glorious
livery. There can, therefore, be no possible objection to my visit."
And the old man chuckled as he neared his destination.
It was not later than eleven o'clock, but the house was still and dark.
There were no lights on the front, and the snow was untrampled on the
stairs and sidewalk. Batoche hesitated a moment, fearing that some
misfortune might have happened to his friends within the four or five
weeks since he had last seen them. But on moving cautiously to the rear,
he saw a bright light in the kitchen and a fainter one in an upper room.
"All is well," thought he, as he ascended the steps and knocked at the
kitchen door. His rap echoed loud within, and he heard the shuffling of
flying female feet. He then tried the lock, but found the door
double-barred.
"I have frightened the maid and the house is barricaded, but I hope the
girl will have sense enough to announce that somebody is at the door."
Presently the muffled stamping of manly slippers became audible and
Batoche recognized the tread of M. Belmont.
"Who is there?"
"A friend."
"Your name?"
Batoche durst not give his name even in a whisper, for the winds of
suspicion might bear it to headquarters.
"What do you want at this hour?"
"Fear nothing. Open the door and I will tell you."
"I will not open."
M. Belmont was not a timid man, but evidently these precautions had
become necessary in the present demoralized condition of the town.
Batoche was in a quandary, but his native sagacity soon came to his aid.
Putting his mouth close to the key-hole, he sent through it the low bark
of the wolf. M. Belmont opened his eyes wide as he heard it, and a
sickly smile spread over his face, but he lost no time in turning the
lock. Through a very small aperture the stranger glided into the room.
"Batoche!"
"M. Belmont!"
A few whispered words explained everything--the disguise, the motive of
the visit and all the rest. M. Belmont recovered his equanimity and led
his friend to a front room.
"I have no time to lose. I must see him," said Batoche.
"He is very ill and now sleeping."
"Who is with him?"
"Pauline. She never leaves him."
"Stay a moment. Roderick Hardinge may be here at any moment. He calls
every evening about this hour. He must not meet you."
"Never fear. It will be easy to keep out of his sight."
The two friends then ascended to the sick room--Pauline's own chamber.
On the little bed lay the fine form of the young American soldier,
stretched out at full length under snow-white coverlets. The face was
drawn down and narrowed, the eyes were sunken, while the fever played
in lurid lines about the cheek-bones and ample forehead. The masses of
curly hair lay moist upon the pillow. By the dim light of the shaded
lamp on the table near by, Cary looked like a corpse, silent,
immoveable--how different from the manly figure which Batoche had seen
doing battle by his side in the terrible defile of Sault-au-Matelot.
Pauline sat in a low chair at the head of the bed, the loveliest picture
of sad, suffering beauty. There were dark lines under her eyes that told
of long watches, and a slight stoop in her shoulders indicative of
weariness against which the generous, loving spirit was struggling. When
the stranger entered the apartment with her father, she neither moved
from her seat nor made any sign. Her idea was that it was probably a
soldier whom Roderick, unable to come himself, had sent to inquire about
the invalid. But when the man approached nearer, and M. Belmont,
preceding him, whispered something in her ear, she rose with the
pressure of both hands upon her throbbing heart.
"Batoche!" she exclaimed in a smothered voice. "You are an angel of
Providence."
"I heard he was ill and I came to see him."
"Yes, you heard he was ill and you came, at the peril of your life. You
are a noble man, a generous friend. Oh, how he will be delighted to see
you. He sleeps; we cannot awake him, but when he awakes, your presence
will give him strength and courage. And Zulma----"
Just then there was a low rap at the front door, and the girl,
interrupting her speech, stepped out of the room and down stairs.
"It is Hardinge," said M. Belmont "Go into the adjoining room, Batoche.
He will not remain long. Perhaps, as the sick man is now reposing, he
may not come up stairs at all."
It was some moments before he ascended, being engaged in a colloquy with
Pauline, and when he did come up, it was only to gaze upon the sleeping
man for a few seconds. He contented himself with saying to M. Belmont
that he had just seen the doctor, who declared that this was the height
of the crisis, but that the chances were largely in favour of the
patient. Anything--the merest trifle--that would tend to cheer up his
moral nature at this time, without unduly exciting him, would most
probably determine a salutary change for the better.
M. Belmont smiled faintly as he heard this. He thought of Batoche's
visit.
"That will be just the thing," he murmured inwardly.
VI.
THE SAVING STROKE.
When Roderick took his departure, Pauline accompanied him to the outer
door, but she was not long away, being desirous to assist at the
interview between Cary and Batoche. The old man stood by the bedside of
his friend keenly observant of the symptoms which presented themselves
to his practised eye. He that had so often been exposed to the
severities of the Canadian winter and the hardships of the hunter's life
was well acquainted with a malady which had more than once threatened
his own days.
"Both his lungs are terribly attacked and he is very, very feeble," said
he to M. Belmont and Pauline, "but the clearness of his complexion shows
that his constitution is sound, and the repose of his limbs is proof
that he is endowed with remarkable strength. He was struck by a ball
under the right shoulder and the upper lobe of the lung was probably
grazed. He held up against the shock, thus wasting much of the vital
force which absolute repose from the beginning would have spared him. He
is a very sick man, but I believe with the doctor that he will pull
through. Indeed," added Batoche in that quaint oracular way which was no
longer new to those who heard him, "Cary Singleton cannot, must not die.
Not only is his own young life precious, but there are dear lives
depending upon his. What would Zulma Sarpy do without him, she that is
fretting at the very thought of his illness? And, Pauline, you, I am
sure, would not have him die?"
The answer was two large tears that quivered in the eyes of the poor
girl.
Presently, the head of the sick man turned slightly on its pillow, the
body contracted a little and Cary opened his eyes. There was no
bewilderment in the look. He awoke knowing where he was--not in a
strange place, but among those whom he loved and who lovingly cared for
him. Pauline was the first to approach him. She asked him a question,
and he answered in her own language, as naturally as if the French had
been his mother tongue. Batoche was delighted to observe this, regarding
it as a satisfactory normal symptom. Cary accepted a draught from the
hands of his beautiful nurse, then lay back on his pillow as if quite
refreshed. At that propitious moment, his eyes encountered those of
Batoche, who stood up a little towards the foot of the bed. A calm smile
played upon his lips, intelligence beamed softly in his look, and,
withdrawing his long emaciated hand from under the sheet, he extended it
to his old friend.
"Batoche!" he whispered.
The latter took the proffered hand reverently and pressed it to his
lips.
"You know me, Captain?"
"Perfectly."
"I have longed to see you."
"And I to see you."
"But it was impossible to come sooner."
"I know it and you had to use that uniform."
As Cary said this he pointed to Batoche's disguise with a subdued laugh.
He immediately added:
"And my friends, how are they? Mademoiselle Zulma and Sieur Sarpy?"
"They grieve at your misfortune and pray for your recovery.
Mademoiselle's chief regret is that she cannot be at your side."
A radiance passed over the sufferer's face, and he said:
"Does she know in whose kind hands I am?"
"She does and that is her only consolation."
It was Pauline's turn to betray her emotion, by averting her head and
wiping the tears from her eyes.
"Here are a few lines from her pen," continued Batoche, "written not
many hours ago."
Cary held out his hand for the paper, partially raising himself on the
pillow in his eagerness as he did it. He would have asked that it be
read to him, when Batoche interposed with that quiet authority so
familiar to him.
"Not to-night, Captain. Keep it for your first joy on awakening
to-morrow morning."
The sick man smilingly acquiesced, and handed it to Pauline, saying:
"We will read it together at breakfast."
After a pause, during which Cary appeared to be collecting his thoughts,
calmly, however, and without effort, he said to Batoche:
"You return to-night?"
"Yes, at once. It is growing late."
"You will see Mademoiselle Sarpy and her father. You will thank them for
their solicitude. Tell them that my thoughts are with them. If I live
and secure my liberty, my first visit will be to them. If I die--"
"Die, Captain, die!" exclaimed Batoche in a ringing voice that startled
Pauline and her father. "A soldier does not die thus. All is not lost.
We shall fight side by side again. A young man does not die thus. Death
is for old men like me. A glorious future is before you. Die? You will
not die, Captain Singleton. You must live for the sake of your parents
and relatives in the old home of the South, and you must not break the
hearts of these two Canadian girls, whose happiness hangs upon yours."
This last sentence especially Batoche blurted out in a kind of reckless
enthusiasm. But he knew well what he said.
Pauline was amazed at the audacity of his speech. M. Belmont looked on
in silent wonder. As to Cary he gazed with great open eyes, as if he was
listening to a summons, delivered in a trumpet blast, from an unseen
power that was omnipotent to save him. A glow of sudden health mantled
his cheeks; his brow was illuminated with an air of intelligence quite
distinct from the torpor of mortal disease which had lain upon it, and,
as he stretched himself out more fully on his couch, he appeared endowed
with a vigour that could only be born of confidence. It was evident,
too, that, at the moment, he was perfectly happy.
"It is well," murmured M. Belmont, laying his hand upon his daughter's
shoulder. "This is the blessed revulsion of which the doctor spoke."
Batoche seemed quite satisfied with what he had done, and a moment after
he bade his friend farewell. Down in the hall, when alone with M.
Belmont, he delivered his other messages, a letter from Zulma to
Pauline, and from Sieur Sarpy to his son Eugene, which his friend was to
send to its destination in whatever way might seem best so as not to
compromise himself. He observed also with satisfaction that Cary had not
breathed a word about military matters. This he regarded as a sign that
the young man's mind was quite at ease.
VII.
DONALD'S FATE.
Before he took his departure M. Belmont solemnly warned Batoche of all
the dangers which he incurred, reminding him that it is often more
difficult to return from such an expedition as he had undertaken that
night, than to get through its initial stages. Batoche was by no means
insensible to his perils and, thanking his host, promised to exercise
the utmost prudence. M. Belmont particularly called his attention to a
patrol headed by Roderick's old servant, Donald, who was a desperate
man, animated by the most deadly feelings against every one whom he even
suspected of disloyalty towards the King.
"I know that he owes you a special grudge, Batoche, for your midnight
incursions, and if he catches you, he will treat you without mercy."
The night was as dark as death, without a single star in the sky, or a
solitary lamp in the streets. On leaving the house, Batoche shot boldly
into a narrow lane that led towards the ramparts facing the St. Charles,
and then slackened his step, creeping along the walls of the houses.
This lane opened on a little garden which the old hunter was obliged to
skirt along its whole length. He heard nothing, saw nothing, except that
he fancied the leafless trees looked down upon him with shadows of
warning. Batoche often said that he understood the language of trees,
and certainly to-night the sight of them impressed his usually
imperturbable soul so that he accelerated his pace. When he reached
about one-third the length of the garden, he distinctly felt that he was
followed. He turned around and saw a dark figure at a distance behind
him. He knew instinctively that there was mischief brewing. He stopped;
the figure stopped. He advanced; it advanced. He crossed the road
diagonally; it crossed. He returned; it returned. He might have rushed
upon his pursuer, but that would probably have occasioned outcries and
other noises, which were naturally to be avoided. He had a recourse to
flight. Swift as a deer he glided along the garden palisade, turned, and
hid himself behind a large tree that formed the corner of the street.
His pursuer was equally fleet and came up to him immediately.
"Give me your musket," he growled in broken French.
"No."
"Follow me to the guard-room."
"No."
"Who are you?"
"Your enemy."
The strange man advanced a step and looked full into Batoche's face.
"Ah! it is you, at last, and disguised in his Majesty's uniform. I knew
I would catch you yet. Take this."
He raised an enormous horse pistol which he pointed at the old man's
forehead. With the left hand Batoche struck up the levelled arm, while
with his right he whipped out a long hunter's knife from his belt. The
struggle was brief. The pistol went off grazing the edge of Batoche's
fox-skin cap, and the hunter's blade plunged deep into the patrolman's
heart. The latter rolled into the snow without a groan, and Batoche fled
with the sound of footsteps, attracted by the pistol's report, sounding
in his ears. He encountered no further obstacle, crossing the wall at
the same spot which he had chosen in the earlier part of the evening,
and almost in sight of a sentinel who was half asleep on his carbine.
"That fellow will never trouble me or M. Belmont again," thought
Batoche. "And what is better they will not know that I did it. I am only
sorry for Monsieur Hardinge, who will have to provide himself with
another servant."
The death of Donald created a great excitement in the town. Besides that
he was well known and much esteemed as a faithful, active soldier, the
mystery that attended his fate aroused the most painful feelings. Was it
due simply to a moonlight brawl, were any of the disaffected men of the
garrison concerned in it, or had some of the American prisoners, in
attempting to effect their escape, committed the deed? A thorough
investigation took place, but no clue to the tragedy could be found.
Roderick Hardinge was particularly distressed. After exhausting all the
means of inquiry, a suspicion of the truth flashed upon him, and roused
the stormiest indignation in his mind. His vexation was the greater,
that, if his conjecture were correct, it would place him in a difficult
position towards the Belmonts. Once already; as he only too well
remembered, his military duties had led him to a bitter misunderstanding
with Pauline's father, and several times since, the operation of the
same cause had rendered their mutual relations very precarious. Both of
them had made concessions, and the young officer was generous enough to
admit to himself that M. Belmont had borne a very trying part in the
most noble spirit. But, in the present instance, the element of
publicity in Donald's death was a particularly disturbing circumstance,
and it preyed so much on Roderick's mind that for two or three days he
avoided calling at the house of M. Belmont. Pauline and her father
noticed the absence without being able to account for it. They had
indeed heard of Donald's death, but it never entered into their remotest
suspicions that Batoche had anything to do with it. At length, when his
mind was calmer, Hardinge went to inquire after the health of Cary
Singleton. He made that appear the main object of his visit. In spite of
himself he was constrained in manner while addressing a few words to M.
Belmont, and even towards Pauline he appeared cold and formal.
On conducting him to the door, the girl ventured to ask him whether he
was ailing.
"I am ailing in mind, Pauline. I have tried my best to make things
pleasant with my friends," and he looked sharply at her--"but this
outrageous murder of my old servant has upset nearly all my
calculations. I don't know what may come of it yet."
Pauline understood nothing of his speech, but when she repeated it to
her father, he grew very excited and angry.
"It is the hardest thing in life to serve two masters, my dear. Roderick
is a fine fellow, but perhaps if you or I had known less of him, our
course would have been simpler, and we should not have to live in
perpetual fear and trembling. I think I know what is on his mind, which
would explain the coldness of his manner towards both of us. While I
will stand strictly by the promise made to Monseigneur, I will not allow
myself to be made the butt of any man's humour, and if Roderick holds
the same conduct towards me to-morrow evening, I will attack him about
it."
M. Belmont's aspect was very decided as he spoke these words. Pauline,
still comprehending nothing, retreated to the sick room with a load of
apprehension at her heart.
VIII.
THE BURDENED HEART.
Nor was this her only sorrow. The morning after Batoche's visit; Cary's
first thought, upon awakening, was about Zulma's letter. He asked
Pauline to read it to him, which she did without delay. The note was
short and simple. It expressed the writer's amazement and regret at the
awful misfortune which had befallen Cary and his companions, and
contained such sentiments of comfort as might have been expected from
her warm heart and generous nature. The only remarkable sentence was the
last one, which read as follows: "Do you know that all these adversities
are making me selfish? It seems to me that I am harshly treated. I know
that you are in good hands, but it is my place to be beside you, and I
am jealous of the chance which Pauline has of nursing you. Tell Pauline
this. Tell her that I am dreadfully jealous, and that unless she brings
you to health within a very few days, I shall myself lead a storming
party which will succeed in wreaking its vengeance. Pardon this banter.
Give my love to Pauline. I write to her more on this subject."
These phrases were innocent and common-place enough, and they caused
Cary to smile. Not so with Pauline. She read them with a serious face,
and faltering accents, and when she closed, her eyes fell on those of
the sick officer in a queer spirit of interrogation.
"A very kind letter, such as I knew she would write. I hope to be able
to thank her soon," he said. "And she has also written to you,
mademoiselle?"
This was spoken in such a way as to show plainly that Cary would have
desired this second letter to be read to him. Pauline thus understood
it, but although the paper was secreted in her bosom, and she
instinctively raised her hand to produce it, she checked the movement
and contented herself with saying that, among other things, Zulma had
recommended her to take the utmost care of her patient.
"Indeed!" said Cary smiling. "That was the excess of generosity, but she
might have spared herself the trouble. Let me say it again,
mademoiselle. Not my own mother, not my own sisters, not even Zulma
Sarpy herself could do more for me than I receive at your hands, and if
I recover, as I now believe I shall, I will always hold that I owe my
life to Pauline Belmont."
This little speech thrilled the listener. It was spoken in a calm,
pathetic tone, and the last sentence was accompanied by such a look as
carried a meaning deeper than any words. Words, gesture, look--none of
these things had escaped the girl, but what particularly struck her with
unusual significance was that, for the first time, her patient had
addressed her as "Pauline."
Later in the day, when Pauline was alone for a few moments, she produced
Zulma's letter and read it once more attentively. She could not disguise
from herself that it was a noble letter, full of generous feelings and
instinct with that sympathy which one true friend should testify to
another on occasions of such painful trials. Zulma wrote eloquently of
the dangers and anxieties which Pauline must have experienced on that
dreadful December morning, and renewed her invitation to abandon the
ill-fated town and take up her abode in the peaceful mansion of
Pointe-aux-Trembles. "You are not made for such terrible scenes, my
dear"--these were her words--"I could bear them better, for they are in
my nature. You should be in my place and I in yours. I would thus be in
a position to bear the fatigue of nursing him who is the dearest friend
of us both."
This was the phrase which had puzzled Pauline at the first reading, and
which perplexed her still at the second. It was on account of this
sentence that she did not read the letter to Cary. What could Zulma mean
by it?
"She is much mistaken," thus Pauline soliloquized, "if she thinks I am
unable to bear the burden which Providence has laid upon me. I am no
longer what I was. These two months of almost constant agitation have
nerved me to a courage which I never thought I could have had. They have
completely changed me. When I might have remained out of the town and
gone to Pointe-aux-Trembles, it was I who persuaded my father to return
to this house, and I do not regret it. I would not leave it now if I
could. Much as I should like Zulma's company, and the benefit of her
advice and example, I would not consent to exchange places with her."
Pauline glanced at the letter again.
"How curiously she words the letter about my poor invalid! She does not
speak of him as _her_ dearest friend, an expression which I would have
expected her to use," here an involuntary tremour passed through
Pauline's frame, "but she speaks of him as the dearest friend of _us
both_. What does this mean? Was it written spontaneously, or on
deliberation? It is a trap to draw me into indiscretions? No. Zulma is
too true a friend for that. Alas! The dear girl does not know, cannot
know, will never know the full bearing of the words."
Pauline herself did not then know the full bearing of the words written
with no intention of conveying the meaning which she attached to them.
Notwithstanding all the changes that had previously taken place in her
character, her sweet simplicity remained intact, and it was this very
ingenuousness which had prompted her to admit Cary Singleton into her
fathers dwelling. When the young officer fell sick in the hospital at
the Seminary, it was Roderick Hardinge who acquainted her with the fact,
expressing regret that he could not be more properly provided for. She
at once suggested that he be transported to her home, offering to be his
nurse. Hardinge readily assented, and, after considerable difficulties,
obtained the necessary permission from the authorities. In all this
transaction the conduct of the British officer was manly, noble, and
above board, without afterthought; or the slightest trace of
selfishness. It is simple truth to say that, notwithstanding her sincere
admiration of Cary Singleton, Pauline acted in the matter through
motives of humanity alone and out of her friendship for Zulma. She
looked not to future contingencies. Indeed she never stopped to inquire
that any contingencies might arise. Had she done so, a sense of duty
might have restrained her deed of charity. That duty was the love she
bore Roderick Hardinge, a love which had never been confessed in words,
the extent of which she had never been able to define to herself, but
which existed nevertheless, and which it had been her happiness to
believe was fully reciprocated. But the heart travels fast within nine
days, and, at the end of that time, it is no wonder that Batoche's
visit, Zulma's letters, and Roderick's moodiness should have disturbed
the poor girl's soul. Man is not master of his affections, and there is
a destiny in love as in the other events of this world.
IX.
EBB AND FLOW.
Zulma's anxieties were no less than Pauline's. They increased from day
to day, and she fretted herself almost into illness by her impatience.
She knew that Cary's malady was of its nature a protracted one, and that
the convalescence must necessarily extend over many weeks. She could
hear from him only occasionally, and never with that fullness of detail
which her affection required. She had recourse to many expedients to
ease her mind, but failure in every instance only sharpened the edge of
her disappointment. Her chief attempt was to obtain admission into the
town for the purpose of aiding Pauline in nursing the invalid. She quite
appreciated all the delicacy of the step; but, having obtained her
father's cordial consent, she pursued it with all the energy of her
nature. She applied for the necessary leave to her brother Eugene, who,
having done soldier's duty, was supposed to be entitled to some little
consideration at the hands of the authorities. Eugene was flatly
refused. Zulma then enlisted the services of Roderick Hardinge, who
somehow entered into her views with the greatest alacrity.
"She would make a charming prisoner," he said gaily.
But Hardinge failed. So did Bouchette, who had been approached in the
matter by his friend Belmont. The affair created quite a stir in this
small circle of friends, relieving the monotony of the siege for the
time being. Cary Singleton was very much amused as well as touched by
it. But when it was at length ascertained that the Governor, usually so
good-natured, was strangely inexorable in the present instance, Pauline
and her coadjutors gave up all hope of seeing Zulma among them. But the
latter was not so easily discouraged. These rebuffs only added fuel to
her desire, and though the time passed rapidly, she did not resign her
project. Very seriously, she inquired of Batoche whether he could not
smuggle her within the walls. The proposition at first struck the fancy
of the old man, making his eyes glitter; but, upon second thought, he
laughed it away.
"The trouble would not be so much to smuggle you in, as to know what to
do with you when once we got you in," he said slyly. "Women are awkward
things to handle in a camp of soldiers. No disguise can hide them from
prying eyes."
As a last resort, Zulma resolved on appealing directly to Monseigneur
Briand, whom surely Carleton would not deny. There were numerous and
very glaring objections to this bold measure, but the impetuous girl
over-ruled them all, and, after writing a splendid diplomatic letter,
she had concluded arrangements to have it safely delivered to the
prelate, when an unforeseen event saved her from the consequences of her
amiable rashness.
As we have said, time had passed briskly on since the terrible events of
the New Year's Eve. January had glided into February, and March had come
with the promise of an unusually early spring. No military events of any
importance had occurred, at least, none that had any connection with our
story, and beyond the circumstances attached to Cary's long illness,
there happened nothing which need make us linger over those bleakest
months of the winter.
Singleton had so far recovered as to be able to walk about, but he
remained very feeble, without the opportunity of taking that free
exercise necessary to his complete restoration. It was awkward for him
to tarry much longer in the house of M. Belmont. The seclusion of prison
life was interdicted by the humane physician, while there were clear
military objections to his being allowed to circulate in the streets of
Quebec. Fortunately the doubt was solved by a partial exchange of
prisoners which took place about the middle of March, and in which by a
special privilege, Cary was included.
The parting from Pauline was very trying. The young man could not
explain to himself the regret which it caused him. It grew out of
something distinct from and far above his gratitude for her nursing, and
the sense of obligation for the saving of his life which he was
conscious he could never discharge. In those long afternoons, within the
curtained gloom of the sick chamber: during those longer sleepless
nights, with their companionship of silence and the sole intercourse of
the eyes; in those frequent conversations made up for the most part of
commonplaces, but relieved at times by unbidden revelations of the
heart; in those brief but not infrequent visions of Pauline's beauty
brought about by sudden graceful movements of her body, or when she
appeared under certain favourable effects of the window light; in those
intuitive glimpses of her real character made doubly attractive by its
constant element of sadness, and the suspicion of self-sacrifice, Cary
had woven about his heart an unconscious chain, the power of which he
could not understand until called upon to burst it.
Nor did he gather any comfort from Pauline's attitude. When he announced
his final departure to her, she heard him calmly, but her quiet was that
of mental and physical weakness. There was no energetic self-control in
her words or manner; merely a passive resignation. As she extended her
hand, and felt the warm kiss imprinted upon it, she was an object of
extreme pity, which added to the bitterness of Cary's sorrow.
The last farewell had been spoken and the two stood on the steps, at the
foot of which a cariole was waiting to convey the released prisoner to
his destination among his friends. Cary turned once more to meet the eye
of Pauline. As he did so, he paused, struck by a sudden thought, and,
going back a step or two, said:
"Pauline--allow me to call you by this name for perhaps the last
time--Pauline, promise me one thing. Take care of your health. I fear
that, after I am gone, you will replace me on that sick-bed, worn out by
wearing weeks of watching."
Two livid spots burned on Pauline's cheek, and there was a glassiness in
her eye. She leaned on the frame of the door for support, but mustered
strength enough to answer that she felt no illness and hoped that all
would turn out for the best. It was poor comfort; Cary had, however, to
be satisfied with it, and drove away with a very heavy heart.
He had not been two hours in the American camp, when he met Batoche. It
goes without saying that the meeting was of the heartiest, and, between
them, a visit to Pointe-aux-Trembles was planned for that same evening.
Zulma having heard of the negotiations for the exchange of prisoners,
the coming of Cary was not unexpected, and there was great rejoicing
that evening at the Sarpy Mansion, as over one who had been lost and was
found, who had died and had risen from the dead.
X.
ON THE BRINK.
Another month had passed. With the middle of April the balmy spring-time
was at hand. The snow had disappeared from mountain and plain; the
rivers flowed clear and abundant in their channels; the trees were
faintly burgeoning, and the heavens palpitated with an atmosphere of
genial warmth. The cattle, confined for so many months in the darkness
of stalls, lay basking in the sunshine, or trooped to the southern
slopes where the young grass was springing. The sheep skipped on the
hill sides. The doors and windows of the farm-houses were thrown wide
open for a vital freshening. The children played on the stoop. White
steam rose from the cracks and fissure of the heated granaries. The
barn-yard was vocal with awakening sounds. The dove-cots buzzed with
wooings; the eaves grew populous with swallows, and the thatched roofs
of the pens and stables were covered with poultry grubbing for the
earliest worm.
It was the resurrection of nature, nowhere felt with such keen
exhilarance as in arctic latitudes. From the far off mountains, the
clouds of murky vapour that lifted and rolled away, leaving the purple
summits towering up to receive the first kiss of the rosy dawn and the
last embrace of the golden sunset, were emblems of the winter's gloom
replaced by that spring-tide brightness which aroused new hopes and a
revived interest in the souls of men. The crocus of the glen, the
anemone of the prairie, the cress of the sheltered waters, the hum of
the first insect, the twitter from the mossy nest, the murmur of forest
streams, were all so many types of human rejuvenescence and animation.