dreary Lenten time was over, with its vigils and fasts, its
self-abasement and penitence. The dread Holy Week had gone, with its
plaints and laments, its confession of sins and cries for mercy, its
darkened windows and stripped altars, its quenched tapers and hushed
bells, its fourteen stations of that _Via Crucis_ which rehearses the
ineffable history of the Man of Sorrows and the Lady of Pain. The
glorious Easter morning was there. Bright vestments gleamed, a thousand
lights flamed from the sanctuary, perfumed incense circled heavenward,
bearing the thanksgiving of opening hearts. From hillside to valley
echoed the music of bells in every turret and steeple, even the bells of
the churches and convents in the old beleaguered town that had so often
sounded the alarm of battle during the night, taking on a new voice to
celebrate the "great day which the Lord hath made." And even as the
heavy stone was suddenly flung aside from the sepulchre under the shadow
of Golgotha, giving freedom to the Master of the world; so the pall of
winter was torn from the face of nature, and from the hearts of men was
removed the burden which, during four long months, had made their torpor
somewhat akin to that of the great beasts of the wilderness.
It was Easter Monday, a calmer day, but perhaps more enjoyable from the
palpable assurance it afforded that the promises of its predecessor were
really being fulfilled. The weather was magnificent, and the whole
country resounded with the voices of men and women preparing for their
work. Zulma Sarpy and Cary Singleton walked alone on the bank of the St.
Lawrence, directly in front of the mansion. They moved along slowly,
frequently stopping to admire the scenery spread out before them, or to
engage in earnest conversation. Cary had entirely recovered from his
illness, appearing stouter and stronger than ever before. He was
clothed in his uniform, a proof that he had resumed active military
duty. Zulma was seemingly in her usual health, and as she stood with her
grey felt Montespan hat and azure plume, and brilliant cashmere shawl
tightly drawn across her shoulders, her beauty shone in its queenliest
aspects. No fitter companion for a soldier could well be pictured. Cary
evidently felt this, as his frequent glances of admiration testified,
and there were moments when to the observer he would have appeared as
making the most ardent declarations of love.
Such, however, was not the fact. The young people had not reached that
limit. Well as they knew each other, often as they had met, exceptional
as were the circumstances which had surrounded their intercourse, they
had never gone beyond a certain point of mutual confidence. They had
often hovered on the edge, but sudden or unforeseen incidents had
intervened, and thrown them back instead of advancing their suits. Zulma
was sure that Cary loved her, but she had never ascertained that fact by
any word of his. Cary could not doubt of Zulma's love for him, as her
deeds and writings had eloquently shown, but she had never given him the
opportunity, or he fancied he had never had the opportunity, of
obtaining a decisive answer from her lips. On this day, their
conversation was earnest and active, but inconsequent. It is often thus
in that game of love which is conducted not in concentric circles, but
in eccentric orbits.
To Cary the situation was becoming pressing, and he told Zulma as much
in words which deeply impressed her. He foresaw that the end was
approaching, that, with the return of the open weather, military
operations must take a decided turn one way or the other. He was
sagacious enough to foresee that there could hardly be other than one
fatal result--the retreat of the Americans. Arnold had been superseded.
Wooster, an aged officer, who had commanded during the winter at
Montreal, doing a great deal of harm to the American cause by his
inefficiency, and his religious intolerance towards the French
Canadians, had assumed the control. From him little or nothing was
expected with the present army. Reinforcements, although often promised
and ostentatiously announced to the garrison through deserters and
prisoners, were altogether out of the question, while it was known that,
now the St Lawrence was clear of ice, a fleet of British vessels might
soon be expected for the relief of Quebec. In a fortnight at furthest,
Cary foresaw that a crisis must come. All this he confided to Zulma,
knowing well that he was violating no duty in entrusting her with the
information. The girl was astounded with the intelligence. It broke all
her dreams. Her confidence in the success of the Continental arms had
been unlimited. Notwithstanding their terrible reverses she never
allowed herself for one moment to doubt that the champions of liberty
would capture the last stronghold of British tyranny, and restore the
old reign of French domination in America. She even tried to argue her
companion into a reversal of his judgment, but failing in this, her
instinct brought her face to face with the further personal result which
Cary had altogether eluded.
The retreat of the Americans then took a more serious aspect. It implied
mutual separation. It came to this--that, after six months of the
closest intercourse, hallowed and purified by a series of the most cruel
vicissitudes, Cary should be sent flying back to whence he came, while
she would be driven again to the solitude of Pointe-aux-Trembles. Could
this be? Should Cary be thus left to his fate? Would she be able to
endure this sudden and enforced loneliness?
Singleton was outspoken and diffuse in his expressions of regret. He
repeated over and over again that his failure as a soldier wounded his
pride and disappointed his hopes, but that his separation from Zulma
would prove the most terrible of pangs. Had he foreseen this, he should
have sought death at the Intendant's Palace or at Sault-au-Matelot.
Death in the house of M. Belmont would have been a relief and a
benediction.
It was in vain that Zulma attempted to comfort him. Her heart was not in
it, and she could, therefore, not go beyond the range of commonplaces.
Finally, a deep silence fell upon both. They doubtless felt that they
ought to go one step further and face a dread corollary. But they did
not. Perhaps they durst not. Why not? Time will tell.
The conference ended in these words:
"I must return to camp, Mademoiselle. Let us postpone this subject. I
have more to say, but require to collect myself."
"I too have more to say, Captain."
Cary almost started on hearing these words, the tone of which struck him
as singular. He looked at Zulma, and found that her face was ashy pale.
Her eyes were gazing far away across the St. Lawrence. He fancied--was
it only a fancy?--that she was a little piqued.
"Shall we walk back to the mansion?" he asked almost timidly.
"If you please," was the quiet reply.
They advanced slowly across the open field, and up the avenue of trees,
speaking little, and that little only on such objects as caught their
eye on the way. Unconsciously they were fighting shy of each other. When
they reached the greensward in front of the mansion, they paused and
suddenly Zulma broke out into a hearty laugh.
"We are both children, sir," said she. "I thought you a great soldier
and I find you a child. I thought myself a strong-minded woman and I too
am a child."
And she burst out laughing again. Cary was puzzled, but could not
repress a smile. He did not ask her meaning, and smiled only because he
saw that her old serenity had returned.
Just then the setting sun poured through the intervening trees, flooding
the green with glory, and lifting the twain as it were in a kind of
transfiguration. They were idealized--he appearing like a knight of
legendary days, and she a queen of the fairy land. Both were beautiful
and both were happy once more.
Zulma knocked at the door, and the maid who answered the summons handed
her a letter. She opened it hurriedly, glanced over the page, and
throwing out her arms, uttered a moan of terror, while her eyes were
fixed wildly on the young officer.
"What is it, mademoiselle? What is it?"
"Pauline is dying!"
XI.
IN THE VALE OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH.
Cary's presentiment had come true. After his departure, Pauline
struggled against her fate for eight or ten days, but had finally to
succumb. One evening as she sat alone in her chamber, the forces of
nature suddenly gave way, she fell heavily to the floor in a swoon, and
was carried to her bed in the arms of her father. The physician treated
her at first as for a case of mere physical debility, resultant on her
long watches during the eight weeks of Singleton's illness, and the
extreme anxiety she had experienced for the safety of her friend. But
when the malady remained obstinate to his prescriptions, and other
insidious symptoms set in, pointing to a gradual decay of the vital
energies, he divined that the ill was a mental one which would baffle
his art unless he could ascertain its cause from the patient herself.
Her confession of it would be half the cure. But he did not succeed in
extracting this confession. Pauline did not know what ailed her. Beyond
a great prostration she did not know that she was sick. She was
unconscious of any cause for her present condition. This was her
language, but of course the experienced old doctor did not believe a
word of it. At the same time, however, he was aware that it was quite
useless to press his interrogatory further, his knowledge of women being
that there is no measuring the length, breadth, and depth of woman's
secretiveness. He therefore consulted M. Belmont. From him he learned
that an observable change for the worse in Pauline's manner was
coincident with the young American officer's departure from his house,
and even dated back from the latter days of his convalescence, when his
departure was understood to be only a question of time. But beyond this
M. Belmont's perspicacity did not go. He averred that he had not noticed
any particular attachment between his daughter and her patient. She was
nearly always at his bedside, but this was no more than could be
expected from a tender-hearted nurse towards a poor fellow who had
fallen among enemies, and whose life depended upon unremitting care. The
young man had throughout acted like a gentleman, was cautious, delicate,
reserved, and quite above taking advantages of his position to toy with
the feelings of Pauline. Furthermore, the girl had long been devoted to
Major Hardinge, and the Major was devoted to her. Indeed, their
relations might be said to be of the tenderest character. Finally, this
American officer, unless he was much mistaken, had contracted a strong
affection for the daughter of Sieur Sarpy, an affection which was
reciprocated, and he had every reason to believe that Pauline was well
acquainted with that circumstance.
"Stop there," said the old doctor, taking a pinch of snuff and smiling
slyly. "Here is perhaps a clue. Your daughter may have fallen in love
with this young rebel--girls cannot help such things, you know--and the
knowledge that his heart is turned to another may be precisely the thing
that has preyed upon her mind, bringing her to her present pass."
"But she and Zulma Sarpy are intimate friends."
"So much the worse. Her feelings would be the more acute and the
struggle against herself all the keener on that account."
"But Major Hardinge?"
"La, la, la! your Major. She may have loved him till she saw the other
man, and then, _ma foi_----. From a Major to a Captain, from a loyalist
to a rebel is rather a descent, _eh, mon ami?_ But what will you have?
These things cannot be controlled. They happen every day. Do you know
that she is plighted in any way to this Major?"
"She is not."
"How do you know?"
"She told me so."
"Under what circumstances? Excuse this freedom, my friend, but with the
confessions of women everything depends upon circumstances. If it is
under persuasion, a woman may tell you the truth, for their hearts are
good after all. But if it is under compulsion, or threat, or by
strategy, they are a match in fencing with the best of us."
"It was under a sense of duty, and only a few weeks ago. I was annoyed
at Hardinge's manner to me and even to her after the death of that
servant of his who was killed, you remember. I told Pauline I would
resent that conduct if it were repeated, and on the same occasion I
asked her whether she had engaged herself to him in any shape or form.
Her answer was a simple, straightforward negative, and the child is
incapable of untruth."
"This is very well. It removes one difficulty. Her mind does not suffer
from any broken pledge towards the Major."
"But her love for him must remain."
"Not heaven or earth can dominate a woman's love. It is strong as death,
immense as the sea, deep as the abyss, yet a glance of the eye, a wave
of the hand, a smile, a toss of the head may change it for ever. Listen,
Belmont. Your daughter loves the American officer. She grieves for
Hardinge, she grieves for Zulma Sarpy. The diagnosis is complete. She is
wasting away in a silent, hidden combat between herself and her friends.
And I fear the worse."
"You do not mean that Pauline is in danger?"
"It is the duty of friendship to be candid with you. If there is not a
complete change, within ten days your daughter will be dead."
"Gracious heaven!" exclaimed the poor father, his wail of horror
sounding through the house and frightening Pauline from her trance. She
screamed in her turn. M. Belmont leaped to his feet and was about to
rush to her room, when the doctor restrained him.
"Do not present yourself in that condition. It might kill her. I will go
and pacify her."
He did so. After a few minutes, he returned and informed M. Belmont that
he was positive of the correctness of his conjecture, and advised an
immediate change of scene for the girl.
"A change of scene? Are you dreaming, doctor? We are penned up like
sheep in this unfortunate town. I am under a ban. I can expect no
favours. The whole country is deserted or overrun with soldiery. And I
must accompany her. Nothing on this earth could separate me from my
child. I have lived for her. I will die with her. But oh, doctor, she
will not die. Tell me she _shall_ not die."
"Then she must leave Quebec."
"But, doctor!"
"It must be done. It is a case of life and death."
A painful silence ensued. M. Belmont bowed his head in his hands and
moaned. "What shall I do? Who will help me? Who will intercede for me?"
At this juncture, who should make his appearance but Captain Bouchette?
His presence was a revelation.
As soon as he saw him, M. Belmont became calm, and in a few words
unfolded his difficulty to him.
"Rest easy, my friend," said Bouchette in his hearty way. "There can be
no possible obstacle. I will go and see the Governor at once, and he
will not refuse. It is a matter of mercy. General Carleton is the most
soft-hearted of men."
Within an hour, Bouchette returned with the necessary permits duly
signed and sealed. M. Belmont and his daughter were allowed to leave the
town, the reason of their departure being fully stated, and a
recommendation was added to the good offices of both friends and foes.
When Pauline was apprised of this measure, she rallied a little and
smiled her contentment, but soon after fell into her habitual lassitude.
The doctor, who was there to watch the effect, was not overpleased. He
had expected a more marked result, and he almost feared that the relief
had come too late. He therefore prescribed that the change should be
postponed for a few days, until he had applied some stimulants and
restoratives to the debilitated frame. It was during this critical
interval that Zulma received a letter from her brother Eugene repeating
the current rumour that Pauline was actually dying. He added, however,
that a supreme effort would be made to transport her out of the town.
XII.
IN THE FIERY FURNACE.
On the third day after these occurrences, Pauline had rallied to the
extent of being able to rise from her bed and sit in an easy chair. She
signified to her father and the family physician that she felt
sufficient strength to undertake the journey on the following morning.
But she set a condition. She must see Roderick Hardinge at once. The
young officer had all along been most faithful in his attention, calling
morning and evening to visit her, but within the preceding ten or twelve
days neither he nor any other stranger had been admitted to her room.
When Pauline stated her request, the doctor shook his head. M. Belmont,
however, promptly interfered with his permission.
"You shall see him, my dear. I will send for him immediately."
Hardinge was on duty at the ramparts, but he obtained a respite without
delay, and hurried on his errand. Why did his heart throb as he hurried
along the streets? Why did his hand tremble as he raised the knocker at
the well known door. Roderick's instincts were true as are ever those of
single minded men. A shadow had been on him for weeks, and he knew that
it was now thickening into darkness. Spite of himself, a presentiment
possessed his soul that whereas his military prospect was brightening,
his career advancing, and the success of his cause was being every day
more assured, his personal fate was waning, and the dearest hopes of his
heart were verging to the gulf of disappointment. He could not formulate
in words what the matter was. Pauline was exteriorly always the same to
him, and yet there was a change. Had her love cooled? Had it diverted?
Had he done anything to bring about any alteration? Had his political
sentiments in any way affected his conduct towards her? Had he taken
sufficiently into account the anomalous position in which she was placed
by her father's stand during the war? Or were the causes deeper than all
this? And his mind reverted to Cary, to Zulma, to a hundred little
incidents of the past eventful weeks which his excitement magnified into
possible determining causes of the boding change. This and much more had
passed through his mind before reaching M. Belmont's house. But as he
mounted the stair leading to the presence of Pauline, a great hope rose
above all, and when he reached her room, he was in much the same state
of feeling as on ordinary visits. Blessed intervention of Providence
which gives one last moment of bliss before the descending stroke of
destiny.
There is no need to dwell upon this painful interview. The dissection of
the heart serves no useful purpose when there is no gleam of consolation
to come from it. Pauline was quite strong to go through the ordeal. She
was tender, too, and natural--indeed her own self throughout. After
speaking of many things relating to former days, omitting nothing that
she thought Roderick would like to have recalled, she came at length to
the object of the interview.
"Do you know, Roddy, why I called for you?"
He replied that he had heard of her contemplated departure and that,
while he deeply regretted the cause, he could only rejoice at any step
undertaken for the recovery of a health which was dearer to him than his
own.
Pauline's heart failed her as she heard those words. They pierced like a
dagger. Her head became dizzy and she had to fall back in her chair for
relief. When she recovered, she held out her hand, murmuring:
"Yes, Roddy, I have called upon you to say farewell. I am going and we
shall never see each other again."
"Pauline!"
"I am going away to die. I should have liked to close my eyes in the old
house, but for my father's sake, I am willing to depart and make a show
for my life. It is useless, however. I shall die."
"Dear Pauline, do not speak so. Your case is by no means hopeless. A
change of air and scene will revive you. We shall both see better days
again."
"You may, Roddy, and that shall be my dying prayer, but not I. Alas! not
I."
Still holding her white thin hand in both his, Hardinge threw himself at
her feet, weeping and beseeching that she would recall these words of
doom.
Pauline sat upright in her seat and, in a strangely quavering voice,
exclaimed:
"Rise, Roderick Hardinge. Do not kneel to me. It is I should be
prostrate before you. I called you to say farewell, but there is more. I
could not leave without asking your forgiveness."
"My forgiveness, Pauline? What wildness is this?"
"Yes, your forgiveness. I have been false to you."
And here the poor girl utterly broke down. She averted her face in her
chair and burst into a paroxysm of tears.
Roderick rose from the floor. He was in a whirl. Had he heard aright, or
was he raving? He was at length brought to his senses by a soft voice
requesting him to be seated and hear all.
"I could not help it, Roddy. It was all unconsciously. Had I known what
I know now, it would not have happened. It was not I brought the
circumstances about. It was all meant for the best by you and me. But
the fatality came. It was a terrible revelation to me. That is the blow
that has blasted my health and life. But the fault is mine all the same.
Your conduct was noble throughout and you did not deserve it. I repeat
that the fault is all my own. I am willing to expiate it. I am content
to die. My death will end everything. Farewell, Roddy. One parting kiss
and your forgiveness."
Strange that through this speech, sounding like the music of a broken
harp, Roderick remained perfectly cool and collected. With acutest
perception he understood everything now. The black cloud was rent and
light poured down upon him. It was a light from heaven, for it warmed
his soul to heroism.
"Pauline," he said in gentlest accents, "the spasm is past and I can
speak to you, as of old. My words shall be few, because I see that this
effort has spent you. You have done an injustice to yourself and me. My
forgiveness, dearest? You have none to ask. You have done me no wrong. I
had no right over you. We have known each other for long years and have
loved each other?"
"Ah! Roddy, ah! how well!" sweet and low, as waters murmuring over
pebbles.
"Yes, how well, Pauline. But love is not our own. It is disposed of by a
higher will. We had hoped that it might end in something else--at least
such was my hope."
"And mine, Roddy."
"But if this may not be, we must bow to the almighty power. Man is not
the arbiter of his destiny. False to me Pauline? No truer heart ever
breathed the air of heaven. You could not be false to any one. Oh!
dearest, withdraw all these bitter words. Remember me, remember your old
friend. May the blessing of God attend you. Go forth into a broader
atmosphere, and amid brighter scenes to recover your health and that
beauty which I have adored. Farewell, Pauline, farewell."
She heard him not. The poor shattered spirit, overcome by exhaustion,
had drifted away into a merciful oblivion. He kissed her on the forehead
and glided out of the room. At the door he met M. Belmont, whose hand he
silently clasped. Then he stepped out into the world, a new man,
purified as if by fire.
XIII.
RODERICK'S LAST BATTLE.
The next morning dawned bright and balmy. At an early hour, a closed
carriage slowly approached the massive arch of St. John's Gate,
accompanied by four or five persons on foot, among whom were Captain
Bouchette, the venerable physician of the Belmont family, and
Lieutenant-Governor Cramahé. The presence of the latter personage was a
high honour to his old friend Belmont. When the vehicle stopped, and
while the papers were being perused by the officer on guard, a final
interview took place between the members of this little circle. It was a
moment of trying emotion to all, and there were tears in every eye as
the last embrace was given.
On a high embankment, level with the wall, and commanding a view of the
gate, rose the solitary figure of Roderick Hardinge. Leaning on his
sword, he stood in the young grass, under the budding boughs of a walnut
tree. He had waited there till the carriage came. He would wait till it
rolled away through the valley. There was a terrible moment, as it
lingered before the guard-house, when he would have rushed down to plead
his great love once more at the feet of Pauline. Perhaps at that
critical time he might win his suit. Perhaps she was waiting for him and
wondering in pain why he did not come. But, spite of his anguish,
Roderick retained mastery over his soul. He checked this intention,
feeling with cruel vividness that a sacrifice, to be a sacrifice, must
be carried out to the end. Their last farewell was on yesterday. She had
distinctly wished it thus. He would not disturb the vision of their
parting--the closed eyes, reversed form, pallid cheek, and appearance
of helpless misery. She too had suffered. He would not make her suffer
more. And there was that kiss on the burning forehead. He could never
forget that, nor would he allow impressions to intervene and possibly
efface it.
So the noble fellow stood in the young grass, leaning on his sword,
immoveable, stern, holding his forehead up against fate, and silently
fighting a battle with himself compared to which the clash of battalions
and the thunder of ordnance were mere child's play. And he conquered. A
shadow of a smile fluttered over his lips as he resigned his last hope,
and closed the door for ever to the cherished prospect of the
efflorescence of love into fruition.
At that moment the friends of M. Belmont stepped aside, and, as the door
closed, Roderick caught a glimpse of Pauline's dress. His imagination at
once constructed the picture. She lay recumbent upon pillows, with her
father at her side. Her face was pale, and her lips drawn down, but her
eyes were animated with a glow that was a mixture of inquiry and regret.
Was she really expecting Roderick? Alas! who can doubt it? She knew him
too well not to feel that he must be somewhere in her neighbourhood, and
the unerring instinct had its magnetic influence upon her.
At length the carriage rolled away, passing under the great shadow of
the gate, and turned into the valley, leaving the old town behind. As
the portals came together with a crash, and the heavy chains rattled,
the echo of doom simultaneously smote the heart of her that was going
and of him that was left behind. The beautiful past was over--and what
was to replace it? A moment later, at a sharp angle of the road, Pauline
turned her head on the cushion, and she saw him standing under the
walnut tree. The vision was brief, as the horses took a sudden bound
forward, but the poor girl had time to raise herself on her elbow and
faintly wave a white handkerchief. Roderick beheld the token, and
forgetting everything in the enthusiasm of the moment, rushed forward
to the brink of the parapet. He would have leaped down in the face of a
thousand pointed bayonets and dashed through the serried ranks of foes,
but, alas! as he gazed once more, the vehicle had disappeared forever in
the windings of the vale.
"Too late, too late!" exclaimed the poor fellow, turning on his heel and
plunging the point of his sword into the tufted grass. "She is gone,
never to return. Farewell to all my dreams of happiness, to all my hopes
and aspirations. What is glory to me now? Why should I live to gather
fame? Who is there now that will reap my laurels and wear them on snowy
forehead for my sake? Oh, fate, oh, fate!"
And he walked away through solitary lanes till he reached his quarters,
utterly broken down in heart. The whole forenoon he lay on his iron bed,
oblivious of all the world and steeped in his own tremendous sense of
dereliction. It was in vain that the golden spring sun streamed through
his windows rocking the room in waves of splendour. The glad sounds of
voices, in the Square, of men and women enjoying the beautiful weather
in promenades, were unheeded by him. The great voice of cannon from the
Citadel, answering some hostile movement of the enemy, was powerless to
arouse him from his torpor. There is nothing so terrible to encounter as
the last phases of a moral crisis, nothing so painful as to realize that
one has yet two or three points to gain of that fatal resignation which
he thought he had mastered. The cup of poison may be dashed off in a
gulp of rapid determination, but it is the slow drinking of the dregs
that is revoltingly loathsome.
Thus Roderick had to go through the ultimate stages of the combat once
more and force himself to face the dread reality so that he should never
again beguile himself with a single hope. This was really the situation
as he understood it. He finally wrought himself up to that supreme
point, and leaping from his bed, exclaimed:
"Where all is comfortless, there is at least this comfort. I had her
life in my hands. By acting as I did, I have saved that life. This
reflection shall be the prop of my misery."
He then composed his dress hastily, and walked out headlong to his
regiment.
XIV.
AT VALCARTIER.
The ubiquitous Batoche was at a point, out of range of the garrison's
guns, to meet the carriage. Although not communicated with directly by
anybody, he knew all the particulars of M. Belmont's coming, and stood
at the door of the vehicle, as if it was a matter of course. After
mutual greetings and inquiries, he advised M. Belmont to drive out to
Montmorenci.
"My cabin is small, but I have made it comfortable," said he. "There our
sick child will have solitude, pure air, and a beautiful scenery. It is
just the place."
"No, Batoche, thank you," responded M. Belmont, decidedly.
The old man raised his brows in surprise, but evidently reading into the
motive of the refusal, he did not insist.
"Then go to Pointe-aux-Trembles. It is Zulma's most pressing invitation.
If she had known you were coming to-day, she would be here herself to
make it."
It was now Pauline's turn to speak.
"No, no, not there," she said, shaking her head and colouring deeply. "I
am most anxious to see Zulma. Indeed, I _must_ see her, but not at her
house."
Again, Batoche did not urge his suggestion.
"My destination was Valcartier," rejoined M. Belmont, "and I see no
reason to change my mind. Pauline needs absolute rest. She must be away
from the noise of the world. Valcartier is the place--fifteen miles from
the town, in the heart of a splendid landscape. We will go there."
"I will go with you," said Batoche.
The long journey, so far from fatiguing the invalid, proved a source of
revival. The roads were good, the weather grew warmer with the flight of
the hours, and the conversation of the old solitary was sparkling with
amusement. He played with the situation like a consummate artist. He
ranged over all sorts of topics, not studiously avoiding the illness of
Pauline, or the names of Zulma and Cary, lest that might create
suspicion, but touching upon them only rarely and incidentally, and as
if they were matters of the least importance. The consequence was that
he put Pauline into something like good humour. He made her smile
faintly at several of his stories, and when she would relapse in the
listlessness either of debility or retrospective thoughts, he would
recall the light to her eye and the colour to her cheeks by some
anecdote of stirring adventure. When after easy stages, the party
reached Valcartier, Pauline was sufficiently strong to step out of the
carriage, with the support of her father and Batoche. A proper house was
chosen at a little distance from the hamlet, and all the arrangements
were made for the convenience of the sojourners. Batoche remained with
them two days, endearing himself still more to both, if that were
possible, by his kind, intelligent attentions. When he was on the point
of departure, Pauline said to him:
"Do not tell anybody that I am here."
"But I thought you said you wanted to see Zulma?"
"Not now. A little later."
"Very well. I will not tell anybody. I did not intend to."
And he smiled in his peculiar way. Pauline could not help smiling a
little too, seeing clearly that the old wizard knew all.
Batoche's pleasant manner deserted him, however, on the way, and he thus
discoursed with himself, as he trudged along:
"I could not insist on Montmorenci or Pointe-aux-Trembles, but
Valcartier is a mistake. Pauline will not find there what she seeks. I
have promised silence and will keep it. Indeed, I did not mean to
divulge her retreat, for it is no business of a rough old fellow like me
to interfere in the affairs of young people. But all the same Pauline's
solitude must be found out, and I have no doubt it will be found out. If
it is not, the poor child will pine and perish there just as certainly
as she would have done within the walls of Quebec."
These previsions almost at once entered upon their fulfilment. Scarcely
had Batoche turned his back on Valcartier, than an overpowering feeling
of loneliness fell upon Pauline. The improvement which the excitement of
the journey and the company of the aged soldier had induced disappeared
immediately. M. Belmont's hopefulness was replaced by a new alarm, which
was increased when he discovered that there was no physician in the
village. This contingency he had not foreseen, having been assured by
his own family doctor that Pauline, with the exception of a few tonics
and restoratives which he furnished, needed no other treatment than rest
and a change of air. In his anxiety M. Belmont called in an Indian
doctor from the neighbouring village of Lorette, equal, he was told, to
any member of the profession in the Province. The Huron, after visiting
the patient, took M. Belmont aside and said:--
"The pain is here," pointing to the heart. "The Great Spirit alone can
cure it."
Was it fated then that the gentle Pauline must die?
XV.
FRIENDSHIP STRONGER THAN LOVE.
Ever since Zulma had received her brother's letter referring to the
critical state of Pauline, she had been in constant solicitude, which
was only partially relieved by the intelligence of the projected
departure from the town. The concern of Cary Singleton was no less.
Indeed, it was of another nature and far more profound. When, at the
door of the Sarpy mansion, he heard the words from Zulma's lips,
"Pauline is dying," he sprang into his saddle and rode at full speed to
headquarters, where he met Batoche, whom he instructed to use every
means to communicate directly with M. Belmont. Through the old man he
heard daily of the phases of the disease. But he was considerably
surprised, and not a little annoyed that the latter had not apprized him
of the issue of Pauline from the gates, and had been away two days
without telling him of it. Cary and Zulma had many conversations on the
subject of their mutual friend. The young officer opened his heart
without reserve, having no conscience that he had anything to conceal,
and relying implicitly upon Zulma as the person, of all the world, in
whom he ought to confide, and from whom he might expect sympathy. This
simplicity for a while appeared quite natural to Zulma, because she too
was simple, and had followed all along the promptings of her heart,
without any alloy of selfishness, or any suspicion of painful
consequences. Notwithstanding the singular conversation which had taken
place between them on the banks of the St. Lawrence, as has been
recorded, their trust in each other had not slackened in the least, and
while Zulma never feared for a moment that Cary might be lost to her,
he had never gone into such self analysis as could have shown that a
separation from her was within the range of possibilities, without any
fault on his part, or any means on her part to avert the stroke. This
condition of mind in Cary is easily comprehensible of him as a man and a
soldier. Women credit men with craft and cunning in the ways of love.
Such is not always the case. Oftentimes they are single-minded, and that
very selfishness which is imputed to them is the motive that drives them
headlong to the possession of the coveted object, regardless of the
obstacles, possible and positive, which the cooler instinct of the woman
generally observes. Zulma's state was more singular and needs a word of
explanation. If we have succeeded in painting this character, the reader
must have an impression of nobility free from all trace of meanness, and
of self-willed force capable of the loftiest generosity. Zulma was a
spoiled child, but this defect never dwindled to silliness. None
understood better than she the relative fitness of things. There was
never a speck of hypocrisy in her composition, and not the slightest
shade of suspicion. Her character was diaphanous. She could check her
thoughts and hold her tongue as few of her sex at her age could do, and,
in the tournament of conversation with men, could manage the foils of
reticence or half meanings as the best, but the foundation of her nature
was truth, simpleness, and honour free from all guile. Our female
readers will understand us fully if we say in one word that Zulma was in
no sense a coquette. She was always sincere, even in her by-play, which
was the secret of her power and ascendancy. This being so, the reader
will be prepared for the statement that she never really supposed the
peculiar relations of Cary with Pauline could affect her. Jealousy she
had not, because she was incapable of it, but even if she had not been
above this most diabolical of female vices, she could not have felt it,
because she did not realize that there was any occasion for it. Hence
when Cary spoke to her with deepest concern of Pauline's illness, of his
fears of the result, and of his desire to do all in his power to avert
the blow which threatened her, she entered fully into his spirit, and
intensified his grief by the warmth of her own sympathies. And when, on
hearing of Pauline's departure from Quebec, he declared he would follow
her for leagues upon leagues--anywhere--to minister to her salvation, it
was with spontaneous cordiality that Zulma added she would go with him
and do all that was possible to save the dearest of her friends.
It is, therefore, no wonder that she, as well as Cary, was vexed at
Batoche for not revealing the place of the sick girl's retreat. During
three whole days, the old man was inexorable. Neither the young woman's
coaxing, nor the soldier's serious displeasure could move him. His sole
answer was:--
"Pauline will see no one but Mademoiselle Sarpy, and that only later."
"But I _will_ see her," Cary would say, emphasizing the resolve with
hand and foot.
"Then, find her, Captain," was the taunting reply.
It was some comfort to their mutual anxiety, however, that Batoche
assured them of their friend's improved health.
But this situation could not last. At the end of the third day, the old
soldier ran out to Valcartier, and was so alarmed at the relapse which
he witnessed, that he almost immediately returned to quarters. Cary at
once divined the truth from his altered appearance.
"Batoche, I command you to tell me where she is."
"Patience, Captain," was the reply, delivered in accents of sorrow and
pity. "Your command is just and shall be obeyed. You have a right to see
Pauline, and you shall see her. But Mademoiselle Zulma must go first.
You will follow. I hasten to Pointe-aux-Trembles."
Zulma required no lengthy summons. She ordered the calèche to be
brought out at once, and with Batoche, drove rapidly to Valcartier. What
a meeting! Never had Zulma so much need of her self-possession. If she
had yielded to her impulse, she would have filled the house with
screams. It was not Pauline that lay before her--only her shadow. It was
not the living, laughing girl whom she had known--the stamp of death was
set upon every fair lineament. She bent softly down, laid her head
beside the marble brow upon the pillow, folded her arms around Pauline's
neck, and clasped her in a long, yearning embrace. Then they communed
together, almost mouth to mouth, with that miraculous sweetness which is
God's divinest gift to women. Pauline revived for the occasion. She was
so happy to see Zulma. She, that had wished to die alone and
forgotten--it was almost the dawn of resurrection to have her dearest
friend beside her now at length. All was gone over, quietly, gradually,
amid pauses of tears, and the interruption of kisses, yet so rapidly
that, before half an hour had elapsed, Zulma had completely made up her
mind. Brushing back the moist brown hair from the throbbing temples of
the sick girl, she rose serene, majestic, with the light of a great
resolution in her eyes, and the placidity of heroism on her beautiful
features. Stepping out of the room she called Batoche.
"Take my calèche. Drive to the camp, and bring back Captain Singleton,
at once. Tell him he must see Pauline before the set of sun, and that I
desire it."
The old man comprehended and did not require to be told twice.
"Good," he exclaimed. "That is a grand girl. She understood it all at a
glance. What I could not do, she has done. Pauline will now be saved.
Poor Pauline!"
For three hours the friends were together, hand clasped in hand. Words
were spoken that were full of ineffable tenderness. There were intervals
of silence no less replete with happiness. There was a mutual language
of thorough understanding in the eyes as well as on the lips. Zulma's
theme was of hope. She quickly reached that point where she dismissed
the idea of death and insisted on life for the mutual enjoyment of the
twain. Not for Pauline's sake, but for her own, now that she knew what
she knew, she saw it was necessary that death should be robbed of its
sting and the grave resign its victory. Did Pauline acquiesce? She said
not so--how could she dare, she that was dying without hope?--but there
was a lambent gleam in her sunken eye, as of a ray of the future's
sunshine playing upon it.
The afternoon passed softly, gently. The sun was gliding behind the
trees and the long shadows crept over the valley faintly dimming the
window panes. The holy hour of twilight had come. The angelus bells from
the turret of the distant village church echoed sweetly on the tranquil
air, and Zulma knelt by the bedside to murmur the _Ave Maria_. When she
rose, she stood and listened. There were carriage wheels at the door.
"Do you hear?" she said.
Pauline opened great bewildered eyes and her features became pinched.
Then turning rapidly, she hid her face in the pillow, sobbing
convulsively.
"Oh, Zulma, this is too much. Why did you do it? It must not be. Oh, let
me die."
She essayed to say more but tears choked her utterance.
"It is God's will!" whispered Zulma in calm, clear accents, still
standing above her with a look of inspiration.
The invalid turned back on her pillow, cast an agonizing glance of
gratitude upon her friend, and holding out her hand murmured.
"Heaven bless you, dearest."
XVI.
THE HOUR OF GLOOM.
The interview with Cary Singleton was not delayed a moment. Both he and
Pauline desired that Zulma should be present, but she imagined a
pressing pretext and glided out of the chamber. As she did so, her face
was irradiated. Meeting Batoche in the passage, near the entrance to the
house, she threw herself upon his neck and burst into silent tears.
"Courage, mademoiselle," he said in a pathetic voice. "You have been
magnificent, and shall have your reward. Courage."
"It is over, Batoche. A momentary weakness which I could not resist. I
am happier now than I ever was in my life."
Batoche looked at her with admiration and whispered:--
"There was only one way of saving her life."
"Yes, and we have adopted it."
"You have adopted it, not I. Yours is all the merit and you shall be
blessed for it."
The two then went into the room of M. Belmont to keep him company, while
he awaited with resignation the result of the conference in the sick
chamber.
We may not dwell upon the details of the conference. Suffice it to know
that it was consoling in the extreme to the invalid and supremely
painful to the young officer. At sight of the wasted figure before him,
Cary lost all control over his feelings. He remembered only one
thing--that this girl had saved his life. He saw but one duty--that he
must save hers at whatever cost to himself and others. The long watches
of those eight weeks at the Belmont house came back to him, the
tireless attention, the gentle nursing, the sweet words of comfort. Her
illness was the result of his. That was enough.
Pleased as Pauline was to hear his words of gratitude and declarations
of devotion, she gave him no encouragement to believe that they would
have the effect of restoring her either in body or mind. The poor girl
shuddered at the alternative in which she was placed. Zulma was so
near--only a wall separating them. Roderick was so far--the ramparts of
Quebec seeming to have receded beyond an infinite horizon. Death was at
hand. Why recoil from it? Why not hail its deliverance with a benison?
Not in words did Pauline communicate these thoughts to Cary. With all
her resolution she would have been utterly unable to do so. But he
gathered her meaning only too well, the acuteness of his own suffering
making him read on the suffering face of the patient the recondite
thoughts which, on ordinary occasions, he would never have been able to
fathom. But, in spite of all this, Pauline was happy in the simple
presence of Cary. There were moments when she scarcely heeded what he
said, so intent was she in the enjoyment of the assurance that he was
really once more at her side. If she could have had this boon
indefinitely, without the need of pledges or protestations, without the
necessity of recalling the past, or facing the future, she would have
been content, nor asked for anything beyond. This dream of a tranquil
passivity was a fatal symptom of completely broken energies and
proximate decay. But even this dream had to be dispelled. An hour had
gone by and darkness had filled the room, an admonition to Cary that he
must forthwith return to camp. When he informed the invalid of this she
moaned piteously, and it was minutes before he could soothe her. Indeed
she was not reconciled until he promised that he would be with her again
as soon and as often as he could tear himself away from his military
duties. Before leaving he leaned over her, and, while pressing her hand,
imprinted a reverent kiss upon her forehead. He did it naturally, and as
if by duty. She received the token without surprise, as if she expected
it. It was the seal of love.
The calèche was waiting at the door, and Cary mounted it, after the
exchange of only a few words with M. Belmont and Zulma. He was
preoccupied and almost sullen. Batoche took a seat beside him and they
drove away into the darkness. For nearly two-thirds of the route not a
syllable passed between the two. The stars came out one by one like
laughing nymphs, the moon sailed up jauntily, the low sounds of the
night were heard on every side. Batoche was too shrewd to speak, but his
eyes glared as he conducted the horse. His companion was buried in his
thoughts. Finally the freshening breeze showed that they were
approaching the broad St. Lawrence, a faint illumination floated over
Quebec from its hundred lights, and the camp-fires of the Continental
army broke out here and there in the distance. They reached a rough part
of the road where the horse was put on the walk.
"Batoche," said Cary hoarsely.
"Yes, Captain," was the calm reply.
"The end is at hand."
"Alas! sir."
"You see those fires yonder? They will soon be extinguished. The English
fleet is coming with reinforcements, and we cannot withstand them. We
shall have to flee. But before we go, I trust we shall fight, and if we
fight, I hope I shall be killed. I am sick of disappointment and defeat.
I want to die."
These words were spoken in such a harrowing way, that for once, Batoche
was thrown off his guard, and could answer nothing--not a word of
argument, not an expression of comfort. Whipping his horse to his utmost
speed, he muttered grimly:--
"You will not die, but I----"
XVII.
THE GREAT RETREAT.
A few days passed and the month of May was ushered in. Cary Singleton
was right in foretelling that stirring events were at hand. A crisis
intervened in the siege of Quebec. Since the disappearance of the snow
the Americans had given some symptoms of activity. There was more
frequent firing upon the town, and feints were made with ladders and
ropes for escalades at different points. An armed schooner, named the
Gaspé, captured during the autumn, was prepared as a fire-ship to drift
down and destroy the craft that was moored in the Cul-de-Sac, at the
eastern extremity of Lower Town. Other vessels destined for a similar
service were also made ready. At nine o'clock on the night of the 3rd of
May, the attempt was actually made. One of the fire-ships turned out
from Levis, and advanced near to the Quebec shore without molestation,
the garrison imagining that it was a friend. Success seemed almost
within reach, when on being hailed, and not answering, guns were fired
at her from the Grand Battery over the Cape. At this signal that they
were discovered, the crew at once set a match to the combustible
material on board, and sent the vessel drifting directly for the
Cul-de-Sac. A moment more and she would have reached that coveted spot,
and the shipping, with the greater part of Lower Town, would have been
consumed. But the tide having ebbed about an hour, the current drove her
back, notwithstanding that the north-east wind was in her favour. This
failure was a terrible disappointment to the Americans. It was their
last stroke against Quebec. Had the attempt succeeded, the army intended
to attack the town during the confusion which the conflagration would
necessarily have created, and the onslaught would have been a terrible
one, because they were goaded to despair by their continuous
ill-success, at the same time that they knew it was their final chance
prior to the arrival of the British fleet, which was every day expected.
That fleet did not long delay its appearance. At six o'clock, on the
morning of the 6th May, a frigate hove in sight turning Point Levis. The
whole American army witnessed her triumphant entrance. The ramparts of
the town were lined with spectators to hail the welcome sight. Drums
beat to arms, the church bells clanged, and an immense shout arose that
was re-echoed from the Plains of Abraham across the river to the Isle of
Orleans. It was the acclamation of deliverance for the besieged, the
knell of final defeat for the besiegers. The frigate was well named the
Surprise, and she carried on board two companies of the 29th regiment
with some marines, the whole amounting to two hundred men, who were
immediately landed.
She was speedily followed by other war vessels containing more abundant
reinforcements.
At noon of the same memorable day, the garrison, supported by the new
arrivals, formed in different divisions, issued through the gates, and
moved slowly as far as the battle field of St. Foye, where Chevalier
Levis won his brilliant, but barren victory over Murray, on the 28th
April, 1760. Carleton, now that he was backed by a power from the sea,
shook off his inaction, and determined to deliver combat to the
Continentals. But beyond a few pickets who fired as they fell back, the
latter were nowhere to be seen. They had begun a precipitate retreat,
leaving all their provisions, artillery, ammunition, and baggage behind
them. Their great campaign was over, ending in disastrous defeat. They
endeavoured to make a stand at Sorel, being slightly reinforced, but the
English troops which pressed on under Carleton and Burgoyne, the
commander of the fresh arrivals, forced them to continue their flight.
They were obliged to abandon their conquest at Montreal, Chambly, St.
Johns, and Isle-aux-Noix, and did not deem themselves safe, till they
reached the head of Lake Champlain. Then they paused and rallied,
forming a strong army under Gates, and one year later, wreaked a
terrible revenge upon this same Burgoyne, who had superseded Carleton,
by capturing his whole army at Saratoga, thus gaining the first real
step towards securing the independence of the Colonies. Arnold fought
like a hero at that battle, giving proof of qualities which must have
insured his success at Quebec if the fates had not been against him.
XVIII.
CONSUMMATUM EST.
The flight of the Continentals caused the utmost excitement, not only in
Quebec, but throughout the surrounding country. They had so long
occupied the ground, that their sudden departure created a great void.
Those who were opposed to them broke out into acclamations, while the
large number who sympathized with them were thrown into consternation.
Bad news always travels fast. Long before sunset of that day, the event
was known at Valcartier, and on the little cottage occupied by M.
Belmont, the intelligence fell like a thunder clap. It was useless for
Zulma to attempt mastering her feelings. She rushed out into the garden,
and there delivered herself to her agony. She had not foreseen this
catastrophe, had never deemed anything like it possible. Now he was
gone, gone in headlong flight, without a word of warning, without a
farewell. After what had been happening within the preceding few days, a
single, final interview would have helped to seal her resignation and
reconcile her to her fate. But now even this boon was denied her.
It need not be said that M. Belmont's grief was also extreme, as we know
the many reasons--personal and political, on account of himself, his
countrymen, and his daughter--which he had to desire the success of the
American cause. It was in vain for him to attempt concealing his emotion
in the presence of Pauline. She immediately divined that something
extraordinary had happened. Cary's behaviour during the last of his
several visits had been so peculiar as to leave the impression that he
was under the shadow of impending calamity. Only the evening previous,
as he bade her farewell, his manner was strange, almost wild. He was
tender and yet abrupt. If she had not known that he was dominated by a
terrible sorrow, she would have feared that he was yielding to anger. He
protested his eternal gratitude. He poured out his love in glorious
words. He stood beautiful in the grandeur of his passion. And yet there
was an indefinite something which made his departure painfully
impressive to Pauline. His last words were:--
"If you will not consent to live, Pauline, there is only one thing for
me to do. You understand?"
She understood perfectly well. The words had been ringing in her ears
ever since, and now from her father's appearance the suspicion flashed
upon her that perhaps they were fulfilled. Was Cary dead? Had he thrown
away his life in battle? The doubt could brook no delay, and, gathering
all her strength, she abruptly interrogated M. Belmont.
"No, not dead, my child, but----"
"But what, father? I beg you to tell me all."
"They are gone. The siege is raised. It was unforeseen, and done in the
utmost precipitation."
"And he too is gone!"
"Alas! my dear."
"That is as bad as death."
And uttering a piercing shriek, Pauline fell back in a swoon upon her
pillow. The cry was heard by Zulma in the garden, and she rushed back
into the room. The alteration in the face of the patient was so terrible
that Zulma was horror-stricken. Pauline lay absolutely as if dead. No
breathing was audible, and her pulse had apparently ceased to beat.
Restoratives were applied, but failed to act. Although they did not
exchange a word together, both Zulma and M. Belmont thought that it was
the end. With the setting sun, and the coming of darkness, an awful
silence fell upon the house, through which alone, by the terrified
listeners, was faintly heard the rustling of the wings of doom.
Then the tempest arose, fit accompaniment for such a scene. Thunder and
lightning filled the sky. A hurricane swept the landscape, with a voice
of dirge, while the rain poured down in torrents. For long hours Zulma
knelt beside the inanimate form. M. Belmont sat at the head of the bed
with the rigidity of a corpse. But for the ever Watchful Eye over that
stricken house, who knows what ghastly scene the morning sun might
witness?
Through the storm, the sound of hoofs was heard, followed soon after by
a noise at the door. Zulma turned to M. Belmont with a sweet smile,
while he awoke from his stupor with indications of fear.
"Heavens! are our enemies so soon upon us?" he exclaimed, rising.
"Never fear," said Zulma, rising also. "It is our friends."
She went to the door and admitted Cary Singleton and Batoche. They were
both haggard and travel-stained. It required but a glance to reveal the
situation to them. The young officer, after pressing the hand of Zulma
and M. Belmont, stood for several minutes gazing at the insensible
Pauline. The old man did the same at a little distance behind. Then the
latter gently touched the former upon the shoulder. He turned and the
four held a whispered conference for a few moments, the speakers being
Cary and Zulma, both earnest and decided, especially Zulma. A conclusion
was soon reached, for M. Belmont hurriedly quitted the room. During his
brief absence, while the two men resumed their watches beside the couch,
Zulma carried a little table near the head, covered it with a white
cloth, set upon it two lighted candlesticks, and a little vessel of holy
water in which rested a twig of cedar. She did this calmly,
methodically, with mechanical dexterity, as if it had been an ordinary
household duty. Never once did she raise her eyes from her work, but,
from the increased light in the room, one might have noticed that there
was a spot of fiery red upon either cheek. Cary, however absorbed in his
meditations, could not help casting a look upon her as she moved about,
while Batoche, although he never raised his head, did not lose a single
one of her actions. Who can tell what passed in the bosoms of the three,
or how much of their lives they lived during these moments?
Zulma's ministrations had scarcely been concluded, when M. Belmont
returned with the parish priest of Valcartier, a venerable man, whose
smile, as he bowed to all the members of the group, and took in the
belongings of the room, was as inspiring as a spoken blessing. Its
influence too must have extended to the entranced Pauline, for, as he
approached her side, and sprinkled her with hyssop, breathing a prayer,
she slowly opened her eyes and gazed at him. Then turning to the lighted
tapers, and the snowy cloth, she smiled, saying:
"It is the extreme unction, Monsieur le Curé! I thank you."
The old priest, with that consummate knowledge of the world and the
human heart, which his long pastorate had given him, approached nearer,
and addressed her in a few earnest words, explaining everything. Then he
stepped aside, and revealed the presence of Cary. The two lovers folded
each other in a close embrace, and thus, heart against heart, they
communed together for a few moments. At the close, Pauline called for
Zulma, who was on her knees, at the foot of the bed and in shadow. The
meeting was short, but passionate. Finally, one word which Zulma spoke
had a magical effect, and the three turned their faces towards the
assistants, smiling through their tears.
The ceremony was brief. There in that presence, at that solemn hour, the
hands were joined, the benediction pronounced, and Cary and Pauline were
man and wife. The priest producing the parish register, the names of
the principals and witnesses were signed. Zulma wrote hers in a large
steady hand, but a tear, which she could not restrain, fell upon the
letters and blurred them.
"Rest now, my child," said the priest, as he took his departure.
Pauline, exhausted by fatigue and emotion, immediately relapsed into
slumber, but every trace of pain was gone, and her regular breathing
showed that she was enjoying a normal repose. Then Batoche, approaching
Cary, silently pointed to the clock.
"Alas! yes," said the latter, turning to M. Belmont and Zulma, "it is
now midnight, and the last act of this drama must be performed. Our camp
is thirty miles away, and the night is terrible. I rode here to
accomplish one duty. I must ride back to fulfil another. It is a
blessing she sleeps. You will tell her all when she wakes."
He continued in fervid words recommending Pauline to both Zulma and M.
Belmont. He protested that nothing short of his loyalty to his country
could induce him to go away. Had his army been victorious, he might have
resigned service and remained with Pauline and her friends. But now,
especially that it was routed, he could not abandon his colours, and he
knew that Pauline would despise him if he did. To-morrow they would
resume their flight. In a few days they would be out of Canada.
When he had finished speaking, he threw his arms around the neck of
Zulma, thanking her for her devotion, declaring that he would never
forget her, and that he would always be at her service.
"I confide Pauline to you," he said. "To no other could I so well
entrust her. She saved my life. Let us both be united in saving hers.
She has promised me that she will now try to live. With your help, I am
certain that she will do so. It is my only comfort on my departure,
together with the assurance that you will always be her friend and
mine."
Batoche, too, had a word with Zulma. He predicted the reward of Heaven
upon her abnegation, sent remembrances to his friends, and, in most
touching language, begged her to assume the care of little Blanche, to
whom he bequeathed a tearful blessing. When this was accomplished, he
told M. Belmont that Blanche knew the secret of his casket and would
reveal it to him. Then the final separation took place. Cary and Batoche
left the house together. The next morning the former had joined his
companions on their retreat, while the latter lay prone on the wet
grass, at the foot of the Montmorenci Falls--dead. The lion-like heart
was broken. It could not survive the ruin of its hopes.
XIX.
FINAL QUINTET.
Eight years had elapsed. It was the summer of 1784. The great war of the
Revolution was over and peace had been signed. Cary Singleton, having
laid down his arms, proposed to travel for rest and recuperation. His
first visit was to Canada in the company of his wife, and of M. Belmont,
who desired to return to Quebec, and there spend the evening of his
days. Having accompanied Pauline to Maryland immediately after her
recovery--which had been very protracted--he had a led a tranquil life
there, but now that age was telling, and that he had no further
solicitude about the safety of Cary, nostalgia came hard upon him. It is
needless to say that the journey was a most agreeable one. All the old
places were revisited, all the old faces that had survived were seen
once more. But the chief attraction for both Cary and Pauline was Zulma
and Roderick. What had become of them? The latter remained in the army
for a year after the deliverance of Quebec. Carrying his great
disappointment in his heart, he joined the expedition of Burgoyne, and,
of course, shared its fate at Saratoga. But as Morgan was in that
battle, where he caused the death of the brave English General Fraser,
and Cary was with him, Roderick received at the hands of the latter the
same treatment which he had extended to him, after the battle of
Sault-au-Matelot. Whereas all Burgoyne's men were kept prisoners in the
interior of the country, Hardinge procured his liberation through the
influence of Singleton with Morgan, and returned home renouncing
military pursuits forever. He retired first to his estate in the
country, but the solitude became painful to him, and he took up his
residence in the old capital, where one of the first persons he met was
Zulma who had just returned from Paris, after an absence of a couple of
years. She was an altered woman, the fire of whose spirits had died out,
and who carried the burden of her loneliness as bravely as she could.
But her wonderful beauty had not yet decayed. Rather was it expanded
into full flower. Like Roderick, she was alone in the world, her father
having died within a year after the siege of Quebec. It was only natural
that these two should gradually come together, and no one will be
surprised to learn that, after a full mutual explanation, and with much
deliberation, they united their lives. Neither will it astonish any one
to be further told that their union proved happy in the solid fruits of
contentment. They deserved it all, and it was literally fulfilled that
the blessings of their great sacrifice came to them a hundred-fold.
Sometimes, when he was in a jolly mood, Roderick would say:--
"You remember, dear, that I once predicted I would catch my beautiful
rebel. I have caught her."
And he would laugh outright. Zulma would only smile faintly, as if the
reminiscence had not lost all its bitterness, but she would return her
husband's caress with effusion.
We shall not linger to describe the meeting of the four friends--after
so many years. Our story is verging to its close, and we have space for
only a last incident. One beautiful afternoon, they were all gathered
together at the foot of the Montmorenci Falls, around the humble grave
of Batoche. It was a little tufted mound with a black cross at the head.
In their company appeared the picturesque costume of an Ursuline nun.
This was little Blanche, whom Zulma had placed in the convent after the
death of her father, and who had decided to consecrate her life to God.
By special dispensation from a very severe rule, she was allowed to
accompany the friends of her childhood to the grave of her old
grandfather. Zulma and Pauline planted flowers over it, and Blanche
threw herself across it sobbing and praying. All wept, even the two
strong men, as they gazed upon a scene which reminded them of so much.
Poor Batoche! What was there in the music of the waterfall that seemed
responsive to this tribute of his friends?
* * * * *
During my first visit to Canada a few years ago, I met on the Saguenay
boat a young lady whose beauty and distinction impressed me. I inquired
who she was. An old gentleman informed me that her name was Hardinge,
and on tracing up her genealogy, as old men are fond of doing, he made
it clear that her two grandmothers were the heroines, and her two
grandfathers, the heroes of this history. A son of Roderick and Zulma
had married a daughter of Cary and Pauline, and this was their
offspring. Thus, at last, the blood of all the lovers had mingled
together in one.
THE END.