THE JOY OF FRIENDSHIP
She went down to the very boundaries of the other country, this little
Rose. One night and one day they gave her up. She lay white and silent
and Mere Dubray brought out a white muslin dress and ironed it up, much
troubled to know whether she had a right to Christian burial or not.
And then she opened her eyes with their olden light and began to ask in
a weak voice what happened to her yesterday, and found her last
remembrance was six weeks agone.
She could hardly raise her thin little hand, but all the air was sweet
with growing things. The tall trees had come into rich leafage, the
sunshine glowed upon the grass that danced as if each blade was
fairy-born, and sparkled on the river that went hurrying by as if to
tell a wonderful story. The great craggy upper town glinted in a
thousand varying tints, and at evening was wreathed in trailing mists
that seemed some strange army marching across. The thickly wooded hills
were nodding and smiling to each other, some native fruit trees were in
bloom, and the air was delicious with the scent of wild-grape
fragrance.
"It was a bad fever. And we had no priest to call upon. As if people
here did not need one as well as in that wild place with a long name
where they are hunting copper and maybe gold. But thanks to the saints
and the good doctor, you have come through. Ah, we ought to have a
chapel at least where one could go and pray."
"It is so beautiful and sweet. One would not want to be put in the
ground."
She shuddered thinking of it.
"No, no! And M. Pontgrave has come in with two ships. There is plenty of
provisions and fruits from La Belle France. See, M'sieu Ralph brought
them in for you. Now you have only to get well."
Mere Dubray's face was alight with joy. The child smiled faintly.
"And the Sieur de Champlain?" she asked.
"Oh, he is as busy as any two men with plans for building up the town,
and workmen, and some women for wives--two of whom are married already,
though one couple did their courting on shipboard. Oh, you must soon get
about. We are going to have a rare summer."
The child raised herself up a trifle and then sank back.
"Oh, dear!" with a little cry.
"Do not mind, _ma petite_. People are always so at first. To-morrow
maybe you can sit up, and a few days after walk. And then go out."
"The world is so lovely and sweet," she murmured. And she was glad she
had not died.
The next day M'sieu Ralph came in. He appeared changed some way, but the
old smile was there. The eyes seemed to have taken on a deeper blue
tint. She stretched out her hands.
"Thank the good God that you are restored, little one," he exclaimed,
with deep fervor. "Only you are a shadow of the Rose who climbed rocks
like a joyous kid less than a year agone. When will you pilot me again?"
She drew a long breath like a sigh.
"And there have been so many happenings. There are new people, though no
little girls among them, for which I am sorry. And already they are
building houses. The Sieur de Champlain has great plans. He will have a
fine city if they work. Why, when thou art an old lady and goest dressed
in silks and velvets and furs, as the women of the mother country, thou
wilt have rare stories to tell to thy grandchildren. And no doubt thou
wilt have seen Paris as well."
Then she smiled, but it was a pitiful attempt.
It was true Quebec had received a wonderful hastening in the new-comers
and in several grants the King had made concerning the fur trade. The
dreary winter was a thing of the past.
Destournier came in the next day and insisted the child should be
wrapped up and carried out in the sunshine. She seemed light as a baby
when he took her in his arms. He seated himself on a bench and held her
closely wound up in Mere's choicest blanket she had brought from St.
Malo, and which had been woven by her grandmother.
Ah, how lovely that savage primeval beauty looked to the child, who felt
more than she could understand. Every pulse seemed instinct with new
life. The gardens with their beds of vegetables, the tall slim spikes of
onions which everybody had been requested to plant plentifully, the
feathery leaves of the young carrots, the beans already in white bloom,
the sword-like leaves of the corn hardly long enough to wave as yet, and
the river with boats and canoes--why, it had never been so brisk and
wonderful before.
She drew in long breaths of health-giving fragrance. There had been some
trouble with the Indians and the Sieur de Champlain had gone to chastise
them. There were fur-traders on the way and soon everything would be
stirring with eager business. And when she could they would take a sail
around and up the St. Charles, and visit the islands, for besides Pani
the Mere had another Indian boy the Sieur had sent her, so there would
be no gardening for the small, white Rose. And he had made a new friend
for her, who was waiting anxiously to see her.
Presently she went soundly asleep in the fragrant air, and he carried
her back and laid her on the bed. Mere Dubray came and looked at her and
shook her head. She was indeed a white Rose now. They had cut her hair
when she had tangled it with her tossing about, and it was now a bed of
golden rings, but the long lashes that were like a fringe on her cheeks
were black.
"It will take her a good while to get back all she has lost," said the
young man. "It is little short of a miracle that she is here."
She gained a little every day. But she felt very shaky when she walked
about, and light in the head. And then Destournier brought her a visitor
one afternoon, a lady the like of whom the child had not dreamed of in
her wildest imaginings, as she had listened to tales of royalty. A tall,
fair woman whose bright hair was a mass of puffs and short dainty curls
held by combs that sparkled with jewels, and the silken gown that was
strewn with brocaded roses on a soft gray ground. It had dainty ruffles
around the bottom that barely reached her ankles, and showed the clocked
and embroidered stockings and elegant slippers laced back and forth with
golden cord, and a buckle that sparkled with gems like the combs. Even
royalty condescended to wear imitation jewels, so why should not the
lower round? Her shapely shoulders were half veiled by a gauze scarf on
which were woven exquisite flowers.
The child gazed with fascinated admiration. Did the Greek women
Destournier had read about, who won every heart, look like this?
"This is the lady I told you of, little one, who has lately come from
France, Madame Giffard. And this is Rose----" He paused suddenly with a
half smile. "I believe the child has no other name."
"Was she born here?" How soft and winning the voice was.
Destournier flushed unconsciously.
"She has a story and a mystery that no one has fathomed. The Sieur made
some inquiries. A woman of the better class who came over with some
emigrants brought her, and was supposed to be her mother. But some
secret lay heavy on her mind, it seemed, and when she was dying she
confessed that the child was not hers, but she had no time for
explanations. The husband brought her here and has gone to one of the
fur stations. His disappointment was so intense he gave up the child.
And so--her name is neither Arlac nor Dubray. We shall have to
rechristen her."
"What a curious romance! If one knew what town she came from. Oh, my
little one, will you let me be your friend? I had a little golden-haired
girl who died when she was but four, and no children have come since to
gladden my heart."
Madame Giffard bent over and took the small hand, noting the taper
fingers and slender wrist that seemed to indicate good birth. She
pressed it to her lips. Rose looked up trustfully and smiled.
"I like you," she said, with frank earnestness.
"Then I shall come to see you often. This is such a queer place with no
ready-made houses and really nothing but log huts or those made of rough
slabs. I wonder now how I had the courage to come. But I could not be
separated from my dear husband. And when he makes his fortune we shall
go back to our dearly beloved France."
The child smiled. The story had no embarrassment for her--Catherine had
brought her from France and she had never called her mother until on
shipboard. Back of it was vague and misty, though Catherine was in it
all. But this beautiful woman with her soft voice, different from
anything she had ever heard--why, she liked her already almost as much
as M'sieu Ralph.
"And you have been ill a long while?"
"It seemed only a day when I first woke up. Then the snow was on the
ground. I was so cold. I wanted to go to sleep on the chimney seat and
Mere would not let me. And now everything is in bloom and the garden is
planted and the sun shines in very gladness. I shall never like winter
again," and she shuddered.
"Are the winters so dreadful?" she inquired of Destournier.
"I never knew anything like it. I can't understand why the Sieur de
Champlain should want to found a city here when the country south is so
much more congenial. Although this is the key to the North, as he says.
And there is a north to the continent over there."
"You think there are fortunes to be made?"
"For those who come to make them. But the mother country will squeeze
hard. We have not found the gold and silver yet. But after all, trade is
your best pioneer. And this is an era of exploring, of fame, rather than
money-getting. We are just coming to know there are other sides to the
world. Ah, here is Mere Dubray."
The child glanced from one woman to the other. She saw the same
difference as there was between the workmen and the few of the better
class. Was it knowledge such as M'sieu Ralph had? And the good-hearted
home-making Mere scouted learning for women. Their business was cooking
and keeping the house. But she decided she liked the lady the best, just
as she liked M'sieu Ralph better than the brawny leathern- and fur-clad
workmen. But the Mere had been very good and never scolded her now.
She brought in some little cakes and a glass of beer brewed from roots
and herbs. Madame Giffard thanked her and sipped it delicately. Some
vague memory haunted the child, as if she had seen this lady before with
the dead Catherine.
"It is a wild, wild country. There is nothing like it in France," the
lady said, in a tone of disparagement. "And how one is to live----"
"You were not in France two or three centuries ago," he returned
good-naturedly. "Most countries go through this period. Beginnings are
not always agreeable."
"But I cannot admit this is a city. Yet they talk about it at home. The
furs are certainly fine. But the Indians! You are in fear of them all
the time. And if they should make an attack here?"
"They will hardly dare now. Indeed one Indian tribe is practically wiped
out. And the fortifications are to be strengthened. We manage to keep
quite friendly, though we do not trust too far."
"But it is horrible to live in perpetual fear," and she shuddered.
"You must not look on that side of it. It is a hard country for women, I
shall have to admit."
"But I have not come to stay, thank the saints. A year maybe at the
longest. My husband is to go back when he has--what you call
it--established his claim--concession. We like sunny France the best.
Only one wants a fortune to enjoy it."
"That is true, too. But here one can do without. At least a man
can"--laughing a little as he surveyed the dainty figure.
"A year," repeated the child. "How long is a year?"
Mere Dubray had been standing in the doorway, waiting to take the cup
when my lady had finished. Now she said in an unemotional tone--
"It is a summer and a winter. It was last May when Jean Arlac brought
you here."
The child nodded thoughtfully and there came a far-away expression in
her eyes.
"Jean Arlac went up to the fur country," she said to the guest.
"Does he return when the furs come in?"
She glanced at Mere Dubray, who shook her head.
"He comes back no more. He has married an Indian woman. But my husband
will be here."
"Does M. Gifford desire to go out himself?"
"That is his plan, I believe. Can he get back before winter?"
"Oh, yes, or by that time."
"I shall come often to see the little one. And when they have finished
the--the hut, the child must come often to me. I have brought some
furnishings and pictures and a few books. There is much more in the old
chateau, and my aunt is there to take care of it. But I wanted some old
friends about me."
At the mention of books Rose had glanced up eagerly at Destournier. Then
there was a sudden rush without. Both Indian boys were racing and
yelling in their broken language.
"They are coming; they are coming! The canoes are in," and both began to
caper about.
Mere Dubray took down a leathern thong and laid it about them; but they
were like eels and glided out of her reach.
"One was bad enough, but I could manage him. The other"--and she gave
her shoulders a shrug.
The lady laughed. "That is like home," she said.
"It is quite a sight. And I hope you will not be frightened, for the
next few days. I had better escort you back, I think, for there will be
a crowd."
They were guests of M. de Champlain, who had quite comfortable
quarters. Beside his governmental business he was much engrossed with a
history of his journeys and explorations and the maps he was making. All
the furnishings were plain, as became a hardy soldier who often slept
out in the open. But the keeping room already showed some traces of a
woman's love for adornment. He looked rather grim over it, but made no
comment.
"I will come again to-morrow." Madame Giffard pressed a kiss upon the
white forehead. The child grasped her hand with convulsive warmth.
An hour had changed the aspect of everything. Instead of the quiet,
deserted, winding ways, you could hardly call them streets, everything
seemed alive with a motley, moving throng. A long line of boats, and
what one might call a caravan, seemed to have risen from the very earth,
or been evolved from the wilderness. There were shouting and singing,
white men turned to brown by exposure, Indians, half-breeds of varying
shades, and attire that was really indescribable.
"Is it an attack?" and Madame Giffard clung to her guide in affright.
He laughed reassuringly.
"It is only the awakening of Quebec after its long hibernation. They
have been expected some days. Ah, now you will see the true business
side and really believe the town flourishing, be able to carry a good
report back to France."
They looked over the land side from the eminence of the fortifications.
Quebec did not mean to admit these roisterers within her precincts,
which were none too well guarded. Still the cannons looked rather
formidable from their embrasures. But as little would these lawless men
have cared to be under the guard of the soldiery.
They seemed to come to a pause. Indians and half-breeds threw down their
packs. Some sat on them and gesticulated fiercely, as if on the verge of
a quarrel. A few, who seemed the leaders, went about ordering, pointing
to places where a few stakes had been driven. Great bundles were
unpacked, a centre pole reared, and a tent was in progress.
"Why, it is like a magic play," and she clapped her hands in eager
delight. "Will they live here? Oh, where is Laurent, I wonder. He ought
to see this."
"They will live here a month or so. Some of the earlier ones will go
away, new ones come. The company's furs will be packed and loaded on
vessels for France, but there are plenty of others who trade on their
own account. There will be roistering and drinking and quarrelling and
dickering, and then the tents will be folded and packed and the throng
take up their march for the great north again, and months of hunting."
It was fascinating to watch them. They were building stone fireplaces
outside and kindling fires. Here some deft hands were skinning a moose
or a deer and placing portions on a rude spit. And there was the Sieur
de Champlain and a dozen or so of armed soldiers, he holding parley with
some of the leaders.
"Oh, there is M. Giffard," she cried presently. "And look--are
there--women?"
"Squaws. Oh, yes."
"Do they travel, I mean come from the fur country? What a long journey
it must be for them."
"They do not mind. They are nomads of the wilderness. You know the
Indians never build towns as we do. Some of them settle for months until
the hunting gives out, then they are off on a new trail."
"What queer people. One would think the good missionaries would civilize
them, teach them to be like--can they civilize them?"
"After centuries, perhaps"--dryly.
"Is all this country theirs?"
"Well"--he lifted his eyebrows in a queer, humorous fashion. "The King
of France thinks he has a right to what his explorers discover; the King
of England--well, it was Queen Elizabeth, I believe, who laid claim to a
portion called Virginia. She died, but the English remain. Their colony
is largely recruited from their prisons, I have heard. Then his Spanish
majesty has somewhat. It is a great land. But the French set out to save
souls and convert the heathen savages into Christian men. They have made
friends with some of the tribes. But they are not like the people of
Europe, rather they resemble the barbarians of the north. And the
Church, you know, has labored to convert them."
"How much men know!" she said, with a long sigh of admiration.
The sun was dropping down behind the distant mountains, pine- and
fir-clad. She had never looked upon so grand a scene and was filled with
a tremulous sort of awe. Up there the St. Charles river, here the
majestic St. Lawrence, islands, coves, green points running out in the
water where the reedy grass waved to and fro, tangles of vines and wild
flowers. And here at their feet the settlement that had just sprung into
existence.
"You must be fatigued," he said suddenly. "Pardon my forgetfulness. I
have been so interested myself."
"Yes, I am a little tired. It has been such a strange afternoon. And
that poor little girl, Monsieur--does that woman care well for her? She
has the coarseness of a peasant, and the child not being her own----"
"Oh, I think she is fairly good to her. We do not expect all the graces
here in the wilderness. But I could wish----"
Madame Gifford stumbled at that moment and might have gone over a ledge
of rock, and there were many there, but he caught her in strong arms.
"How clumsy!" she cried. "No, I am not hurt, thanks to you. I was
looking over at that woman with something on her back that resembles a
child."
"Yes, a papoose. That is their way of carrying them."
"Poor mother! She must get very weary."
They threaded their way carefully to the citadel. The guard nodded and
they passed. An Indian woman was bringing in a basket of vegetables and
there was a savory smell of roasting meat.
"Now you are safe," he said. "The Sieur would have transported me to
France or hung me on the ramparts if any evil had happened to you."
He gave a short laugh as if he had escaped a danger, but there was a
gleam of mirth in his eyes.
"A thousand thanks, M'sieu. Though I can't think I was in any great
danger. And another thousand for the sweet little girl. I must see a
good deal of her."
The room she entered was within the double fortification and its windows
were securely barred. The walls were of heavy timbers stained just
enough to bring out the beautiful grain. But some of the dressed
deerskins were still hanging and there were festoons of wampum,
curiously made bead and shell curtains interspersed with gun racks,
great moose horns and deer heads, and antlers. Tables and chairs
curiously made and a great couch big enough for a bed.
But the adjoining room was the real workroom of the Sieur. Here were his
books, he brought a few more every time he came from France; shelves of
curiosities, a wide stone fireplace, with sundry pipes of Indian make on
the ledges. A great table occupied the centre of the room and all about
it were strewn papers,--maps in every state,--plans for the city, plans
of fortifications, diagrams of the unsuccessful settlements, and the new
project of Mont Real. Notes on agriculture and the propagation of
fruits, for none better than the Sieur understood that the colony must
in some way provide its own food, that it could not depend upon
sustenance from the mother country. For his ambition desired to make New
France the envy of the nations who had tried colonizing. He ordered
crops of wheat and rye and barley sown, and often worked in his own
field when the moon shone with such glory that it inspired him. And
though he had all the ardor of an explorer, he meant to turn the profits
of trade to this end, but to further it settlements were necessary, and
he bent much of his energy to the duller and more trying task of
building colonies. Though the route to the Indies fired his ambition he
was in real earnest to bring this vast multitude of heathens within the
pale of the Church, and to do that he must be friendly with them as far
as they could be trusted, but there were times when he almost lost
faith.