A LOVER IN EARNEST
Eustache Boulle seemed in no hurry to return to Tadoussac. He was
wonderfully interested in the new fort, in the different improvements,
in miladi, who, somehow, seemed to improve and render herself very
agreeable. She had a queer feeling about him. If one could be young
again--ah, that would be back in France. She had a happy time with
Laurent. She had exulted in winning her second husband, but somehow the
real flavor and zest of love had not been there.
When Eustache was with Rose she experienced a keen, hungering jealousy,
and it was then she wanted to be young. The girl was strangely obtuse.
She never colored when he came, or evinced any half-bashful joy, she
left him with miladi, and went off with the utmost unconcern. She was
much in the settlement, showing the Indian women nice ways of keeping
their homes and children tidy, so that when the beautiful wife of the
Governor returned they would have great improvement to show her. True,
they went out canoeing, and the sweet breath of the river washing the
sedgy grass on the small islands, gave a faint tang of salt, or where it
dashed and fretted against the rocks made iridescent spray. There were
so many beautiful places. And though she had seen the falls more than
once, she went again to please him, after making several excuses. Pani
was her bodyguard. He was still small, and lithe as an eel, and the
mixture of races showed in him. Wanamee was sometimes peremptorily
ordered to accompany him.
The wooing of looks and smiles had little effect on her. Sometimes he
reached for her hand, but it cunningly evaded him. She seemed so
sufficient for herself that the matter was reduced to good-comrade-ship.
Yet there were times when he was wild to kiss the rosy, dimpling mouth,
to press the soft cheek, to hold the pliant figure in his arms.
It was but right that he should ask M. Destournier for his
foster-daughter.
To lose her! Ah, how could he give her up?
"Would you come to Quebec?"
"My interests are at Tadoussac. And there are the fisheries at the
islands growing more profitable. But I might come often if she grew
homesick, and pined for this rough, rocky place."
"It will be as she pleases," the man said, with a heavy heart.
"I must tell you that I think Madame favors my suit."
M. Destournier merely bowed.
The husband and wife had never touched upon the subject. She could not
decide. The girl was very useful to her since she had fallen into
invalid ways. M. Destournier had to be journeying about a good deal. She
could read so delightfully when the nights were long, tiresome, and
sleepless. Even Wanamee could not arrange her hair with such deft
touches, and it really appeared as if she could take off the burthen of
years by some delicate manipulations. Yes, she would miss her very much.
But it would be a grand match for a foundling. And if they went to
France, she would rouse herself and go. M. Destournier was so occupied
with the matters of the town that he had grown indifferent, and seldom
played the lover.
But how was Eustache to propose to a girl who could not, or would not
understand, who never allowed any endearments or softened to sentiment.
Why, here had been a whole fortnight since he had won the Sieur's tardy
consent. Now and then he had found some soft-eyed Indian girl not averse
to modestly-caressing ways, but his religion kept him from any absolute
wrong, and meaning to marry some time, he had not played at love.
So he came to miladi with his anxieties. Was there ever a woman's soul
formed with no longing, no understanding of the divine passion, that
could kneel at the marriage altar in singleness of heart?
Miladi studied the young man. Had the girl no warm blood coursing
through her veins, no throb of pleased vanity, at the preference of this
patient lover? Perhaps he was too patient.
"Yes," she made answer, "I will see. You are quite sure your family will
not be displeased? We know nothing of her birth, you are aware."
"Her beauty will make amends for that."
One could not deny her beauty. Such a dower had never been miladi's,
though she had been pretty in youth.
"Beg her to listen to me."
"A man should be able to compel a woman to listen," she made answer a
little sharply.
Glancing out over the space between, she caught sight of Rose and her
husband coming down from the fort. She was gay enough now, talking with
no restraint.
"I am almost jealous of M. Destournier," Eustache said, with a sigh.
Miladi was suddenly jealous as well, and this swept away the last shred
of reluctance.
"You give her great honor by this marriage proposal. She shall be
compelled to consider it."
"A thousand thanks. If Madame will excuse, I will go out to them."
M. Destournier left her with the young lover. Would she not go out on
the river? No. Then let them take a forest ramble. There were some fine
grapes back of the settlement. Pani had brought in a great basket full.
What would she do?
"Sit here on this ledge and watch the river. Pierre Cadotte is at the
fort. They came through the rapids at Lachine. It was very exciting. He
has been at the trading post up to the strait and tells marvellous
stories of hardships and heroism. And the good priest up there has made
converts already."
She was always so interested in some far-off thing.
"I wish a priest might make a convert here. There is much need."
She was off her guard. Canoes and boats were going up and down the
river. Some men were hauling in a catch of fish; just below, an Indian
woman sat weaving reed baskets, while a group of children played around.
Not an ideal spot for love-making, but Eustache was desperate.
"Thee"--leaning over until his black curls touched hers. "I would have
thee converted to love and matrimony. I have been a coward, and kept my
heartaches and desires to myself. I can do it no longer."
"But I am not for matrimony." She raised her clear eyes that would have
disheartened almost any man. "I do not want any husband. I like my own
fancies, and I suppose they are strange. There is only one person I ever
talk to about them. No one else understands. I think sometimes I do not
belong here, but to another country; no, the country is well enough. I
am suited to that. I do not want to go away."
"You would like old France, Paris. My mother would be glad to welcome
you, I know. And, oh, you would like Paris. Or, if you would rather stay
here----"
"I do not want to be married in a long time yet. Women change so much
when they have husbands, and it seems as if they made themselves unhappy
over many things their husbands do."
"But my sister was very happy. She would not have come all the way to
New France if she had not loved her husband dearly."
"You see that is so different. I do not love any one in that manner.
And, oh, M'sieu, she was like an angel, and prayed so much. It is a good
thing, but I would not like to stay in a darkened room and pray. I like
better to be roaming in the woods, and singing with the birds, and
gathering flowers. I believe I am not old enough to accept these
things."
"But my sister was only twelve when she was betrothed to the Sieur de
Champlain."
"You see something makes the difference." Her brow knit in perplexity.
"If it is a thing you want, it would be very easy to reach out your hand
and take it----"
"But I want it!" He reached out his hand and caught hers. "I love you,
strange, bewitching as you are in your innocence. And I would teach you
what love was. No young girl loves much before marriage. But when she is
with her husband day by day and his devotion is laid at her feet, she
cannot help understanding what a delight it is, and she learns to give
of her sweetest and best, as you will, my adorable child."
The heat of his hand and the pulse throbbing in every finger roused a
deeper feeling of resistance. She tried to withdraw it, but the pressure
only tightened.
"Will you release my hand?" she said, with a new-born dignity. "It is
mine, not yours!"
"But I wish it for mine. Oh, Rose, you sweet, delightful creature, you
_must_ learn to love me. I cannot give you up. And the Destourniers are
quite willing. I have asked for you."
"No one can give me away. I belong only to myself."
She drew her hand away in an unguarded moment. She sprang up straight
and lithe, her head poised superbly. Every pulse within him was
mysteriously stirred, and his breath came in gasps. Yes, he must set her
in his life. It would be bleak and barren without. To kiss the rosy lips
when he listed, to pillow the fair head on his shoulder, to encircle the
supple figure, so full of vitality, in his arms--yes, that would be the
highest delight.
"I will wait," he said, in a beseeching voice. "You are but a child.
Pity has not sprung up in your heart yet. I will wait and watch for the
first sign."
"Go!" She made a dismissing gesture with her hand. "Do not attempt to
follow me."
He stood still, looking after her. His whole soul was aflame, his voice
could have cried to the heavens above that she might be enkindled with
the sacred flame that leaped and flashed within him.
Rose picked her way deftly, daintily over the rocky way. She did not
stop at the house, but went on to the beach. A fish-hawk was chasing a
robin, that suddenly veered round as if asking her protection, and
picking up a sharp stone, she took aim at the hawk and stunned him for
an instant, so that he lost his balance.
"Bravo, little Rose," said a hearty voice, and the canoe turned in the
bend. "If your stone had been larger it might have done more execution."
"But I saved the bird." The robin had perched himself on the limb of a
dead fir tree, and began a gay song.
"You had better go farther away from your enemy," she counselled. Then
to the canoeist--"Will you let me come in and go down the river?"
"Yes, I will take you down. What did you do with young Boulle?"
She colored a little. "I want to tell you."
"I saw you both up on the cliff."
"I came away and left him."
He drew up the canoe and she stepped in lightly, seating herself so
gently that the canoe did not even swerve.
"How blue the water is! And so clear. It is like the heaven above. And
there are rays of sun in the river bed. It does not seem very deep, does
it? I could almost touch it with my hand."
Destournier laughed. "Suppose you try?"
"And tip us over?" She smiled as well.
It was so lovely that both were moved to silence. Now and then they
glanced at each other, at some special point or happening. She was not
effusive.
After a while she began with--"Do you like M. Boulle very much?"
"He is a promising young man, I am glad he did not return to France. We
have few enough of them here. Every one counts."
"He will go some time," she said, reflectively.
A sudden thought flashed through his mind. The girl's face was very
calm, but her eyes had a sort of protest in them.
"Will he take you?" Destournier asked, in a husky tone.
"Oh, M'sieu Ralph, would you send me? Would you give me to any one
else?"
Now her eyes were alight with an eager breathless expression that was
almost anguish.
"Not if you did not want to go."
"I do not want to go anywhere. Oh, M'sieu Ralph," and now her tone was
piteous, "I wish you would send him away. I liked him very well at
first, but now he wants me to love him, and I cannot, the kind of love
that impels one to marry, and I do not want to be married."
"Has he tried to persuade you?"
Ralph Destournier knew he would make a good husband. Some time Rose
would marry. But it was plain she did not love him. And though love
might not be necessary, it was a very sweet accompaniment that, he knew
now, it was sad to miss.
"He talked to me about marriage. I do not like it." She gave a little
shiver, and the color went out of her face, even her lips, and her
pliant figure seemed to shrink as from a blow.
"My child, no one shall marry you against your will, neither shall you
be taken away. Rest content in my promise."
She nodded, then smiled, with trusting eyes. He wondered a little about
her future. While he lived--well, the Sieur de Champlain was well and
hearty, and much older. She was only a child yet, though she had
suddenly grown tall. He could care for her in the years to come, and she
would no doubt find a mate. He knew very little about girls. They
generally went to convents and were educated and husbands were chosen
for them by their parents. But in this new world matters had changed.
There was talk of a convent to train the Indian girls, and the
half-breeds who took more readily to civilization. The priests were in
earnest about it, but money was lacking. Rose had picked up much useful
knowledge, and knew some things unusual for a girl. Good Father Jamay
would be shocked at Terence, Aristophanes, and Virgil for a girl.
"So you do not like marriage?" he said, rather jestingly.
She shook her head.
"But then you know nothing about it."
"Why, there is the Sieur and the beautiful Madame. And you and miladi.
And Marie, with her dirty house and her babies. She is not as nice as
the Indian women. And they have to wait upon the braves or else, when
the braves are off fur hunting, they have to plant the crops and catch
fish, and even hunt and mend tents, and do such hard work. All that is
no delight like dreaming on the moss in the woods, and talking to the
birds, and breathing the fragrance all about, and having rushes of
delight sweep over you like a waft from the beautiful heaven above. Oh,
why should I marry; to think of some one else that I do not want and not
feel that my life was my very own."
He studied the youthful unconscious face before him, the clear, fine
skin, a few shades deeper from the daily contact with sun and much
dallying on the river; the beautiful dark eyes that seemed always
gathering the choicest of life, with joy and wonder; the rounded cheeks,
with exquisitely-faint coloring, seeming to join the clear-cut chin,
with its dimpled cleft melting into the shapely throat, that upheld it
like a flower on a strong, yet delicate stem. He was strangely moved by
the peculiar aloofness of the beauty.
Her soft hair hung about her like a cloud, the curling ends moved now
and then as if by their own vigorous life. Indeed, there was an intense
sort of vitality about her that, quiescent as it often was, in this
trifling, daily round, could shoot up into a bewildering flame. Perhaps
that was love. She did not have it for Eustache Boulle, she might never
have it for him. Were men and women but half alive? Was there some
sudden revivifying influence that raised them above the daily wants,
that gave them an insight into a new existence? Had he ever experienced
it?
The sun dropped down behind a range of hills, covered with pines, furs,
and cedars, that were growing into a compact dark wall, the interstices
being black. The edge of the river took on these sombre hues, but a
little beyond there were long strips of rose and tawny gold, between
zones of purple and green. The current tossed them hither and thither,
like some weird thing winding about. Destournier was strangely moved by
this mysterious kinship to nature that he had never experienced before.
"We must turn back," he began briefly, though it seemed to him he could
gladly go on to a new life in some other land.
She nodded. The tide was growing a little stronger, but it was in their
favor. They kept quite near the shore, where it was dark in spaces, and
then opened into a sort of clearing, only to close again. Even now the
voyager dreams on the enchanting shores that are not all given up to
towns and business.
She began to sing. It was melody without words. Now and then she
recalled a French verse or two, then it settled into some melancholy
Indian plaint, or the evening song of a belated bird. She was not
singing for him, yet he was enchanted.
He drew in the canoe presently. She sprang out with the agile grace
caught from much solitary rambling and climbing. Then she waited for him
to fasten it.
"You are quite sure that you will not consent to M. Boulle's wishes?"
she inquired, as they turned in and out of the winding path.
"You shall be left entirely free. You shall not marry at all, if you
prefer," he answered solemnly.
"Oh, a thousand thanks. And you will convince miladi. I think she wishes
M. Boulle all success. I must go make my peace with Wanamee and get some
supper."
She ran to the end of the house, the wide kitchen, where the cooking was
done. Wanamee and Mawha were in a discussion, as often happened. Pani
sat with a great wooden platter on his knees, eating voraciously. Rose
realized suddenly that she was hungry, and the smell of the broiling
fish was appetizing.
"I'm famished, Wanamee," she cried. "Will you give me some supper?"
"Miladi is much vexed with you, little one. She had supper sent to her
room and M. Boulle was there. They wanted you and M. Destournier. There
was to be a--I do not know what you call it, but he wanted you to
promise to be his wife, for he goes to Tadoussac to-morrow."
Rose's heart beat with a guilty joy.
"I should not promise that. I do not want to be a wife."
Mawha, who had been a wife several times, a tall, rather severe-looking
Indian woman, turned upon her.
"Thou art well-grown and shouldst have a husband. Girls get too wild if
they are let go too long. A husband keeps them in order."
"I will have some supper," Rose said, with dignity, ignoring the
stricture.
Then she cleared a place on the table and brushed it clean with the
birch twigs. Wanamee brought a plate of Indian meal cake, deliciously
browned, some potatoes baked in the hot ashes, and a great slice of
fish, with a dish of spiced preserves of some green fruit and berries.
"I looked for you," Pani said. "Were you up on the mountain?"
Rose shook her head.
She was hungry, but she dallied over her meal, wondering if she had best
go in and say good-night to miladi. She did not always; she quite
understood now that there were times when miladi did not care to see
her; then, at others, she sent for her. Now she would let her send. She
went up to her small chamber presently. The young moon was travelling
over westward with her attendant star. There were boats still out on the
river, merry voices, others in loud and angry dispute. Why did people
want to quarrel, when the world was so beautiful! Then a shrill cry of
some night bird, guards coming and going about the fort. She grew drowsy
presently, and went to bed, serene in the belief that M. Boulle would go
his way and torment her no more, for had not M. Ralph promised?
M. Ralph and miladi were having a rather stormy time. She had inquired
very peremptorily what had kept him so late. Pani had been sent to the
warehouse and had not found him, neither had he been at the fort.
M. Destournier was no hand to prevaricate. He lived an open, honest
life, and had few secrets beside those of business. Ordinarily, he would
have explained what he had been about the last two hours, but he had a
sudden premonition that it was wiser not to do so. Miladi was sometimes
captious where Rose was concerned.
"I was busy," he made answer briefly.
"M. Boulle goes to Tadoussac to-morrow. The vessel came down for him
to-day. Some urgent business requires his attention."
"He has loitered quite long enough," commented her husband. "He is a
pleasant young fellow, but there is more than indolent pleasuring to a
young man's life."
"He has had a purpose, a matter that lies near his heart. This new
country and the lack of fixed rules are demoralizing, and it will be a
good thing when there is a convent for the proper training of girls. But
lawless as Rose has grown, he has asked her in marriage. We wanted you
to ratify the consent I have given. He will make arrangements for the
marriage a few months hence."
"You seem to think Rose has no voice in this."
"Why should she have? Do we not stand in the place of parents? My father
chose M. Giffard, and he was presented to me as my future husband. No
well-bred girl makes any demur. But it seems that Mam'selle Rose has
some queer ideas, imbibed from heaven only knows where, that she must
experience a kind of overwhelming preference for a man, which would be
positively disgraceful in a young girl who has no right to consider love
until she is called upon to give it to her husband. It will be a most
excellent thing for her."
There was a moment or two of silence. He was considering how best to
make his protest.
"Well--why do you not reply?" tartly. "The young man is very ardent. She
can never do better."
"She is but a child. There need be no haste. And if she does not
care----"
"She is no longer a child. Fully fourteen, I think, and Mam'selle Boulle
was married younger that that."
"And whether the Sieur would quite approve. There are some formalities
in old France which we have not shaken off. His parents are still
alive----"
"And he is quite certain he can have the mystery about her fathomed. She
should go down on her knees to a man who would prove her honorably born,
even if he had no fortune. To-morrow morning he wants the matter
settled, and a betrothal, before he goes. If you know where she is, you
had better summon her and instruct her as to her duty. She is quite old
enough to understand. She has played the child too long already, and it
has spoiled her."
"I will not have her betrothed against her will. She has no fancy for
marriage. And there will be time enough. If M. Boulle chooses to wait
until the Sieur returns, and he consents----"
"She has always been a favorite of his," interrupted miladi. Then
suddenly--"Why are you so obstinate about it, when it will be such an
excellent thing for her?"
"I am not obstinate about it, only as far as she is concerned. If she
desired it she should have my full and free consent. But I will not
insist upon a step she does not desire."
"As if a girl knew what was best!" reiterated miladi scornfully. "And
why should you wish to keep her? Unless"--and now miladi's eyes flashed
fire--"unless----"
"Do not say it!" He held up his hand forbiddingly.
"I will say it! You are not her father, and it seems strange you should
have such an overwhelming fondness for her as to keep her from a most
excellent marriage, and persuade yourself that a woman grown can indulge
in all kinds of childish behavior, without detriment to her character.
If it is your fondness for her that stands in the way----"
Miladi at that moment was in a jealous fury. The passion leaped to her
heart full-grown. She understood now why she half-feared, half-disliked
the child that she had once esteemed a pet and plaything. She had
supplanted her in her husband's affections. She had youth and beauty,
and miladi was fading, beside being years older than her husband, and
then never very well any more.
"Hush!" exclaimed her husband, in a commanding tone. "I forbid you to
think of such a thing! When have I failed in my devotion to you?
To-morrow she shall have her choice, but she shall not be forced into
any promise beside her own wishes. And then I will find a new home for
her."
He turned and went out of the room. Miladi pounded on the table before
her with her small fist, as if she could beat the life out of
something.