A WAY OVER THORNS
Champlain found on his arrival five Jesuit priests, who had received a
poor welcome, even from their French brethren. The Recollets had offered
them the hospitality of their convent, which had been gratefully
accepted. So far not much advance had been made among the Indians, who
seemed incapable of discerning the spiritual side of religion, though
they eagerly caught up any superstition.
There had also come over a number of emigrants, two or three families,
the others, men of no high degree, who had been tempted by the lure of a
speedy fortune. It was a long, hard, cold winter, and throngs of Indians
applied for relief. Champlain had established a farm at Beaupre, down
the river, and stocked it with cattle he had imported. But for weeks
everything was half-buried in snow.
One morning M. Destournier came in. Rose was sitting by the fire in M.
Hebert's study and shop. The great fireplace was full of blazing logs,
and she looked the picture, not only of comfort, but delight. She had
not seen much of him for the month past. There was no opportunity for
sledging even, the roads had been so piled with snow. Then she had
taken quite a domestic turn, much to the gratification of Madame Hebert.
M. Destournier looked thin and careworn. Rose sprang up, deeply touched.
"Oh, you are ill," she cried. "I have not seen you in so long. Sit here
in the warmth. And miladi?"
She always inquired after her.
"That is what I have come about. Rose, my dear child, can you forget
enough of the past, and the long silence, to come back to us? Miladi
wants you, needs you, has sent me to see. She is very ill, and lonely."
Rose flushed warmly, with both pain and pleasure, and her eyes softened,
almost to tears.
"I shall be glad to come." There was a tremble of emotion in her voice.
"I realize how great a disappointment it was to her, but you know I was
right, and when I asked the Sieur if I had been too hasty, or unjust, he
approved. He thinks no woman ought to marry without giving her whole
heart, and somehow I had none to give," blushing deeply and looking
lovelier than ever. "I think it is because--because I am a foundling,
and could not go to any man with honor. So I must make myself happy in
my own way."
Her figure had taken on more womanly lines, though it was still slim and
exquisitely graceful. And the girlish beauty had ripened somewhat,
losing none of its olden charm.
She colored still more deeply under his glance.
"Is there anything new with miladi?" she inquired, with some hesitation.
"It seems a gradual wasting away and weakness. She thinks she will be
better when spring opens, and longs to return to France. I am putting my
affairs in shape to make this possible. She is very lonely. She has
missed your brightness and vivacity. It has seemed a different place."
Rose's heart swelled with pity. She forgave Madame from the depths of
her heart, remembering only the old times and the tenderness.
"When shall I come?"
"At once. She begged for you last week, but I was afraid it was a
restless fancy. The road is quite well broken. What a winter we have
had! The drought last summer shortened crops, and there have been so
many extra mouths to feed among the unfortunate Indians. So if you will
inform the Heberts--I have seen Monsieur."
She went through to the kitchen, where mother and daughter were
concocting savory messes for the sick. They both returned with her and
expressed much sympathy for the invalid. M. Hebert had said to his wife
that miladi was slowly nearing her end, while her real disease seemed a
mystery, but medical lore in the new world had not made much advance.
"We shall only lend her to you for a while," Madame Hebert said, with a
faint smile. "I hardly know how Monsieur will do without her. She is
truly a rose-bloom in this dreary winter, that seems as if it would
never end."
"And I want her to bloom for a while in the room where my poor sick wife
has to stay. She longs for some freshness and sweetness," he said, in a
pleading tone.
"She was rightly named," said Madame, with a smile. "Her poor mother
must have died, I am quite sure, for she could not have sent away such
an adorable child. Even when Mere Dubray had her, she was charming, in
her wild, eager ways, like a bird. The good God made her a living Rose,
indeed, to show how lovely a human Rose could be."
She came in the room wrapped in her furs, her hood with its border of
silver-fox framing in her face, that glowed with youth and health.
"You have all been so good to me," and her beautiful eyes were alight
with gratitude. "I shall come in often, and oh, I shall think of you
every hour in the day."
"Do not forget the latest pattern of lace-making," added the practical,
industrious Therese.
It was glorious without, a white world with a sky of such deep blue it
almost sparkled. Leafless trees stretched out long black or gray arms,
and here and there a white birch stood up grandly, like some fair
goddess astray. Stretches of evergreens suggested life, but beyond them
hills of snow rising higher and higher, until they seemed lost in the
blue, surmounted by a sparkling frost line.
The paths had been beaten down--occasionally a tract around a doorway
shovelled. It was hard and smooth as a floor. Destournier slipped her
arm within his, and then gazed at her in surprise.
"You must have grown. How tall you are. I wonder if I shall get
accustomed to the new phase? I seem always to see the little girl who
sat upon my knee. Oh, do you remember when you were ill at Mere
Dubray's?"
"All my life comes to me in pictures. I sometimes think I can remember
what was before the long sail in the boat, but it is so vague. Now it is
all here, its rough ways, its rocks, its beautiful river are a part of
me. I am never longing to go elsewhere. I am sorry Madame de Champlain
did not love it as well. And the Sieur was such a good, tender husband."
Destournier sighed a little, also. The Sieur kept busy and full of
plans, but occasionally there came a wistfulness in his eyes and a pain
in the lines that were settling so rapidly about his face.
They crunched over the icy paths. A time or two she slipped, and he drew
her nearer, the touch of her body, though wrapped in its furs, giving
him a delicious thrill. He lifted her up the steep ways he had seen her
climb with the litheness of a squirrel.
Wanamee came out with a fervent welcome. The old kitchen was the same.
Pani was toasting himself in his favorite corner. Mawha was doing Indian
bead and feather work, and looked up with a cordial nod.
"Get good and warm. I will tell miladi you have come. You will find her
much changed, but she does not like it remarked upon."
She and Wanamee were in an earnest talk when she was summoned. The room
had in it some new appointments, brought from France, but even a
luxurious court beauty might have envied the rich fur rugs lying about
and hanging over the rude and somewhat clumsy chairs of home
manufacture.
Pillowed up in a half-sitting posture in the bed was miladi. Rose could
hardly forbear a shocked exclamation. When she had seen her every day,
the changes had passed unremarked, for they had begun, even then. The
lovely skin was yellowed and wrinkled and defined the cheek bones, the
beautiful hair had grown dull, and the eyes had lost their lustre. All
her youth was gone, she was an old lady, even before the time.
And this vision of youthful, vigorous beauty was like a sudden sunburst,
when the day had been dull and cloudy. She seemed to animate the room,
to light up the farthest recesses, to bring a breath of revivifying air
and hope.
"I have wanted you so," the invalid said piteously. "Oh, how strong and
well you are! I never was very strong, and so the illness has taken a
deeper hold on me. And now you must help me to get well. Your freshness
will be an elixir--that is what I have wanted. Wanamee is good for a
servant nurse, but I have needed something finer and better."
She held out her hand and Rose pressed it to her lips. It was bony,
showing swollen blue veins, and had a clammy coldness that struck a
chill to the rosy lips.
"Did you like them at the Heberts? They are very staid people, and think
only of work, I believe."
"They were very kind, and I found them well-informed about everything."
"Why, when they know so much, can they not cure me? You know it is not
as though my case was very serious. I am weak, that is all. The doctor
came down from Tadoussac, but he just shook his head, and his powders
did me no good. M. Hebert sent some extracts of herbs, but nothing gives
me any strength. And the snow and cold stays on as if spring would never
come. What have you been doing all this while? You couldn't run about in
the woods."
"Oh, Madame, I am outgrowing that wild longing, though the trees have a
hundred voices, and I seem to understand what they say, and the song of
the birds, the ripple and plash of the river. But I have been learning
other things. How great the world is, and the stories of kings and
queens, and brave travellers, who go about and discover new places. It
widens one's subjects of thought. And I have learned some cooking, and
how to make home seem cheerful, and the weaving of pretty laces, like
those the ships bring over. I am not so idle now."
"And you liked them very much?" She uttered this rather resentfully.
"Ah, Madame, how could one help, when people were so good, and took so
much pains with one."
Her voice was sweet and appealing, yet it had a strand of strength and
appreciation. But had _she_ not been good to the little girl all these
years!
"Has Mam'selle Therese any lover?" she asked, after a pause.
"Not yet, Madame. Some old family friends are to come over in the
summer, and one has a son that Therese played with in childhood. It may
be that she will like him."
"And she will do as her parents desire!"
"They are very just with her, and love her dearly."
"And the brother?"
"He went to Mont Real before the hard cold. If there were only people to
settle there it would be finer than Quebec, it is said."
"I am so tired of Quebec. Next summer we will go home; that is the
country for me. M. Destournier is willing to go at last, and I shall see
that he never returns to this dreary hole."
"It can hardly be called a hole, when there are so many heights all
about," laughed the girl.
"It is a wretched place. And you will soon like France, and wonder how
people are content to stay here. You see the Governor's wife had enough
of it. She had good sense."
"But, Madame, the priests teach that a wife's place is beside her
husband."
"What have I gained by staying beside mine, who is always planning how
to civilize those wretched squaws, and make life better for them? The
better should have been for me. And now I have lost my health, and my
beautiful hair has fallen out and begins to turn white. Am I very much
changed?"
Rose was embarrassed. Years ago miladi hated the thoughts of growing
old.
"Illness tries one very much," she said evasively. "But you will gain it
up when you begin to mend."
"Oh, do you think so? You see I must get something to restore the wasted
flesh. How plump you are. And I had such an admirable figure. M. Laurent
thought me the most graceful girl he had ever seen, had so many pretty
compliments, and that keeps one in heart, spurs one on to new efforts.
M. Destournier is not of that kind. He is cold-blooded, and seems more
English than French."
Rose colored. The dispraise hurt her.
"Fix my pillows, and put me down. I get so tired. And stir up the fire."
Rose did this very gently, smoothing out wrinkles, holding the cold
hands in hers, so warm and full of strength. The room seemed smothering
to her, but she stirred the fire vigorously, and sent a vivid shower of
sparks upward.
"Now if you had a little broth----"
"But I cannot bear to have you go away. Yes, I know I shall get stronger
with you here."
"You need some nourishment. I will not be gone long," giving a heartsome
smile.
A gallery ran along this side of the house, built for miladi's
convenience. She stepped out on it, in the clear air and sunshine, and
took a few turns. Poor Madame! Would she get well when she seemed so
near dying?
The broth was reviving. Rose fed her with a teaspoon, instead of giving
her the cup to drink from, and they both laughed like children. Then she
arranged the pillows and bathed the poor, wrinkled face and hair with
some fragrant water, and miladi fell asleep under these ministrations.
Rose moved lightly about the room, changing its aspect with deft
touches. She was glad to do something in return. Miladi had been very
sweet when she was ill, and there had been the pleasant years when she
had not minded the exactions. Was there really a plan to go to France?
Would they take her from her beloved Quebec?
M. Destournier brought in a book from the Governor's store and Rose read
aloud in the evening. That was a restless time for miladi, but the
sweet, cheerful voice tranquillized her. M. Ralph sat in the corner of
the wide stone fireplace, watching the changes in the lovely face, as
she seemed to enter into the spirit of the adventures. Heroism appealed
to her. The flush came and went in her cheek, her eyes sent out gleams
of glory, and her bosom rose and fell.
There came an instant of rapture to Ralph Destournier, that mysterious
and almost sublime appreciation of a woman's love, a love such as this
girl could give. He had possessed the childish affection, the innocent
girlish fondness, but some other would win the woman's heart, the prize
he would lay down his life for. What had been the pity and weak
tenderness was given to the woman in the bed yonder. He knew now she had
only touched his heart in sympathy, and a fancied duty. In a thousand
years she would never be capable of such love as this girl, blossoming
into womanhood, could give.
"There should be some women at hand," declared a weak voice from the
bed. "It adds an interest to the discoveries, to think, if a woman did
not inspire it, she crowned it with her admiration. But for a party of
men to go off alone----"
"The hardships would be too great for a woman."
Destournier's voice was husky with repressed emotion. This girl would
keep step and inspire an explorer.
"They would not take so many hardships then. What if there is a great
river or ocean leading to India! A man can live but one life, and that
should be devoted to some woman."
He rose, crossed the room, and kissed his wife on the forehead. He
learned by accident one day that she used something to keep her lips red
with the lost bloom of youth, and they had never been sweet to him
since.
"Good-night. I hope you will sleep. Rose had better not read any more.
We must not have all the good things in one day."
He ran down the steps to where a street had been straightened and
widened in the summer. The moonlight gave everything a weird glow, the
stars were tinted in all colors, as one finds in the clear cold of the
north. Only the planets and the larger ones, the myriad of small ones
were outshone. What beauty, what strength, what wonders lay hidden in
the wide expanse. He was tempted to plunge into the wilderness, to the
frozen north, to the blooming south, or that impenetrable expanse of the
west, and leave behind the weak woman, who in her selfish way loved him,
and the girl who could create a new life for him, that he could love
with the force of manhood suddenly aroused, that had been clean and
wholesome. He was glad of that, though he could not lay it at the girl's
feet. Miladi had been in this state so long, sometimes rallying, and in
the summer they would go to France. But they would leave Rose of old
Quebec behind.
Over there at the fort a man sat poring over maps and papers, a
solitary man now, who had wedded youth and beauty, and found only Dead
Sea fruit. But he was going bravely on his way. That was a man's duty.
In a few days there was a decided improvement in miladi. She was
dressed, and sat up part of the time. She evinced an eager resolve to
get well, she put on a sort of childish brightness, that was at times
pitiful. But nothing could conceal the ravages of time. She looked older
than her years. She was, in a curious manner, drawing on the vitality of
the young girl, and it was generously given.
Then came to Rose a great sorrow. M. Hebert, who had been such an
inspiring influence to her, died from the effects of a fall. There was a
general mourning in the small settlement. The Governor felt he had lost
one of his most trusty friends. The eldest daughter, Guillemette, who
had married one Guillaume Couillard, came down from Tadoussac, and they
took his place on the farm. Hers had been the first wedding in Quebec.
Rose felt that this must change the home for her. She had counted on
going back to them. There were days when she grew very tired of miladi's
whims and inanities, and longed to fly to her beloved wood.
"If I should die, he will marry her," miladi thought continually. "I
will not die. I will take her to France and marry her to some one before
her beauty fades. She will make a sensation."
Rose never dreamed she was so closely watched. After that moonlight
battle with himself, Destournier allowed his soul no further thought of
the present Rose, but dreamed over the frank child-charm she had
possessed for him. He grew grave and silent, and spent much of his time
with the Sieur.
Spring was very late. It seemed as if old Quebec would never throw off
her ermine mantle. Richelieu was now at the helm in France, and that
country and England were at war with each other. Quebec was looking
forward to supplies and reinforcements that had been promised.
From a cold and unusually dry May, they went into summer heats. The
Sieur de Champlain spent much of his time getting his farm at Cape
Tourmente in order. M. Destournier was engrossed with the improvements
of the town, and keeping the Indians at work, who were, it must be
confessed, notoriously lazy. Miladi complained. Rose grew weary. She
missed her dear friend M. Hebert, and she was puzzled at the coldness
and distance of M. Destournier. But the rambles were a comfort and a
kind of balance to her life. She brought wild flowers to miladi, and the
first scarlet strawberries. And there was always such an enchanting
freshness after these excursions, that the elder woman liked her to take
them.
Richelieu understood better than any one yet the importance of this
colony to France, when the English were making such rapid strides in the
new world. He was planning extensive improvements in colonizing, and
fitting out ships with stores and men.
The news came to Cape Tourmente that vessels had been sighted. Word was
sent on to Quebec, and there was a general rejoicing.
But it was soon turned to terror and anguish. Some savages came paddling
furiously to the town, and though the cries were indistinguishable at
first, they soon gathered force.
"The English have burned and pillaged Cape Tourmente, and are at
Tadoussac! Save yourselves. Man the fort. Call all to arms!"
Alas! The fort was considerably out of repair. The Indians had been
peaceable for some time and the mother country had kept them short of
supplies. The walled settlement was protection from marauding bands, and
the fort could have been made impregnable if the Governor had carried
out his plans and not been hampered by the lack of all-needed
improvements.
The farmer at Cape Tourmente had been slightly wounded, and was brought
down with the boat, on which several had escaped. The buildings had been
burned, the cattle killed, the crops laid waste. No doubt they were now
pillaging Tadoussac.
Champlain began to prepare for defense with all the force available.
Muskets were loaded, cannon trained down the river, the fort manned.
Friendly Indians offered their services. All was wild alarm, the blow
was so unexpected.
Miladi, hearing the noise and confusion, explained it her way.
"It is always so when the horde of traders come in," she said. She had
been looking over old finery, and getting ready for a return to France.
The little convent on the St. Charles was prepared to repel any
surprise. But at mid-afternoon a boat hovered about in the river, and it
was learned presently that it conveyed some captives taken by the
English, who were sent with a letter from the commander of the fleet,
that now appeared quite formidable, with its six well-manned vessels.
The Governor at once called together the leading men of the place and
laid before them the summons of surrender, and the first news of the war
between France and England. It was couched in polite terms, but
contained a well-laid plan. In all, eighteen ships had been despatched
by His Majesty, the King of Britain. Several small stations had been
captured, also a boat with supplies from France, and all resources were
to be cut off. By surrendering they would save their homes and property,
and be treated with the utmost courtesy, but it was the intention of the
English to take the town, although they preferred to do it without
bloodshed.
It was quite a lengthy document, and Champlain read it slowly, that each
sentence might be well considered. The hard winter, the late spring, the
supplies at Cape Tourmente and Tadoussac being cut off, rendered them in
no situation for a prolonged struggle. But they would not yield so
easily to the demand of the English. They had the courage of men who had
undergone many hardships, and the pride of their nation. Quebec had been
the child of the Sieur de Champlain's work and love. With one voice they
resolved to refuse, and the word was sent to Captain David Kirke.
He meanwhile turned his fleet down the river, fancying the town an easy
prey, when he espied the relief stores sent from France, a dozen or so
vessels, bringing colonists, workmen, priests, women, and children, and
farming implements, as well as stores, convoyed by a man-of-war. It was
a rich prize for the Englishman, and an order for surrender was sent,
which was refused.
The battle was indeed disastrous for Quebec, though they were not to
know it until months afterward. Most of the emigrants Captain Kirke
despatched back to France, some of the least valuable vessels he burned,
and sailed home with his trophies, leaving Quebec for another attempt.
Meanwhile the little colony waited in ill-defined terror. Day after day
passed and no attack was made. Then they ventured to send out some boats
and found to their surprise the river was clear of the enemy, but every
little settlement had been laid waste. The stock of food was growing
low, the crops were not promising. Every consignment sent from France
had miscarried, and since the two nations were at war there was small
hope of supplies. What would they do in winter? Already the woods were
scoured for nuts and edible roots, and stores were hidden away with
trembling hands. There were many plans discussed. If they could send
part of their people out to find a Basque fishing fleet, and thus return
home.
No heart was heavier than that of the Sieur de Champlain. To be sure
there was his renown as a discoverer and explorer, but the city he had
planned, that was to be the crowning point of France's possessions, was
slowly falling to decay.