HELD IN AN ENEMY'S GRASP
These were sad times for old Quebec and for the little girl who was
blossoming into a womanhood that should have been joyous and serene, she
asked so little of life.
When the news of the reverse and the loss of the stores reached them,
they were still more greatly burthened by the influx from Tadoussac and
the settlements around. Then, too, the wandering Indians joined in the
clamor for food. Trade was stopped. Mont Real took the furs and disposed
of them in other channels. No one knew how many English vessels were
lying outside, ready to confiscate anything valuable.
Madame Destournier was in a state of ungovernable terror.
"Why should we stay here and be murdered?" she would cry. "Or starve to
death! Let us return to France, as we planned. Am I of not as much
consideration as an Indian squaw, that you all profess so much anxiety
for?"
"It would not be prudent to cross the ocean now," her husband said. "We
might be taken prisoners and carried to England. You are in no state to
face hardships."
"As if I did not face them continually! Oh, I should have gone at once,
when Laurent died. And if the English take the town, where will be the
fortune he struggled for! I wish I had never seen the place."
She would go on bewailing her hard fate until utterly exhausted. There
were days when she would not let Rose out of her sight, except when her
husband entered the room. It was well that he had a motive of the
highest honor, to hold himself well in hand, though there were times
when his whole heart went out in pity for Rose. Was there another soul
in the world that would have been so pitiful and tender?
Eustache Boulle had come from Tadoussac, since so little could be done
toward rehabilitating that, and proved himself a most worthy compatriot
to Champlain. Rose was sorely troubled at first, but she soon found that
miladi no longer cared for the marriage. She was too selfish to think of
losing one who was so useful to her. The girl's vigor and vivacity were
a daily tonic to her. Would she sap the strength out of this splendid
creature? Ralph Destournier wondered, with a pang. Yet to interfere was
not possible. He understood the jealous nature, that if given the
slightest ground would precipitate an _esclandre_.
Among the Indians flocking in was Savignon, who had gone to France years
before with Champlain, and who had been in demand as an interpreter. He
had spent a year or two up at the strait, where there was quite a
centre, and the priests had established a station, and gone further on
to the company's outpost. An unusually fine-looking brave, with many of
the white man's graces, that had not sunk deep enough to be called real
qualities. But they were glad to see him, and gave him a warm welcome.
And now what was to be done? All supplies being cut off, the grain
fields laid in ruin, the crops failing, how were they to sustain
themselves through the winter? Various plans were suggested. One of the
most feasible, though fraught with danger, was to lead a party of
Algonquins against the Iroquois, and capture some of their villages. The
tribe had proved itself deceitful and unfriendly on several occasions.
The Algonquins were ready for this. Another was to accept the proffer of
a number settled at Gaspe, who had been warm friends with Pontgrave, and
who would winter about twenty of the suffering people.
Ralph Destournier offered to head the expedition, as it needed a person
of some experience to restrain the Indians, and good judgment in not
wasting supplies, if any could be found. Savignon consented to accompany
them, and several others who were weary of the suffering around them and
preferred activity. They would be back before winter set in if they met
with any success.
Destournier planned that his wife should be made comfortable while he
was gone. At first she protested, then she sank into a kind of sullen
silence. She had seemed stronger for some weeks.
Rose had gone for her daily walk late in the afternoon. She read miladi
to sleep about this time and was sure of an hour to herself. She was
feeling the severe drain upon her quite sensibly, and though she longed
to throw herself on a couch of moss and study the drifting clouds in the
glory of the parting day, when the sun had gone behind the hills and the
wake of splendor was paling to softer colors; lavender and pale green,
that mingled in an indescribable tint, for which there could be no name.
There was a little coolness in the air, but the breath of the river was
sweet and revived her. Many of the leaves had dried and fallen from the
drought, yet the juniper and cedar were bluish-green in the coming
twilight, with their clusters of berries frostily gray.
But she walked on. There was a craving in her heart for a change, a
larger outlook. It would not be in marrying M. Boulle, though more than
once when she had surprised his eyes bent wistfully upon her, a pang of
pity for him had gone to her heart. Could she spend years waiting on
miladi, whose strength of will kept her alive. Or was it that horrible
fear of death? If it was true as the priests taught--oh, yes, it must
be. God could not be so cruel as to put creatures in this world to toil
and suffer, and then drop back to dust, to nothingness. Even the Indians
believed in another sphere, in their crude superstitious fashion, and
there must be some better place as a reward for the pain here that was
not one's own fault. She loved to peer beyond the skies as she thought,
and to drift midway between them and the grand woods, the changeful sea.
What if one floated off and never came back!
There was a step beside her, and she drew a long breath, though she was
not alarmed, for she almost felt a presence, and turned, waited.
"Rose," the voice said, "I have wanted to find you alone. I have several
things to say. I have promised to go on this expedition because I felt
it was necessary. You will not blame me. I have made all arrangements
for you and miladi, and I shall be back before the real cold weather
sets in. I only pray that we may be successful."
"Yes," she said under her breath, yet in vague surprise.
"It is a hard burthen to lay upon you. Do not imagine I have not seen
it. At first I thought it only the restless whim of failing health, but
I believe she loves you as much as she can love any human being. I
realize now that she should have gone to her own sunny France long ago.
She is formed for pleasure and brightness, variety, and to have new
people about her when she exhausts the old. I should not have married
her, but it seemed the best step then. I truly believed----"
No, he would not drag his weak justification before this pure, sweet
girl, though he had almost said "I believed she loved me." And he had
learned since that she loved no one but her own self. Laurent Giffard
had never awakened to the truth. But he had taken the best of her youth.
"Oh, you must know that I am glad to make some return for all your
kindness in my childhood. And she was sweet and tender. I think it is
the illness that has changed her. Oh, I can recall many delightful hours
spent with her. I should be an ingrate if I could not minister to her
now of my best."
"You could never be an ingrate," he protested.
"I hope not," fervently.
"I count confidently on returning. I can't tell why, for we shall risk
the fate of war, but I can almost see myself here again in the old
place. Like our beloved Commandant I, too, have dreams of what Quebec
can be made, a glorious place to hand down to posterity. Meanwhile you
will care for her as you do now, and comfort her with your many pleasant
arts. I am a man formed for business and active endeavor, and cannot
minister in that manner. Perhaps Providence did not intend me for a
husband, and I have thwarted the will of Providence."
There was a humorous strain in his voice at the last sentence.
"Oh, you need not fear but that I will do my best. And I, too, shall
look for your home-coming, believe in it, pray for it."
"The women will remain, and Pani will serve you to the uttermost. When
this weary time is ended, and we are in better condition, you will have
your reward."
"I do not want any reward, it is only returning what has been given."
He knew many things miladi had grudged her, most of all the home, since
it was of his providing and intent.
They wandered on in silence for some time. Both hearts were too full for
commonplace talk, and he did not dare venture out of safe lines. He
could not pretend to fatherly love, even that cloaked by brotherliness
would be but a sham, he knew. He had his own honor to satisfy, as well
as her guilelessness.
Now it was quite dark.
"Oh, I must go back. It has been so pleasant that I have loitered. Let
us run down this slope."
She held out her hand, and he took it. They skimmed over the ground like
children. Then there were the steps to climb, but she was up the first.
"Good-night." She waved her white hand, and he saw it in the darkness.
"The saints bless and keep you."
She ran over to the level and then up again toward the kitchen end.
There was a savory smell of supper. A moose had been killed and divided
around.
"Oh, how delightful! Is there enough for two bites? One will not satisfy
me. But I must see miladi."
"No," interposed Wanamee. "I took in a cup of broth, but she was soundly
asleep. Have some steak while it is hot. The saints be praised for a
mouthful of decent food."
Yes, it was good. Pani watched with eager, hungry eyes and lips aquiver.
Rose felt almost conscience-smitten that she should have been satisfied
first.
"Was there much to be divided?" she asked of him.
"He was a noble, big fellow. And they have gone up in the woods for
deer."
Miladi was still asleep when she entered the room. She held the lamp a
little close with a sudden fear, but she saw the tranquil movement of
her chest and was reassured. There was a young moon coming up, a golden
crescent in a sky of flawless blue. It was too small to light the savage
cliffs, but she could hear the plash of the incoming tide that swirled
along with the current of the river. If the English came, what then?
It was near ten when miladi woke.
"What time is it?" she asked. "Not quite morning, for it is dark. I have
had such a splendid sleep. Why, I feel quite well."
She sat up in the bed.
"Come and bathe my face, Rose. Do you know whether Madame Hebert has the
recipe of this fragrant water? Mine is nearly gone. It is so
refreshing."
"I am quite sure she has. You have had no supper. There is some tasty
meat broth."
"I'm tired of pease and greens, and make-believe things that don't
nourish you at all. And there was such nice fish. Why do they not get
some? The river certainly hasn't dried up."
"No, Madame," in almost a merry tone, as if it might take the edge off
of complaining. "But there is such a scarcity of hooks. Petit Gabou is
making a net of dried grass that he thinks will answer the purpose. And
we have always had such a plentiful supply of fish."
The broth was very nourishing. Then Rose must sit with both of miladi's
hands in hers, so warm and soft, hers being little beside bone and
joints. She talked of France and her youth, when she was a pretty girl,
just out of the convent, and went to Paris. "You will like it so much. I
can hardly wait for the summer to come. I shall not mind if Monsieur has
so much business on hand that he cannot leave," and her tone had a
little mocking accent. "When men get older they lose their nice ways of
compliment and grace. They care less for their wives. Even M. de
Champlain does not fret after his, who is no doubt enjoying herself
finely. She was wise not to return."
The slim, golden crescent had wandered away to other worlds, and the
stars grew larger and brighter in their bed of blue. She watched them
through the open window. A screen was set up so that no draught should
annoy miladi. Presently she fell asleep again, and Rose stole to her own
couch, the other side of the screen, where she could still watch the
stars.
Savignon had come in with news. The Algonquins knew of a storehouse of
the Iroquois, who had gone on the war-path, and would hardly be back for
a whole moon. It would be best to start at once, and they began
preparations. Some of the Indian women volunteered, they were used to
carrying burthens. Bags were packed up. They trusted to find most of
their food upon the route.
Miladi took the parting tranquilly. M. Ralph had spent weeks on
exploring expeditions. If there was any danger in this, she did not heed
it. She held up her face to be kissed, and he noted how dry and parched
the lips were.
He gave a brief good-bye to Rose, who was standing near.
"Surely, he does not care for women," Miladi thought exultingly. "Even
her fresh, young beauty is nothing to him. He has no tender, eager
soul."
Rose went down to the plateau to see the start.
"You are much interested, Mam'selle?" Savignon said. "Give us the charm
of your thoughts and prayers."
"You have both, most truly." What a fine, stalwart fellow Savignon was,
lighter than the average, and picturesque in his Indian costume, though
he often wore the garb of civilization. French had become to him almost
a mother tongue.
Yet Rose wondered a little if it was right to rob the storehouse where
the industrious Indians had been making preparations for the coming
winter. Was it easier for one race to starve than another?
"And wish us a safe return."
The look in his eyes disconcerted her for an instant. Her own drooped.
She was acquiring a woman's wisdom.
"I do that most heartily," she made answer, turning aside; but the
admiration lingered over her fine, yet strong figure, with its grace of
movement. The beautiful eyes haunted him, if they were turned away.
Such forays were not uncommon among the tribes. The Iroquois had planted
more than one storehouse in the wilderness, in most secluded places. It
saved carrying burthens, as they wandered about, or if in desperate
weather, they set up their wigwams, and remained eating and sleeping,
until hunger drove them elsewhere.
A ship had come down from Acadia with news that several English vessels
were hovering about. They offered to take some of the women and
children, and M. de Champlain was thankful for this. By spring there
must be some change in affairs. The mother country could not wholly
forget them.
Rose wondered at times that miladi remained so tranquil. She slept a
great deal, and it was an immense relief. It seemed occasionally that
her mind wandered, though it was mostly vague mutterings.
Once she said quite clearly--"I will not have the child. You will come
to love her better than you do me."
Then she opened her eyes and fixed them on Rose, with a hard, cold
stare.
"Go away," she cried. "Go away. I will not have you here to steal his
love from me. You are only a child, but one day you will be a woman. And
I shall be growing old, old! A woman's youth ought to come back to her
for a brief while."
Rose's heart swelled within her. Was this why miladi had taken such
queer spells, and sometimes been unkind to her for days? And M.
Destournier had always stood her friend.
Yet she felt infinitely sorry for miladi, and that calmed her first
burst of indignation. She went out to the forest to walk. The withered
leaves lay thick on the ground, they had not been as beautiful as in
some autumns, the drought had turned them brown too soon. The white
birches seemed like lovely ghosts haunting the darkened spaces. Children
were digging for fallen nuts, even edible roots, and breaking off
sassafras twigs. What would they do before spring, if relief did not
come!
Suppose she went away with the next vessel that came in. But then she
had promised. Oh, yes, she must look after miladi, just as carefully as
if there were depths of love between them. How did she come to know so
much about love? Surely she had never loved any one with her whole soul.
Neither had she craved an overwhelming affection. But now the world
seemed large, and strange, and empty to her. She rustled the leaves
under her feet, as if they made a sort of company in the loneliness.
Perhaps it would not have been so bad to have taken M. Boulle's love. If
only love did not mean nearness, some sacred rites, kisses. She felt if
she raised her hand in permission it might still be hers. No, no, she
could not take it, and she shivered. Why, it was nearly dark, and cold.
She must run to warm her blood.
She came in bright and glowing, her eyes in cordial shining.
"Thank the Holy Mother that you have come," cried Mawha. "Miladi has
been crying and going on and saying that you have deserted her. Wanamee
could not comfort her. Run, quick."
Miladi was sobbing as if her heart would break. Rose bent over her,
smoothed her brow and hair, chafed the cold hands.
"The way was so long and dark," she cried, "such a long, long path. Will
I have to go all alone?" and Rose could feel the terrified shiver.
"You will not have to go anywhere," began the girl, in a soothing tone.
"I shall stay here with you."
"But you were gone," complainingly.
"I will not go again."
"Then sit here and hold my hands. I think it was a dream. I am not going
to die. I am really better. I walked about to-day. Is there word from
Monsieur? You know we are going to France in the summer. Do you know
what happens when one dies? I've seen the little Indian babies die. Do
you suppose they really have souls?"
"Every one born in the world has. The priest will tell you." Rose gained
a little courage. "Perhaps you would like to see Father Jamay."
"I went to confession a long while ago. The priest wanted my French
books. M. Ralph said I need not give them up. I prayed to the Virgin. I
prayed for many things that did not come. But we will go to France, M.
Ralph promised, and he never breaks his word, so I do not need to pray
for that. I am cold. Cover me up warm, and get something for my feet.
Then sit here and put your arms around me. Promise me you will never go
away again."
"I promise"--in a sweet, soft tone.
Then she sat on the side of the bed and placed her arm about the
shoulders. How thin they were.
"Sing something. The silence frightens me."
Rose sang, sometimes like a chant, lines she could recall that had a
musical sound. The leaning figure grew heavier, the breathing was slow
and tranquil. Wanamee came in.
"Help me put her down," Rose said, for she was weary with the strained
position.
They laid her down tenderly, without waking her.
"Stay with me," pleaded Rose. "You know when I went away M. Destournier
used to come in. I do not like to leave her alone."
"It is curious," exclaimed Wanamee. "This morning she seemed so well,
and walked about. Then she sinks down. How long she has been ill, this
way."
Rose wanted to ask a solemn question, but she did not dare. Presently
Wanamee dozed off, but Rose watched until the eastern sky began to show
long levels of light. There seemed an awesome stillness in the room.
"Wanamee," she said faintly.
The woman rose and looked at the figure on the bed, standing some
seconds in silence.
"Go out quietly, _ma fille_, and find Mawha. Send her in." Then she
turned Rose quite around, and the girl uttered no question.
"What is the matter?" asked Pani. "Mam'selle, you are white as a
snowdrift."
"I think miladi is dead," and she drew a long, strangling breath, her
figure trembling with unknown dread.
Pani bowed and crossed himself several times.
Wanamee came in presently. "The poor lady is gone," she said reverently.
"She was so afraid of dying, and it was just like a sleep. Pani, you
must row up to the convent at once, and ask some of the fathers to come
down. Stop first at the fort and tell the Governor."
That Madame Destournier should die surprised no one, but it was
unexpected, for all that. It appeared to accentuate the other sorrows
and anxieties. And that M. Destournier should be away seemed doubly sad.
Two of the priests came down with Pani, and held some services over the
body. Her ill health was the excuse of her not having paid more
attention to the offices of the Church, that so far had not flourished
at all well. The convent was really too far, and the chapel service had
waned since the departure of Madame de Champlain.
When Rose gained courage to go into the room where a few tapers were
dimly burning, she lost her fear in an instant. It was a thin and
wrinkled face, but it had a certain placid sweetness that often hallows
it, when pain and fear are ended. Rose pressed her lips to the cold
forehead, and breathed a brief prayer that miladi had found entrance to
a happier land. A new thought took possession of her. Miladi belonged
wholly to Laurent Giffard now. The tie that bound her to M. Destournier
was broken, and it was as if it had never been. She remembered he had
once said he would relinquish her in that other country. She had simply
been given to him in her sorrow, to care for a brief while. And how
grandly he had done it. Rose was too just, perhaps with some of the
incisive energy of youth, to cover up miladi's faults at once. If she
had been grateful to him for his devotion she would have thought more
tenderly of love. Yet she experienced a profound pity.
There had been set aside a burial plot, one end for the white
inhabitants. Thither the body was taken, and laid beside her true
husband, with the rites of the Church. M. de Champlain headed the
procession, but on the outskirts there was a curious throng.
The Heberts pressed their hospitality upon Rose, but even they were in
great straits. Then Wanamee was less superstitious than most of her
race, and made no demur at remaining in the house, if Rose desired to
stay. It was home to the girl, and she could almost fancy the better
part of miladi's spirit hovered about it, released from suffering.
How would M. Destournier take it? Would he regret he had not been here?
Day after day they waited the return of the party. Had there been a
battle? Sometimes Rose felt as if she must join them, the suspense
seemed the hardest of all to endure.
At last most of the Indians returned, with bags and blankets of
supplies. There had been no battle. They had come unexpectedly upon a
storehouse, cunningly hidden in the wood. There were no guards about. So
they had entered, and after satisfying their hunger, packed corn and
dried meats, onions, which would be a great treat, and nuts. They
divided the party, and sent one relay on ahead, to travel as fast as
possible, with the good news, and relieve the famishing people.
Quebec greeted them with the wildest joy. Savignon headed this party.
They had two days' start, and though the ground was frozen, there had
been no deep snow to prevent the others from a tolerably comfortable
march. They would no doubt be in soon. It seemed a large addition to
their scanty store. A great joy pervaded the little colony.
Two days passed, then a third. A party, headed by Savignon, went out to
meet them. They found a few men, dragging and carrying weary loads.
There had been an accident to M. Destournier. He had stumbled into an
unseen pitfall and broken his leg. They had carried him on a litter for
two days, then he had begged the others to leave him with an attendant,
and hurry onward, coming back for him as soon as possible.
Rose was all sympathy and anxiety. She flew to one of the half-breeds,
who had borne the litter. Was there much injury beside the broken leg?
"He was a good deal shaken up, but he knew what to do about bandaging,
and he uttered no groans. But when he attempted to walk the next morning
he died for a few moments, as your women sometimes do. And when he came
to life, they made the litter. He was very brave. So we rigged up a sort
of tent in the woods, as he insisted on being left."
The Commandant ordered that a party be formed at once to rescue him.
They could not allow him to perish there in the wilderness. He might be
ill.
"He might die," Rose said to herself. And then an intense ungovernable
longing came over her to see him once again. Women could minister to him
better than men. And if Wanamee and Pani would go. Pani had been so much
with women that he had lost many of the virile Indian traits.
Yes, they would go, but Wanamee did not quite approve of the journey. No
one could tell how deep a snow would set in.
"But it will be only a six days' journey, and most of it through the
forests. Savignon will be an excellent guide. And no one must speak of
the great sorrow that awaits him here."
M. de Champlain opposed the plan. It was too severe for women. But
curiously enough Savignon said--"The blossom of Quebec is no dainty
flower, to be crushed by wind and storm. If she wants to go, I am on her
side."
When Rose heard this she flew out to thank him, catching one hand in
both of hers, her eyes luminous with gladness.
"Oh, I cannot truly thank you, Monsieur. I must go, even if I ran away
and followed on behind. And I am no delicate house-plant."
"Thou art a brave girl," admiringly. "Thou hast been used to woods and
rocks, and art strong and courageous."
To be called monsieur was one of Savignon's great delights. He had tired
not a little of the roughness of savage life, and though he had caressed
pretty Indian maidens he had never been much in love with them. And this
girl was different from most of the white women. The courage in every
line of her face, the exuberant bounding life that flushed her veins,
her straight lithe figure, and the grace of every movement, appealed
strongly to him.
"Thou wilt find it hard going, Mam'selle, keeping step to the men, and
sleeping in the woods. But three days are soon spent, and we need not
march back so hastily. Our women have stood more than that."
"You will see how much I can stand," she answered proudly. She believed
the admiring eyes were for her courage alone.
Go she must. She did not stop to question. There was only one thing
uppermost in her mind. If he died she must see him; if he lived, she
must wait upon him, comfort him in his sorrow, for although in a vague
way she knew he had not come up to the highest joy in his marriage, any
more than her dear Sieur de Champlain, he had cared very tenderly for
miladi, and would sorrow to know her shut out of life. And it had been
so quiet at the last, just falling asleep. Her arms had been around her,
her voice the last sound miladi had heard. He would rejoice in his
sorrow that all had been so tranquil.
Rose and Wanamee came down in their robes of fur, with their deerskin
frocks underneath. Rose's cap had its visor turned up and it framed in
her beautiful face. Her hair fell in loose curls, the way she had always
worn it, and the morning sun sent golden gleams amongst it. There was a
small crowd to wish them God-speed.
The horses that De Champlain had brought over and a few mules that had
been at Cape Tourmente were carried off in the English raid. True, they
would not have been of much account in the overgrown brush of the
wilderness.
"Mam'selle," Savignon said, after an hour or two, "do not hurry ahead
so. You will tire before night."
"I feel as if I could run, or fly," she made answer, and she looked so.