But how complimentary you have become! Already you are recovering from
the surprise, the shock, of my arrival. How serious you were a moment
since! I thought I should have to cry. Smile a little, Jean. There,
that is better. Once more. Now we are all right. How lovely the water!
How balmy the air! How pleasant to glide along like this! Not so fast,
Jean. Slowly. It is still early in the morning. Let us not think of
time. Let us forget the world. Ah, now I know what it is to be dead to
the world, as they say in the convent, and yet very much alive. I think
that I have never lived before. But what would Mother Sainte Anne say
if she could see me now? And why don't you ask how I happened to come?"
"It is enough to know that you are here, Gabrielle. If only you would
stay."
"I am staying, am I not? But if you say that again I will go away at
once."
"Allow me to remind you, Mademoiselle, that we are at some distance from
the shore."
"But I can swim quite well, Monsieur; and if you provoke me I will jump
into the water."
"As you did once before, many years ago. How well I remember the
occasion! Do it again, Gabrielle, that I may have the pleasure of
saving your life. Then you would belong to me, you know."
"What nonsense you talk, Jean! I will not jump into the water, just to
please you, but I will go back to the shore all the same. Take me
back."
"Oh, not yet, Gabrielle. It is too pleasant here. Never before have I
seen the lake so beautiful. There was always something lacking; but now
it is complete, perfect."
"It is truly wonderful, Jean; and it would be a pity not to enjoy it
while we may. I like to sit here on this comfortable bearskin, dipping
my hands in the water, looking at the trees, the sky, the clouds--while
you do all the work."
"And I, Gabrielle, I should like to do this kind of work for the rest of
my life, to glide along over a summer lake while looking into the face
of one so beautiful."
"Jean, I will splash you if you say any more."
"Do so, Gabrielle. I need a bath, perhaps."
"On the contrary, you look as though you took a bath every day, like a
certain Englishman at Quebec. Is it possible that you have been here for
a whole month? You are no wild man of the woods at all. I am
disappointed in you, Jean."
"I am sorry, Gabrielle. In the future I will try to please you better."
Gabrielle blushed and looked away; while Jean, in tender and eloquent
words, began to confess that he had loved her long; that in all his
plans he had thought of her; that all his battles had been for her sake;
and that it had been the hope of his life to lay his honours and
trophies at her feet. When she went away the light of his life had gone
out; and the world, once so full of beauty and interest, had become an
empty, barren desolation. Now that she had returned, in all her radiant
beauty, the glory had come back to earth; and the wilderness had become
a paradise, a garden of love. How wonderful the forest! How enchanting
the lake, nestling in the bosom of the hills! How blue the sky! How
clear and pure the air! How glorious the freedom of the wilderness, far
from the world, but near to the heart of Nature; near, also, to God.
And if two loving hearts, by chance, by fate, by the will of God, found
themselves together in such a paradise, was it not the will of God that
they should make their home there; live upon the bounty so lavishly
provided; conquer the wilderness; and achieve something unusual, unique,
even, in their day and generation? A good living was assured; a fortune
was not impossible; and the effort, the adventure itself, would be well
worth while. Their ancestors had carved a kingdom in the forest--why
not their children of a later generation?
Thus Jean Baptiste, like all lovers since the world began, saw
everything through a golden mist that made a halo about his beloved;
gilded the commonest objects with all the colours of the rainbow; and
filled his eyes with a light that never was on sea or shore.
Gabrielle listened, as though fascinated, to the story of love; blushes
came to her cheeks, smiles to her lips, and tears to her eyes at the
wonder and beauty of it; her heart glowed in return; and she was on the
point of stretching out her hands in glad surrender to one so strong, so
brave, so noble, with such undying faith in her, in himself, in God.
Had Jean but known, he would have spoken of love alone, whom all hearts
love, to whom all yield as to their dearest friend; but in his ignorance
and folly he went on to speak of things external, foreign, out of
harmony with the thought of love. Plans, ambitions, a good living, a
fortune, the conquest of the wilderness--why all that? One must live,
of course; but why speak of it at such a moment? The beauties of
Nature--why so much of that? The lake was lovely, to be sure; the
forest and the hills as well, on a summer morning such as this; but what
would they be when winter came with its pall of snow and its chill winds
blowing out of the North? And how forlorn it would be, far from the old
home, with neither friend nor neighbour near; while the snow drifted
high, an impassable barrier between the lonely cabin and the outer
world.
Renounce the world? The dear, friendly world of St. Placide, the gay,
joyous world of Quebec? As well might one enter the convent; for there,
at least, one would have the society of the good sisters, the occupation
of teaching, and the joy of devotion and worship when the congregation
lift up their hearts and voices unto God. What could one do in the
forest during the long winter with no books, no games, no music, no
society? The ancestors were satisfied? True, but times had changed,
and a new generation had arisen. Why go back to those half-savage days?
Love? That was all very well now and then; but there were times when
one did not wish to love, nor to be loved; when one might wish to cry,
perhaps, and there would be no comforter, no one to console. Work?
Yes, one might do that--cook, for example; or make garments of fur; or
mend the traps; or chop wood for the fire. Yes, that was what Jean
wanted--a wife to do the work of a slave, to grow old with toil and
hardship. Well, let him find an Indian squaw for that; and not ask a
girl from a comfortable home to share his savage existence in the
wilderness.
As Jean talked on, in his idealistic, unpractical way, about the glories
of life in the forest, the crude realities of that life were borne in
upon Gabrielle; and her heart was hardened against one who could, in the
name of love, demand so great a sacrifice and offer so little in return.
The smile faded from her lips, the colour from her cheeks, and the
love-light from her eyes; while a grey cloud passed over the sun; and a
chill breath from the North swept over the lake. Gabrielle shuddered.
"Take me back, Jean. I am cold."
"But, Gabrielle, it is so lovely here."
"I do not find it so. Take me back to the shore."
"But the sun will be shining again in a moment; and the lake, the
forest, the hills, will be all aglow in the morning light."
"It will not. I detest your lake, your mountains, your forest. It is a
desolation, and I hate it all--all."
Without a word Jean turned the prow of the canoe toward the shore; and
when they reached the landing-place Gabrielle stepped out unassisted,
and walked swiftly up the path, past the cabin, and on up the hill down
which she had come an hour before. Jean noted the way she was going;
and a few moments later he took up his pack and rifle, and with long,
swift strides followed her trail up the ridge, and down the long slope
on the other side. Presently he caught a glimpse of her through the
trees, as she tripped along, lithe and active as a deer; and it was with
no little difficulty that he kept her in sight until she came to the
foot of the slope, and began to climb the shoulder of another hill.
There Gabrielle slackened her pace, and turned on her pursuer with
flushed face and angry eyes.
"Jean, Monsieur Giroux, I will trouble you to cease following me."
"I am sorry, Gabrielle, but I cannot let you go this way alone. It is
dangerous at times."
"I am not at all afraid, and I wish to be alone."
"But you might lose your way, Gabrielle."
"I will not. I know the way quite well."
"But it is easy to get lost, Gabrielle, in this vast forest; among these
hills, these cliffs, these marshes; and there are places where one might
fall, and not be able to rise alone. One needs a companion."
"I do not. Will you please leave me?"
"I will not leave you, Gabrielle, until you are with your friends."
"Why, why? _Mon Dieu_, why not?"
"Because I love you, Gabrielle."
Gabrielle paused for a moment, on tiptoe, like a frightened deer; and
then sprang away, and went on with incredible swiftness up the hill;
then along a level place for a while; then down another slope; winding
about in a maze of trees and rocks, hills and valleys; but all the time
keeping, as she thought, the same general direction toward the place
where her friends had set their camp.
An hour later Gabrielle found herself standing on the crest of a hill
looking down upon a lake that shimmered in the sunshine, with tiny waves
that sparkled like a cluster of diamonds set in emeralds. It was Lac
des Isles, no doubt, where they had camped the night before. But where
was the camp? And where were the islands? There was but one island to
be seen; and no camp at all--only a cabin half hidden in the trees
below. Yet the place was strangely familiar. What? Where could it be?
Was it possible?
Gabrielle turned in dismay, and there was Jean standing beside her.
"Monsieur Giroux, Jean, what is this? Where am I?"
"This is Lac Desir, Gabrielle, and you are with one who loves you,
dear."
Gabrielle looked up with a wistful smile.
"Are you sure, Jean, that you love me as much as you love the lake, for
example; or the forest?"
"Oh, Gabrielle, it is you that I love, and you only."
"Or the life of the wilderness, Jean; and the struggle, the conflict,
the conquest?"
"Gabrielle!"
"Or the pretty log cabin down there, Jean; or that lovely canoe all made
of one piece of bark, so strong, so graceful, so perfect in all its
lines. Or----"
"Hush, dear," said Jean, taking her in his strong arms, and kissing her
on the wayward lips again and again, while her flaming cheeks and loving
eyes, her quick breathing and the fluttering of her heart, told better
than any words that she loved this man and would go with him to the end
of the world.
By-and-by they went down the hill together; and as Jean was showing
Gabrielle his home in the wilderness, she looked up in his face with an
expression of perfect trust and whispered her confession of love and
unconditional surrender.
"Jean, we shall be happy here. You will be my world and I yours. Two
worlds should be enough for us; quite sufficient, should they not?"
"But no, dear. That was a foolish plan, a species of insanity, I think,
a madness that came upon me. We will spend the honeymoon here, if you
consent; and after that we will make our home in St. Placide. It will
be a modest home at the first, but it will be the beginning of great
things. There is only one obstacle, one danger; but we will not think
of that. Nothing shall come between us any more, Gabrielle."
"Obstacle, Jean? Danger? I cannot think of any. But wait. Do you know
why I came here? I had quite forgotten. Can you guess?"
"Gabrielle, I had not thought of it. Strange, too, that you should find
your way to Lac Desir, so far from home. But you were nearly lost in
the end."
"No, not lost, Jean, for you found me; and I, I found myself. Not lost
at all, Jean Baptiste Giroux. But how did I arrive in the first place?
Guess!"
"How can I? You did not know the way. No one knows it but Michel and
I. Now I see. It was Michel who showed you the way, came with you.
Where is he, then?"
"Good guess, Jean. You are not so stupid, after all. Michel and my
father are down there at Lac des Isles, not five miles away. That
explains my early visit, as you see."
"Perfectly. It is the best way to come. You take the old road to Lac
des Isles, and then you follow the valley right up to this place. An
easy way, Gabrielle, and yet you missed it. It is to laugh."
"No, indeed, I did not miss it on the way up, and if I missed it on the
way back it was your fault, Jean. It was cruel of you to torment me
like that."
"True, Gabrielle, and I am glad of it. If I had let you go alone you
would have been lost."
"Not at all, Monsieur Giroux. I should have gone back to the happy
Ursulines, to Mother Sainte Anne, and all the dear sisters, who would
have received me with open arms. And I should not have said a single
prayer for you, not one."
"No matter, Gabrielle. Now that I have you I shall have the benefit of
your prayers as well; shall I not, dear?"
"No. Yes. I don't know. You will need them, without doubt; for you
are a great sinner, Jean."
"How so, Gabrielle?"
"You broke the heart of that good girl, Blanchette."
"No, Gabrielle; not intentionally, at least. Moreover, I think that the
heart of that young lady is not so very fragile."
"What do you know about it, stupid man? It was broken indeed, but now
it is mended again--completely."
"Mended?"
"Yes, and she is to marry Pamphile Lareau."
"Pamphile is dead, Gabrielle."
"No, Jean. He is alive and almost well. For a time it was thought that
he would die, but Blanchette brought him back to life, with the aid of
the good God. That is what I came to tell you. We thought that you
would like to know."
"Thank God!" said Jean. "And thank you, too, Gabrielle. Now there is
not a cloud in the sky. What a day, this--the best day of my life! And
you came to tell me the good news."
"Yes, and to have a little outing, a little fresh air and
exercise--after the convent, you know."
"Gabrielle, I am glad that you did not stay in the convent. It is a
refuge, a blessed retreat, for those who are discouraged, for the weary,
the sad at heart; but for the young, the strong, the brave, the world is
a better place. It was not for you. You had no vocation."
"That is just what Mother Sainte Anne said. She is a dear friend.
'Listen, Gabrielle,' she said, 'for the voice, the true call that speaks
to the heart. You shall know it by the tone, like the clear, pure sound
of a bell, to which all the chords of the heart respond; and you will
say: "Lo! that is for me." Sometimes the call of love is the voice of
God, my dear.' Yes, she is a true friend, Mother Sainte Anne."
"And Michel. He also is a good friend to us, as to my father in the
early days."
"Oh, Jean, there is something else that I was forgetting. I forget
everything now. A treasure, a great treasure."
"I could not touch it, Gabrielle."
"No, Jean, you could not. But what do you think Michel has done? He
has given it to Mother Sainte Anne to found a hospital for poor
children, a cause that she has had at heart for many years. The poor
children will be happy with Mother Sainte Anne, and she with them. I am
so glad that you did not take the gold, Jean. Now it is treasure in
Heaven. I call it Mother Sainte Anne's dowry and my ransom."
"Your ransom, Gabrielle? Yes, that is it. How lucky for me that I did
not take the treasure!"
"And for me, Jean. Oh, how fortunate! I thank God! It was a miracle,
almost."
"Yes, Gabrielle, but there is a greater miracle, the miracle of your
love, and a treasure more precious--yourself."
"A treasure, I? Oh no, Jean, only a wilful, wayward girl. Can it be
that you love me, Jean? Is it true?"
"Gabrielle!"
"Jean!"
THE TEMPLE PRESS
LETCHWORTH, ENGLAND