CHAPTER X
MILADI AND M. DESTOURNIER
"But what are you to do with this nice house? Why, the Governor's ishardly better. Will you live here and not at the post? And how prettythe furnishings are?"
Rose's face was wreathed in smiles, and the dimples played hide-and-seekin a most entrancing manner.
"Yes, I am to live here. And you, and Wanamee, and Nugava, and----"
She clapped her hands and jumped up and down, she pirouetted around withgrace and lightness that would have enchanted the King of La BelleFrance. Where did she get this wonderful harmony of movement. His eyesfollowed her in admiration. She paused. "And what part is to be given tome?"
"This. And Wanamee will have the room between, to be within call."
His cheek flushed. How was he to get his secret told?
"And this will be yours, M'sieu. I know it on account of the books. AndI can come in here and you shall teach me to read some of the newthings. I have been very naughty and lazy, have I not. But in thewinter one cannot roam about. Oh, how delightful it will be!"
She looked up out of such clear, happy eyes. How could he destroy herdelight--he knew it would.
"There will be some one else here," he began.
"Not Pere Jamay. He is with Madame a good deal. I do not like his sourface when he frowns upon me. And--oh, you will not have me sent toFrance and put in a convent. I would kill myself first."
"No, no. It is not the priest. I am not over in love with him myself. Itis some one sweet and pretty, and that you love----"
"That I love"--wonderingly.
He took both her hands in his.
"Rose," with tender gravity, "I am going to marry Madame Giffard."
She stiffened up and looked straight at him, the glow on her cheekfading to marble paleness.
"_Petite_, you did love her dearly. You will love her again for my sake.No, you shall not go away in this angry mood. Do you not wish me to behappy?"
"Miladi belongs to her husband, who is dead. When she goes to heaven hewill be there, and you two--well, one must give up. Do you not rememberthat Osaka murdered his wife because she went away from him and marriedanother brave?"
He was amused at her passion.
"I will give her up then. It is only for this life. And she needs someone to care for her. Why are you so opposed to it, when you used tolove her? She will be like a mother to you."
"I do not want any mother," proudly. "And she does not love me now. Oh,one can feel it just like a blast of unfriendly wind. And when she hasyou she will not care for any one else."
"But I can care for you both. You know you belong to me. And sometime,when new people cross the ocean, some brave, fine young fellow will loveyou and want to marry you."
"I will not marry him."
"Oh, my little girl, be reasonable. We shall all be happy here together.And you will grow up to womanhood and learn many things that will pleaseyou and be of great service. And will go to France some day----"
"I will not go anywhere with her. Unclasp my hands. I do not belong toyou any more, to no one, I am----"
She burst into a passion of weeping. In spite of her struggles heclasped her to his heart and kissed the throbbing temples, that seemedas if they would burst.
"Oh, Rose, my little one, whom I love as a child, and always shall love,listen to me and be comforted."
"She will not let you love me. She will want me to be sent to France andbe put in a convent. Father Jamay said that was what I needed. Oh, youwill see!"
The sobs seemed to rend her small body. He could feel the beating of herheart and all his soul was moved with pity, although he knew her griefwas unreasonable.
"And you are willing to make me very unhappy, to spoil all my pleasurein the new home. Oh, my child, I hardly thought that of you."
She made another struggle and freed herself. She stood erect, it seemedas if she had grown inches. "You may be happy with her," she said, witha dignity that would have been amusing if it had not been sad, and thenshe dashed out of the room.
He sat down and leaned his elbow on the table, his head on his hand. Hehad gathered from several things miladi had suggested, that she wasrather indifferent to the child, but he did not surmise that Rose hadfelt and understood it. No one had a better right than he, since in allprobability her parentage would remain unknown. He would not relinquishher. She should be a daughter to him. He realized that he had a curiouslove for the child, that she had attracted him from the first. In theyears to come her beauty and winsomeness would captivate a husband, withthe dowry he could give her.
For several days he saw very little of her. He was busy and miladi wasexigent. Rose wandered about, sometimes to the settlement, watching thebusy women dressing skins, making garments, cutting fringes, andembroidering wampum for the braves. The tawny children played about, thesmall papooses, strapped in their cases of bark, blinked andoccasionally uttered wearisome cries. Or she rowed about in her canoe,often with Pani, for the river current was rather treacherous. Then shescudded through the woods like a deer, winding in and out of the statelycolumns that were here silver-gray, there white; beech and birch, darkhemlocks, that not having space to branch out, grew up tall with a headalmost like a palm. Insects hummed and shrilled, or whirred like a tinyorchestra. Now and then a bird flung out a strain of melody, squirrelsran about, and the doe came and put its nose in her hand. She had tied astrip of skin, colored red, about its neck, that no one might shoot it.The rich, deep moss cushioned the ground. Occasionally an acorn fell.She would sit here in dreamy content by the hours, often just enjoying,sometimes puzzling her brains over all the mysteries that in the yearsto come education would solve. So few could read, indeed books were onlyfor the few.
Then she ran up and down the rocks, hid in the nooks, came out again indryad fashion. She had been wont to laugh and make echoes ring about,but now her heart, in spite of all she could do, was not light enoughfor that. Wanamee was sore troubled by her reticence, for she was tooproud to make any complaint. Indeed, she did not know what to complainof. In her childish heart everything was vague, she could not reason,she could only feel that something had been snatched out of her life andset in another's. She would henceforth be lonely.
"Miladi wants to see you," said Wanamee one morning. "She wonders whyyou do not run in as you used. And she has something joyful to tellyou."
Rose shut her lips tightly together and stamped on the floor.
"Oh, _ma petite_, you have guessed then! Or, perhaps M'sieu told you.Miladi is to marry him, and they are to go to the nice new house he isbuilding. They are to take you and me and Pani. And he will have the twoMontagnais, who have been his good servants. We shall get out of thisold, tumble-down post station, and be near the Heberts. Then M'sieu isgetting such a nice big wheat field and garden."
Rose was drawing long breaths. She would not cry or utter a complaint.Wanamee approached her, holding out both hands.
"Do not touch me," she entreated, in a passionate tone. "Do not sayanything more. When I am a little tranquil I will go and see her. I knowwhat she wants me to say--that I am glad. There is something just herethat keeps me from being glad," and she pressed her hands tightly overher heart. "I do not know what it is."
"Surely you are not jealous of miladi? They are grown-up people. AndM'sieu told her yesterday--I heard them talking--that you were to be achild to them, that they would both love you. Miladi has been irritable,and not so gay as she used, but she is better now, and will soon be herolden self. She was very nice and cheerful this morning, and laughedwith the joy of other days. Oh, child, do not disturb it by anytempers."
Wanamee's eyes were soft and entreating.
"Oh, you need not fear," the child exclaimed, proudly. "Now I will go."
She tapped at miladi's door, and a very sweet voice said--"Come, littlestranger."
She opened it. Miladi was sitting by the small casement window, in oneof her pretty silken gowns, long laid by. There was a dainty rose flushon her
cheek, but the hand she held out was much thinner than of yore,when in the place of knuckles there were dimples.
"Where have you been all these days when I have not seen you, littlemaid? Come here and kiss me, and wish me joy, as they do in old France.For I am going to take your favorite as a husband, and you are to be ourlittle daughter."
Rose lifted up her face. The kiss was on her forehead.
"Now, kiss me," and she touched the small shoulder with something like ashake, as she offered her cheek.
It was a cold little kiss from lips that hardly moved. Miladi laughedwith a pretty, amused ripple.
"In good sooth," she said merrily, "some lover will teach you to kisspresently. Thou art growing very pretty, Rose, and when some of thegallants come over from Paris, they will esteem the foundling of Quebecthe heroine of romance."
The child did not flush under the compliment, or the sting, but glanceddown on the floor.
"Come, thou hast not wished me joy."
"Madame, as I have not been to France I do not know how they wish joy."
"Oh, you formal little child!" laughing gayly. "Do you not know what itis to be happy? Why, you used to be as merry as the birds in singingtime."
"I can still be merry with the birds."
"But you must be merry for M. Destournier. He wishes you to be happy,and has asked me to be a mother to you. Why, I fell in love with youlong ago, when you were so ill. And surely you have not forgotten when Ifound you on the gallery, in a dead faint. You were grateful foreverything then."
Had she loved miladi so much? Why did she not love her now? Why was herheart so cold? like lead in her bosom.
"I am grateful for everything."
"Then say you are glad I am going to marry M. Ralph, who loves medearly."
"Then I shall be glad you are to marry him. But I am sorry for M.Giffard, in his lonely grave."
"Oh, horrors, child! Do you think I ought to be buried in the samegrave? There, run away. You give me the shivers."
Rose made a formal little courtesy, and walked slowly out of the room,with a swelling heart.
Miladi told of the scene to her lover daintily, and with someembellishments, adding--"She is a jealous little thing. You will bebetween two fires."
"The fires will not scorch, I think," smiling. "She will soon outgrowthe childish whim."
In his secret heart there was a feeling of joy that he had touched suchdepths in the little girl's soul. Miladi was rather annoyed that he hadnot agreed to send her to some convent in France, as she hoped. But in ayear or two she might choose it for herself.
They went up to the chapel to be married. The Governor gave the brideaway. She was gowned just as Rose had seen her that first time, only shewas covered with a fine deerskin cloak, that she laid aside as theywalked up the aisle, rather scandalizing the two Recollet fathers. Shelooked quite like a girl, and it was evident she was very happy.
Then they had a feast in the new house, and it was the first occasion ofreal note there had been in Quebec. Rose was very quiet and reservedamong the grown folks, though M. de Champlain found time to chat withher, and tell her that now she had found real parents.
After this there was a busy season preparing for the winter, as usual,drying and preserving fruits, taking up root vegetables and storingthem, gathering nuts, and getting in grains of all kinds. Now they keptpigs alive until about midwinter, and tried to have fresh game quiteoften. The scurvy was practically banished.
As for Rose, the marriage made not so much difference. She was let verymuch alone, and rambled about as she listed, until the snows came.Occasionally she visited Marie, but everything was in a huddle in thesmall place, and the chimney often smoked when the wind was east. ButMarie seemed strangely content and happy. Or she went to the Gaudrions,which she really liked, even if the babies did tumble over her.
She went sometimes to the classes the Governor's wife was teaching, andtranslated to the Indian children many things it was difficult for themto understand.
Madame de Champlain would say--"Child, thou ought to be in the serviceof the good God and His Virgin Mother. He has given thee manyattractions, but they are to be trained for His work, not for thy ownpleasure. We are not to live a life of ease, but to deny ourselves forthe sake of the souls of those around us."
"I think oftentimes, Madame, they have no souls," returned the daringgirl. "They seem never able to distinguish between the true God andtheir many gods. And if they are ill they use charms. Their religion, Iobserve, makes them very happy."
"There are many false things that please the carnal soul. That is whatwe are to fight against. Oh, child, I am afraid the evil one desiresthee strongly. Thou shouldst go to confession, as we do at home, andaccept the penances the good priests put upon thee."
Confession had not made much headway with these children of the newworld. Father Jamay, to his great disgust, found they would tell almostanything, thinking to please him with a multitude of sins, and they wentoff to forget their penance. So it was not strongly insisted upon.
Madame de Champlain was a devote. In her secret heart she longed for theold convent life. Still she was deeply interested in the plans of theRecollet fathers, who were establishing missions among the Hurons andthe Nipissings, and learning the languages. She gave generously of herallowance, and denied herself many things; would, indeed, have given upmore had her husband allowed it.
Captain Pontgrave came in to spend the winter, brave and cheerful,though he had lost his only son. While the men exchanged plans for thefuture, and smoked in comfort, Madame was often kneeling on a flat stoneshe had ordered sent to her little convent-like niche, praying for thesalvation of the new world to be laid at the foot of God's throne, andto be a glory to old France. But the court of old France was revellingin pleasure and demanding furs for profit.
Destournier occasionally joined the conclave. His heart and soul were inthis new land and her advancement, but his wife demanded his companymost of his evenings. She sat in her high-backed chair wrapped in furslistening to his reading aloud or appearing to, though she often drowsedoff. But there was another who drank in every word, if she did not quiteunderstand. The wide stone chimney gave out its glowing fire of greatlogs, sometimes hemlock branches that diffused a grateful fragrancearound the room. On a sort of settle, soft with folds of furs, Rosewould stretch out gracefully, or curl up like a kitten, and withwide-open eyes turn her glance from the fascinating fire to the reader'sface, repeating in her brain the sentences she could catch. Sometimes itwas poetry, and then she fairly revelled in delight.
After a few weeks she seemed to accept the fact of the marriage withequanimity, but she grew silent and reserved. She understood there was asecret animosity between herself and miladi, even if they were outwardlyagreeable. She had gathered many pretty and refined ways from Madame deChamplain, or else they were part of the unknown birthright. She hadturned quite industrious as well, the winter day seemed dreary when onehad no employment. She read a good deal too, she could understand theFrench, and occasionally amused herself translating.
When the spring opened the Governor and several others went to the newtrading post and town, Mont Real. There really seemed more advantageshere than at Quebec. There was a long stretch of arable land, plenty offruit trees, if they were wild; a good port, and more ease in catchingthe traders as they came along. There, too, stray Indians often broughtin a few choice furs, which they traded for various trifles, exchangingthese again for rum.
Rose drew a long breath of delight when the spring fairly opened, andshe could fly to her olden haunts. Oh, how dear they were! Though nowshe often smuggled one of M. Ralph's books and amused herself readingaloud until the woods rang with the melodious sounds.
Miladi liked a sail now and then on the river, when it was tranquil. Shedid not seem to grow stronger, though she would not admit that she wasill. She watched Rose with a curious half-dread. She was growing tall,but her figure kept its lithe symmetry. Out in the woods she sometimesdanced like a
wild creature. Miladi had been so fond of dancing in M.Giffard's time, but now it put her out of breath and brought a pain toher side. She really envied the bright young creature in the grace androsiness of perfect health.
This summer a band of Jesuits came to the colony. They received a ratherfrigid welcome from the colonists, but the Recollets, convinced thatthey were making very slow advance in so large a field, opened theirconvent to them, and assisted them in getting headquarters of their own.And the church in Quebec began to take shape, it was such a journey tothe convent services at the St. Charles river.
There followed a long, cold winter. Miladi was housed snug and warm, butshe grew thinner, so that her rings would not stay on her slim fingers.There had been troubles with the Indians and at times M. Destournier wasobliged to be away, and this fretted her sorely.
There was a great conclave at Three Rivers, to make a new treaty ofpeace with several of the tribes. A solemn smoking of pipes, passing ofwampum, feasts and dances. And then, as usual, the influx of traders.
Madame de Champlain desired to return to France with her husband, whowas to sail in August. The rough life was not at all to her taste.
"Oh," said miladi, eagerly, when she heard this, "let us go, too. I amtired of these long, cold winters. I was not made for this kind of life.If M. Giffard had lived a year longer he would have had a competency;and then we should have returned home. Surely you have made money."
"But mine is not where I can take it at a month's notice. I have beenbuilding on my plantation, weeding out some incompetent and drunkentenants, and putting in others. Pontgrave is going. Du Pare is much atthe new settlement at Beaupre. It would not be possible for me to go,but you might."
"Go alone?" in dismay.
"It would not be alone. Madame de Champlain would be glad of yourcompany."
"A woman who has no other thought but continual prayers, and anxietiesfor the souls of the whole world."
"Another year----"
"I want to go now"--impatiently.
She was like a fretful child. He looked in vain now for the charms shehad once possessed.
"I could not possibly. It would be at a great loss. And I am notenamored of the broils and disputes. How do I know but some charge maybe trumped up against me? The fur company seize upon any pretext. Andeven a brief absence might ruin some of my best plans. Marguerite, I ammore of a Canadian than a Frenchman. The Sieur has promised to interestsome new emigrants. I see great possibilities ahead of us."
"So you have talked always. I am homesick for La Belle France. I want nomore of Canada, of Quebec, that has grown hateful to me."
Her voice was high and tremulous, and there burned a red spot on eachcheek.
"Then let me send you. You should stay a year to recuperate, and I maycome for you."
"I will take Rose."
"If she wishes. But I will not have her put in a convent."
"She is like a wild deer. Do you mean to marry her to some half-breed?There seems no one else. The men who come on business leave wivesbehind. There is no one to marry."
"You found some one," he returned good-naturedly, smoothing her fairhair.
"Can you find another?"
"She is but a child. There need to be no hurry."
"She has outgrown childhood. To be sure, there is Pierre Gaudrion, whohangs about awkwardly, now and then."
"She will never marry Pierre Gaudrion. She is of too fine stuff."
"A foundling! Who knows aught about her? Most Frenchmen like a well-bornmother for their children."
"She is in no haste for a husband. But do not let us dispute about her.You excite yourself too much. Think seriously of this project. The Sieurwill see you safely housed when once you are there."
He turned and went out. She fell into a violent fit of weeping. Shecould coax anything out of Laurent, poor Laurent, who might have beenalive to-day but for the friendship he thought he owed M. Destournier.And they might now be in Paris, where there were all sorts of gaygoings-on. This life was too stupid for a woman, too cold, too lonely.And a wife should be a husband's first thought. Ralph was cold andcruel, and had grown stern, almost morose.
He walked over to the plantation. By one of the log huts Rose stoodtalking to an Indian woman. Yes, she was no longer a child. She was talland shapely, full of vigor, glowing with health, radiant in coloring,yes, beautiful. There was much of the olden time about her in the smilesand dimples and eagerness, though she was grave in miladi's presence.
Yet neither was she a woman. The virginal lines had not wholly filledout, but there was a promise of affluence that neither my lady nor theMadame possessed. For the lovely Helene had devote written in every lineof her face, a rapt expression, that seemed to lift her above theordinary world. The souls of those she came in contact with were thegreat thing. And though the Sieur was a good Catholic, he was also ofthe present world, and its advancement, and had always been inspiredwith the love of an explorer, and of a full, free life. He could neverhave been a priest. He had the right view of colonization, too. Homeswere to be made. Men and women were to be attached to the soil to makeit yield up the bountiful provision hidden in its mighty breast.
And miladi! There had been so few women in his life that he knew nothingof contrast, or analysis. Some of the men took Indian wives for a yearor so: that had never appealed to him. He had been charmed by MadameGiffard from the very first meeting with her, but she was another man'swife, and she loved her husband. The pretty coquetries were a part ofthe civilized world over in France and meant only a graceful desire toplease. Then in her sorrow he pitied her profoundly, and felt that heowed her the highest and most sacred duty.
But as he studied Rose now, and thought of a suggested lover in PierreGaudrion, his whole soul rose in revolt. And the other thought ofsending her away was equally distasteful. Why, she was the light andsweetness of the settlement. In a different fashion, she captured thehearts of the Indian women, and taught them the love of home-making,roused in some of them intelligence. How did she come by it? There wasWanamee.
He did not dream that he had awakened a desire for knowledge in thegirl's breast and brain. But she had gone beyond him in the lore of thesea and the sky, and the romance of the trees, that to him werepromising materials for houses and boats. They were her friends. Shecould translate the soft murmur that ran through their leaves, or thesweet, wild whistle of the wind that blew in from the river or down fromthe high hills,--from the ice and snow of the fur country. And sometimeshe had seen her run races with the foaming river, where it whirled andeddied and fretted against a spur of the mighty rocks. All her life,from the day he found her on the rocks, seemed to pass before him in onegreat flash. He exulted that she belonged to no one, that he had thebest right to her. He could not have told why. Heaven had denied him achild of his very own, and he had learned that miladi considered babiesa wearisome burthen, fit only for peasants and Indian women.
Did the saintly and beautiful Helene think so as well? he wondered. Hehad learned a good deal about womankind since his marriage, but he madea grand mistake, he had learned only about one woman; and she was notthe noblest of her kind.
Rose turned suddenly and saw him in that half-waiting attitude. Therewas little introspection, or analysis, in those days; people simplylived, felt without understanding. She had outgrown her first feeling ofaversion. In a vague fashion she realized that miladi needed protectionand care that no one but M. Destournier could give her. She was sorryshe could not ramble about, that she never brightened up, and sung anddanced any more. And this was why she, Rose, did not want to grow oldand give up the delights of vivid, enchanting exercise.
Why miladi was captious and changeful, never of the same mind twice, shecould not understand. What suited her to-day bored her to-morrow. Shegave up trying to please, though she was generally ready and gracious.But she remarked it was the same way with M. Ralph, and he bore thecaptiousness with so sweet a temper that she felt moved to emulate him.In the depths of her heart there wa
s a great pity, and it was sweet tohim, though neither ever adverted to it.
A Little Girl in Old Quebec Page 10