A WAY OVER THORNS
Champlain found on his arrival five Jesuit priests, who had received a poor welcome, even from their French brethren. The Récollets 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 Beaupré, 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. Hébert'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 Hébert.
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 Héberts—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. Hébert 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 Hébert 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 Mère 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 Thérèse.
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 Mère 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 Héberts? 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. Hébert 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 Thérèse 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 Thérèse 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 Réal 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. Hébert, 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. Hébert, 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.