CHAPTER XIX.
A WOMAN’S LOYALTY.
ONE day scouts coming into the town informed the Military Governor, M. de Callière, that Peter Schuyler, with a strong force of English and Dutch troops, accompanied by Mohawks, Wolves and Mohegans, was marching on Ville Marie. Rumor magnified the actual facts to the most exaggerated proportions. A crowd of anxious people blocked the streets in every direction.
“Is it true that the invaders are close at hand?” asked the baker.
“But assuredly,” responded the grocer, who in his haste had forgotten to remove his blue woollen night-cap, the corner of which dangled rakishly over his left eye. “It is the English who will make mincemeat of us. They have sold themselves to the devil, and bathe themselves in the blood of little children. I already see us all being devoured.”
“Ah! my good St. Anne!” cried a young woman, whose short homespun skirt revealed a trim pair of ankles. “Can anyone tell if they are numerous, these sorcerers of English?”
“Numerous, good woman? Dame! but like the sands of the sea. A thousand fire-eaters are close at hand.” A soldier who happened to be passing amused himself at the public expense.
“Javotte! Javotte!” the woman shrieked, waving her hands excitedly. “Five thousand English are upon us; we are all to be scalped and taken prisoners immediately!”
This terrifying prediction spread among the populace, creating consternation which almost amounted to a panic. Meanwhile energetic preparations for defence were being made. All the military and most of the bourgeois were under arms; among the soldiers appeared old men and young lads who, in ordinary cases, would have been considered unfit for service. It had become an absolute necessity that anyone who could shoulder a musket should lend a helping hand. Women and children, who at the signal of alarm had come in from the surrounding country, were busily occupied in carrying their poor possessions to the shelter of the citadel or to the convents. Here an invalid with pale face was carried on a hastily improvised stretcher; there an old man, anxious to preserve the poor remnant of life that remained to him, tottered feebly, leaning on his daughter’s arm; yonder a young mother, frantic with terror, flying in search of refuge, bore in her arms a tiny babe, the little one regarding with true infantile calmness the unfamiliar scene of tumult and confusion.
“Make way there, good people, make way!” cried a stout, robust woman, who was bearing a large blue wooden chest, into which she had thrown pell-mell everything she could collect—clothing, furniture and cooking utensils all huddled together—and which was so heavy that it seemed a marvel she could move it at all. “It is hard enough to get along with never a man’s hand to help, or even to push, without being blocked up as well. Make way there, I say!”
“Make way then yourself, Pétronille,” retorted the sharp, quivering voice of a tiny, withered old crone, staggering under the weight of a feather-bed. “Chut! screech-owl! see to it.”
“Allons! Mère Poisson, bite with but one tooth. Rest tranquil, I pray you. At your age it would appear more seemly to rest upon your mattress than to drag it about the streets in the open light of day.”
“And your rubbish had better be burnt, it is so long since those things have touched water.”
The shrewish Pétronille, enraged by the taunt, roughly jostled her neighbor, who fell against a child carrying a clock; the glass cracked into splinters, while a nail, standing out from the chest, tore a hole in the covering of the mattress, from which, the feathers escaped, flying out in a cloud. The child cried, the old woman loudly lamented the catastrophe, but Pétronille, without even turning her head, and still dragging her chest, pushed her way resolutely on.
It was decided by the authorities that M. de Callière should encamp at La Prairie, to be in readiness to meet Schuyler’s attack, while Valrenne, an officer of birth and ability, should proceed to Chambly with one hundred and sixty regulars and Canadians, a body of Huron and Algonquin converts, and another band of Algonquin converts from the Ottawa, in order to intercept any of the English forces which might chance to come by that way.
“Du Chesne goes in command of the Canadians.” Jacques Le Ber spoke with a long-drawn sigh, that seemed to come from the depths of his heart. These tragic episodes were interruptions to his own serious interests. More than that, affection for his youngest son was entwined with the closest fibres of his nature, and no one recognized the dangers of forest warfare more clearly than the grave merchant, experienced in such strife, who himself had ever been ready to serve his country.
“They are going to lay siege to Paradise, to win it and enter in, because they are fighting for religion and the faith.” A sort of passionate insistence contrasted oddly with the ordinary calm preciseness of Pierre Le Ber’s level tones. The words fell upon the father’s ear like a prediction which he resented. He regarded his eldest son with a mingling of reverence and impatience, and then turned to seek comfort in Diane de Monesthrol’s open, steadfast gaze.
“It is but a plain duty, my uncle; a soldier belongs to his country. It is an honor that du Chesne should have been selected. The men adore him; there is no one who has as much influence with them as he. How proud we all shall be when he returns covered with glory.” The liquid voice, speaking in tones of deepest compassion and tenderness, penetrated to the core of the man’s scheming, worldly nature.
“Certainly times may change, my rabbit. Before now we have been reduced to extremities, and have found deliverance. It may happen so again. Whichever way it goes, there is nothing to be done but make the best of it.” Saying this, Le Ber shrugged his shoulders with resigned emphasis, though there were strange nervous twitches about his firm lips.
Diane was so young, so buoyant in her hopes, so high-spirited and high-hearted, that neither fear nor shadow of disaster could easily crush her. This was a time of trial, to be lived through as best they could, but it seemed positive that, after all, things must go well. With the sweet agitation of hope and delight dancing in her veins, she felt only elation from the excitement around her. The spectacle of a courage absolutely free from egotism was too common among the devoted Canadian women of the day to attract much attention. Yet it was with some surprise that those about saw Mademoiselle de Monesthrol throwing off the dainty air of stateliness which was considered becoming to her station, and growing sweet and womanly in the glory of self-sacrifice. It was difficult to identify the proud and capricious beauty with the gentle girl whose watchful eye and helpful hand were at the service of all, who in a frank, generous fashion dealt out cheer and sympathy to whoever chanced to need it.
“This is a change I scarcely expected, a new development,” mused the Marquise, always critical and philosophical. “Well, the little one comes of a race born brave and generous.” For an instant the keen eyes softened, the delicate features quivered, warm waves of memory rolled over the proud woman’s soul.
“Diane, I must talk with you. I can trust you entirely.” Du Chesne spoke eagerly.
A hot wave of color swept over the girl’s face, but she raised her eyes frankly to the young man’s.
Out of the careless gladness of his youth du Chesne was going forth to meet the solemn future, full of lights and shadows. Nature breathed into his heart an inarticulate thrill of prophecy, a dark foreboding. He paused before advancing lightly to meet that fate, whatever it might be. Grasping the outstretched slender hands so hard that the pressure hurt the girl, he gazed at her with a subdued and silent tenderness, such as he might bestow upon a sister. There was a shadow of anxious care upon the merry, boyish face which no one could ever have associated with du Chesne. He sought assurance and comfort from the companion of his childhood. As he watched the moist red lips close firm and sweet above the delicate chin, he was persuaded that his expectation would not be disappointed. With a sob of excitement and agitation swelling in her throat, Diane returned his gaze. A cry of momentary anguish almost escaped her, but she scorned herself for the failure of courage, and forced a smile upon lips that quivered. It was not weak repining, but encouragement to strengthen his heart in time of need, that a man had the right to expect from the woman who loved him.
“I have had too much experience of forest warfare not to know that I take my life—aye, and carry it lightly, too—in my hand. A stray shot from behind a tree”—Diane shivered—“a random blow from a tomahawk, and all is over. There are things I would settle in case an accident should befall me. I know you will be a true daughter to my father, who loves you as though you were his own. And for Pierre—our good Pierre,” knitting his brows in perplexity over a problem to which he had failed to find a solution, “I don’t know. Things arrange themselves, Diane; don’t trifle with him, or lose heart, my dear. I have promised a mass in honor of the good St. Anne that things may go well with you both, though I know not how. You have never trusted me as I mean to trust you.”
Diane’s heart suddenly stilled its fluttering, and sank like lead. Of what interest at this supreme moment were Pierre’s concerns that they should be allowed to occupy word or thought.
“We have been as brother and sister, truly attached,—is it not so, Diane? I can remember now exactly what you looked like when my father arrived holding you in his arms, saying that you would be my little companion, and that I must be gentle and learn to protect you; and I was so proud to have a little lady for my playmate. You have, indeed, been a sunbeam in our house. Before we part I would share my secret with you, knowing I can rely upon your sympathy.”
The conscious face, with its hot color and drooping eyes; the air of happy confusion that sat so curiously upon impetuous, light-hearted du Chesne; the tenderness that softened the force and boldness of his features, thrilled the girl who stood beside him.
“On my return I shall ask my father’s consent to make Lydia my wife. Should success attend our arms it will be a propitious moment to win a hearing, and I want you to use your influence, which is great, to plead my cause. My father is ambitious; greatly as he is attached to me, I am by no means certain that his sanction will be easily gained. From the first moment that my eyes rested upon the English captive I have loved her. All through the winter before I met her I had passed through toil and danger and carnage, and then that summer day her tender presence dawned upon me like some star of peace and repose. You, too, have been won by her sweetness. It was together we rescued her, remember, Diane. I never loved you so dearly as when I watched your tender care of the helpless stranger cast upon your mercy. She has the gift of winning all hearts. For my sake I would ask you to protect and care for my treasure.”
Du Chesne was so completely engrossed by his own thoughts and feelings that he paid but slight attention to his companion. Diane’s rich color had given place to a strange excited pallor. She looked at him with the wild, hunted eyes of some desperate animal at bay. The world was suddenly upheaving beneath her feet, and her heart stood still as the keenness and sharpness of the shock crushed the spirit within her.
Oh, Heaven! not later than yesterday she had been as a queen, graciously dispensing her favors, smiling tolerantly at Lydia’s petty vanities and weaknesses—Lydia, who had come into her life as a stranger, stirring it to its very foundations, robbing it of peace and happiness, leaving her in return the blank of a great desolation—Lydia, whom she had protected and cherished, who owed all to her generosity. Now a flash of lightning had come out of the apparently cloudless sky, smiting her from her pedestal, precipitating her into this awful void in which every wretchedness was conceivable. Others had not been as blind as herself. She remembered her aunt’s sarcasm, the hints Nanon had given her, the ill-will to the English girl Cecile de St. Rochs had so often openly expressed. The glare of illumination was intolerable, bringing with it a galling, insupportable mortification. As these bitter truths flashed upon her, Diane clenched her hands, flushing into a sudden rage of bitter humiliation.
“Diane, you are surely not surprised? I thought that you, who are so quick, would have divined my feeling from the first. I fancied that your kindness to Lydia was inspired by friendship for me, as well as delight in her charms.”
The trustful glance of the young man’s frank, eager eyes melted the fire of pain and rage and jealousy. A piteous little smile crossed her lips, as though she were amused at, yet very sorry for, that proud, high-handed girl who had fancied herself supreme, and who was none other than her old self. The vehement, hot-blooded creature was overwhelmed by a black pall of shame and self-disgust. What did it matter if the whole world crumbled away, and that her pride and vanity vanished with it? If du Chesne sought comfort it must be her place, crowned by the glory and agony of self-sacrifice, to supply it. No one could supplant the companion of his childhood in that office. Turning her resolute face to the future, without wasting a single thought upon her own strength or need, she battled against the rush of strong feeling with a fierce, determined energy.
Diane could scarcely stand, but she confronted the young Canadian with a brave smile, a dumb denial of her anguish, and even succeeded in assuming an air of gaiety.
“You did take me by surprise. I had no thought of this. But I am grateful for your confidence, and shall try to prove myself worthy. And then, my cousin, when you return——”
“Aye, return, who can tell how that will be.”
He paled before a supposition to which he dreaded to give form even in his thoughts. Together with a stern sense of his own immediate duty, which was to put through the work in hand steadily and cheerfully, without any careful hesitation or speculation concerning the ultimate ethics of the situation, there existed in Le Ber’s youngest son much tenderness of heart towards the weak and unfortunate, and delicate consideration for friends and kindred, as well as ardent devotion to the chosen one of his heart. Existence was full of hope and generous ambition; he was surrounded by kindly, faithful faces and honest love. In the strength of his early manhood he was conscious of stirring hopes and untold possibilities, above which shone the thought of his girl-love with her innocent grace and guilelessness. All this was deepened by that touch of uncertainty that gives exquisite intensity to affection, and the quickened interest of tragic possibilities. These fancies were followed by wiser and sadder thoughts, and immediate practical considerations. Just as the color grew richer and the pace faster, and life spread before him a full completeness he had never even imagined, was it, he asked himself, to be stained forever by the cruelty of circumstances? A great wave of sadness, a swift dread of advancing pain and disaster, the reaction from his natural buoyancy of temperament, rushed over du Chesne’s spirit.
“Somehow, Diane, when I try to picture my return, I cannot imagine how it will be. Many times before have I started on such expeditions without a thought; this time it is entirely different. I cannot help remembering—it was less than a year ago—St. Helène’s fate. Then De Clermont, Bienville, De Bellefonds, De la Motte, were close friends and trusty comrades, with whom I fought and camped and hunted; where are they? Gallant gentlemen, they have laid down their lives, gaily and carelessly, forcing and country. Mort dieu! what will you? A day sooner or later makes but little difference. Shall I make a nightmare of death?”
One thing, evident and definite, seemed to clear Diane’s dazzled senses—du Chesne had turned to her for comfort. She held his hand with a strong compelling pressure which had in it no trace of selfish sentiment.
“But there are others, my cousin, whose duty compels them constantly to go upon such expeditions, and who have ever returned unharmed.”
“Yes, but to you I do not mind confessing that for the last few days I have been unnerved by strange fancies. It is because another’s fate depends upon my own. It is for her, so young, so tender and trusting, without protection of friend or relative; at this thought the heart melts within me, and there is nothing to be done. Diane, you have ever been strong and true; you could not fail one who trusts you.”
The strength of one dedicated to a pure and elevated purpose flamed into Mademoiselle de Monesthrol’s eyes; all her face grew nobly luminous. Every word she spoke was crystal clear, coming straight from the heart.
“You can trust me, du Chesne. I will be to Lydia a loving sister; I will place her welfare before my own. With our Blessed Lady’s help I will be as true and tender to her as I would be to you.”
“In life or death I commit her to your charge. You have removed my heaviest care.” Du Chesne bent reverently to kiss the warm hand that clasped his own. “I shall have perfect peace in trusting to the loyalty of my brave and tender sister.”