“I was man enough to love her then and always. I have never put any one in her place. And the last time we walked together over yonder by the pond, I told her I was going up north to make money for her, and that in a year I should come back. I was twenty, she just sixteen. I can see her now; I can hear her voice in the unformed melody of the child’s. We made no especial promise, but we both knew. I meant to ask your consent when I came back. Seven months afterward, on my return, I found you had whisked her off and married her to the Count, who, after all, cared so little for her that her child is nothing to him. I don’t know what lies you told her, but I know she would never have given me up without some persuasion near to force.”
The old man knew. It had been a lie. He kept out of Gaspard’s way for the next two years, and it was well for him.
“There was no force,” he returned gruffly. “Do you not suppose a girl can see? He was a fine fellow and loved her, and she was ready to go with him. No one dragged her to church. Well, the priest would have had something to say. They are not wild Indians at Quebec, and know how to treat a woman.”
Gaspard had never forced more than this out of him. But he was sure some trickery had won the day and duped them both.
“Well, what have you gained?” mockingly. “You might have kept your daughter here and had grandchildren growing up about you, instead of living like a lonely old hermit.”
“The life suits me well enough,” in a gruff tone.
“Then give me the child that should have been mine. You don’t want her.”
“What will you do with her?”
“Have a home some day and put her in it.”
“Bah! And you are off months at a time!”