THE HEIGHTS OF QUEBEC
Christopher was at once examined by M. Arnoux, the surgeon, who obligingly came at Angélique's request, and before long he met us to report that his patient was in no danger; his wound was dressed, and a night's sleep would go far to put him on his feet again. He could be seen without even fatigue on the morrow. I left word with the sister in charge that she should tell him I was in the convent, and would come to him about eleven.
I had no hesitation in telling Lucy the news; indeed, the suspense of every day that passed was wearing her frail body away so rapidly that, had not God seen fit to send His answer to her prayer at this very time, she would have passed beyond its comfort. As it was, the news acted on her like some generous wine, strengthening without exciting her, her only request being that Christopher should not be brought to her until he was quite able for the exertion.
When I entered Christopher's room he was already sitting up in bed, his eyes fairly dancing with delight.
“Oh, Madame de St. Just! Think of my being brought here, to find you and my mother under the same roof, and that it was Captain Maxwell who brought me! He saved me when I was down with an Indian over me, and did not get me off without standing some hard knocks himself. He carried me into the French lines, and as soon as the affair was over, rode with me before him all this distance, keeping my heart up the time by saying, 'Kit, my boy, I am taking you to your mother,' and I so near swooning with this stupid arm I could scarce hear him. You know I was with him in Louisbourg, and when I was a child in London he lodged with us, as he was in hiding on account of the Scotch rising and calling himself Captain Geraldine. But tell me of my mother, madame. Can I not see her now?”
I told him as discreetly as I could of poor Lucy's condition, and he bore up astonishingly well. What seemed to trouble him greatly was the thought that he had never dreamed of the possibility of her being ill. “Even though she was a prisoner I never feared she would be hardly treated; no one could so cruel to my mother, she is so gentle!” the poor lad continued. “I knew you were with her, and I never thought of the other danger at all. I was so happy when I fell into English hands and was allowed to enlist in Boston, and in Fraser's Highlanders, too, not in a Colony regiment; and when we found there was no danger of peace being proclaimed, and that we were for Quebec, we were all mad with joy to have another crack at the French. Oh, pardon me, madame; I forgot you were on their side,” he cried, with a sudden confusion; “and I never doubted for a moment I should find her here.”
The next day the surgeon pronounced him out of all possible danger, and added, significantly, “If his mother is to see him, it is best it should be at once.” Thereupon I obtained the necessary permission, and never have I seen greater joy in a face than in Lucy's, when I ushered Christopher into her room.
That same evening, as I sate beside her, though she lay quiet and composed, I noticed a grave change had come over her, and calling one of the sisters who had had much experience, she at once said the end was near.
With the permission of the Superior I went for Christopher, and led him, white and awe—struck, to the bedside of his mother. She asked that I would not leave—“if it be not a trouble to you, madame,” the poor thing pleaded, pitifully—and I remained beside them.
“Christopher,” she said, with an effort, “I made a promise years ago that when this hour came I would tell you the truth about yourself. Our name is not Routh, but Maxwell; you are the son of the Captain Maxwell who saved you—and brought you back to me. You remember him as the 'Captain Geraldine' who lodged with us in London? He had married me six years before, when we were but little more than boy and girl, and when you were born he was wandering a shipwrecked man in Russia, seeking eagerly some means of return to us, though I was persuaded he had deserted me. When he returned, and was willing to acknowledge me as his wife, I was hardened into a heartless woman, believing myself separated, by what I ignorantly called God's grace, from him and the world to which he belonged. In my pride I refused to let him come into our lives, though he implored me to let him make such restitution as was in his power. He behaved as few men would have done; for the sake of the old love, he bore with me and accepted my conditions—that he would never mention our marriage, and would never come between you and me. He let you go away from his side in Louisbourg, though his heart was yearning for you; because his honour, a quality which I pretended not to understand, forbade him to forget his promise to me. He was always good to me, far beyond my deserts, and my hope, now that my eyes are opened, is that you, Christopher, will remember my debt to him.