“Try and be gentle, my boy. Be true to him. He has had a sad, lonely life, but you may make it up to him yet. When you see him, tell him from me... tell Hugh...”—but here I silently withdrew, leaving the mother to whisper her last message of contrition to the boy kneeling beside her bed.
Pitiful as was poor Lucy's story, I could gather but little comfort from it. It seemed to me that in marrying out of his own class Hugh had committed so grave a fault that whatever followed in the way of misunderstanding was but to be expected. He had been kind, forbearing, larger-minded than she had known; she had not even realised the sense of honour which had made her a wife and not a mistress. It had gone the way of all mistakes, and produced nothing but bitterness and regret. From it I could gather no excuse, no justification of his conduct towards me; he had allowed my affection to grow up and centre in him without a warning I could understand of the heart-break which confronted me, and I could not see that his obligation towards her who had cast his love aside was more sacred than to her to whom it was all in all.
We laid Lucy to rest in the garden of the Hospital—without the rites of the Church, it is true, but not without both prayers and tears, and then took up the daily round of duty once more.
Christopher, being no longer a patient, was ordered off to the town as a prisoner, but I sent with him a note to M. Joannès which secured him generous treatment. Through the month of August the wounded continued to come in, and though our troops were starving as they stood behind their lines of defence, they were one and all hopeful of the result. The bombardment from the Lévy shore continued until the town was little more than a heap of ruins, and night after night the sky was red with the glare of burning buildings. Part of the enemy's fleet had passed the city and threatened to cut off all supplies from the upper parishes. There were ugly rumours, too, of the Canadians deserting, for the tidings of the loss of Carillon and Niagara had gone far to dishearten them. On the other hand, we had authentic news of the desperate illness of the English general, Wolfe, and even though M. de Lévis was forced to march to the support of Montreal, the unfaltering courage of M. de Montcalm so inspired our troops that they held on successfully, praying for relief or the coming of winter.
About the beginning of September Angélique came to me greatly excited.
“Oh, Marguerite, Charles is here! He is very ill. Will you come and see him?”
“Is he wounded?”
“No. But he has suffered incredible hardships in Acadie, and he is ill—so ill that he cannot be in his place in the field. Come, he has just been asking my mother for you. Come!”
“Impossible, chérie; M. Arnoux is depending on my supply of lint for a patient,” I replied, and so escaped for the moment. But with the persistency of innocence she returned to her demand as we sate with her mother that evening.
“Marguerite, Charles has been asking for you again this afternoon. Will you see him the first thing in the morning?”