She smiled, flushed a little, and as she held a glass of cordial to my lips said coaxingly, "If you'll drink this and go to sleep, I will." Then she sat down beside me, and held my nerveless fingers in her warm, soft clasp, till I was dreaming an odd jumble of pleasant visions through all of which flitted Ellen's face and form.
This sort of half dream life went on I know not how long. I only remember an incident here and there—floating faces, cups held to my lips, and then the pleasant drifting off into long periods of dreamless rest. At last I was strong enough to sit part of each day in a high-backed chair, and after that I saw little of Ellen. She came twice each day for a brief visit, but Angélique brought my broth and wine, helped me from bed to chair, smoothed my pillows, and sometimes sang me to sleep with wild, sweet Acadian ballads. Clark came in and out with cheery presence, and encouraging words—but now that summer had come again he had more affairs to administer, and so less time to give me. Givens would linger, though, when he came on his daily visit, to tell me the gossip of the village, of which the half wild, half drowsy life suited him well. Légère and others visited me almost daily, and my monotonous life was not a lonely one, though forced inaction grew more and more irksome as my strength returned.
"Clark," I said to him one day, "I can't stand this suspense any longer. I want to know all, even if it be the worst. Since I am better, Ellen comes in only when others are here, and makes prompt excuses to get away. Her kindness is barely cousinly. And you too seem to avoid being left alone with me. Have you spoken to Ellen?"
"Yes, I have spoken—though to do so, comported not fairly with our compact. But my feelings overmastered me. I have avoided telling you till you should be stronger."
"I am strong enough now," I answered, though I trembled from head to foot; "tell me all—and quickly."
"It was one evening when we thought you dying. I followed her from the room, and was moved to tell her your last words to me—when you left her to my care, and bade me give her perfect freedom in the disposition of her life, but left us your blessing could she love me enough to link her fate with mine. She wept afresh at the recital of your words; and then with friendly candor there was no mistaking, thanked me for my love, and accepted my offer of protection, even while she told me that whether you lived or died there was no hope for me. Her quiet decision awed me, and forced back all the protestations I had formulated against her vow of nunnery. She declared it was no rash or hasty one, made to be repented of, but that she held it to be more sacred and binding than any other claim upon her heart and life, and that she waited only for your restoration to health to go, under Father Gibault's escort, and yours, if you would, to the convent at Quebec."
"Comrade," I said, putting out my shaking hand to clasp his, "that is not the news I expected—but it is much more distressing to me."
"Perhaps I am wrong to tell you, and am but making the harder for you the final disappointment," continued Clark after a silence of some moments, during which he seemed to be thinking deeply, "but I am not convinced that Ellen looks forward to the life of a nun. I believe she once made a foolish vow and thinks it sacrilege to break it. And if I can read a woman's heart through her face, McElroy, Ellen O'Neil feels for you a tenderness that is neither usual nor natural for a woman to feel towards one she regards only as a distant kinsman. I believe she loves you—yet I cannot honestly say I think you will win her. Her will is strong, and her religion has so far been the dominant principle of her life. One side of her nature is fitted to the martyr's role, the other side is strongly human—throbs with the full current of youth, loves daring and doing, experiencing and enjoying, even as you and I. Which part of her complex nature will triumph I cannot foresee. This I can say honestly, comrade," and Clark laid a hand upon my knee, and his truth-speaking eyes looked straight into mine, "even with my own grievous disappointment fresh upon me, I would see Ellen the happy and joy-giving wife of my true-hearted friend with delight, compared to the feeling with which I shall see her the self-immolated 'bride of the church'—which is, in my opinion, but another name for victim to superstition and priestly tyranny. The fates grant that you may win her, McElroy."
An hour I sat in deep thought—then I made my vow. If in Ellen's heart there dwelt but the weakest germ of love for me, it should grow on until it uprooted all other influences. I bade the whole Roman Church defiance. A girl's superstition to come between Ellen and her life's fulfillment? between me and lifelong happiness? I swore it should not be! She should love me more and more till love mastered her, choking superstition and conquering her will. Once convinced, she would see it all as I did, and be glad all her life that I had saved her from a fatal mistake. I girded myself afresh for the conflict, as it were, each hour of the days that followed, and planned my campaign against a maiden's heart as carefully as a general plans an advance into the enemy's country. My first move must be to keep her from reaching a final decision as long as possible; my second to take her, upon some pretext, back to the valley with me.
Meanwhile I hastened my recovery by every means possible, watching impatiently the summer moving on to autumn. From my window I could see the slow, gliding river, glancing in the sun's rays, and the stagnant, spreading bayous, gay with spotted lilies, and fringed with swaying grasses, while birds, as gayly colored as the blossoms, rode blithely upon the springy reeds. The meadows were green with waving corn, or yellow with the ripened grass, and the rich odor of the wild grapes came upon the breeze with other and more elusive fragrances. But gliding river, reed-fringed bayou, and luxuriant meadow, were not half so fair to my real vision as the dear valley to my imaginary one. I longed to see the undulating blue ranges, and the varied landscape, with the comfortable farmhouses dotted over it. I was eager to be off for home, to hear the late news from the war, and to bear Ellen away from Romish influences.