At last spirit could wait the body's leisure no longer, and though still weak and emaciated, I made a firm resolve to start for home within a week or two. Then I sent Angélique with a message to Ellen, demanding a private interview.
"Your message is earnest, almost peremptory, Cousin Donald," said Ellen, coming in with a playful smile on her lips; "am I to have another scolding, and for what? My conscience acquits me this time; I have stopped coquetting with the officers, or walking alone without the village; therefore I know not what wrong I have done to deserve a kinsman's reprimand."
"'Tis not to scold, but to entreat that I have sent for you, Ellen," I replied. "Will you sit down here before me, and give me your serious attention for a brief while?" Perhaps it was the tone of my voice, or it may have been that my face betrayed me, for Ellen flushed and dropped her lids an instant over her eyes, as she took the chair I had indicated, yet saying with an air of banter:
"My 'serious attention,' Cousin Donald? You plead for it as if 'twere a rare favor, and one most difficult to obtain;—am I so seldom serious?"
"Two weeks from to-day, Ellen, I start back to Virginia," ignoring her playful manner; "my duty calls me thither; but I cannot leave you here in Kaskaskia without lawful guardian or protector. You have long known, Ellen, that I love you with my whole being, that the dearest and most sacred wish of my heart is to make you my wife. Will you marry me, Ellen, and go back to Virginia to a home of your own, with the protection and constant devotion of one whose whole life shall be dedicated to your happiness?"
The flush on Ellen's cheeks leaped upward to her brow in a flame of crimson; her eyes grew darker; and upon her face came a look of mingled sorrow, yearning and resolve.
"Oh, my cousin, have I not said it often enough," with the sob-suggesting catch, vibrating like harp tones through her words—"that never can I be wife to any man? Do even you believe that all this time I have been jesting on a subject so sacred—that I have but used pretense of holy calling as a coquettish wile to lure men on? Yet how can I find fault with you for having thought so, since my life has so belied my words? I have been naught but a frivolous coquette these months past—as if I would get all of worldly triumph, and food for vanity possible out of my life, during the respite which circumstances have afforded me from the fulfillment of my vow. Mine has been lip service, only, not yet have I known true heart consecration. But I will know it, Donald, will possess the true nun's heart, if all of self must be immolated by hourly chastisement and self-denial to achieve it. I have solemnly pledged my life to prayer, and penance, and holy service. Will not you, Cousin Donald, my only friend and protector, my one source of human strength, help me to keep my vow to God?" and she clasped her hands in passionate entreaty, and lifted moist eyes and trembling lips to my serious gaze.
"Dear Ellen!" and I spoke with a new emotion of respect for the depth of her feeling, "I want more than aught else to help you, but I do not fully understand, nor see the reason for your being so determined, and feeling so strongly—will you not tell me all, so that I can better understand you? When was this vow you speak of made?"
"That bitter night I was lost upon the mountain, when, numb with cold, and shaken with terror of the wolves pursuing us, I fell from the rearing horse, frightened too by the wild beasts, and lay there in agony of fear and pain, through long hours, listening to the wolves, as they chased the poor horse, and each moment expecting to feel their fangs in my flesh. I prayed as never I had prayed before, to the Holy Virgin and her sacred Son, promising to consecrate all the rest of my life to prayer and humble service, in some rigorous convent, if they would send me deliverance from a violent death. Even as I prayed I fell into sleep, or unconsciousness, and awoke in Father Givens' house. He nursed me back to health, and I had it in my mind to induce him to take me to Baltimore to the Convent of the Sacred Heart, had you not come by with the message from Mr. Jefferson. I saw the scout's desire was to go with you, and I would not stand between him and his wish. Already he had done too much for a willful girl who had no claim upon his charities, save the claim of common humanity. I gave all my energies to persuading him that a life of adventure appealed to me even more strongly than the life of a convent retreat, and so fed his inclination to join in the adventure that he could not resist it. At last he consented to purchase for me the coveted disguise as his foster son, and when once he had seen me wear it, and watched my rifle practice, he grew interested in my plans, and made no further difficulty.
"For the first weeks I was buoyed by the spirit of excitement, and enjoyed the free, outdoor life I had been accustomed to as a child. Not until you and Thomas joined us did I realize the boldness of my deed. I dreaded to have you find me out, yet I could not bear to be left behind in Kentucky. What the result might be haunted my thoughts and my dreams. Again I added daily vows to daily prayers. Were I safely delivered once more, delivered from the coil of questionable circumstances with which I had rashly surrounded myself, I would without delay, find my way to some peaceful convent and atone for all my willful past by years of devout consecration. You know how wonderfully I was delivered—was spared even blame or question; how fortunately I have since been placed.