A Little Girl in Old Quebec Part 23

They went up to the chapel to be married. The Governor gave the bride away. She was gowned just as Rose had seen her that first time, only she was covered with a fine deerskin cloak, that she laid aside as they walked up the aisle, rather scandalizing the two Recollet fathers. She looked quite like a girl, and it was evident she was very happy.

Then they had a feast in the new house, and it was the first occasion of real note there had been in Quebec. Rose was very quiet and reserved among the grown folks, though M. de Champlain found time to chat with her, and tell her that now she had found real parents.

After this there was a busy season preparing for the winter, as usual, drying and preserving fruits, taking up root vegetables and storing them, gathering nuts, and getting in grains of all kinds. Now they kept pigs alive until about midwinter, and tried to have fresh game quite often. The scurvy was practically banished.

As for Rose, the marriage made not so much difference. She was let very much alone, and rambled about as she listed, until the snows came.

Occasionally she visited Marie, but everything was in a huddle in the small place, and the chimney often smoked when the wind was east. But Marie seemed strangely content and happy. Or she went to the Gaudrions, which she really liked, even if the babies did tumble over her.

She went sometimes to the cla.s.ses the Governor's wife was teaching, and translated to the Indian children many things it was difficult for them to understand.

Madame de Champlain would say--"Child, thou ought to be in the service of the good G.o.d and His Virgin Mother. He has given thee many attractions, but they are to be trained for His work, not for thy own pleasure. We are not to live a life of ease, but to deny ourselves for the sake of the souls of those around us."

"I think oftentimes, Madame, they have no souls," returned the daring girl. "They seem never able to distinguish between the true G.o.d and their many G.o.ds. And if they are ill they use charms. Their religion, I observe, makes them very happy."

"There are many false things that please the carnal soul. That is what we are to fight against. Oh, child, I am afraid the evil one desires thee strongly. Thou shouldst go to confession, as we do at home, and accept the penances the good priests put upon thee."

Confession had not made much headway with these children of the new world. Father Jamay, to his great disgust, found they would tell almost anything, thinking to please him with a mult.i.tude of sins, and they went off to forget their penance. So it was not strongly insisted upon.

Madame de Champlain was a devote. In her secret heart she longed for the old convent life. Still she was deeply interested in the plans of the Recollet fathers, who were establishing missions among the Hurons and the Nip.i.s.sings, and learning the languages. She gave generously of her allowance, and denied herself many things; would, indeed, have given up more had her husband allowed it.

Captain Pontgrave came in to spend the winter, brave and cheerful, though he had lost his only son. While the men exchanged plans for the future, and smoked in comfort, Madame was often kneeling on a flat stone she had ordered sent to her little convent-like niche, praying for the salvation of the new world to be laid at the foot of G.o.d's throne, and to be a glory to old France. But the court of old France was revelling in pleasure and demanding furs for profit.

Destournier occasionally joined the conclave. His heart and soul were in this new land and her advancement, but his wife demanded his company most of his evenings. She sat in her high-backed chair wrapped in furs listening to his reading aloud or appearing to, though she often drowsed off. But there was another who drank in every word, if she did not quite understand. The wide stone chimney gave out its glowing fire of great logs, sometimes hemlock branches that diffused a grateful fragrance around the room. On a sort of settle, soft with folds of furs, Rose would stretch out gracefully, or curl up like a kitten, and with wide-open eyes turn her glance from the fascinating fire to the reader's face, repeating in her brain the sentences she could catch. Sometimes it was poetry, and then she fairly revelled in delight.

After a few weeks she seemed to accept the fact of the marriage with equanimity, but she grew silent and reserved. She understood there was a secret animosity between herself and miladi, even if they were outwardly agreeable. She had gathered many pretty and refined ways from Madame de Champlain, or else they were part of the unknown birthright. She had turned quite industrious as well, the winter day seemed dreary when one had no employment. She read a good deal too, she could understand the French, and occasionally amused herself translating.

When the spring opened the Governor and several others went to the new trading post and town, Mont Real. There really seemed more advantages here than at Quebec. There was a long stretch of arable land, plenty of fruit trees, if they were wild; a good port, and more ease in catching the traders as they came along. There, too, stray Indians often brought in a few choice furs, which they traded for various trifles, exchanging these again for rum.

Rose drew a long breath of delight when the spring fairly opened, and she could fly to her olden haunts. Oh, how dear they were! Though now she often smuggled one of M. Ralph's books and amused herself reading aloud until the woods rang with the melodious sounds.

Miladi liked a sail now and then on the river, when it was tranquil. She did not seem to grow stronger, though she would not admit that she was ill. She watched Rose with a curious half-dread. She was growing tall, but her figure kept its lithe symmetry. Out in the woods she sometimes danced like a wild creature. Miladi had been so fond of dancing in M.

Giffard's time, but now it put her out of breath and brought a pain to her side. She really envied the bright young creature in the grace and rosiness of perfect health.

This summer a band of Jesuits came to the colony. They received a rather frigid welcome from the colonists, but the Recollets, convinced that they were making very slow advance in so large a field, opened their convent to them, and a.s.sisted them in getting headquarters of their own.

And the church in Quebec began to take shape, it was such a journey to the convent services at the St. Charles river.

There followed a long, cold winter. Miladi was housed snug and warm, but she grew thinner, so that her rings would not stay on her slim fingers.

There had been troubles with the Indians and at times M. Destournier was obliged to be away, and this fretted her sorely.

There was a great conclave at Three Rivers, to make a new treaty of peace with several of the tribes. A solemn smoking of pipes, pa.s.sing of wampum, feasts and dances. And then, as usual, the influx of traders.

Madame de Champlain desired to return to France with her husband, who was to sail in August. The rough life was not at all to her taste.

"Oh," said miladi, eagerly, when she heard this, "let us go, too. I am tired of these long, cold winters. I was not made for this kind of life.

If M. Giffard had lived a year longer he would have had a competency; and then we should have returned home. Surely you have made money."

"But mine is not where I can take it at a month's notice. I have been building on my plantation, weeding out some incompetent and drunken tenants, and putting in others. Pontgrave is going. Du Pare is much at the new settlement at Beaupre. It would not be possible for me to go, but you might."

"Go alone?" in dismay.

"It would not be alone. Madame de Champlain would be glad of your company."

"A woman who has no other thought but continual prayers, and anxieties for the souls of the whole world."

"Another year----"

"I want to go now"--impatiently.

She was like a fretful child. He looked in vain now for the charms she had once possessed.

"I could not possibly. It would be at a great loss. And I am not enamored of the broils and disputes. How do I know but some charge may be trumped up against me? The fur company seize upon any pretext. And even a brief absence might ruin some of my best plans. Marguerite, I am more of a Canadian than a Frenchman. The Sieur has promised to interest some new emigrants. I see great possibilities ahead of us."

"So you have talked always. I am homesick for La Belle France. I want no more of Canada, of Quebec, that has grown hateful to me."

Her voice was high and tremulous, and there burned a red spot on each cheek.

"Then let me send you. You should stay a year to recuperate, and I may come for you."

"I will take Rose."

"If she wishes. But I will not have her put in a convent."

"She is like a wild deer. Do you mean to marry her to some half-breed?

There seems no one else. The men who come on business leave wives behind. There is no one to marry."

"You found some one," he returned good-naturedly, smoothing her fair hair.

"Can you find another?"

"She is but a child. There need to be no hurry."

"She has outgrown childhood. To be sure, there is Pierre Gaudrion, who hangs about awkwardly, now and then."

"She will never marry Pierre Gaudrion. She is of too fine stuff."

"A foundling! Who knows aught about her? Most Frenchmen like a well-born mother for their children."

"She is in no haste for a husband. But do not let us dispute about her.

You excite yourself too much. Think seriously of this project. The Sieur will see you safely housed when once you are there."

He turned and went out. She fell into a violent fit of weeping. She could coax anything out of Laurent, poor Laurent, who might have been alive to-day but for the friendship he thought he owed M. Destournier.

And they might now be in Paris, where there were all sorts of gay goings-on. This life was too stupid for a woman, too cold, too lonely.

And a wife should be a husband's first thought. Ralph was cold and cruel, and had grown stern, almost morose.

He walked over to the plantation. By one of the log huts Rose stood talking to an Indian woman. Yes, she was no longer a child. She was tall and shapely, full of vigor, glowing with health, radiant in coloring, yes, beautiful. There was much of the olden time about her in the smiles and dimples and eagerness, though she was grave in miladi's presence.

Yet neither was she a woman. The virginal lines had not wholly filled out, but there was a promise of affluence that neither my lady nor the Madame possessed. For the lovely Helene had devote written in every line of her face, a rapt expression, that seemed to lift her above the ordinary world. The souls of those she came in contact with were the great thing. And though the Sieur was a good Catholic, he was also of the present world, and its advancement, and had always been inspired with the love of an explorer, and of a full, free life. He could never have been a priest. He had the right view of colonization, too. Homes were to be made. Men and women were to be attached to the soil to make it yield up the bountiful provision hidden in its mighty breast.