A Little Girl in Old Quebec Part 29

A sudden thought flashed through his mind. The girl's face was very calm, but her eyes had a sort of protest in them.

"Will he take you?" Destournier asked, in a husky tone.

"Oh, M'sieu Ralph, would you send me? Would you give me to any one else?"

Now her eyes were alight with an eager breathless expression that was almost anguish.

"Not if you did not want to go."

"I do not want to go anywhere. Oh, M'sieu Ralph," and now her tone was piteous, "I wish you would send him away. I liked him very well at first, but now he wants me to love him, and I cannot, the kind of love that impels one to marry, and I do not want to be married."

"Has he tried to persuade you?"

Ralph Destournier knew he would make a good husband. Some time Rose would marry. But it was plain she did not love him. And though love might not be necessary, it was a very sweet accompaniment that, he knew now, it was sad to miss.

"He talked to me about marriage. I do not like it." She gave a little shiver, and the color went out of her face, even her lips, and her pliant figure seemed to shrink as from a blow.

"My child, no one shall marry you against your will, neither shall you be taken away. Rest content in my promise."

She nodded, then smiled, with trusting eyes. He wondered a little about her future. While he lived--well, the Sieur de Champlain was well and hearty, and much older. She was only a child yet, though she had suddenly grown tall. He could care for her in the years to come, and she would no doubt find a mate. He knew very little about girls. They generally went to convents and were educated and husbands were chosen for them by their parents. But in this new world matters had changed.

There was talk of a convent to train the Indian girls, and the half-breeds who took more readily to civilization. The priests were in earnest about it, but money was lacking. Rose had picked up much useful knowledge, and knew some things unusual for a girl. Good Father Jamay would be shocked at Terence, Aristophanes, and Virgil for a girl.

"So you do not like marriage?" he said, rather jestingly.

She shook her head.

"But then you know nothing about it."

"Why, there is the Sieur and the beautiful Madame. And you and miladi.

And Marie, with her dirty house and her babies. She is not as nice as the Indian women. And they have to wait upon the braves or else, when the braves are off fur hunting, they have to plant the crops and catch fish, and even hunt and mend tents, and do such hard work. All that is no delight like dreaming on the moss in the woods, and talking to the birds, and breathing the fragrance all about, and having rushes of delight sweep over you like a waft from the beautiful heaven above. Oh, why should I marry; to think of some one else that I do not want and not feel that my life was my very own."

He studied the youthful unconscious face before him, the clear, fine skin, a few shades deeper from the daily contact with sun and much dallying on the river; the beautiful dark eyes that seemed always gathering the choicest of life, with joy and wonder; the rounded cheeks, with exquisitely-faint coloring, seeming to join the clear-cut chin, with its dimpled cleft melting into the shapely throat, that upheld it like a flower on a strong, yet delicate stem. He was strangely moved by the peculiar aloofness of the beauty.

Her soft hair hung about her like a cloud, the curling ends moved now and then as if by their own vigorous life. Indeed, there was an intense sort of vitality about her that, quiescent as it often was, in this trifling, daily round, could shoot up into a bewildering flame. Perhaps that was love. She did not have it for Eustache Boulle, she might never have it for him. Were men and women but half alive? Was there some sudden revivifying influence that raised them above the daily wants, that gave them an insight into a new existence? Had he ever experienced it?

The sun dropped down behind a range of hills, covered with pines, furs, and cedars, that were growing into a compact dark wall, the interstices being black. The edge of the river took on these sombre hues, but a little beyond there were long strips of rose and tawny gold, between zones of purple and green. The current tossed them hither and thither, like some weird thing winding about. Destournier was strangely moved by this mysterious kinship to nature that he had never experienced before.

"We must turn back," he began briefly, though it seemed to him he could gladly go on to a new life in some other land.

She nodded. The tide was growing a little stronger, but it was in their favor. They kept quite near the sh.o.r.e, where it was dark in s.p.a.ces, and then opened into a sort of clearing, only to close again. Even now the voyager dreams on the enchanting sh.o.r.es that are not all given up to towns and business.

She began to sing. It was melody without words. Now and then she recalled a French verse or two, then it settled into some melancholy Indian plaint, or the evening song of a belated bird. She was not singing for him, yet he was enchanted.

He drew in the canoe presently. She sprang out with the agile grace caught from much solitary rambling and climbing. Then she waited for him to fasten it.

"You are quite sure that you will not consent to M. Boulle's wishes?"

she inquired, as they turned in and out of the winding path.

"You shall be left entirely free. You shall not marry at all, if you prefer," he answered solemnly.

"Oh, a thousand thanks. And you will convince miladi. I think she wishes M. Boulle all success. I must go make my peace with Wanamee and get some supper."

She ran to the end of the house, the wide kitchen, where the cooking was done. Wanamee and Mawha were in a discussion, as often happened. Pani sat with a great wooden platter on his knees, eating voraciously. Rose realized suddenly that she was hungry, and the smell of the broiling fish was appetizing.

"I'm famished, Wanamee," she cried. "Will you give me some supper?"

"Miladi is much vexed with you, little one. She had supper sent to her room and M. Boulle was there. They wanted you and M. Destournier. There was to be a--I do not know what you call it, but he wanted you to promise to be his wife, for he goes to Tadoussac to-morrow."

Rose's heart beat with a guilty joy.

"I should not promise that. I do not want to be a wife."

Mawha, who had been a wife several times, a tall, rather severe-looking Indian woman, turned upon her.

"Thou art well-grown and shouldst have a husband. Girls get too wild if they are let go too long. A husband keeps them in order."

"I will have some supper," Rose said, with dignity, ignoring the stricture.

Then she cleared a place on the table and brushed it clean with the birch twigs. Wanamee brought a plate of Indian meal cake, deliciously browned, some potatoes baked in the hot ashes, and a great slice of fish, with a dish of spiced preserves of some green fruit and berries.

"I looked for you," Pani said. "Were you up on the mountain?"

Rose shook her head.

She was hungry, but she dallied over her meal, wondering if she had best go in and say good-night to miladi. She did not always; she quite understood now that there were times when miladi did not care to see her; then, at others, she sent for her. Now she would let her send. She went up to her small chamber presently. The young moon was travelling over westward with her attendant star. There were boats still out on the river, merry voices, others in loud and angry dispute. Why did people want to quarrel, when the world was so beautiful! Then a shrill cry of some night bird, guards coming and going about the fort. She grew drowsy presently, and went to bed, serene in the belief that M. Boulle would go his way and torment her no more, for had not M. Ralph promised?

M. Ralph and miladi were having a rather stormy time. She had inquired very peremptorily what had kept him so late. Pani had been sent to the warehouse and had not found him, neither had he been at the fort.

M. Destournier was no hand to prevaricate. He lived an open, honest life, and had few secrets beside those of business. Ordinarily, he would have explained what he had been about the last two hours, but he had a sudden premonition that it was wiser not to do so. Miladi was sometimes captious where Rose was concerned.

"I was busy," he made answer briefly.

"M. Boulle goes to Tadoussac to-morrow. The vessel came down for him to-day. Some urgent business requires his attention."

"He has loitered quite long enough," commented her husband. "He is a pleasant young fellow, but there is more than indolent pleasuring to a young man's life."

"He has had a purpose, a matter that lies near his heart. This new country and the lack of fixed rules are demoralizing, and it will be a good thing when there is a convent for the proper training of girls. But lawless as Rose has grown, he has asked her in marriage. We wanted you to ratify the consent I have given. He will make arrangements for the marriage a few months hence."

"You seem to think Rose has no voice in this."

"Why should she have? Do we not stand in the place of parents? My father chose M. Giffard, and he was presented to me as my future husband. No well-bred girl makes any demur. But it seems that Mam'selle Rose has some queer ideas, imbibed from heaven only knows where, that she must experience a kind of overwhelming preference for a man, which would be positively disgraceful in a young girl who has no right to consider love until she is called upon to give it to her husband. It will be a most excellent thing for her."

There was a moment or two of silence. He was considering how best to make his protest.

"Well--why do you not reply?" tartly. "The young man is very ardent. She can never do better."

"She is but a child. There need be no haste. And if she does not care----"