The Span o' Life Part 21

"Monsieur," I answered, trying to conceal my alarm, "M. de Maxwell lodged for some time in London in the house of this boy's mother, my waiting-woman, Lucy Routh. Surely his meeting again with the lad he knew as a child will explain his interest."

"Indeed? And may I ask when it was that he lodged with this convenient waiting-woman?" he said, with a sneer that set my blood boiling.

"It was ten years ago, monsieur. Why do you ask me these questions?"

"Because I wish to try a small problem in calculation. I was rude enough to hazard a guess at your age the first time we came to an understanding. Perhaps it was ungallant, but still, it remains. I said then, you were 'of a certain age,' but now, to be exact, we will say you are twenty-seven, perhaps twenty-six. This boy in whom such a paternal interest was displayed must be fifteen or sixteen.

No, that will not adjust itself. Forgive my thinking out loud."

"Monsieur, this is intolerable! What is it you wish to know?"

"Simply if M. de Maxwell was acquainted with this paragon of waiting-women before he lodged with her ten years ago?"

"You coward! Why do you not put such a question to M. de Maxwell himself?"

"It might prove embarra.s.sing, madame. Almost as embarra.s.sing as if I had obeyed the orders of your friend M. le Marquis de Montcalm, and brought you to M. le Chevalier de Maxwell, as you desired."

"I am completely at a loss to know what you mean," I said, boldly, but my heart sank at his words.

"Simply this, madame," and he handed me an open letter.

"MONSIEUR" [I read],--"If you have any regard for me, keep the lady claiming to be my wife at such a distance that I may never set eyes on her again. Should she be in want, I will gladly reimburse you for any expenditure you may make on her account.

"LE CHEVR DE MAXWELL."

It was almost like a blow, and for a moment I stood numb and bewildered; but the realisation of my danger, from the man who stood there smiling at my degradation, was a spur to me, and I neither fainted nor cried aloud.

"A pitiable situation, truly! Believe me, my dear madame, my heart bleeds for you."

"You are a liar, as well as a coward, monsieur. I know not what you have said or written to M. de Maxwell, but neither he nor any man can ever cast me off. I am not his wife!"

"Thank G.o.d for that!" he cried, in so different a voice that I looked at him in surprise. "Thank G.o.d for that! Marguerite, I love you with my whole heart, and body, and life. I know I am nothing but a rough coureur de bois, in spite of my birth. I have been cruel to you. I have tortured you. Forgive me, forgive me! I knew of no other way to woo you. Teach me to be gentle, and I will be gentle for your sake. But, G.o.d in heaven! do not ask me to give you up! I cannot live without you. I have lost my soul to you. I have lost everything, for I should not be beside you even now!"

"No, you should not!" rang out a clear voice, and le pere Jean stepped into the path before us. "Man never spake truer words, Sarennes. I have followed you night and day to bring you back to your duty. You are waited for every hour at Louisbourg, for the Indians will not move without you."

He spake rapidly, like one accustomed to command, and at the same time held forth his hand to me, as one might to a child, and I seized it in both mine, and stepped close to his side.

At the first sound of the priest's voice M. de Sarennes's whole aspect changed; his face took on a hard, obstinate look, and he scowled as if he would have struck the man before him, but he answered him not a word.

"Go!" again commanded the priest. "Go back to Louisbourg! You need no word of mine to urge you; if you do, I will tell you the Cross of St. Louis awaits you there."

"What care I for your Cross of St. Louis? I am not a French popinjay to be dazzled by your gewgaws from Versailles."

"Then go because your honour calls!"

"Who are you to prate about honour? What does a priest know about honour? Keep to your pater-nosters and aves!" he cried, with an insulting laugh.

"You clown!" cried the priest, trembling with indignation. "My ancestors carried their own banner to the Sepulchre of Our Lord, when yours were hewers of wood and drawers of water! But, forgive me," he added, almost in the same breath, "this is beside the question. M. de Sarennes, you are a soldier, and as such your honour is dear to you; there are hundreds of men, aye, and there are women too, whose honour and safety in a few weeks, perhaps sooner, will depend on your succour. You know your help is absolutely necessary in the event of the place being invested. M. de Montcalm expects you to be at your post; M. de Vaudreuil has himself given you his orders; your Indians will follow no other than yourself, and are only waiting for you to lead them. No one knows better than yourself with what suspicion they will look on your disappearance. Your name will be on every lip in Louisbourg, and every eye will hourly watch for your coming. You carry the safety of the fortress, perhaps of the country, in your keeping."

"What you say is no doubt true, mon pere. But it rests with you whether I go or not," he returned, in a quiet voice, without a trace of the pa.s.sion which had swayed him a moment since.

"How? In what way can it rest with me? I have given you my message, your orders."

"Yes, mon pere, but I require more; I wish for your blessing."

"You shall have that, my son, my blessing and my constant prayers."

"That is well, mon pere, but I require more; I would have your blessing for another also."

"For whom?"

"For this lady, mon pere. If you wish me to leave for Louisbourg, you will marry me first," he said, with a laugh.

"Madame de St. Just."

"No, not 'Madame de St. Just!' But she will then have the right to style herself 'Madame de Sarennes.' Don't attempt any heroics!" he went on, raising his voice angrily, while I shrank close to the priest in terror. "I know all about this pretended Madame de St.

Just, perhaps even better than do you. If I choose to give her an honourable name, it is my own affair. Don't prate to me about honour! I am here because it does not weigh with me for the moment.

Don't talk to me of the safety of the country; it is in your hands.

I tell you plainly I will not go otherwise. Marry me to-day, and I will start to-night; if not, then any blame there may be will lie not on my head, but on yours. Now, monsieur, you have my answer."

The two men stood facing each other for a moment in silence.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "The two men stood facing each other in silence."]

Then the priest turned to me: "Will you marry this man, my daughter?"

"Oh, mon pere!" I cried, shuddering, and holding closer to him.

He stepped in front of me and faced the Canadian. "Go!" he commanded.

"Go! You may succour Louisbourg or not, as you will, but before I would raise my hand in such a sacrilege as you have dared to insult your G.o.d in proffering, I would see it withered to the bone. I will try to believe you led astray by your evil pa.s.sions, that you are not sane for the moment; and if G.o.d see fit to leave you in your present evil possession, He will have punished you more fearfully than any curse of mine can do. Go, and may G.o.d pity you! Come, my daughter," he said to me.

Holding my hand in his strong, a.s.suring grasp, he led me beside him, safe in his protecting presence. Before we gained the open path he stopped, and, motioning me to be seated on a log, he remained standing. The moment he withdrew his hand the distance between us seemed immeasurable; all his protection, all his comradeship were withdrawn with his grasp, and he stood before me as the priest and judge only.

"I have no wish to add to your trouble," he began, slowly, and almost unwillingly, I thought, "but for your own safety I must make it clear to you, beyond further question or casuistry, what your position now is, and to what your disobedience has led. For yourself, you are in a position sevenfold worse than you were before; you have carried the harmless deception I authorised to a point that has placed you in a most dangerous and humiliating situation.

Sarennes has become infatuated with you to an extent which threatens ruin to himself, disgrace to those nearest him, and, perhaps, disaster to greater and more important interests. Nay, do not rise or speak. I know you would disclaim any part in the matter, but unfortunately your intention does not alter facts; it is your presence here that is at fault. Beyond this you are personally in extreme peril; you must realise that this man knows nothing of the restrictions which should govern his conduct towards you. Blinded as he is by his pa.s.sion, he will not hesitate a moment to carry you off, if need be, and his conscience will never suffer a moment's pang, provided he find a priest to patter the words of the marriage-service over you, if, indeed, he even hold such a concession to your feelings necessary. The presence of his mother and sister is no real protection, and even his absence is no a.s.surance of safety, for he can readily find means to carry out his purpose without appearing on the scene himself. You had better stay within-doors, or at least within sight of the house, until the immediate danger is past. I will not go with you farther now, as I have no wish to offer more explanations than may be absolutely necessary, and I must follow this unhappy man, if haply I yet may turn him to his duty. Do you go on to the house, and when I return, perhaps on the morrow, I will see what can be done."

"Oh, mon pere, mon pere, forgive me before I go!" I cried, kneeling at his feet.

"There is no question of my forgiveness," he answered, coldly. "You must learn that wrong-doing need not be personal to produce evil.

There is no question of me or thee in the matter at all. It is much greater, much more serious than any personal feeling, and the results may swell out of all proportion, that you can see, to your action. All that can be done now is to remedy it in so far as in us lies. Go, my daughter, go and ask for guidance, the one thing needful, far above any mere human forgiveness. But do not go thinking you have forfeited either my sympathy or my help. I owe both to you, as to every helpless creature G.o.d sends into my path; and, believe me, no one could appeal more strongly to my poor protection than do you. Go, my daughter, and may G.o.d keep and comfort you!"

I found my way back, dazed and confounded, and could only with the greatest effort command myself sufficiently to return some coherent answer to Angelique's inquiry as to her brother; but she covered my confusion with her own liveliness.

"Never marry a soldier, 'mademoiselle!'" she exclaimed. "They worry one's life out with their eternal comings and goings. As likely as not Charles is off again, and will never come near us to say farewell; but that is a bagatelle. The real trouble is that my mother is an old woman; she realises keenly that any day Charles may say good-bye for the last time, and to spare her the pain of parting, he has more than once slipped off quietly like this. Never was a man so tender of women as my brother Charles! But you are pale; you look tired out. It is often so in spring-time in this country. What you should do is to get to bed at once, and have Lucie bring you a tisane when you are ready for sleep. Go, that is wise."

It was such a relief to be alone, to lie broken and wretched, but safe and by myself, in my own chamber, that for the moment this sufficed me; then sleep came to me, and when I awoke, quieted and refreshed, the house was still, and Lucy lay sleeping in her cot near by.

With the waking, came back the whole dreadful scene through which I had just pa.s.sed, and in my ears rang the warnings of le pere Jean touching my safety. Alas! I realised the danger only too vividly, and I trembled in the darkness at the pictures I could not help forming in my mind. There seemed no outlet and no end to my misery.

Even the thought of facing the mother, who saw naught but the chivalrous soldier in her son, and the sister, who so firmly believed in the tenderness and magnanimity of her brother, was a torture to me. In Lucy it would be impossible as well as dishonourable to confide, and, with the priest gone, I stood alone against a danger the very existence of which would be a degradation to reveal.