The Span o' Life: A Tale of Louisbourg & Quebec

  CHAPTER XIV

  I AM DIRECTED INTO A NEW PATH

  The following morning, when we resumed our quiet way in the canoe,le pere Jean asked, "Well, my daughter, did any light come to youthrough the darkness?"

  "No, my father, but I have found a little quiet."

  "That is much. Now I shall ask you to listen to me patiently, forI may say much with which you will not agree, but you will trustme that I only say that which I know to be best. We have everyreason to believe a serious descent will be made on Louisbourg inthe spring, so that, apart from any other reason, your presence ina town which will in all probability suffer a bombardment, wouldbe unwise and undesirable in the last degree. You have no idea ofwhat war actually means; it is a horror that would haunt you toyour dying day."

  "But, my father, in that case I should at least be by his side.That in itself would mean everything to us both."

  "That is a point I had not intended to touch on, my daughter. Iknow the world. I know that men, banished to such exile as that inwhich M. de Maxwell has lived, change much with the years. Thinkhow you have changed yourself, in happier surroundings than he hasknown. Think what new connections he may have formed. Did you neverthink that he--"

  "Oh, my father, what would you tell me? Do you know M. de Maxwell?"

  "I have never been in Louisbourg," he answered, somewhat coldly,as if my earnestness had hurt him.

  "But you do not mean that he may be married?"

  "He may be. It would surely not be unnatural."

  "It might not in another man, but in him it would be impossible.He is not as other men."

  "May I inquire, my daughter, if he ever asked you in marriage?"

  "No, my father; I told you how he was situate. Besides, my guardianthen wished me to marry another."

  "And you would not?"

  "I did not," I answered, with some little hauteur, for I held thiswas beside the matter, and a subject on which even he had no rightto question me.

  "Well, that can make but little difference now," he said, after ashort pause. "What does make the difference is that Louisbourg isan impossibility for you at the present. Your best course is to goon to Quebec. I shall give you letters to M. de Montcalm, who isso old and intimate a friend that I may ask him any favour. He willsee that you have passage in the first fitting vessel for France.In order that you may not be subject to embarrassing surmises, Ihold your best plan is to continue to style yourself Mme. de St.Just; in fact, that has now become a necessity. Once in France,you can, with the influence at your command--for I will see thatM. de Montcalm furthers your desire--procure the recall of M. deMaxwell in the spring, and so realise the dream which has now ledyou so far astray.

  "Do not think I am blaming you overmuch," he added, quickly; "youhave been led astray because you could not see as the world sees.Your heart and motive were pure, were generous, but none the lessare you subject to those rules which govern so rigorously the classto which you belong, whose very existence depends on their observance.In a romance, the world would no doubt have wept over yourperplexities; but in real life, it would crush you, because youhave sinned against the only code it acknowledges. Your purity andfaithfulness would count for nothing. Believe me, my child, I knowit and its ways."

  So it was decided; and at once I began to plan with new hope forthe desire of my heart; and such was the change it wrought in methat the whole world took on a new interest to my eyes.

  For the first time I realised the grandeur of the river into whichwe had now fully entered; the sullen sweep of black water in thedepths, the dance of silver over the shallows, the race of wavesdown the rapids between its ever-changing banks, now like imprisoningwalls with great sombre pines, now open and radiant with the goldand scarlet of the maples, marshalled in order by the white lancesof the slender birches.

  At times Lucy and I were allowed to walk along the reaches of levelsand to relieve the strain on the paddlers, where the river ranswift and strong, and when we at length gained the great stretchof the lake called Matapediac, like the river, my heart was fullof the beauty and charm about me.

  "The span o' Life's nae lang eneugh, Nor deep eneugh the sea, Nor braid eneugh this weary warld, To part my Love frae me," ...

  I sang in my heart, for was it not all so wonderful, so beyond allplanning, this way of Love? It might be long, it might be wearying,but it would lead aright in the end.

  When the head of the lake was reached, the canoes were lifted fromthe water; that of the strange Indians was left behind, but oursthey raised on their shoulders, and, Andre carrying the scantybaggage of the priest, we set off on a long carry, or portage, asthey call it. This occupied two days, as the path was difficult,and we found a sad encumbrance in our skirts, which suffered muchin the traverse. We took the water again at a tiny stream, andfinally gained another, called the Metis, leading to the St.Lawrence, our highway for Quebec. At the Metis the strange Indiansleft us and returned to join their fellows.

  Late one afternoon le pere Jean ran the canoe inshore, and, nothingloath, we left her in charge of Andre, to follow the priest up thehigh bank and take our way on foot under the great pines.

  A low breeze was moving almost silently among the trees, bringingan unwonted freshness we could verily taste. Soon we marked thescreen of undergrowth, which hid the sun, grow thinner and thinner,until his rays came shining low through a halo of golden leaves,with gleams like to glancing water. Breathless, we hurried on untilwe swept aside the last veil and found ourselves on the open cliff,overlooking mile beyond mile of dancing water, which the settingsun covered with a trail of glory breaking in ripples on a beachof golden sand, that stretched below the cliff on which we stood.

  "Oh, the sea! the sea!" I cried, sinking to the ground, overwhelmedby the flood of feeling which broke upon me. It was the promise ofa new world of light and safety, after the black, swift river andthe sombre forest from which we had escaped.

  "No, my daughter, not the sea; la Grande Riviere, the St. Lawrence!"said le pere Jean, almost reverently. "Do you wonder these poorIndians worship it?"

  "Oh, it is blessed! blessed! It means home! It is like to heaven!"I whispered, and then I fell a-crying with very happiness.

  Presently Lucy touched me on the shoulder. "See! there is Andre!"And below we saw the Indian paddling out into the open. He wentcutting through the golden water until he was some distance fromthe shore, when he stood upright, gently rocking as he balanced,gazing up the river. Suddenly he crouched down, again and made allhaste towards us, crying, as he came within call: "Mon pere! Dufour!Dufour! Gabriel Dufour!"

  "This is fortunate, most fortunate," exclaimed the priest. "It willsave us many a weary mile, and perhaps weeks of waiting. Gabrielis a pilot, with one of the best boats on the river, and your wayto Quebec is now easy. It could not have fallen out better."

  "'One of those disarrangements we name Accident,' mon pere?" Isaid.

  "No, my daughter; when we are schooled sufficiently to read aright,we name it 'Providence,'" he returned, gravely.

  We took our places in the canoe once more, and with deep, longstrokes she was forced through the current across the mouth of thestream. We disembarked on the farther side, and all made our wayout to the end of the low point, which stretched far into the wideriver. My disappointment was great when I could make out nothingof the object to which Andre triumphantly pointed, but this thepriest pronounced, without hesitation, to be the pilot's boat.

  "Andre, dry wood," he commanded; and to us he added, "You can help,if you will."

  We ran back to where a fringe of bleached drift-wood marked theline of the highest tides, and returned with our arms laden withthe dry, tindery stuff. Carefully selecting the smallest pieces,the Indian skilfully built a little pile, but so small I wonderedat his purpose. The priest, kneeling by it, soon had it alight,and kept adding to it constantly, while Andre ran off again toreturn with a supply of green brush; by this time a heap of glowingcoals was ready, and on this the Indian carefull
y laid his greenbranches, one after another. In a few minutes a strong, thick smokearose, and went curling out in a long thin line over the now quietwaters of the river.

  Meantime le pere Jean had a second pile of wood in readiness, andat his word Andre quickly smothered up the first with sand, and,after waiting for the smoke to drift completely away, soon had asecond thread trailing out after the first. This was repeated again,and the fire extinguished as before.

  "There, my daughter! that is the manner in which we sometimes senda message in this country, and the answer will be the appearanceof Maitre Gabriel himself by the morning."

  We then withdrew to the shelter of the wood, for the smoothest sandmakes but a sorry bed, and made our camp for the night.

  After our meal, le pere Jean bade Andre pile more drift-wood onour fire, and, producing the little journal in which he kept thebrief record of his labours, as required by his Order, he fell towriting.

  "Here," he said, when he had finished, handing me the folded paper,"is your letter to my good friend M. de Montcalm. It is notover-long, as paper is much too precious to waste in compliments;I have used so much, as it is, in fully explaining your position,so that you may not be exposed to embarrassing inquiries; indemanding his fullest assistance, so that you may be under thelightest personal obligation, that I have left no space to setforth your future movements; these you must yourself lay beforehim, and so spare me the sacrifice of another page of my preciousjournal."

  The next morning, as the priest had foretold, we were awakened byAndre's announcement of the pilot's arrival, and before long,Gabriel Dufour was presented in due form. He was a stout, thick-setman, much reddened by exposure, with his dark hair gathered intoa well-oiled pigtail, comfortably dressed in grey, home-spun jacketand breeches, with bright blue stockings, and a short canvas apron,like to the fishermen in France.

  He at once expressed himself ready to take us to Quebec.

  "What day have you chosen for your return, Gabriel?" asked le pereJean.

  "Qui choisit, prend le pire, mon pere. All days are alike for me.Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, I find much the same as Thursday,Friday, Saturday. I can start to-day, to-morrow, or the day afterthat, as madame may say."

  "Then I shall speak for madame, and say to-day," returned thepriest; and added, in his quiet way: "I bid you beware of MasterGabriel's fair words, madame. To quote from his favourite proverb,'il est ne dimanche, il aime besogne faite,' he will promise youanything."

  "'Ce que femme veut, Dieu le veut,' mon pere," he answered, laughing."Well, I am ready at once, if madame can support the poverty of mypoor cabin."

  "Ah, Maitre Gabriel, if you knew how much your care will mean tous, you would make no apologies."

  "Come, come, Gabriel! No more proverbs, no more delays," exclaimedle pere Jean, and, as the pilot hurried off to his shallop, he tookboth my hands in his.

  "My child, remember God goes with you by land and water, by dayand night, and He will surely bring you to the goal which He alonecan see," and then he raised his hand, and I knelt while he blessedus both.