A Little Girl in Old Quebec by Amanda Minnie Douglas (miss read books txt) 📕

hot. The saints be praised for a mouthful of decent food."

Yes, it was good. Pani watched with eager, hungry eyes and lips aquiver. Rose felt almost conscience-smitten that she should have been satisfied first.

"Was there much to be divided?" she asked of him.

"He was a noble, big fellow. And they have gone up in the woods for deer."

Miladi was still asleep when she entered the room. She held the lamp a little close with a sudden fear, but she saw the tranquil movement of her chest and was reassured. There was a young moon coming up, a golden crescent in a sky of flawless blue. It was too small to light the savage cliffs, but she could hear the plash of the incoming tide that swirled along with the current of the river. If the English came, what then?

It was near ten when miladi woke.

"What time is it?" she asked. "Not quite morning, for it is dark. I have had such a splendid sleep. Why, I feel quite well."

She sat up in the bed.

"Come and bathe my face, Rose. Do you know whether Madame Hebert has the recipe of this fragrant water? Mine is nearly gone. It is so refreshing."

"I am quite sure she has. You have had no supper. There is some tasty meat broth."

"I'm tired of pease and greens, and make-believe things that don't nourish you at all. And there was such nice fish. Why do they not get some? The river certainly hasn't dried up."

"No, Madame," in almost a merry tone, as if it might take the edge off of complaining. "But there is such a scarcity of hooks. Petit Gabou is making a net of dried grass that he thinks will answer the purpose. And we have always had such a plentiful supply of fish."

The broth was very nourishing. Then Rose must sit with both of miladi's hands in hers, so warm and soft, hers being little beside bone and joints. She talked of France and her youth, when she was a pretty girl, just out of the convent, and went to Paris. "You will like it so much. I can hardly wait for the summer to come. I shall not mind if Monsieur has so much business on hand that he cannot leave," and her tone had a little mocking accent. "When men get older they lose their nice ways of compliment and grace. They care less for their wives. Even M. de Champlain does not fret after his, who is no doubt enjoying herself finely. She was wise not to return."

The slim, golden crescent had wandered away to other worlds, and the stars grew larger and brighter in their bed of blue. She watched them through the open window. A screen was set up so that no draught should annoy miladi. Presently she fell asleep again, and Rose stole to her own couch, the other side of the screen, where she could still watch the stars.

Savignon had come in with news. The Algonquins knew of a storehouse of the Iroquois, who had gone on the war-path, and would hardly be back for a whole moon. It would be best to start at once, and they began preparations. Some of the Indian women volunteered, they were used to carrying burthens. Bags were packed up. They trusted to find most of their food upon the route.

Miladi took the parting tranquilly. M. Ralph had spent weeks on exploring expeditions. If there was any danger in this, she did not heed it. She held up her face to be kissed, and he noted how dry and parched the lips were.

He gave a brief good-bye to Rose, who was standing near.

"Surely, he does not care for women," Miladi thought exultingly. "Even her fresh, young beauty is nothing to him. He has no tender, eager soul."

Rose went down to the plateau to see the start.

"You are much interested, Mam'selle?" Savignon said. "Give us the charm of your thoughts and prayers."

"You have both, most truly." What a fine, stalwart fellow Savignon was, lighter than the average, and picturesque in his Indian costume, though he often wore the garb of civilization. French had become to him almost a mother tongue.

Yet Rose wondered a little if it was right to rob the storehouse where the industrious Indians had been making preparations for the coming winter. Was it easier for one race to starve than another?

"And wish us a safe return."

The look in his eyes disconcerted her for an instant. Her own drooped. She was acquiring a woman's wisdom.

"I do that most heartily," she made answer, turning aside; but the admiration lingered over her fine, yet strong figure, with its grace of movement. The beautiful eyes haunted him, if they were turned away.

Such forays were not uncommon among the tribes. The Iroquois had planted more than one storehouse in the wilderness, in most secluded places. It saved carrying burthens, as they wandered about, or if in desperate weather, they set up their wigwams, and remained eating and sleeping, until hunger drove them elsewhere.

A ship had come down from Acadia with news that several English vessels were hovering about. They offered to take some of the women and children, and M. de Champlain was thankful for this. By spring there must be some change in affairs. The mother country could not wholly forget them.

Rose wondered at times that miladi remained so tranquil. She slept a great deal, and it was an immense relief. It seemed occasionally that her mind wandered, though it was mostly vague mutterings.

Once she said quite clearly--"I will not have the child. You will come to love her better than you do me."

Then she opened her eyes and fixed them on Rose, with a hard, cold stare.

"Go away," she cried. "Go away. I will not have you here to steal his love from me. You are only a child, but one day you will be a woman. And I shall be growing old, old! A woman's youth ought to come back to her for a brief while."

Rose's heart swelled within her. Was this why miladi had taken such queer spells, and sometimes been unkind to her for days? And M. Destournier had always stood her friend.

Yet she felt infinitely sorry for miladi, and that calmed her first burst of indignation. She went out to the forest to walk. The withered leaves lay thick on the ground, they had not been as beautiful as in some autumns, the drought had turned them brown too soon. The white birches seemed like lovely ghosts haunting the darkened spaces. Children were digging for fallen nuts, even edible roots, and breaking off sassafras twigs. What would they do before spring, if relief did not come!

Suppose she went away with the next vessel that came in. But then she had promised. Oh, yes, she must look after miladi, just as carefully as if there were depths of love between them. How did she come to know so much about love? Surely she had never loved any one with her whole soul. Neither had she craved an overwhelming affection. But now the world seemed large, and strange, and empty to her. She rustled the leaves under her feet, as if they made a sort of company in the loneliness. Perhaps it would not have been so bad to have taken M. Boulle's love. If only love did not mean nearness, some sacred rites, kisses. She felt if she raised her hand in permission it might still be hers. No, no, she could not take it, and she shivered. Why, it was nearly dark, and cold. She must run to warm her blood.

She came in bright and glowing, her eyes in cordial shining.

"Thank the Holy Mother that you have come," cried Mawha. "Miladi has been crying and going on and saying that you have deserted her. Wanamee could not comfort her. Run, quick."

Miladi was sobbing as if her heart would break. Rose bent over her, smoothed her brow and hair, chafed the cold hands.

"The way was so long and dark," she cried, "such a long, long path. Will I have to go all alone?" and Rose could feel the terrified shiver.

"You will not have to go anywhere," began the girl, in a soothing tone. "I shall stay here with you."

"But you were gone," complainingly.

"I will not go again."

"Then sit here and hold my hands. I think it was a dream. I am not going to die. I am really better. I walked about to-day. Is there word from Monsieur? You know we are going to France in the summer. Do you know what happens when one dies? I've seen the little Indian babies die. Do you suppose they really have souls?"

"Every one born in the world has. The priest will tell you." Rose gained a little courage. "Perhaps you would like to see Father Jamay."

"I went to confession a long while ago. The priest wanted my French books. M. Ralph said I need not give them up. I prayed to the Virgin. I prayed for many things that did not come. But we will go to France, M. Ralph promised, and he never breaks his word, so I do not need to pray for that. I am cold. Cover me up warm, and get something for my feet. Then sit here and put your arms around me. Promise me you will never go away again."

"I promise"--in a sweet, soft tone.

Then she sat on the side of the bed and placed her arm about the shoulders. How thin they were.

"Sing something. The silence frightens me."

Rose sang, sometimes like a chant, lines she could recall that had a musical sound. The leaning figure grew heavier, the breathing was slow and tranquil. Wanamee came in.

"Help me put her down," Rose said, for she was weary with the strained position.

They laid her down tenderly, without waking her.

"Stay with me," pleaded Rose. "You know when I went away M. Destournier used to come in. I do not like to leave her alone."

"It is curious," exclaimed Wanamee. "This morning she seemed so well, and walked about. Then she sinks down. How long she has been ill, this way."

Rose wanted to ask a solemn question, but she did not dare. Presently Wanamee dozed off, but Rose watched until the eastern sky began to show long levels of light. There seemed an awesome stillness in the room.

"Wanamee," she said faintly.

The woman rose and looked at the figure on the bed, standing some seconds in silence.

"Go out quietly, _ma fille_, and find Mawha. Send her in." Then she turned Rose quite around, and the girl uttered no question.

"What is the matter?" asked Pani. "Mam'selle, you are white as a snowdrift."

"I think miladi is dead," and she drew a long, strangling breath, her figure trembling with unknown dread.

Pani bowed and crossed himself several times.

Wanamee came in presently. "The poor lady is gone," she said reverently. "She was so afraid of dying, and it was just like a sleep. Pani, you must row up to the convent at once, and ask some of the fathers to come down. Stop first at the fort and tell the Governor."

That Madame Destournier should die surprised no one, but it was unexpected, for all that. It appeared to accentuate the other sorrows and anxieties. And