Part 20 (1/2)
”I wonder--if thou wilt miss me?”
”Why, yes, silly! The splendid canoeing and the races we run, and I may be big enough next summer to go to Lachine. I would like to rush through the rapids that Antoine the sailor tells about, where you feel as if you were going down to the centre of the world.”
”No woman would dare. It would not be safe,” he objected.
”Men are not always lost, only a few clumsy ones. And I can swim with the best of them.”
”M. Destournier will not let you go.”
”He is not my father. I belong just to myself, and I will do as I like.”
She stamped her foot on the ground, but she laughed as well. He was not nineteen yet, but a man would be able to manage her.
She did miss him when he was gone. And it seemed as if Marie grew more stupid and cared less for her. And that lout of a Jules Personeau would sit by her on the gra.s.s, or help her pick berries or grapes and open them skilfully, take out the seeds or the pits of plums, and place them on the flat rocks to dry. He never seemed to talk. And Rose knew that M.
Destournier scolded because he was not breaking stone.
He was building a new house himself, and helping the Sieur plan out the path from the fort up above to the settlement down below. They did not dream that one day it would be the upper and the lower town, and that on the plain would be fought one of the historic battles of the world, where two of the bravest of men would give up their lives, and the lilies of France go down for the last time. Quebec was beginning to look quite a town.
Destournier's house commanded his settlement, which was more strongly fortified with a higher palisade, over which curious thorn vines were growing for protection. He had a fine wheat field, and some tobacco. Of Indian corn a great waving regiment planted only two rows thick so as to give no chance for skulking marauders.
The house of M. Giffard was falling into decay. Miladi had sent to France early in the season for many new stuffs and trinkets, and the settlement of some affairs, instead of turning all over to Destournier.
The goods had come at an exorbitant price, but there had been a great tangle in money matters, and at his death his concessions had pa.s.sed into other hands.
”They always manage to rob a woman,” he thought grimly.
”I supposed you were to leave things in my hands,” he said, a little upbraidingly, to her.
”I make you so much trouble. And you have so much to do for the Governor and your settlement, and I am so weak and helpless. I have never been strong since that dreadful night. I miss all the care and love. Oh, if you were a woman you would know how heart-breaking it was. I wish I were dead! I wish I were dead!”
”And you do not care to go back to France?”
”Do not torment me with that question. I should die on the voyage. And to be there without friends would be horrible. I have no taste for a convent.”
A great many times the vague plan had entered his mind as a sort of duty. Now he would put it into execution.
”Become my wife,” he said. He leaned over and took her slim hands in his and glanced earnestly into her eyes, and saw there were fine wrinkles setting about them. What did it matter? She needed protection and care, and there was no woman here that he could love as the romances described. He was too busy a man, too practical.
She let her head drop on his broad breast. She had dreamed of this and used many little arts, but had never been sure of their effect. There were the years between, but she needed his strength and devotion more than a younger woman.
”Oh, ought I be so happy again?” she murmured. ”There is so much that is strong and generous to you that a woman could rest content in giving her whole life to you, her best love.”
He wished she had not said that. He would have been content that her best love should lie softly in the grave, like an atmosphere around the sleeping body of Laurent Giffard, whom he had admired very much, and who had loved his wife with the fervor of youth. He drew a long breath of pity for the man. It seemed as if he was taking something away from him.
”Is it true?” she asked, in a long silence.
”That I shall care for you, yes. That you will be my wife.” Then he kissed her tenderly.
”I am so happy. Oh, you cannot think how sad I have been for months, with no one to care for me,” and her voice was exquisitely pathetic.
”I have cared for you all this while,” he said. ”You were like a sister to whom I owed a duty.”