Part 24 (1/2)
And miladi! There had been so few women in his life that he knew nothing of contrast, or a.n.a.lysis. Some of the men took Indian wives for a year or so: that had never appealed to him. He had been charmed by Madame Giffard from the very first meeting with her, but she was another man's wife, and she loved her husband. The pretty coquetries were a part of the civilized world over in France and meant only a graceful desire to please. Then in her sorrow he pitied her profoundly, and felt that he owed her the highest and most sacred duty.
But as he studied Rose now, and thought of a suggested lover in Pierre Gaudrion, his whole soul rose in revolt. And the other thought of sending her away was equally distasteful. Why, she was the light and sweetness of the settlement. In a different fas.h.i.+on, she captured the hearts of the Indian women, and taught them the love of home-making, roused in some of them intelligence. How did she come by it? There was Wanamee.
He did not dream that he had awakened a desire for knowledge in the girl's breast and brain. But she had gone beyond him in the lore of the sea and the sky, and the romance of the trees, that to him were promising materials for houses and boats. They were her friends. She could translate the soft murmur that ran through their leaves, or the sweet, wild whistle of the wind that blew in from the river or down from the high hills,--from the ice and snow of the fur country. And sometimes he had seen her run races with the foaming river, where it whirled and eddied and fretted against a spur of the mighty rocks. All her life, from the day he found her on the rocks, seemed to pa.s.s before him in one great flash. He exulted that she belonged to no one, that he had the best right to her. He could not have told why. Heaven had denied him a child of his very own, and he had learned that miladi considered babies a wearisome burthen, fit only for peasants and Indian women.
Did the saintly and beautiful Helene think so as well? he wondered. He had learned a good deal about womankind since his marriage, but he made a grand mistake, he had learned only about one woman; and she was not the n.o.blest of her kind.
Rose turned suddenly and saw him in that half-waiting att.i.tude. There was little introspection, or a.n.a.lysis, in those days; people simply lived, felt without understanding. She had outgrown her first feeling of aversion. In a vague fas.h.i.+on she realized that miladi needed protection and care that no one but M. Destournier could give her. She was sorry she could not ramble about, that she never brightened up, and sung and danced any more. And this was why she, Rose, did not want to grow old and give up the delights of vivid, enchanting exercise.
Why miladi was captious and changeful, never of the same mind twice, she could not understand. What suited her to-day bored her to-morrow. She gave up trying to please, though she was generally ready and gracious.
But she remarked it was the same way with M. Ralph, and he bore the captiousness with so sweet a temper that she felt moved to emulate him.
In the depths of her heart there was a great pity, and it was sweet to him, though neither ever adverted to it.
CHAPTER XI
A FEAST OF SUMMER
As if his eyes had summoned her, she turned toward him. Out here in G.o.d's wide, beautiful world they could be the same friends, and not fret any one. It might have been dangerous if he had not been so upright a man, with no subtle reasonings, and she less simple-hearted.
”I have been helping Evening Star arrange her house. She is anxious to be like a Frenchwoman, and has put off many Indian ways since she became a convert.”
”But you do not give her her Christian name,” and he smiled.
”Maria a.s.sunta! It isn't half as pretty. She has such lovely deep eyes, and such velvety skin that her Indian name suits her best. What does it matter?”
”Perhaps it helps them to break away from Indian superst.i.tions. I do see some improvement in the women, but the men----”
She laughed lightly. ”The women were better in the beginning. They were used to work. And all the braves care for is hunting and drinking bouts.
If I were a priest, I should consider them hardly worth the trouble.”
”A fine priest you would make. They consider you half a heretic.”
”I go to chapel, M'sieu, when one can get there. I know a great many prayers, but they are much alike. I would like all the world to be upright and good, but I do not want to stay in a stifling little box until my breath is almost gone, and my knees stiff, saying a thing over and over. M'sieu, I can feel the Great Presence out on the beautiful rocks, as I look down on the river and watch the colors come and go, amber and rose, and greens of so many tints; and the music that is always so different. Then I think G.o.d does not mean us to shut it all out and be melancholy.”
”You were ever a wild little thing.”
”I can be grave, M'sieu, and silent, when there is need, for others. But I cannot give up all of my own life. I say to my heart--'Be still, it is only for a little while'--then comes the dance of freedom.”
She laughed, with a ripple of music.
”I wonder,” he began, after a pause, watching her lithe step and the proud way she carried her head--”I wonder if you would like to cross the ocean, to go to France?”
”With the beautiful Madame? It is said she is to sail as soon as the boats are loaded.”
”Miladi might go with her. I could not be spared. And you----”
He saw the sudden, great throb that moved her breast up to her very shoulders.