Part 29 (1/2)

A sudden thought flashed through his mind. The girl's face was very calm, but her eyes had a sort of protest in them.

”Will he take you?” Destournier asked, in a husky tone.

”Oh, M'sieu Ralph, would you send me? Would you give me to any one else?”

Now her eyes were alight with an eager breathless expression that was almost anguish.

”Not if you did not want to go.”

”I do not want to go anywhere. Oh, M'sieu Ralph,” and now her tone was piteous, ”I wish you would send him away. I liked him very well at first, but now he wants me to love him, and I cannot, the kind of love that impels one to marry, and I do not want to be married.”

”Has he tried to persuade you?”

Ralph Destournier knew he would make a good husband. Some time Rose would marry. But it was plain she did not love him. And though love might not be necessary, it was a very sweet accompaniment that, he knew now, it was sad to miss.

”He talked to me about marriage. I do not like it.” She gave a little s.h.i.+ver, and the color went out of her face, even her lips, and her pliant figure seemed to shrink as from a blow.

”My child, no one shall marry you against your will, neither shall you be taken away. Rest content in my promise.”

She nodded, then smiled, with trusting eyes. He wondered a little about her future. While he lived--well, the Sieur de Champlain was well and hearty, and much older. She was only a child yet, though she had suddenly grown tall. He could care for her in the years to come, and she would no doubt find a mate. He knew very little about girls. They generally went to convents and were educated and husbands were chosen for them by their parents. But in this new world matters had changed.

There was talk of a convent to train the Indian girls, and the half-breeds who took more readily to civilization. The priests were in earnest about it, but money was lacking. Rose had picked up much useful knowledge, and knew some things unusual for a girl. Good Father Jamay would be shocked at Terence, Aristophanes, and Virgil for a girl.

”So you do not like marriage?” he said, rather jestingly.

She shook her head.

”But then you know nothing about it.”

”Why, there is the Sieur and the beautiful Madame. And you and miladi.

And Marie, with her dirty house and her babies. She is not as nice as the Indian women. And they have to wait upon the braves or else, when the braves are off fur hunting, they have to plant the crops and catch fish, and even hunt and mend tents, and do such hard work. All that is no delight like dreaming on the moss in the woods, and talking to the birds, and breathing the fragrance all about, and having rushes of delight sweep over you like a waft from the beautiful heaven above. Oh, why should I marry; to think of some one else that I do not want and not feel that my life was my very own.”

He studied the youthful unconscious face before him, the clear, fine skin, a few shades deeper from the daily contact with sun and much dallying on the river; the beautiful dark eyes that seemed always gathering the choicest of life, with joy and wonder; the rounded cheeks, with exquisitely-faint coloring, seeming to join the clear-cut chin, with its dimpled cleft melting into the shapely throat, that upheld it like a flower on a strong, yet delicate stem. He was strangely moved by the peculiar aloofness of the beauty.

Her soft hair hung about her like a cloud, the curling ends moved now and then as if by their own vigorous life. Indeed, there was an intense sort of vitality about her that, quiescent as it often was, in this trifling, daily round, could shoot up into a bewildering flame. Perhaps that was love. She did not have it for Eustache Boulle, she might never have it for him. Were men and women but half alive? Was there some sudden revivifying influence that raised them above the daily wants, that gave them an insight into a new existence? Had he ever experienced it?

The sun dropped down behind a range of hills, covered with pines, furs, and cedars, that were growing into a compact dark wall, the interstices being black. The edge of the river took on these sombre hues, but a little beyond there were long strips of rose and tawny gold, between zones of purple and green. The current tossed them hither and thither, like some weird thing winding about. Destournier was strangely moved by this mysterious kins.h.i.+p to nature that he had never experienced before.

”We must turn back,” he began briefly, though it seemed to him he could gladly go on to a new life in some other land.

She nodded. The tide was growing a little stronger, but it was in their favor. They kept quite near the sh.o.r.e, where it was dark in s.p.a.ces, and then opened into a sort of clearing, only to close again. Even now the voyager dreams on the enchanting sh.o.r.es that are not all given up to towns and business.

She began to sing. It was melody without words. Now and then she recalled a French verse or two, then it settled into some melancholy Indian plaint, or the evening song of a belated bird. She was not singing for him, yet he was enchanted.

He drew in the canoe presently. She sprang out with the agile grace caught from much solitary rambling and climbing. Then she waited for him to fasten it.

”You are quite sure that you will not consent to M. Boulle's wishes?”

she inquired, as they turned in and out of the winding path.