Part 37 (1/2)

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 s.p.a.ces. Children were digging for fallen nuts, even edible roots, and breaking off sa.s.safras 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 s.h.i.+vered. Why, it was nearly dark, and cold.

She must run to warm her blood.

She came in bright and glowing, her eyes in cordial s.h.i.+ning.

”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 s.h.i.+ver.

”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.