The Span o' Life Part 16

"The span o' Life's nae lang eneugh, Nor deep eneugh the sea, Nor braid eneugh this weary warld, To part my Love frae me," ...

I sang in my heart, for was it not all so wonderful, so beyond all planning, this way of Love? It might be long, it might be wearying, but it would lead aright in the end.

When the head of the lake was reached, the canoes were lifted from the water; that of the strange Indians was left behind, but ours they raised on their shoulders, and, Andre carrying the scanty baggage of the priest, we set off on a long carry, or portage, as they call it. This occupied two days, as the path was difficult, and we found a sad enc.u.mbrance in our skirts, which suffered much in the traverse. We took the water again at a tiny stream, and finally gained another, called the Metis, leading to the St.

Lawrence, our highway for Quebec. At the Metis the strange Indians left us and returned to join their fellows.

Late one afternoon le pere Jean ran the canoe insh.o.r.e, and, nothing loath, we left her in charge of Andre, to follow the priest up the high bank and take our way on foot under the great pines.

A low breeze was moving almost silently among the trees, bringing an unwonted freshness we could verily taste. Soon we marked the screen of undergrowth, which hid the sun, grow thinner and thinner, until his rays came s.h.i.+ning low through a halo of golden leaves, with gleams like to glancing water. Breathless, we hurried on until we swept aside the last veil and found ourselves on the open cliff, overlooking mile beyond mile of dancing water, which the setting sun covered with a trail of glory breaking in ripples on a beach of golden sand, that stretched below the cliff on which we stood.

"Oh, the sea! the sea!" I cried, sinking to the ground, overwhelmed by the flood of feeling which broke upon me. It was the promise of a new world of light and safety, after the black, swift river and the sombre forest from which we had escaped.

"No, my daughter, not the sea; la Grande Riviere, the St. Lawrence!"

said le pere Jean, almost reverently. "Do you wonder these poor Indians wors.h.i.+p it?"

"Oh, it is blessed! blessed! It means home! It is like to heaven!"

I whispered, and then I fell a-crying with very happiness.

Presently Lucy touched me on the shoulder. "See! there is Andre!"

And below we saw the Indian paddling out into the open. He went cutting through the golden water until he was some distance from the sh.o.r.e, when he stood upright, gently rocking as he balanced, gazing up the river. Suddenly he crouched down, again and made all haste towards us, crying, as he came within call: "Mon pere! Dufour!

Dufour! Gabriel Dufour!"

"This is fortunate, most fortunate," exclaimed the priest. "It will save us many a weary mile, and perhaps weeks of waiting. Gabriel is a pilot, with one of the best boats on the river, and your way to Quebec is now easy. It could not have fallen out better."

"'One of those disarrangements we name Accident,' mon pere?" I said.

"No, my daughter; when we are schooled sufficiently to read aright, we name it 'Providence,'" he returned, gravely.

We took our places in the canoe once more, and with deep, long strokes she was forced through the current across the mouth of the stream. We disembarked on the farther side, and all made our way out to the end of the low point, which stretched far into the wide river. My disappointment was great when I could make out nothing of the object to which Andre triumphantly pointed, but this the priest p.r.o.nounced, without hesitation, to be the pilot's boat.

"Andre, dry wood," he commanded; and to us he added, "You can help, if you will."

We ran back to where a fringe of bleached drift-wood marked the line of the highest tides, and returned with our arms laden with the dry, tindery stuff. Carefully selecting the smallest pieces, the Indian skilfully built a little pile, but so small I wondered at his purpose. The priest, kneeling by it, soon had it alight, and kept adding to it constantly, while Andre ran off again to return with a supply of green brush; by this time a heap of glowing coals was ready, and on this the Indian carefully laid his green branches, one after another. In a few minutes a strong, thick smoke arose, and went curling out in a long thin line over the now quiet waters of the river.

Meantime le pere Jean had a second pile of wood in readiness, and at his word Andre quickly smothered up the first with sand, and, after waiting for the smoke to drift completely away, soon had a second thread trailing out after the first. This was repeated again, and the fire extinguished as before.

"There, my daughter! that is the manner in which we sometimes send a message in this country, and the answer will be the appearance of Maitre Gabriel himself by the morning."

We then withdrew to the shelter of the wood, for the smoothest sand makes but a sorry bed, and made our camp for the night.

After our meal, le pere Jean bade Andre pile more drift-wood on our fire, and, producing the little journal in which he kept the brief record of his labours, as required by his Order, he fell to writing.

"Here," he said, when he had finished, handing me the folded paper, "is your letter to my good friend M. de Montcalm. It is not over-long, as paper is much too precious to waste in compliments; I have used so much, as it is, in fully explaining your position, so that you may not be exposed to embarra.s.sing inquiries; in demanding his fullest a.s.sistance, so that you may be under the lightest personal obligation, that I have left no s.p.a.ce to set forth your future movements; these you must yourself lay before him, and so spare me the sacrifice of another page of my precious journal."

The next morning, as the priest had foretold, we were awakened by Andre's announcement of the pilot's arrival, and before long, Gabriel Dufour was presented in due form. He was a stout, thick-set man, much reddened by exposure, with his dark hair gathered into a well-oiled pigtail, comfortably dressed in grey, home-spun jacket and breeches, with bright blue stockings, and a short canvas ap.r.o.n, like to the fishermen in France.

He at once expressed himself ready to take us to Quebec.

"What day have you chosen for your return, Gabriel?" asked le pere Jean.

"Qui choisit, prend le pire, mon pere. All days are alike for me.

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, I find much the same as Thursday, Friday, Sat.u.r.day. I can start to-day, to-morrow, or the day after that, as madame may say."

"Then I shall speak for madame, and say to-day," returned the priest; and added, in his quiet way: "I bid you beware of Master Gabriel's fair words, madame. To quote from his favourite proverb, 'il est ne dimanche, il aime besogne faite,' he will promise you anything."

"'Ce que femme veut, Dieu le veut,' mon pere," he answered, laughing.

"Well, I am ready at once, if madame can support the poverty of my poor cabin."

"Ah, Maitre Gabriel, if you knew how much your care will mean to us, you would make no apologies."

"Come, come, Gabriel! No more proverbs, no more delays," exclaimed le pere Jean, and, as the pilot hurried off to his shallop, he took both my hands in his.

"My child, remember G.o.d goes with you by land and water, by day and night, and He will surely bring you to the goal which He alone can see," and then he raised his hand, and I knelt while he blessed us both.

CHAPTER XV

THE MARQUIS DE MONTCALM-GOZON DE ST. VeRAN

In Maitre Gabriel I found a type I could readily understand; he was very shrewd, very curious, with a pa.s.sion for questioning, but so honest and childlike that he took no offence at any rebuff. He was a thorough sailor, a martinet to his little crew, vain of his skill and boastful of his courage, and confident of the showing he and his fellow-Canadians would make against "les G.o.ddams," should they venture to appear.

He insisted on hearing the story of our capture in detail, and seemed much more amused at the address of the Indians than distressed at our misfortune.

"They were good fellows, after all, madame. If it had not been for them, you would not have fallen into the hands of le pere Jean.

But, bedame! I cannot understand why he should send you to Quebec when he knew you were bound for Louisbourg. A priest, no doubt, knows much, but I can tell you, madame, if you came to me and whispered 'Louisbourg,' it would not be by way of Quebec I should send you. If you have any reason to be there, there is no time like the present, for the English are on their way thither even now; and if they are frightened away by our s.h.i.+ps, they will be back in the spring; take my word for it!"

"But, Gabriel, le pere Jean spake as if nothing was to be feared from any attempt they might make at present."

"Perhaps not, but they may try it, all the same. They have been in Halifax for months past, and only sailed in August. I do not think it will come to anything myself, but by the spring all the music will be on hand, and the dancing before Louisbourg will begin in earnest. But pardon, madame; I forgot you had friends there, or I would not have let my tongue run on so."

"No, no, Gabriel; I wish to hear all you have learned. Why is it impossible to go to Louisbourg?"

"Bedame! I never said it was impossible to go to Louisbourg, madame; mais, 'qui se tient a Paris, ne sera jamais pape,' and your face is not in the right direction. If you would be there, madame, I would engage to find you a way in the teeth of all 'les G.o.ddams'

who ever chewed rosbif. But I forget; we are going to Quebec," he ended, slyly, evidently desirous that I should talk.

This, however, I would not do, but he had given me matter enough to keep me awake by night and set me anxiously dreaming by day.

Why had the priest been so determined to keep me from Louisbourg?

Now that I thought it over, I saw that I had never urged my wish at all. I had allowed my whole purpose to be swept aside at his first firm refusal to consider my request. And all this time Hugh was in danger, while I had turned my back upon him. If not in danger now, he certainly would be in the spring, and all my effort, with those weary miles of sea again between us, would be unavailing for his recall. Indeed, he would probably refuse to leave his post if it were threatened by an enemy. Why had I consented? Why was I even now lengthening the heart-breaking distance between us with every coward mile I travelled? Why had I not pleaded with le pere Jean, instead of obeying blindly, like a child? He had not known the real danger, perhaps, or his advice would have been different.

Could I have spoken freely with Lucy, I might have gained some comfort; but, alas! my lips were sealed towards her. How could I expect her to understand even if I could speak? My distress she would readily comprehend, but she could not possibly know anything of such a love as Hugh's; so I was forced to take the sympathy of her silent companions.h.i.+p, making her such return as I might.

Gabriel, I grew almost afraid of; he questioned me so cunningly, without seeming to do so, that I was in constant dread lest I should betray my secret and declare the desire which was consuming me. It was a relief when I could turn his curiosity and lead him to talk of his own life and the places we pa.s.sed; for the wilderness of hills of the North Sh.o.r.e, to which we had crossed, was broken here and there by settlements, as at Les Eboulements, where the tiny church and village nestled by the water's edge at the foot of mountains rising and rolling back to purple heights behind. We were here shut out from the main river by the wooded sh.o.r.es of the Isle aux Coudres, which Gabriel regarded with peculiar pride, as somewhere on its farther side stood his white-washed cottage, where his wife kept her lonely guard during his long absences, and spent sleepless watches on wild nights in autumn, entreating the protection of St.

Joseph and Our Lady of Good Help for her man, fighting for life somewhere on the dangerous waters.

"She must be very strong with her prayers, ma bonne femme, for every time I have come safe home--eh, madame?"