Part 36 (1/2)
”Rose,” the voice said, ”I have wanted to find you alone. I have several things to say. I have promised to go on this expedition because I felt it was necessary. You will not blame me. I have made all arrangements for you and miladi, and I shall be back before the real cold weather sets in. I only pray that we may be successful.”
”Yes,” she said under her breath, yet in vague surprise.
”It is a hard burthen to lay upon you. Do not imagine I have not seen it. At first I thought it only the restless whim of failing health, but I believe she loves you as much as she can love any human being. I realize now that she should have gone to her own sunny France long ago.
She is formed for pleasure and brightness, variety, and to have new people about her when she exhausts the old. I should not have married her, but it seemed the best step then. I truly believed----”
No, he would not drag his weak justification before this pure, sweet girl, though he had almost said ”I believed she loved me.” And he had learned since that she loved no one but her own self. Laurent Giffard had never awakened to the truth. But he had taken the best of her youth.
”Oh, you must know that I am glad to make some return for all your kindness in my childhood. And she was sweet and tender. I think it is the illness that has changed her. Oh, I can recall many delightful hours spent with her. I should be an ingrate if I could not minister to her now of my best.”
”You could never be an ingrate,” he protested.
”I hope not,” fervently.
”I count confidently on returning. I can't tell why, for we shall risk the fate of war, but I can almost see myself here again in the old place. Like our beloved Commandant I, too, have dreams of what Quebec can be made, a glorious place to hand down to posterity. Meanwhile you will care for her as you do now, and comfort her with your many pleasant arts. I am a man formed for business and active endeavor, and cannot minister in that manner. Perhaps Providence did not intend me for a husband, and I have thwarted the will of Providence.”
There was a humorous strain in his voice at the last sentence.
”Oh, you need not fear but that I will do my best. And I, too, shall look for your home-coming, believe in it, pray for it.”
”The women will remain, and Pani will serve you to the uttermost. When this weary time is ended, and we are in better condition, you will have your reward.”
”I do not want any reward, it is only returning what has been given.”
He knew many things miladi had grudged her, most of all the home, since it was of his providing and intent.
They wandered on in silence for some time. Both hearts were too full for commonplace talk, and he did not dare venture out of safe lines. He could not pretend to fatherly love, even that cloaked by brotherliness would be but a sham, he knew. He had his own honor to satisfy, as well as her guilelessness.
Now it was quite dark.
”Oh, I must go back. It has been so pleasant that I have loitered. Let us run down this slope.”
She held out her hand, and he took it. They skimmed over the ground like children. Then there were the steps to climb, but she was up the first.
”Good-night.” She waved her white hand, and he saw it in the darkness.
”The saints bless and keep you.”
She ran over to the level and then up again toward the kitchen end.
There was a savory smell of supper. A moose had been killed and divided around.
”Oh, how delightful! Is there enough for two bites? One will not satisfy me. But I must see miladi.”
”No,” interposed Wanamee. ”I took in a cup of broth, but she was soundly asleep. Have some steak while it is hot. The saints be praised for a mouthful of decent food.”
Yes, it was good. Pani watched with eager, hungry eyes and lips aquiver.
Rose felt almost conscience-smitten that she should have been satisfied first.
”Was there much to be divided?” she asked of him.