Part 42 (1/2)

”Yes, the best thing,” Destournier said, but he was stunned by the bargain. Was his life to cost that sacrifice? There must be some way of preventing it.

As the days went on he considered various plans. This was why Rose was so languid and unlike herself. Perhaps the hard winter and poor food had something to do with it. She had bought his life at too great a sacrifice. And then came the sweet, sad knowledge that he loved her, also.

The spring was quite early. Men began to work in their gardens and mend the damages of the winter, but with a certain fear of what was to come.

And one day Destournier found Rose sitting in the old gallery, where she had run about as a child. But she was a child no longer. The indescribable change had come. There were womanly lines in her figure, although it was thinner than of yore, and the light in her eyes deeper.

He had given up the house to her and the two Indian women, with Pani for attendant. M. Pontgrave had been a great invalid through the winter, and besought the younger man's company. The Sieur often came in and they talked over the glowing plans and dreams of the earlier days, when they were to rear a city that the mother country could be proud of.

He understood why Rose had shunned him, and whenever he resolved to take up this troublous subject his courage failed him. Saved from this marriage she surely must be. In a short time Savignon would return. He had known of two women who had cast in their lots with the better-cla.s.s Indians at Tadoussac, and were happy enough. But they were not Rose.

He came slowly over to her now. She looked up and smiled. Much keeping indoors of late had made her skin fair and fine, but her soft hair had not shed all its gold.

”Rose,” he began, then paused.

She flushed, but made a little gesture, as if he might be seated beside her.

”Rose,” he said again, ”in the winter you saved my life. I have known it for some time.”

Her breath came with a gasp. How had he learned this, unless Savignon had come before the time?

”And you paid a great price for it.”

”Oh, oh!” she clasped her hands in distress. ”How did you know it?”

”Savignon told me before he went away. He asked my consent to your marriage. I could not give it then. He will soon return. I cannot give it now.”

”But it was a promise. Monsieur, your life was of more account than mine.”

”Do you think I will accept the sacrifice? I have been weak and cowardly not to settle this matter before, not to give you the a.s.surance that I will make a brave fight for your release.”

”I was very sad and frightened at first, partly ill, as well, and I hoped not to live. But the good G.o.d did not take me. And if He meant me to do this thing, keep my word, I must do it. I asked Father Jamay one time about promises, and he said when one had vowed a vow it must be kept. And I have prayed for courage when the time comes. See, I am quite tranquil.”

She raised her face and he read in it a n.o.bly spiritual expression. He recalled now that she had gone up to the convent quite often with Wanamee, and that more than once she had slipped into Madame de Champlain's _prie-dieu_, that her husband never would have disturbed.

Was she finding fort.i.tude and comfort in a devotion to religion that would strengthen her to meet this tremendous sacrifice? She looked like a saint already.

She could not tell him that he knew only half, that he might still be the object of Savignon's vengeance, if she failed to keep her word.

”Perhaps the Sieur will have something to say, if my wishes fail.

Unless you tell me you love this Indian, and that seems monstrous to me, this marriage shall never take place.”

”It must, it must,” she said, though her face was like marble, where it had been human before. ”M'sieu, what is right must be done. I promised, and you were saved.”

”Of your own free will? Rose,” he caught both hands in a pressure that seemed to draw her soul along with it, ”answer me truly.”

”Of my will, yes, Monsieur.” Her white throat swelled with the anguish she repressed.

”You have left out the 'free,'” but he knew well why she could not utter it.

”Monsieur, I think you would be n.o.ble enough to give your life for a friend”--she was about to say ”whom you loved,” but she caught her voice in time.