“You cannot plead fatigue, since you have only danced once,” he declared insistently.
He impelled her into the line with a gentle firmness she could not resist, though every line of her face, every pulse in her body, protested against it. Two dances in succession were too pronounced, unless one was betrothed or likely to be.
In spite of it all she found herself whirling about the line, in a keeper’s charge she felt. The young men looked rather questioningly; the girls exchanged glances, the elder women nodded, as if this set the seal to their surmises. Renée’s face was scarlet and her eyes downcast. Would it never come to an end? She was growing more and more resentful, indignant.
“Now we will take a turn about——”
“Where is Elise?” she interrupted. Elise Renaud had been married long enough to play chaperone. Madame Marchand had expected to attend, but in the afternoon one of the babies had been taken ill. And there were mothers enough to watch over the young girls.
“No, you do not want Elise,” mimicking her tone in a soft, yet decisive manner. “And I want you. I have something to say——”
“No! no!” she cried in alarm, wrenching her hand away, and she would have fled, but she almost ran into André Valbonais’s arms.
“Oh, keep me!” she cried under her breath. “Take me away—keep me from——”
“What is the meaning of this?” and he looked from the small, trembling figure in his arms to Monsieur Laflamme.
“Ma’m’selle de Longueville had a turn—I think it was the heat—or, perhaps we danced too hard. You in this new country take things so much in earnest. Then we came out here for a breath of air. She is better already. She is my queen for the evening. Ma’m’selle, when you are ready to go back——”
Laflamme was the embodiment of gentleness and perfect breeding, and as he gazed tranquilly at André, the young man felt the indescribable difference, and withal a certain power that was like authority over Renée. Oh, what if—and suddenly André Valbonais knew the child’s play; the pretty imperiousness of ownership had a deeper meaning for him. He would dispute this man’s claim. What was it but trifling? The two men were as transient guests in the town. They would go away as soon as the spring opened. But this one should not trifle with little Renée. Ah! he did not look like trifling. The resolution in his face startled André.
“Ma’m’selle Renée,” he began, “are you ill? Shall I take you home?” and André’s eyes questioned.
There was an ardent pressure on the small hand that said authoritatively, “Come! come!” It roused the spirit of wilfulness, of which she had quite too much. And what was there to be afraid of? She was suddenly courageous.
“I am better now,” she said. “We will go back. But I will not dance. Monsieur Laflamme, choose some other partner. One does not dance every time, even with a king. We rule our own court here and make our own laws. And I will lend the fair one my rose.”
She took André’s arm and smiled up in the other’s face with the most provoking nonchalance. Laflamme gnawed his lip. He was very angry.
“I shall not consent to that. I am not so easily transferred, ma’m’selle.”
“But you must go and dance. You will break the circle. Monsieur Valbonais and I will look on.”
She turned, her head held up haughtily. There was nothing to do but follow or make a scene, which was not to be thought of.
“And here is Lucie Aubry, the most queenlike girl in the room. You two look splendid on the floor. Ma’m’selle Lucie, will you take my rose?”
“Ma’m’selle Aubry does not need it. May I have the pleasure?” Laflamme placed himself between the two and led Lucie away.
“What happened?” asked André abruptly. “Were you ill, or—or offended?”
“I was dizzy and warm, that was all.”
“Renée,” he began presently, “that man is playing with you. He is endeavoring to win your affections, and he will go away soon and you will be left to get over it as best you may.”
“Get over what?” Her look and tone were so demure, so innocent, that he studied her in amaze.
“Why,” with some embarrassment, “if you care for him—and now I remember——”
A definite feeling that could hardly be called emotion swept over him. And he knew now he was cherishing a vague dream that some day she would love him.
“Well, what is it you remember?” in a sweet, half malicious, half mocking tone.
“He has been with you a great deal of late. On the ice and at sledging, and at the last dance. Men of his stamp love to flirt with pretty girls—yes, love to win their hearts and then leave them in the lurch. That is what he is doing. He is not in earnest.”
That vexed her. She flushed and looked prettier than ever, but tormenting as well, as a half-veiled touch of indignation seemed to pass from her shining eyes.
“As if I cared!” with a laugh like the softest ripple.
“Then—you do not—love him?”
André’s voice had the hoarseness of an unspoken fear in it. He was amazed at the boldness of his question.
“Why should I love him? Why should I want to go away from this dear home, from Uncle Gaspard?”
“But he will persuade you——”
“Will he?” She glanced up so daring, so defiant and resolute, that he gave a happy laugh.
“That is right. Oh, Renée, child, do not let any one persuade you! You are too young. And then, by and by—yes, you will know some one cares for you with his whole soul, will lay all that he has at your feet——”
“He had better not. I should simply dance over it. Now let us go back. I am all rested. You shall have the next dance with me.”
Monsieur Laflamme made no movement toward her, but seemed quite devoted to a new partner. Did he really care so much? Renée felt piqued with this display of indifference. This dance had a chain of persons going in and out and turning partners. As that gentleman approached she gave her rose a caressing touch and glanced up with eyes so alight and full of beseechingness that he pressed her hand in token that all was peace between them, and her wilful heart exulted.
“My charming queen,” he said in an appealing tone, “may I come back to my rightful place and sun myself in your smiles? Did I offend you?”
She was not used to such flowery speech, but it sounded delightful to her. And yet it did not seem quite sincere. But she waved her hand playfully to André and went with M. Laflamme to the head of the row of dancers. It was hardly likely she would be queen again after to-night.
André Valbonais looked on puzzled, confused. He danced with several other girls, he chatted with the mothers and fathers, but it seemed as if one side of his nature did not respond to anything. It was so curiously cold that the smiles Renée lavished on every one did not arouse any jealous resentment. It was like an ice-bound stream that would awaken presently; the spring sunshine never failed to burst the bounds.
They came to the end of the night’s pleasure. Several lovers were glancing at each other with confident, lingering smiles that mothers understood and did not disapprove of, even while they hurried their daughters away.
“There can be but one more ball, Lent falls so early,” said some one.
“True. Well, let us make it on Tuesday night.”
“Oh, you forget! That is the masked ball.”
“What matter, so long as there is dancing and fun?”
“But we are not all allowed at the masked ball. That is more for the older people. Oh, I hope next year I shall be a queen!”
So they chatted in their gay youth. André fastened Renée’s fur cloak and drew the hood over her face. Had she ever looked so sweet and bewildering before? Monsieur Laflamme wished her good-night and happy dreams, then bending low, whispered:
“But they must be of me. I shall dream of you.”
She colored vividly.
The quiet streets were filled with echoes of talk. Two or three dropped out here, a few more there. Renée and André called out good-night and turned in their square.
Gaspard Denys was smoking his pipe before the cheerful blazing fire, a picture of comfort.
“Oh, you lazy uncle!” Renée cried, but her voice had gayety, and not disappointment in it. “You did not come to see me as the queen. And I may never be that again.”
“A queen! And whose queen, pray?”
“M. Laflamme chose me. And M. Rivé was one of the kings. I don’t know why, but I believe I like him better. And he looked especially well to-night. Why didn’t you come?” with an enchanting pout of her rosy lips.
“I had a long list of accounts to go over. And then, pretty one, you had André to bring you home. Besides, I am growing old and, like Mère Lunde, love the chimney corner.”
“Oh, you are not old! I will not have you growing old. Why, the fathers with their grown-up children were there. And some women have grandchildren. Good-night, André,” nodding to him.
André took his dismissal cheerfully.
Renée crawled in Gaspard’s lap and put her soft arms about his neck, laid her cheek to his.
“Oh,” she cried in a tone of pathos, “I do not want you ever to get old! You are just right now.”
“My dear, do you want always to stay fifteen?”
“Yes, I should be glad to. Oh, what makes the world whirl round so! And I shall be sixteen in the summer, and then—no, I won’t go on. Can’t you take something, do something——”
“There was a man once who fell asleep and slept for years. When he awoke his friends were dead, or had gone away——”
“Oh, hush! hush! I do not mean anything so dreadful as that,” she entreated.
“Then we must go on and take all the pleasure we can to-day, or to-night—though I believe it is to-morrow morning now, and you must run to bed.”
She kissed him and turned slowly. She wanted to ask some curious questions, but they were vague and would not readily shape themselves into words.
He still sat and thought. Sixteen. It gave him an uneasy feeling. If she could always stay a little girl! If he might map out her life! André Valbonais had the making of a fine, trusty man, a good business man as well. If he could come here as a son of the house. If they three could go on together, and a merry throng of children grow up about them!
The dream was rudely broken to fragments the next day. The young man of six or seven and twenty who stood leaning against the counter, one foot half crossed over the other, with an easy, gentlemanly air that betokened training beyond what the average habitant of the new countries acquired, was well calculated to win a woman’s heart, a girl’s heart, perhaps too easily caught, satisfied with the outward indications of manliness. Gaspard Denys could not quite tell why, but in his heart he did not altogether approve of this fine gentlemen, for all his good looks, his well-modulated voice and excellent breeding.
And he had asked him for the pride of his eye, the idol of his heart, the dearest thing on earth, to take her away for years, perhaps forever, and leave him to the loneliness of old age! And, monstrous thought, he was persuaded that Renée would love him when he had spoken. He had seen indications of it. Last evening he had startled her by some vehemence, for in spite of her apparent gayety and merriment she was a tender, sensitive plant. He would woo her with the utmost gentleness after the permission was once given.
“She is so young,” Gaspard Denys began reluctantly. “Whether a girl at that time of life knows her own mind, is able to choose wisely——”
“But it is the guardians and parents generally who choose. A little advice, suggestion—and I think I can satisfy you on any point you desire. Ma’m’selle Renée would go back to the standing of her father’s family. She would have advantages, and I may succeed to a title. Still, now I only present myself, and rely upon no adventitious aids.”
“It would be—for her to decide. And I would rather have her here. Her father, it seems, cared little enough about her. No, I do not think I could give her up,” decisively.
“But it is not absolutely necessary that I return to France,” in a gravely gentle tone. “After my affairs in Montreal are settled, which I hope will turn out profitably, I should be free to do as I liked, or as another liked,” smiling affably.
“We will not decide this matter hastily. If you chose to go to Montreal, and the spring will soon open,” M. Denys said tentatively.
M. Laflamme thought he had only to ask to have. He fancied Gaspard Denys would be very glad to marry his adopted daughter into a good family—for, after all, her grandfather had not been held in high esteem. A little persuasion on Denys’s part, a little setting forth of the advantages, and he could manage to do the rest by flattery and cajolery. He began to half wish he had not taken a step in the matter, but he could not draw back now.
“I should like to know that my suit was favorably looked upon before I went,” was the rejoinder.
“Oh, you may soon know that. To-morrow, perhaps.”
“Meanwhile may I see Ma’m’selle de Longueville?”
“She is at the Marchands’.”
Monsieur Laflamme bowed. He did not care to subject himself to the clear, intent eyes of Madame Marchand. They were too penetrating.
A fortune was not so easily won, after all. Fate was playing at cross-purposes. Renée and Wawataysee were skimming over the lake in an ice boat. If he had guessed that he might have walked home with her in the twilight.
Renée was brilliant with the bloom of the frosty air as she came in, and her eyes were like stars. A pang went to Gaspard’s heart. Ought she not take her place on a higher round than this little town of traders and trappers and farmers, many of them scarcely knowing how to read? There might be beautiful, satisfactory years before her—years with educated, refined people. He knew something of the larger cities and their advantages; he could guess at many of the charms of the beautiful, fascinating, historic Paris, with its palaces and villas and works of art and wonderful gardens. Should she be shut out of all these and affiliate with the wilderness of the New World? No. If it broke his heart, she should be free to choose.
“You had a fine time!” he commented.
“Oh, splendid! Do you know, I shall hate to have the snow and ice vanish! Oh, you should have seen the sky to-night when the red sun dropped down behind the mountains and everything was illumined as from some mighty blaze. And then fading, changing to such gorgeous colors. Oh, what is back of it all? What wonderful power and glory?”
Yes, she was capable of appreciating higher and finer opportunities than any she would ever have here.
He went through to the shop. He could not enjoy the fire when Mère Lunde was clattering pots and pans. But he had his own, if the place was a conglomeration of everything. He had made himself a big, easy chair, and the great buffalo-skin thrown over it kept off drafts. The fire was poked up; the dry pine made an exhilarating blaze, and the pungency affected one like drinking wine—sent a thrill to the farthest pulse.
Renée came and stood in the light of the blaze, that made a Rembrandt picture of her. She watched the dancing, leaping flames. She smiled, turned grave, then smiled again, and presently caught sight of the serious face watching her.
“What is it?” she asked, dropping down on a log, fur-covered for a stool.
“Renée, I wonder if you would like to go away and visit wonderful, beautiful countries, where people have books and pictures and fine houses, and where there are elegant men and women——”
“Why? Are you going?”
She took the rather rough hand in hers, soft as velvet, and gazed at him out of surprised eyes.
“Would you like to go?” studying her lovely face.
“Not without you,” gravely.
“But if some one younger and handsome, well-informed, accustomed to a more refined life, should care for you, should want to take you, should——”
“Oh, what is it you mean? And who is it? And I could not go unless”—her face was scarlet—“unless he married me, I know that. And there is no one I would marry. Do you think I would go away and leave you, when I love you so, when you wanted me and no one else did? Why, I would not marry a king!” and she clasped her arms about his neck.
Then a sudden knowledge flashed over her. She recalled last evening.
“I know!” she exclaimed. “It is Monsieur Laflamme. And he dared——”
She clinched her small fist.
“Then he spoke last night? And you——”
“No, he did not speak. But you can make one understand. Perhaps he might have, but André came.”
Renée rose suddenly and stretched up her full height.
“Then he did mean— André said he was only pretending. I should hate him still more if he could do that! But if he thinks I care for him and would go away with him to the fairest spot in the world—oh, you do not want me to!” and she threw herself into his arms, sobbing vehemently.
“Renée, child, there is no harm done. He was very gentlemanly. He asked for your hand as an honest man should. And we cannot blame him altogether,” a spice of humor in his tone. “He fancied you cared for him. Men occasionally make mistakes.”
Had she made him believe that? She had tried somewhat without considering the consequences. The little triumph had appealed to her girlish vanity. How could she explain it?
“I liked him a little,” she confessed brokenly. “And I was proud and delighted to be chosen his queen. But I do not want him to love me. I do not want any one to love me but just you. I shall never love any one else.”
It was a very sweet confession, but she did not know what it meant. So her mother had said, and he wanted to believe he had held her truest faith, and this had descended to her child.
“Then what am I to tell him? That you are too young to think about such things?”
“That I shall never think about him in that manner. Oh, make him understand that!”
“There, dear, it is not worth crying over. He is not the first man who has found the rose out of reach or been pricked by thorns.”
Gaspard turned up the sweet, flushed, tear-wet face and kissed it. He was so glad to have it back safe and innocent of the great knowledge that sooner or later comes to all womanhood. Some day it would come to her, but let him keep his little girl as long as he could.
So it was all settled, but Renée could not feel quite at rest about it. These people did not make tyrants of conscience; they were not analytical nor given to inquisitorial scrutiny of every feeling or motive. The priests were as simple-hearted as the people. True, some of them were considered rather lax when they had left their people open to Protestant influences. But here there were no Protestants, no religious arguments. To tell the truth, to be honest, just and kindly was creed enough for the women. Their hearts were not probed to the deepest thought. They confessed a bit of temper, a little envying, perhaps some laxness about prayers, and took a simple penance. Church-going was one of their pleasures.
Yet Renée had a kind of misgiving that she had thrown at Monsieur Laflamme some of those radiant looks that might mean much or little, according to one’s way of translating them. She put the thought of marriage far away from her. Some time a delightful, devoted man, like M. Marchand, might cross her path. He was so strong and yet so gentle. He was always thinking of what would please Wawataysee. Even now, with two babies, he went out rambling with her, and they came home laden with wild flowers or berries. Then it was out canoeing, of which the young wife was extremely fond.
But it did not seem as if M. Laflamme would be given to this kind of devotion. He would seek to bend a woman to his will. There were wives who cheerfully bowed their heads to their masters, but as a general thing these simple-minded French husbands were not tyrants.
She did not like him to come so near; it made her afraid. And, girlish contradiction, she had delighted in her power of bringing him near, of tasting the sweets of a certain kind of exaction. André always yielded to her whims and seldom had any will of his own.
She sat in the garden awhile listening to the birds and a pretty black-eyed squirrel, who kept running up and down the tree beside her and looking as if he would presently jump on her shoulder. Then she saw André coming up the path, and a tormenting impulse seized her. She skipped across the grass with a triumph of laughter in her eyes.
“André!” she cried gayly. “André, you were quite mistaken—” How should she word it?
“Mistaken! About what?” and he raised his honest eyes, half amused.
“About—Monsieur Laflamme. You said that he did not mean anything; that he only cared to win a girl’s heart and cast it away. It is not true. You were very unjust. He has been here. He has asked Uncle Gaspard for my hand. He would like to marry me. And I am not quite sixteen!” in a tone of exultation.
She mistook the fleeting color for a fit of vexation that he had been wrong, though people generally turned red when they were angry. It seemed to him all the blood rushed out of his body, whither he knew not, but left him as one dead. And there was a solemn tolling of bells in his ears.
She was enjoying his unlooked-for mood with a certain sense of triumph.
“Oh, the pity of the blessed saints, of the sweet Virgin herself! And you mean to marry him!”
“Well, if I did?” saucily. “I dare say there are girls who would jump at the prospect.”
“But you know next to nothing about him. He may have a wife already somewhere. Such things have been. Oh, Monsieur Denys cannot, will not let you go!”
That was like a strain of sweet music to her. Then she laughed and he looked puzzled.
“Oh,” with an airy toss of the head, “I don’t believe Uncle Gaspard would break my heart and make me miserable if I had cared a great deal for M. Laflamme. But I do not want to marry any one. I do not want to go away. I am very happy here. Why, there isn’t a man in the world like Uncle Gaspard!”
There was a great revulsion in every pulse. The warm blood came back to André’s cheek and the strange look went out of his eyes.
“But you see you were mistaken. You gave him hard and unjust judgment. I suppose he must have loved me or he wouldn’t have wanted to marry me. There is no lack of pretty girls in the town.”
She held her head with triumphant assurance. Her eyes were brimming over, her red lips full of saucy curves, in which seemed to lurk budding kisses for some lover.
But André blundered, as inexperience sometimes will.
“It is not only the beauty, ma’m’selle. Laure Eudeline is like a picture, but without a sou or a silver spoon for her portion. Has M. Laflamme looked at her twice? And you have a dot that would make many men covet you. Every one knows it will only grow larger in M’sieu Denys’s hands. And I dare say he would like the pleasure of handling it.”
Renée had rarely thought of her fortune. And the most exquisite, the most romantic dream of a young girl is to be loved for herself alone. André had suddenly dashed this enchanting belief to fragments. Yes, there was the fortune, a hard, solemn fact. Must she suspect every one henceforward?
“André,” she cried in passionate anger, “you are small and mean and suspicious! I hate you!”
It was the truth, since André had heard Madame Aubry and one or two others commend Monsieur Laflamme for his wisdom. Some man would marry Mademoiselle de Longueville in a year or two. But it was an unfortunate way of putting her on guard. And it stings a girl with mortification to hear a man belittled who has paid her the compliment of a marriage proposal.
The young fellow walked away. There was something fine and solid about him, she had to admit, angry as she was. Almost as tall as Uncle Gaspard and with a compact, yet lithesome figure, carrying his head well, stepping with decision and having an air of command with most people, but never with her, for she ruled him.
Her anger was short-lived, after all. When she quarrelled with him there always came up a procession of remembrances. She knew now what might have been her fate as a captive, and he had saved her from that. He had gone without food that she and Wawataysee would not lose their strength until they had reached some place of safety. He had carried her that last night. Yes, she was an ungrateful, exasperating little thing, and after all she did not really hate him. She would not even want him to go out of her life. Suddenly she thought she would not even like him to love some other girl.
He had a long conversation with Gaspard Denys that comforted him a good deal. Denys was like an older brother, taking a great interest in his advancement, advising him as to what was best to do with his savings, but as yet he had never said, “You had better marry some nice, thrifty girl.” Somehow he was very glad of that.
She lingered around in the old garden and the happy light came back to her eyes, the balmy air soothed her ruffled temper. In her secret heart she believed M. Laflamme had really loved her. If there were other pretty girls in the world, there were other rich girls, too. In Canada, where he was going, there were real heiresses, though how much it took to constitute one she had no idea.
He did not come through the garden. Perhaps he meant to stay to supper. Then she would be rather grave and dignified, and show him that he had seriously offended her.
“Renée! Renée, petite!” called Mère Lunde.
There was a quick stride down the street. It turned the corner. She pulled a rose and unthinkingly pressed it to her lips.
“André!” she said in a rather appealing tone.
The tall figure bent over the fence, and the eyes were touched with an eager, responsive light.
“André, were you very angry? I was——”
“Oh, ma’m’selle, who could long be angry with one so charming?” and his whole heart was in his voice.
She gave him the rose. “I must run in to supper,” and she vanished like a sprite.
“She kissed the rose,” he said, pressing it to his lips. “Oh, ma’m’selle, no sweeter flower ever bloomed. But you are a rose set in thorns. The fragrance clings to you, the thorns prick others.”
There was news enough at Madame Renaud’s. Every year she grew a little stouter, a trifle more consequential. The grandmères always were. Elise and Louis both had little daughters. There had been sons before, but granddaughters were rather nearer, it seemed. She must make a christening cake for both, and she thanked the saints that the church had been freshened up a little and that the good Vicar-General had made a gift of a new altar cloth.
The other news was not so joyous. Barbe Gardepier had never been home since her marriage. Women travelled very seldom in those days. Once her baby boy had been born and died, then her little girl was just born. And now she had lost her husband, and was coming back to St. Louis to live.
Jean Gardepier had died early in the winter. But news was slow in coming. This had been sent with the first relay of boats, and she would be up in June with her little girl.
“And to think of the sorrow of the poor thing!” exclaimed Madame Renaud, wiping her eyes. “Here I have my good man Louis and my four children around me, three of them in homes of their own, and never a sorrow, while she is left alone to sup bitter grief! And not a relative near her! The saints be praised when it is possible for families to stay together. Then there is a friendly voice to console you.”
They all remembered pretty Barbe Guion. The old grandmère had died—that was natural in old age—but aunts and uncles and cousins were living, so it was a family grief.
But the christening came to break the sorrow and there was a grand time. Spring had come late this year. With a rather hard winter, streams and rivers had been choked with ice, but now all was bloom and beauty and gladness.
There were always some special prayers and a mass said on Corpus Christi day, and it was kept with great seriousness at Gaspard Denys’. But the Indians all about were so friendly that fears were allayed, though the town was better protected now.
There had been very heavy spring rains, and this, with the sunshine, gave promise of abundant harvests. Farmers had begun to plant wheat and rye, which brought back old memories of pleasant life in sunny France when taxes and tithes were not too high.
Amid all this smiling content there was one morning a strange sound. Men paused at their work and listened. Sometimes in a high wind the sound came rushing over the prairie like the tramp of an army, and seemed to threaten everything with destruction. Occasionally the river rose, but since the founding of the towns no great harm had been done.
On it came, nearer, with a thundering boom that now could not be mistaken. Men rushed to the levee to be sure that the boats were made safe. They looked up the river, standing on the high ground. What was this terror marching toward them? A seething, foaming flood with great, dark waves tossing up a yellow-black spray, sweeping all before it.
“The river! The river is rising!” was shouted by terrified voices, and men looked at each other in fear. They had never seen anything like it. There had been freshets that had done considerable damage, torn out banks and sent down great drifts of broken and uprooted trees. There had been ice gorges, when the cakes of ice would pile up like Arctic mounds, crashing, thundering, and suddenly give way, dazzling in the sunshine like a fleet of boats and, sweeping down the river, crush whatever was in its way.
But this was a great wall, starting up no one knew where, swelled by the streams, expanded by the Missouri, sweeping all before it, submerging Gaboret Island, gathering momentum every moment, swirling at every point and curve, as if longing to beat them out of existence, and with an accumulation of uprooted trees so jammed together that many of them stood upright, a great army of devastation.
The current was very swift in any freshet. Although it was called the great river, that applied more to its length, for here it was not much over two thousand feet wide. But it was deep, with a dangerous power when it rose in its might, and fed by so many streams and tributaries that the débris was constantly washing down to the gulf at its numerous mouths.
They gazed in speechless terror at first, as if they would be helpless in the grasp of such a giant, and the roar was appalling. The spray seemed dashed up in the very face of heaven; the rending, tearing and crushing was terrific. The very trees shrieked as they were torn from their foundation. On it rushed, a great, dark, fierce wall, sweeping everything in its way, tearing out banks, booming like the roar of artillery, shrieking with madness, as if hundreds of people were crying out for help and safety. The crowd looked at each other in dismay. Some fled to the next higher range, many sank helplessly to the ground, others were on their knees praying. And when it struck the little town it seemed like a mighty earthquake, and the ground fairly shuddered as it rushed by furiously.
The boats that had been drawn up to a safe line, as was thought, were swept off to join the mad, careering mass and add to the rending, deafening sound. And when the first accumulation had swept by and was whirling around the bend of the river another and still another followed. Was the whole north going to be precipitated upon them?
The curve in the river did the town this much good: it swept the fierce current to the eastern side, tore out, submerged, and by the time it turned it was below the town. They were not to be swept quite away, and some of the braver ones began to take courage and ventured to look at the levee below. That was gone, of course.
It was a day and a night of terror. The flood had submerged a part of the Rue Royale and some of the residents had moved their belongings to higher ground. Trading houses had been emptied of their goods. Gaspard Denys shrugged his shoulders with intense satisfaction. Up here past the Rue de l’Eglise all was safe and dry.
For days there seemed a spell upon the people. They could do little besides watch the receding river and view the wreckage it had left in its wake. Great caves and indentations on the opposite shore, bare spaces where trees had waved their long green arms joyously in the sunshine a few days ago. Yet they found they had not fared so badly. Everybody turned out to help repair damages.
What of the fleet of boats coming up the river? What of the towns below?
“And my poor Barbe!” cried Madame Renaud. “Why, they would be almost home, unless the boats were swept to destruction. Only a miracle could have saved them. And oh, then, where are they?”
True. The waters had subsided so much it would be safe to go in search of them. There were several coves less infested now with pirates than formerly, where boats sometimes put in to avoid the storms. Colonel Chouteau at once had two boats made ready and stored with provisions, in case of a rescue of any voyagers.
Then some trading fleets ventured from St. Charles. All along the shores on both sides were marks of devastation. Great chasms had been created here, and there mounds of broken trees and tons of river mud deposited over them. Gaboret Island began to show its head, but it had been swept clean.
The farther down the river went, the more appalling had been the destruction. The fate of the towns below they could only guess at, but the news came presently. Cahokia had been nearly swept out of existence. Part of Kaskaskia, the oldest part built on the river bluff, had been torn away by the resistless force. People were flying hither and thither, having lost their all.
André Valbonais had headed the rescuing party—if, indeed, there was anything to rescue. The mighty river had gone back to its normal state; the banks, encrusted with yellow mud, were drying in the sun. They found curious changes. Two of the little coves were filled with débris and gave no indication of sheltering any travellers.
They passed the Miramec River with no sign. That, too, had all its banks submerged, and the tough grasses and reeds were just rearing their heads. On again, here was quite a bluff. Just around the turn had been a noted pirate resort, broken up two or three times; at the last time with the cost of a number of lives.
“Do you suppose it will be safe?” queried the captain. “There may be Indians in hiding.”
Valbonais reconnoitred awhile. “Up above there is the smoke of a fire,” he said. “And I think I see a boat just beyond the turn. Get your arms, men, and be ready to back out if we are in danger.”
They crept on cautiously. Now they could see two boats drawn up on a ledge. Farther up there was a cluster of men.
“They are not pirates, surely. They would have some scouts stationed if they were.”
“They are making signs. Oh, no, they are neither Indians nor pirates,” and the captain dug the pole in the soft bank, impelling the boat up a yard or two. And then he heard a joyful cry, which he answered by an encouraging greeting through the horn he carried.
It was, indeed, the stranded voyagers. The captain of the fleet came running down the winding path. He was a Spaniard, quite well known in St. Louis, Dessous by name.
As to his story, all had been fair sailing, with mostly fine weather until they had reached this point. At the first sight they feared a hurricane was upon them. The river began to seethe and swell, and the noise of its rush sounded the awful warning in their ears. The boats had been cordelled, and now the order was given to run them in the cove. Two had reached a point of safety when the sweeping torrent invaded this shelter and took with it the rest of the line to join the raging flood.
The few passengers were in the first boat, and were soon put ashore and bidden to run upon the high ground. Then an effort was made to save the two remaining boats. Now and then a swirl nearly submerged them, but a mass of tree trunks and branches caught on some projection at the mouth of the cove, which turned the current and gave them a promise of safety. There was a cave, partly natural, and rendered more secure by the gang of pirates who had once made it their camping ground. But now it began to fill with water. So they carried some of their stores and blankets to a sheltered place up above to await the result. Even here they could hear the roar of the river.
When Captain Dessous thought it safe to venture, they examined the boats and found one with a large hole in the bottom where it had struck on the jagged rock. They had provisions and made a rude shelter for the women, three ladies and a maid, and a little child. It would not be safe to venture until the river had subsided, so they had waited. All could not go in the one boat, and to leave the others at the mercy of prowling Indians, or, it might be, a return of some pirate squad, was hardly safe. Still some of the more courageous men had agreed to remain, and they had decided to start shortly. It was full moon now and the night would be light enough for safety if they were caught in it, for no one could calculate the exact distance or the obstacles they would have to encounter.
Now all was joyous satisfaction. The stores from the injured boat were divided among the other two, and the women taken on board the rescue boat. They found their way out to the river, now flowing along serenely. But there would be the tide against them. Still they were delighted at the thought of soon reaching a safe harbor. The moon came out in its most resplendent beauty. The banks of the river were a series of bewildering pictures for any one with an artistic eye. The men sang songs in French and Spanish, and would have danced if there had been room.
“They are coming up the river!” some one shouted in the light of the golden June morning. “There is Captain Javelot and André Valbonais. I can make them out through the glass. And some women.”
One and another hurried down. Christophe Baugenon expected his sweetheart, and had been getting a nest ready for her. Madame Galette had come up to end her days with her two sons. Gaspard Denys was there as well, anxious to know how the peril had been escaped.
There was a lovely woman with a babe in her arms. The Spanish veil-like mantilla was thrown gracefully over her head and shoulders. Her soft, dark eyes glanced up and met those of Denys, who stretched out his hand past that of Valbonais in a heartfelt greeting.
“Barbe!” he cried. “Barbe!” forgetting she had any other name.
“Oh, Monsieur Denys, thank heaven!”
Madame Renaud came rushing down with a wild cry and flung her arms around her sister.
“Let me take the child,” Gaspard said, while the two women fell into each other’s embrace.
A pretty little thing of three or so, with rings of dark hair about her forehead and curiously tinted eyes, black with golden shades in them. She laid her hand confidingly on his shoulder. Children always trusted him.
“Marie! Marie!” called Madame Gardepier. “Take the little Angelique. Monsieur Denys, how can I thank you?”
She was lovelier than ever with her eyes full of tears. Elise had been crying over her.
Marie was maid and slave, about as much Spanish as African, slim and graceful, and with the beauty belonging to the mixed blood. The child made no demur, but bestowed a dainty smile upon him.
“Oh—it is nothing.” He had not come expecting to meet her, though he had wondered a little about her.
“But to be here again! To have a welcome from you, an old friend! Yes, it is joy indeed.”
Christophe Baugenon had his arms about his sweetheart. They were glad to have half the world share their joys, in those early days when honesty was more than style or culture.
“Come soon,” said Madame Renaud. “We are all such old friends. And Barbe will have so much to tell. And bring ma’m’selle: she can’t have forgotten. Oh, Barbe, she is a young lady now!” laughing cheerily.
Then they moved on, while his eyes followed them.
Already men were repairing the levee, or, rather, building it anew under Colonel Chouteau’s direction. Some other overflow in time would sweep this away, but this was the best of their knowledge then. And the unfortunate captain had his story to tell. He had saved his papers and bills of lading, and could tell upon whom the losses would fall. There were some shipments for Denys, but he was glad no lives had been lost. André was describing their share of the rescue in brief terms. So it was late when M. Denys returned.
“We waited and waited for you!” cried Renée. “And the breakfast was so good—the corn cakes Mère Lunde makes that melt in your mouth.”
And truly even those wilderness women, with no culinary magazines or housekeeping hints, concocted very savory dishes. Their grater was of the rudest kind. A strip of tin through which a sharpened bit of iron was driven to make holes, the rough side put upward as it was fastened to a piece of board. On this they grated green corn all the summer and autumn. During the winter they boiled it on the ear until it was soft, then prepared it the same way. The cakes were mixed with eggs and flour and baked on a hot flat stone in the heat of the coals. A syrup made of maple sugar would be poured over them.
“Yes, I am very sorry—and hungry,” laughing. “There was so much to talk about.”
“And was any one lost? Where did they find the boats?” Renée was all eagerness.
“There were only two. The rest were swept away. They took shelter in Pirate Creek, but the pirates have been cleaned out. It might have been worse. The losses can be recouped. Ah, you should have seen the joy of Christophe Baugenon over his sweetheart! Madame Galette, and Madame Gardepier with her little girl.”
“She is quite old now,” said Renée, with the assurance of youth that is its own hasty judge.
“Oh, no! Five or six and twenty. And her little girl is about three, a pretty child. Madame Renaud was wild with delight, as who would not be. And she begs that we will come soon.”
Renée had busied herself with a pretence of getting the meal, but it was Mère Lunde who had toasted the corn cake and the dried fish. It seemed to her as if a tiny shade had fallen over the world, but no, the sun was shining with extraordinary brilliancy. It made the leaves outside scatter its golden rays about as if they were sprites dancing.
“The blessed Virgin has been very good to her,” said Mère Lunde, crossing herself. “Such a fearful time! I hope there never will be another. And Madame Galette. I knew her years ago. She has two good sons left.”
An event like this made talk for days, especially as the men were busy repairing damages, and the captains had to tell their stories over and over. Then the next relay of boats came in with the news of the other towns, and that families were resolving to emigrate. Indeed, before cold weather set in quite a number of families had reached St. Louis, and many a winter evening was devoted to a recount of dangers and wonderful escapes, the destruction of many a small fortune.
There was not a happier heart in all St. Louis, perhaps, than that of Barbe Gardepier. If her marriage had not been altogether satisfactory, she would not at first confess it to her sister. New Orleans was very different from St. Louis. Pleasures were not so simple. There were cabarets where men spent evenings drinking and playing games, betting and losing. And there were balls where men never took their wives, but danced with beautiful creole girls who were outside the pale of their own people. True, the wives visited each other and gossiped about this and that, and went to church often, at times finding a choice morsel of scandal to discuss. She had longed for her own old home, and as the weeks and months went on she seemed to grow away from her husband rather than nearer to him. He had not appeared to mind the baby’s death much, while it had almost broken her heart.
She had been bitterly disappointed in the non-success of her second plan to visit home, as she still called the old town.
“It is too severe a journey,” her husband had said decisively. “And it is a dull little place at the best. I would not stir a step if I were not compelled to.”
For all that he seemed to find plenty to amuse himself with. Coming down the river, he had made a stay at Kaskaskia, where pretty girls abounded. When he did return there was a little daughter to claim his love; but he was not fond of babies. Girls were all right enough budding into womanhood, with a hundred seductive charms. Until then, the nursery and the convent.
Barbe might have found amusement and danced with the gayest, but she soon learned that her husband was jealous and could say very bitter things. So she kept to her little girl and poured out all her love on this sweet object. There were moments when she could not even bear to think that Jean Gardepier was her father.
One night he was brought home with a bad stab wound, the result of a quarrel. It did not seem dangerous at first, but he fumed and fretted and would go out too soon. He was quite ill again, and then it was found that the wound had penetrated his lung, and, after a few hemorrhages, he dropped quietly out of life. There was not much money left, but enough to take her home and keep her for awhile, and though she tried hard to moderate her joy at the thought, in her inmost heart she felt it was partly the sense of freedom.
And Gaspard Denys had been first to welcome her. The years had touched him lightly. His face had the same strong kindliness that had made her feel in her girlhood that he was a man to be trusted anywhere, a man one could rely upon. She had learned many things in these few years of her married life. She had had a much wider experience than Madame Renaud with sons-in-law and daughter-in-law and the many years since she became a bride.
Neighbors came out to greet them. It was like a triumphal procession. Indeed, it seemed as if all the streets were full of gay, cheerful chatter. For in those days there was very little letter-writing; indeed, many fine housekeepers and excellent women did not know how to write.
Late in the afternoon the sisters were alone. Nearly every one had been discussed, and Barbe knew about most of the marriages and deaths, the new babies, the few newcomers and the general prosperity, as well as the losses.
“I was extremely pleased with that young Valbonais,” Barbe said. “He has improved very much. Is he connected in business now with Monsieur Denys?”
“Oh, no; he remains with the Chouteaus. But he is a frequent guest, and one can almost see how it will end,” laughing with a certain satisfaction.
“You mean—with the child?”
“Yes. She is a very pretty girl. She was at two of the balls last winter, though not a queen. There was a stranger, two of them, staying with the Governor. One cared little for gayety; the other was much smitten with the attractive Renée, and there was talk, but it fell through. It was said that he really did ask for her hand. But I think M. Denys would much rather have her remain here. She is like a child to him.”
Barbe nodded. “Still she is old enough to marry.”
“Oh, yes. Then her grandfather left quite a fortune, as I have told you. She is very young for her years, though—a child in some things.”
Barbe drew a long breath. “It is a little singular that M. Denys has never married,” she said indifferently.
“Oh, he may marry yet. There is always time for a man.”
Madame Renaud gave a meaning laugh. Barbe felt her color rising, but vouchsafed no reply.
That evening after supper M. Denys said:
“Let us go down to the Renauds’, my child, and welcome Madame Gardepier home.”
“Why, you saw her this morning! I thought everybody was giving her a welcome. She will be tired of so much,” was the rather careless reply.
“One is never tired of friendly appreciation.”
“Indeed?” almost saucily. “They may tire of other things, however. I was running races on the old mound this afternoon. I would like to sit and rest and talk.”
“Running races! And in the winter you were asked in marriage!” He laughed heartily and pinched her peachy cheek.
“Mère Lunde said sometimes princesses in France were asked in marriage when they were only a few years old,” she replied with dignity.
“That is true enough. Offered to this one and that. But I do not hawk my little queen about.”
“You love me very much?”
She uttered it with a soft sigh that was quite charming and touched him.
“Ah, you know that!” with fervor.
“But I like to hear you say it,” pleadingly.
“I love you very much.” He bent over and kissed the crown of her head, adding, “Then you will not go?”
“Stay with me,” she entreated. “You haven’t told me half the story of the boat coming in this morning.”
There was a light, youthful step on the floor.
“Ah, André!” Denys said, turning. “Come and tell this girl the welcomes that filled the air this morning, the finding of the castaways and all. You were there, and she can have it first-hand. Meanwhile, I will run down to the Renauds’ and see if Madame Gardepier is any the worse for her journey.”
Renée could have cried out with vexation. Denys did not even stop to light his pipe.
“Let us go in the garden, ma’m’selle. It is so beautiful in the starlight, and the air is fragrant with a hundred sweet scents. I wish you could have had the sail last night. It was the kind of thing to fill one’s soul with rapture.”
“I am tired!” she cried pettishly. “That was why I refused to go with uncle. And I don’t care so much about the rescue. People are crazy, as if nothing ever happened in St. Louis before. And my head aches. I believe I will go to bed.”
She sprang up impatiently.
“I am sorry——”
“There are plenty of girls who will be glad to have you talk to them,” she flung out, and the next moment had vanished.
André looked after her. He was very much in love with her now. He had been more than charmed with the young Indian girl. He had even thought if it was true M. Marchand was dead, he would try to comfort her, to win her. But when he witnessed her love for her husband, her entire devotion, and the tone in which she once said: “I think I must have had the hope in my heart all the time that my husband was alive, and that gave me strength when it seemed as if I must drop by the wayside. And if I had not found him I should have died, because there would have been no further desire to live,” he believed her then. He knew now that must have been the end. To be loved like that! Could Fate bestow anything better?
But last winter a different feeling had taken possession of him. First it was an effort to save Renée from a possible danger. He had seen considerable of Monsieur Laflamme and had no faith whatever in him. He was quite sure it was her fortune that had attracted him, for he was paying an equivocal sort of devotion to several others, or else he was just trifling with them all, taking what amusement he could in the simple pleasures of the place.
And now he knew that he had a desire quite for himself! True he would have saved her from any possible evil, but he wanted her, the smiles and the sweetness she lavished on Uncle Denys and Mère Lunde, the radiance and charm that she flung here and there. He would have liked to go about and gather them up as if they were tangible things. And yet—she did not care for him. Why, then, did she claim him in dozens of dainty ways? Why did she put him between herself and other gallants when their devotion became too pronounced?
André Valbonais was simple and straightforward, and had a very limited knowledge of the twists and turns in the feminine mind. Complex characters are not usual where people live truly rather than take continual thought about living.
He went out now and sat on the doorstep, talking to Mère Lunde. Some one was playing on a fiddle, interspersed with rollicking songs, and the sound floated up to them. There was a great deal of joy in the world, but his heart was heavy.
Renée flung herself on the bed and wept angrily, bitterly. Barbe Gardepier had come into her life again and was free. She had summoned Uncle Gaspard this first night to her side. Had he loved her a little long ago? Would she try to win him now? Oh, what a dreary outlook! And she had been so happy!
Gaspard Denys had wondered more than once about Barbe’s married life, and at Gardepier’s second visit to St. Louis he was quite convinced that he was not the kind of man to make a tender, clinging heart happy. Women throve and blossomed in an atmosphere of love; grew cold, pale and listless when this was denied. It was their natural sustenance. Had this hastened Renée Freneau’s death?
And when he saw Marchand’s devotion and Wawataysee’s delicious joy in it, he could not tell why, but he wished such a marriage had been Barbe’s good fortune.
He never asked himself what might have happened if he had not gone to Canada for Renée de Longueville. He had started adventuring first in a desperate frame of mind, and then grown to like it exceedingly. He had purchased the old house to assist a family in distress who had lost husband and father. On his way home with his little Renée he had resolved to set up a household, to keep the child under his guardianship, for he knew well Freneau would not want her. She was so clinging, so sweet. She was a part of the adorable girl he had loved. If he had been certain of her happiness he might have let her fade from his mind, but a fear had always rankled with a thorn-prick.
Did she know, would she know that he meant to lavish the love that should have been hers on the child? What was that country like? Surely the soul could not linger in the grave, and if it was given to one to have glimpses of those left behind, she must rejoice.
With his heart so engrossed he could not think, indeed, was not tempted to a strong feeling for any other woman. Barbe was pretty and sweet—young men were attracted to her—and he felt quite old compared with her. Then there was so much business to occupy him, and presently Barbe was married without a sigh of regret on his part.
The little jealous feeling Renée displayed rather amused him. He hardly understood the child’s passionate fondness, but was not her exclusive love something she inherited from her mother? He liked to think so.
Now she was half woman and still kept the child’s eager fondness. She had no real lovers, even if she had been asked in marriage. And he did not want to give her up. When he sat in the fascinating blaze of the log fire and steeped his brain in the haze of his pipe, visions stole softly about him. He saw Renée a happy wife, the mother of sweet, enchanting children who would climb his knees, half strangle him with baby arms and press soft faces against his, prattle of their love in turn. No, she must never go away. And who would he like as well as André!
And she liked him, too, in spite of her wilful manner of flouting him. She was ready enough to put him in the face of any imaginary danger. He was a fine, generous, wholesome young fellow, with a good business. And he, Denys, could wait. He was not in so great a hurry to share Renée, but he felt there was no life, no joy to a woman comparable with wifehood and motherhood. And he wanted his darling to have the best of everything.
She was very quiet the next morning and stole furtive glances at him, too proud to make any inquiry as to whether he had passed a pleasant evening. After breakfast André came with a face of eager light, and yet perplexity.
“What is it now?” asked Denys.
“Matter enough. I am divided in two. I have just had an offer—command, I might say. And whether I am to take it—” looking up with uncertainty.
“Beating about a bush doesn’t always thresh off nuts. There is the right season,” and a glint of humor crossed the elder’s face. “Is there a pretty girl in it?”
Was the world running after pretty girls? Renée frowned.
“You would not like me to go away, ma’m’selle?”
A sudden hope had rendered him incautious.
“It makes no difference to me,” she replied coldly.
“What is it all about?” inquired Denys. “Where were you last night, that you are so incoherent this morning?”
“In the counting house with M’sieu Pierre Chouteau. In about ten days he starts for New Orleans, and must take some one with him. He proposes the post to me.”
Denys gave a side glance at Renée. Her face was cold, impenetrable. Clearly she was not in love, much as she liked André.
“Come in the shop!” exclaimed Denys.
They seated themselves on bales of furs, done up ready to be transferred to the boats.
“It is a high compliment, André. And it may not be a bad thing for a young fellow to see a little of the world and learn how to make money in different ways. It’s a much gayer place than this. And you will be in good hands.”
“But—M. Denys, I do not want to go.”
The young fellow’s face was scarlet, and his eyes were full of unspoken hope mingled with fear.
“And why not, André Valbonais?”
“Oh, you must know, you must have guessed that I love Ma’m’selle Renée. Ever since last winter I have known that all my heart was hers, that I would not be satisfied until I had won her for a wife. And I do not think—you are averse——”
He looked so frank and sincere and honorable under the elder’s scrutiny, though his face was flushed and the lines about his mouth were quivering.
Denys took his arm. There was something better than a smile on the face, a tender approval.
“No,” Denys replied in a tone that went to the young man’s heart. “I have had a little dream of the future. There is no one in St. Louis I would so soon take as a son. For look you, André, I do not want to give her up. The man who weds her must come here, must put up with me as I grow old and full of whims. I cannot be shut out of her happiness. I will tell you that I had a brief few months’ love with her mother, and a dream like this. Her father parted us. The child is as dear to me as if my blood ran in her veins, and her happiness is my whole study. If you can win her I shall be content. But women have to wait for a time to love. And it is not her time.”
“But if I should go away—” The young fellow drew a long, sorrowing breath.
“It might be best, so that you come back.”
“I must stay all winter. And if some one else wins her?” he questioned anxiously.
“That would be a grief to me. I shall try not to have it happen. Oh, you can trust me; only I shall not force her inclination. But there is some comfort to take with you in my full consent.”
“You think, then, I had better go?” reluctantly.
“It is not every day a friend like M. Chouteau is given to a young man. And,” with a vague smile, “you may even advance your suit by going. If she should miss you, so much the better. You have given her a great deal of devotion, perhaps too much. There are some gifts that are not appreciated if they come too easily.”
André Valbonais felt as if his dream had been dashed to fragments like a bit of glass. He had resolved he would not go away; he would marry Renée. Yet down in his heart he knew she did not love him with the fervor of a sweetheart. But that might come when she understood how much in earnest he was, and that her guardian really wished for the marriage. Yet, much as he wished for it, he would not spoil his darling’s life by any over-persuasion.
“Yes, it is a fine chance. You will be the envy of the town. And—I trust you to come back as honorable as you go. A year soon passes.”
“It will be hard to go without speaking.”
“It will do no good.” Denys shook his head. “Trust me. I have seen more of womankind.”
“Then I must be off. I asked to consult you, and I have your answer.”
“Yes, yes! Go, by all means.”
Renée was in her room, moving articles about in an aimless fashion, wondering how Barbe had looked and what she had said. She need not have worried. There were a dozen other neighbors, ready to talk of the narrow escape and compare their own town with the larger one.
Now and then she had exchanged a word with Denys, but it seemed as if every one talked at once. He had in his mind the picture she made in the morning, but she did not look like that now. There were lines of care in her face, and the prettiness had deepened into womanly beauty.
Not a question about her did Renée ask. After dinner she took some sewing and went to Madame Marchand’s, as she often did. François had been to the wharf, hurriedly constructed again, to see when the boats were likely to go down the river, since it was now considered safe. André Valbonais had told him he was going.
“He came to see uncle this morning. I suppose that was what they talked about,” said Renée.
The voice had the languor of indifference, and the little face, rather pale now, betrayed no emotion.
It was always a busy time when a fleet of boats went down. Now, there was more talk than usual. Some of the stock had been quite spoiled by the overflow; indeed, not a little of it had been swept out of the storehouses and it had been impossible to save it. But men took their losses philosophically; they would recoup themselves another year. And they now thought it wisdom to build higher up, and leave the muddy bank to itself.
André was very busy, and truth to tell, rather downhearted. He had been buoyant; it was his nature. But as he faced the actual now, and the careless demeanor of Renée, he felt like one roused from a dream and swung to the opposite verge. No, she did not care for him. Yet she had been so sweet at times! He was in and out. Mère Lunde was full of regrets. She was old and might never see him again. Renée said carelessly, “We shall all miss you. I don’t know what uncle would do if he did not have M’sieu Marchand.”
She and Madame Marchand had gone to the Renauds’, as was proper. Wawataysee was charmed with the little Angelique, and they found Madame Gardepier quite different from the women of the town, except some of the higher ladies in the government circles, though she was very sweet and gracious.
Renée’s heart swelled with a great jealousy. Barbe was beautiful and grand, she could not deny it. Her voice had a lingering cadence, like a rivulet in some forest depth, as if she might coax the heart out of one. Renée steeled hers in a sort of desperation. Surely she was distanced. She could not contend against these charms, any more than she could deny them. All her life was suddenly set in the shade.
So she could not feel much sorrow for André’s going away; her own filled all her heart. He might have thought her quiet a sign of it, but his eyes seemed to have been curiously opened.
“You will give me good wishes?” he said the last evening he came. “And—will you not say that you shall miss me?”
“Of course, I shall miss you,” but the dreariness in the tone was not for him. “I shall be so much alone.”
“M. Denys will be here—” He was a little puzzled.
“Oh, yes! But, then——”
“Renée,” impetuously, “you have some sorrow. You are not like yourself. What has happened?”
“Yes, I have some sorrow in my heart. I cannot tell any one,” and the red lips quivered.
“And you were so gay a little while ago. Oh, my darling—” His full heart overflowed in his face.
She held up her hand in entreaty. “Don’t,” she said in a half-irritated way. “I shall never be any one’s darling again. And,” in something of her old imperious tone, “if I cannot have the love I want I will not have any!”
He looked at her in amaze. Did she love some one else, then? He was suddenly stunned. That had never entered his thoughts.
“Oh,” she exclaimed with a burst of feeling, “you have been very good to me, André. You rescued me in that dreadful peril, and I shall always be grateful. And I wish you prosperity and happiness.”
Then she vanished from the garden and shut herself in her room. When Uncle Gaspard begged her to come out, as this was André’s last evening, she said her head ached and she could not bear the sound of voices.
They went down to see the boats off, and the air was almost rent with good wishes. This was always a great occasion. There in the foremost one was M. Pierre Chouteau and André beside him, both waving their hands in response to the “Bon voyage!” from a hundred throats. The Colonel stood beside his mother, who was a proud and happy woman, and who chatted in a charming fashion with her friends and had singled out Barbe, it seemed, who had come with her niece Sophie.
The line rounded the curve and began to take in the turn, and the sailors’ shouts were mere echoes. To-day the water was tranquil enough, and the heavens so blue that all the atmosphere had an extraordinary brilliance.
Madame Chouteau invited some of the friends to come and dine with her.
“I do not want to,” Renée said, shrinking back. “But you go, Uncle Gaspard, and take my excuse. I am not well. I shall go to bed and make Mère Lunde doctor me, and be right by to-morrow.”
What was the matter with the child? She had grown pale and heavy-eyed. He had been much engrossed with the boats and André’s perplexity, and the impression that she desired to evade him, so he had made it easy for her to do so. But if she were going to be ill!
She threaded her way homeward and sat for awhile under her favorite tree, looking at the vision of Barbe smiling and Uncle Gaspard listening to her attractive manner of talking and smiling back. For all the summer sunshine she was cold, and her temples throbbed with a dull pain. She did not want to cry outwardly, but within her heart seemed weeping bitter tears, and its beating was like the dull thud of pounding on lead.
She startled Mère Lunde when she came in so wan and spiritless. The good woman steeped some herbs, and she did really go to bed. Uncle Gaspard did not get home until almost supper-time, and some trappers were in the shop dickering about pelts.
He came and sat on the side of the bed presently and held her hands, wondering if it was a cold, and recalling the fact that he had heard there were some cases of fever about.