“Reverend Mother, there is a woman at the gate with an Indian lad and a big dog. She is asking to speak with one ‘Mercèdes Montcalm,’” said old Michel, the gardener and doorkeeper of the convent.
“It is late, Michel; we cannot let strangers in at this hour. Tell her she must return to-morrow,” said the Reverend Mother of the Ursulines.
“I told her as much,” said Michel; “but she bade me say she had travelled from the far west, that she was very weary, and knew not where to go. She gave me this,” and he handed her a slip of paper.
“I am Loïs Langlade, Charles Langlade’s sister, and am come to fetch the child my brother gave in charge to Mercèdes Montcalm.”
“Poor thing!” said the Mother; “she does not know. This will grieve our new sister, Marie Mercèdes; but you must bring the stranger in, Michel. Charles Langlade’s sister cannot remain in the streets.”
“And the Indian and the dog?” said Michel.
“Keep them at the lodge,” said the Reverend Mother. The man went out. The Mother rang a small bell beside her, which was answered by a serving sister.
“Go to Sister Marie Mercèdes’ cell, and tell her to come here without delay,” she said. As the sister went out, a tall figure wrapped in a thick cloak with a hood drawn over her head entered, and with her a large wolf-hound, which she held by its collar.
“It was no use, Reverend Mother; he would have torn me to pieces rather than leave her,” said Michel.
“He knows I have only him to protect me,” said a gentle voice. “Indeed, he is quite harmless as long as no one lays hands on me. Lie down, Bob,” and, obedient to her word, the animal stretched himself at her feet.
“My child,” said the Reverend Mother, “you have asked to see Mercèdes Montcalm. She bade adieu to the world this morning; she is dead to all things earthly.”
“Dead,” repeated Loïs slowly; “it seems to me that every one is dead.”
“Dead to the world, I said,” continued the Superior. “There is no Mercèdes Montcalm, only Sister Marie Mercèdes. What do you want with her, my child? You look very weary; sit down,” and she pointed to a chair.
“I have come many hundred miles,” said Loïs, “in search of my brother and my brother’s child. He sent me word that he had placed the boy here with Mercèdes Montcalm.”
“So he did,” answered the Reverend Mother.
At that moment the door opened, and Loïs saw the small, darkly-clad figure of a young nun enter. The face was very pale; the eyes had a strained look in them, and were bright as if with fever.
“Come hither, my daughter,” said the Reverend Mother. “I grieve to have disturbed you at your devotions, but here is one who has come from afar to fetch Charles Langlade’s little child. Will you tell her what you know concerning it, so that she may be satisfied?”
“Are you Loïs Langlade?” said Sister Marie, in a low voice.
“Yes,” said Loïs; “tell me, where is the child?”
“Why have you come to me instead of going to your brother? He would have told you, and spared me the pain. Forgive me, Reverend Mother; it is still pain,” said Sister Marie, bowing her head.
“My brother!” said Loïs, rising quickly, and with such a ring of joy in her voice,—“he is alive then, and you have seen him. Oh, tell me where to find him!” and taking the nun’s hand, she pressed it to her lips.
Sister Marie shivered slightly; she had not had time yet to forget. The Reverend Mother answered for her.
“He is alive, my child; but where he lodges we do not know, only there is one who does. We will enquire to-morrow.”
“To-morrow!” exclaimed Loïs. “Oh, Reverend Mother, I have waited so many to-morrows! I am not weary; let me go to him to-night. And the child?”
“Is at rest; him you cannot find,” said Sister Marie Mercèdes. “But your brother is in Quebec,” she continued. “Madame Péan, in the Rue St. Louis, will tell you where to find him. You must go to her to-night; to-morrow she leaves Quebec.”
“Thank God I am in time,” said Loïs, and bending her head in token of farewell, she went towards the door. Bob rose and followed her. But suddenly her strength seemed to fail her, and she staggered; Sister Marie Mercèdes was beside her.
“Lean on me,” she said gently, and placing her in a chair, she held some water to her lips. Loïs drank eagerly.
“Are you in want of food?” asked the Reverend Mother.
“We have travelled all day,” said Loïs faintly; and hardly knowing that she did so, she let her head rest on Sister Marie’s bosom. Once more the Reverend Mother rang her bell.
“See if there be some hot soup in the kitchen, and send Michel here,” she said to the serving sister. Then, going up to Loïs, she added, “We will do what we can for you, my child. What food we have you are welcome to, and I will send Michel to find out where your brother lodges. It is snowing fast; you cannot wander to and fro in the streets of Quebec to-night.”
An hour later, warmed and comforted, Loïs rose to depart. Michel was to conduct her to the address which Madame Péan had given.
“May I kiss you?” said Loïs, holding the young nun’s hand in hers; and not doubting what the answer would be, she kissed her in the old French-Canadian fashion, on both cheeks. “Farewell, Madame,” she said, turning towards the Reverend Mother.
“God bless thee, my daughter. It grieves my heart to send you forth on such a night; but you would not rest even if I sought to detain you, therefore go in peace. Michel will see you safely to your journey’s end!”
And so once more, with the snow whitening her black cloak and the Indian lad’s bearskin, and followed by Bob, Loïs went forth. Surely she was nearing the end!
“Roger, do you not hear some one knocking at the outer door? I could almost think I heard old Bob bark. There it is again.” And truly a dog’s sharp imperative bark rose loud and clear on the still night air.
Without answering, Roger rose, left the room, and opened the front door, which led out into the street. He was almost thrown backwards by the sudden rush of the big wolf-hound, which sprang upon him with a bark of recognition, and then bounded past. He was followed by two figures, and then the door was quickly pushed back to keep out the snow which came drifting in.
“Roger!” and Loïs, throwing back her hood, stood before him.
“Oh, Loïs, my darling!”
In the unexpected joy of that moment, the strong man’s pride gave way; the love which had been so long kept in check rose all powerful, and without uttering a word more, he gathered her in his arms and held her in a passionate embrace.
“Who is it? What has happened?” said Charles, coming out, the dog leaping round him.
“Look!” said Roger proudly, his voice trembling with emotion, as, still encircling Loïs with his arm, he almost carried her into the sitting-room, and, placing her in the armchair Charles had vacated, began loosening her cloak.
In that second of time the man’s face had utterly changed. His youth seemed to have come back to him; the smile on his lips, the light in his eye, shone down upon Loïs until she could hardly bear it, and, closing her eyes, the tears rolled down her face. It was more than she had dared hope for. Together! she had found them together, and it was as if all her strength forsook her with the accomplished task. She who had been so brave broke down now; she had no longer any need for strength. The touch of his hand, the few caressing words which escaped him, told her that from henceforth the burden of life was lifted from her shoulders, that the great harmony of perfect love for which she had so patiently waited was hers at last.
“Oh, Roger!” she repeated, and her arms were round his neck, her head upon his shoulder, and, as if the floodgates of her soul had opened, her sobs filled the room. Truly the clouds had broken at last, and even as she wept she saw the rift and the blue sky shining forth, and she knew that the light of a new day was dawning for her and for Roger.
“Well, Loïs, have you no word for me?” said Charles reproachfully.
She sprang up, exclaiming,—
“My dear brother, forgive me. I came to find you and take you home.”
“And instead of one you have found two,” said Charles, kissing her. “My brave sister, you deserve to be rewarded after such a quest. We will all go home together. Surely if you came through the snow alone with Jim, we can return the same way. What do you say, Roger?”
“As soon as your strength permits it we will go,” answered Roger. “I saw that Madame who came here yesterday again this morning, and she promised to send me the passes necessary for us to get through that part of the country still held by the French; once we receive them we can start—at least, as soon as you feel strong enough.”
“Then we shall not be here much longer,” said Charles. “The sight of Loïs seems to have given me back my strength. We must be home for Christmas. Jim, good Jim,” he said, patting the Indian boy’s head, as he crouched before the fire.
“I called him Jim when he was quite a little chap,” said Charles. “He has run my commissions ever since he was able to run at all. You’ll stay with us always now, Jim? After this last exploit of bringing Loïs up to Quebec we can’t part with you.”
“Jim never leave you, Nosa,”[8] answered the lad, raising his eyes, full of a dog-like devotion, to Charles’ face.
[Footnote 8: Father—Master.]
“That is well. We will all go home together.”
For the first time in her life Loïs knew what it was to be made much of, to be cared for and thought for; she who had always cared for others. They remained a week in Quebec, during which time Charles regained his strength with marvellous rapidity. It seemed almost as if Loïs had brought the breath of life with her from the old home. During that week Loïs visited the battle-field on the Plains of Abraham, and all the spots which from henceforth would be landmarks in the history of Quebec. Roger was, moreover, busy making preparations for the homeward journey; sleighs were bought, strong horses to draw them, furs to wrap themselves in, and a goodly store of provisions for the journey. They were not going alone; besides his two faithful servants, a company of Roger’s Rangers volunteered to accompany them; so that when they started from Quebec they mustered about a score of souls. Loïs was like a queen amongst them. General Levis had sent them free passes through the French lines, so that no difficulties arose to impede their rapid progress.
The land was icebound, the cold intense, but the weather brilliant. Down the great St. Lawrence they went; across country, as only men born in the land and knowing every inch of the ground they traversed could have done. Home, home, was the watchword, before which every hardship seemed of no account.
“Father Nat! mother! here they are coming up the hill!” and Susie dashed into the kitchen.
No need to say who were coming.
“Oh, my lads, my lads!” cried Father Nat, and bareheaded as he was, he strode out through the garden into the high road, and stood with his arms stretched out to welcome the children home.
From far and near, from villages and lonely farmhouses, in sleighs, on foot, by land in the most primitive conveyances, skating along the icebound lakes and rivers, the people came flocking to Marshwood to celebrate Roger the Ranger’s and Loïs Langlade’s wedding-day.
Never in the memory of man had such a Christmas Eve been witnessed. Brightly the sun shone on the glistening snow, as the bride in her sleigh, decorated with holly and evergreens, with white bearskins wrapping her round, was driven by Father Nat himself down to the village church, amid the shouts and joy-wishes of the crowd lining the hill-side and the long village street. Roger’s Rangers had mustered in full force to do their Captain honour, and very gay they looked in their red shirts and tan gaiters as they filed into the church after the bridal party.
There were few dry eyes in that assembly as the old minister rose to address them, and in simple, strong words reminded them of the dark days and the sorrows through which they had all passed. He spoke of the noble examples which had been set to them by men such as Wolfe and Howe, and others whose nameless graves were not without due honour. “And surely,” he added in conclusion, “we New Englanders are more than ever bound to bring up our children in the true faith, free men, lovers of that liberty for which so many have bled, remembering always that the lives of great men are landmarks, pointing those that come after to like deeds of high honour, not of idle acquiescence in the past, but to be up and doing, regenerating the earth by love, peace, and goodwill, even as the Christ, whose birthday we shall celebrate to-morrow, brought peace and goodwill to man.”
The merry-making lasted a whole week, and many of those who had come from afar lingered still longer. Amongst the number were William Parkmann and his young wife, and with them they had brought a sister of the former, Elizabeth Parkmann, who took so kindly to the homely life of the Marshes, and more especially to the master of Alpha Marsh, that Father Nat, radiant with joy, said to John Cleveland, as they sat together in the chimney corner, “We shall see Marcus in the pulpit yet, and Charles and Roger reigning in my stead.”
“Amen, so be it!” answered the minister.