Part 17

From this plane of thought Jean descended suddenly and with something of a shock to solid earth, on one of those cold, grey days of August that come to remind us that summer is passing, and that soon the snows of winter will begin to fall. Instinctively he went about the cabin and found many gaping chinks that should be filled with moss. He looked at the wood-pile, and saw that it was almost gone. He examined his store of provisions, and saw that it was running low. Firearms, fishing-tackle, traps, snowshoes, traineau, clothes, moccasins--all required attention, for the cold season was coming, and it was necessary to be prepared. Already the beavers were preparing for the winter, and the human animal knew that he must do the same; for the wilderness is kind to those who keep her commandments, but implacably cruel to those who will not live according to her law. So Jean determined to rest and play no more; laid philosophy aside; spent the day in the forest, chopping dry wood for fuel; and in the evening, by the light of a blazing fire, he sat down to mend the traps of Michel Gamache.

*CHAPTER XXIV*

*THE RELAPSE*

The novitiate of Jean Baptiste was at an end; and now he was about to renounce all that he had held dear in his past life; and to take the final vows of the wilderness. It was as though the spirit of some remote ancestor had taken possession of him, body and soul, and was leading him back and down to the primitive savagery out of which the race, by long effort and much pain, had gradually ascended. He was a willing captive, feeling neither surprise nor regret; and it was with a sigh of relief that he cast the burden of civilisation away; and laid him down to sleep upon his bed of fragrant balsam; to dream of the green trees, clear streams, placid lakes and purple hills of that pleasant summer land.

But in his dreams the former self of Jean Baptiste awoke, and came unto his own. He had wandered far; and was almost lost in the wilderness; but suddenly he found himself walking along the familiar valley road, passing the old landmarks, and approaching the old home. The night was dark; but the house was lighted; and as he entered by the open door, he saw a company of neighbours and friends sitting in a circle around the spacious kitchen; the men smoking, and the women knitting, as they often used to do in the good old days. But now there was no telling of stories; and neither song nor jest nor laughter; but a subdued and orderly conversation, like a memorial service in honour of one who was dead. No one looked up as Jean entered, walked across the room and took the vacant chair; and there he sat as a ghost, seeing and hearing everything, but himself an unseen and unbidden guest.

His mother rose to pass the spruce-beer and cakes; and when she came to Jean's place she paused and smiled as though she saw him sitting there and smiling in return.

"Oh!" she said, "I think that Jean is not very far away. We shall see him soon, I am sure."

"Let us hope so," said Father Paradis, gently, "but I fear that he will never return. He is a disappointed man. He has missed his vocation, he who might have become a bishop, an archbishop, a cardinal, even, in the course of time. What a pity!"

"Yes," said Michel Gamache, "to miss the path like that, he who might have been a great man in the parish, a seigneur, a member of Parliament--anything. And now he is a failure, a _coureur des bois_, like me."

"And all for the sake of a girl!" broke in Blanchette. "As though there were only one girl in the parish, in the Province. What folly! No woman is worth it. He is a fool, that Jean Baptiste."

"He is more than that!" cried Pamphile, who sat by the fire, pale and haggard, his head bound up in a shawl. "He is a coward, that little priest. A coward, I say; and he fears the law. The law, yes, and this little whip across the face. _Sacre_! If he returns he shall suffer. I say it; I, his ancient enemy."

"And I," said Bonhomme Laroche, shaking his fist, "I wish to see him too, that proprietor, debtor, thief. He will not pay me? Well, I have the mortgage. See! There it is, Madame, the mother of a thief. My mortgage! My property! My farm!"

"No, you old miser!" shouted Brother Nicholas. "You shall have your money, but no farm of ours. Do not cry, my mother. Do not think of the old miser, nor of Jean, the deserter. He was to have stayed at home; he, the youngest; but now I have returned. Fear nothing. I am with you, I, Nicholas."

"Yes," said Bonhomme Gagnon, rising in his place. "Yes, Madame Giroux, we will assume the responsibility--I, Telesphore Gagnon; you, Nicholas; you other children; you neighbours; everybody. As to Jean Baptiste, forget him, the good-for-nothing. He was too proud, he, and the good God could not endure it. It is the good God who has driven him away, and he is lost, lost."

At this Madame Giroux began to weep, while Father Paradis tried to comfort her, and Brother Nicholas was sending all the people home; when suddenly at the open door appeared a sturdy figure in a brown fishing suit, with a pannier on his back and a lance-wood rod in his hand. It was Monsieur Trudel, the City Man.

"What is this?" he exclaimed. "Is it a funeral, a wake, or what, in the name of God? My brave Jean, where is he? Dead? Gone away? A fugitive, he? Deserter, you say? Failure? Good-for-nothing? Thief? Murderer? Ha! Ha! It is to laugh! Reassure yourself, Madame. It is not in Jean Baptiste to be like that, he who conquered me, the champion of the Province. He will return, most certainly, and soon. _Mon Dieu_! He is here now. There, do you not see him? There, in the chair! Jean, my brave one! Arise! Show yourself!"

During all that time Jean had sat there speechless, immovable; but now, with a mighty effort, he rose in his place; stretched out his arms and cried, in a strong and joyous voice: "Monsieur, my friends, my mother, I am here!"

Jean advanced with outstretched hands toward his friends; but they shrunk back, pale and terrified, into the dark corners of the room and out of the door; until there was only one left, a slight figure in a brown fishing suit, with pannier, and rod, reddish-golden hair, violet-blue eyes, and a radiant smile.

"Monsieur Trudel," he began, "you have changed much since, since---- _Mon Dieu_! Gabrielle! It is you, you! Come to me, dear."

But the vision melted away, and Jean awoke to find himself standing alone on the cabin floor in the glimmering dawn of a new day.

"_Mon Dieu!_" he said to himself. "Was it a dream? I can see them still, when I close my eyes--and hear them, too. They think of me, talk of me, those good friends, whom I had forgotten--almost. They are disappointed in me, it would seem, and with reason. But they had expected too much--more than I could do. What? More than I could do? Oh, Jean Baptiste, it was not that you could not, but that you would not! What is that one cannot do? 'Good-for-nothing? Too proud? The good God does not like it?' How does Bonhomme Gagnon know that? I should like to show him, the old rascal, that the good God will aid me to resume my former work. By Heaven, I will resume!

"I am a dreamer, it would seem. Yes. A coward? No! Afraid of the law? I had not thought of it. The law? Why then? For the killing of Pamphile. But I did it in self-defence. Tom and Paddy will witness. Will they? _Dieu_! Possibly not. And what then? A trial, a judge, a jury, and I, the accused at the bar. It might be well to remain here, or to go to the Indians of Mistassini or Hudson's Bay. Then I should be a coureur des bois indeed; an exile, fugitive, outlaw. What then could I say to the abuse of Bonhomme Gagnon, Monsieur Laroche, and the rest? Coward--thief--deserter--good-for-nothing--fool--all that and more! Yes, I should deserve it all.

"'And all for the sake of a girl?' Blanchette, that was unjust. It was a combination of circumstances, an accumulation of misfortunes, that drove me away--for a time. O, Blanchette! I have many good excuses, as you must know; yet I will excuse myself no more, for I think I hear you say: '_Qui s'excuse s'accuse!_'

"But Gabrielle was there, and oh, what a lovely smile! To see her again I would return, in spite of everything. But where was the garb of the Ursulines--the black robe, the hood, the veil, the rosary, the cross, the pale face of the novice, the nun that is to be? There was none of that. No, it was only the City Man after all. Gabrielle was not there, for she was not thinking of me, but of Jesus and Mary and the glories of Heaven. But if she gave a thought to me, and a single call, I would enter the convent and take her away--from the altar, even--and who should hinder me? An adventure that, worthy of a knight of the olden time. Yes, worthy of those times, perhaps; but for a penniless habitant, a trapper, a discredited fugitive, not quite so suitable. To steal a novice from the convent, an heiress--a noble deed, surely. Ah, Gabrielle, why so much haste? Why bury the heart before the love is dead? A little more time, a year, two years at most--that is all I ask. Could you not grant me this, Gabrielle?"

As Jean thought of the situation from every point of view, the difficulty and perplexity of it seemed to increase, and no way of escape appeared. He walked up and down the narrow cabin like a wild beast in a cage, raging and wondering at his fate, wildly longing to break away and be free. At last, unable to disentangle the coil, he threw it from him, flung open the door, and went out into the open air.

It was like going into another world. The clouds of yesterday, the gloom of night, the ghostly dawn, all had passed away; and the summer morning, fresh and lovely, opened like a flower. It was good to breathe the pure, fragrant air; to see the earth, the grass and the trees in all their brightest colours, washed by the rain; to hear the sweet voices of the forest; and to feel, in every nerve and muscle, the strength and courage of returning day. In the lake Jean took his morning plunge, and a long swim far out in the deep water; and when, an hour later, he returned to the cabin, refreshed in body and soul, with a keen appetite and a joyous heart, he was ready to face the world, to receive its hardest buffets, and to deliver his most telling blows in return. The soldier was himself again; his furlough was over; and he was going back to the front.

Jean was now ready to do battle with the enemy, for he was at peace with himself. The long struggle within him was at an end; for his nobler self had obtained the victory, and taken complete control. The strange, weird voices that had well-nigh led him astray for ever were heard no more. The voice of fear, too, was stilled; for he was so completely possessed with the thought of his work and the joy of devotion to his cherished ideal, that there was neither fear nor doubt in his soul; but strong courage and sublime faith that the work of his hands would be established, and that the day of small things would have a great and satisfying fruition.

Jean's attitude toward the world was changed. No longer did he despise the opinions of the neighbours, but found himself wondering what they would think and say when they saw him take up his former work. His mother, the cure, his friend Michel, and a few others would be glad; and he was glad to think that he could please them in any way. His enemies would be disconcerted; and he took a malicious pleasure in thinking of their confusion, and in guessing what their next move would be. As for the rest, they might find fault for a time, but sooner or later the benefits of his work would appear; all the good people of the parish would approve; and his reputation would spread far and wide--to Beauport, Quebec and the greater world beyond. A good name--that was something worth while; a prize to be won, a possession to be kept, an heirloom to be handed down to future generations. But if not, if in the end he should fail, he would still have the satisfaction of attempting a noble task; a few friends would understand, and the good God would know that he had done his best.

And Gabrielle? Jean could no longer think of her as a novice of the Ursulines preparing to take the veil, to renounce all human love and devote her young life to prayer and penance within convent walls. On the contrary, she now resumed her former place in his scheme of life; the golden-haired chatelaine of his Castle in Spain; for whose love he would fight unto the death; at whose feet he would lay all the trophies of war; and from whom he would ask, in the hour of victory, his greatest earthly reward--herself.

As Jean was preparing to depart, putting away the canoe, setting the cabin in order, taking a last look at the lake, he was sorry to leave the beautiful place; but his heart was full of an abiding joy; for he was thinking all the time of Gabrielle; and when at last he turned his back upon his hermitage, and set himself to climb the southern hill, his joyous voice woke again the echoes of the forest, as he sang the brave song of a crusader who prayed for victory and love:

"Partant pour la Syrie, Le jeune et beau Dunois, Alla prier Marie De benir ses exploits. 'Donne, reine immortelle,' Lui dit-il en partant, 'Que j'aime la plus belle, Et sois le plus vaillant.'"

*CHAPTER XXV*

*TREASURE TROVE*

"Where are you going, Jean Baptiste?"

Jean stopped instantly, and stared in dumb surprise; for there was Gabrielle standing before him in a hunting suit of tanned buckskin, a light rifle on her arm--a veritable Diana of the wilderness.

"Speak, Jean! Say something, for goodness' sake. I am not a ghost, nor a holy picture descended from its frame. It is I, Gabrielle."

"As I see," said Jean, raising his cap and offering his hand. "Welcome to Lac Desir, Gabrielle."

"Lac Desir! What a pretty name! Where is Lac Desir, Jean? Which way?"

"Come, Gabrielle; I will show you. It is only a step or two. I was coming away, but now I will gladly return. This way, if you please. It is a rough path, and steep. Take my hand, will you not? Now we are at the foot of the hill, and there, under the trees, is the cabin--my hermitage. It is not much like the Ursulines, I should say. You were there, were you not?"

"Yes, certainly, I was there for a while; but I have escaped, as you see. I could not say so many prayers--it was too fatiguing--and I had to have a little vacation in the country. Soon I will return."

"Return?" exclaimed Jean, in dismay. "That would be a pity. Do not return to the convent, Gabrielle."

"Why not, then? It is a pleasant place, the convent, so quiet, so peaceful; and the sisters are so good, so dear. And it is a place where one can make one's salvation."

"Salvation, you say, in a convent, in a little cell? How can one find that between four walls? It is something that belongs to the open air, Gabrielle; something that comes with the sunshine. No, it is here that one finds true peace, rest for the soul--salvation, if you like."

"But you are going away, Jean. Is it possible that you are leaving your salvation?"

"But no. I have found it here; and I am taking it back to St. Placide, to the work that awaits me there. But now that you are here I forget all that, and I could stay for ever. Stay here, Gabrielle."

"So I will, Jean, for a few moments, at least. It is a pretty place. But where is the lake? Where is Lac Desir?"

"We are coming to it. Another turn of the path and you will get a glimpse of it through the trees. There, there it is!"

Gabrielle clapped her hands.

"Beautiful! Charming! Like a picture--more lovely than any picture! Certainly, the pictures at the convent are not like this. You have a canoe, of course. Get it, Jean--quickly. You shall take me out on the lake."

"With pleasure, Gabrielle. The ship is here, in this clump of spruces. It would not be easy to find it if one did not know the place. I am revealing all our secrets, as you see. Presently I will give you the keys, and you shall be the sovereign lady of these dominions. Look! A fine canoe, is it not? Of a single piece of bark. It is not often that one sees a canoe like this--so light, so graceful, so strong, so perfect in all its lines. One carries it like a feather. There, I will place it in the water, by the rock. Have the goodness to take your place in the bow, Mademoiselle the Passenger. A great honour for the canoe, for me, I assure you, Mademoiselle."

"Monsieur, it is with sincere pleasure that I accord you the honour. But how complimentary you have become! Already you are recovering from the surprise, the shock, of my arrival. How serious you were a moment since! I thought I should have to cry. Smile a little, Jean. There, that is better. Once more. Now we are all right. How lovely the water! How balmy the air! How pleasant to glide along like this! Not so fast, Jean. Slowly. It is still early in the morning. Let us not think of time. Let us forget the world. Ah, now I know what it is to be dead to the world, as they say in the convent, and yet very much alive. I think that I have never lived before. But what would Mother Sainte Anne say if she could see me now? And why don't you ask how I happened to come?"

"It is enough to know that you are here, Gabrielle. If only you would stay."

"I am staying, am I not? But if you say that again I will go away at once."

"Allow me to remind you, Mademoiselle, that we are at some distance from the shore."

"But I can swim quite well, Monsieur; and if you provoke me I will jump into the water."

"As you did once before, many years ago. How well I remember the occasion! Do it again, Gabrielle, that I may have the pleasure of saving your life. Then you would belong to me, you know."

"What nonsense you talk, Jean! I will not jump into the water, just to please you, but I will go back to the shore all the same. Take me back."

"Oh, not yet, Gabrielle. It is too pleasant here. Never before have I seen the lake so beautiful. There was always something lacking; but now it is complete, perfect."

"It is truly wonderful, Jean; and it would be a pity not to enjoy it while we may. I like to sit here on this comfortable bearskin, dipping my hands in the water, looking at the trees, the sky, the clouds--while you do all the work."

"And I, Gabrielle, I should like to do this kind of work for the rest of my life, to glide along over a summer lake while looking into the face of one so beautiful."

"Jean, I will splash you if you say any more."

"Do so, Gabrielle. I need a bath, perhaps."

"On the contrary, you look as though you took a bath every day, like a certain Englishman at Quebec. Is it possible that you have been here for a whole month? You are no wild man of the woods at all. I am disappointed in you, Jean."

"I am sorry, Gabrielle. In the future I will try to please you better."

Gabrielle blushed and looked away; while Jean, in tender and eloquent words, began to confess that he had loved her long; that in all his plans he had thought of her; that all his battles had been for her sake; and that it had been the hope of his life to lay his honours and trophies at her feet. When she went away the light of his life had gone out; and the world, once so full of beauty and interest, had become an empty, barren desolation. Now that she had returned, in all her radiant beauty, the glory had come back to earth; and the wilderness had become a paradise, a garden of love. How wonderful the forest! How enchanting the lake, nestling in the bosom of the hills! How blue the sky! How clear and pure the air! How glorious the freedom of the wilderness, far from the world, but near to the heart of Nature; near, also, to God. And if two loving hearts, by chance, by fate, by the will of God, found themselves together in such a paradise, was it not the will of God that they should make their home there; live upon the bounty so lavishly provided; conquer the wilderness; and achieve something unusual, unique, even, in their day and generation? A good living was assured; a fortune was not impossible; and the effort, the adventure itself, would be well worth while. Their ancestors had carved a kingdom in the forest--why not their children of a later generation?

Thus Jean Baptiste, like all lovers since the world began, saw everything through a golden mist that made a halo about his beloved; gilded the commonest objects with all the colours of the rainbow; and filled his eyes with a light that never was on sea or shore.

Gabrielle listened, as though fascinated, to the story of love; blushes came to her cheeks, smiles to her lips, and tears to her eyes at the wonder and beauty of it; her heart glowed in return; and she was on the point of stretching out her hands in glad surrender to one so strong, so brave, so noble, with such undying faith in her, in himself, in God.

Had Jean but known, he would have spoken of love alone, whom all hearts love, to whom all yield as to their dearest friend; but in his ignorance and folly he went on to speak of things external, foreign, out of harmony with the thought of love. Plans, ambitions, a good living, a fortune, the conquest of the wilderness--why all that? One must live, of course; but why speak of it at such a moment? The beauties of Nature--why so much of that? The lake was lovely, to be sure; the forest and the hills as well, on a summer morning such as this; but what would they be when winter came with its pall of snow and its chill winds blowing out of the North? And how forlorn it would be, far from the old home, with neither friend nor neighbour near; while the snow drifted high, an impassable barrier between the lonely cabin and the outer world.

Renounce the world? The dear, friendly world of St. Placide, the gay, joyous world of Quebec? As well might one enter the convent; for there, at least, one would have the society of the good sisters, the occupation of teaching, and the joy of devotion and worship when the congregation lift up their hearts and voices unto God. What could one do in the forest during the long winter with no books, no games, no music, no society? The ancestors were satisfied? True, but times had changed, and a new generation had arisen. Why go back to those half-savage days? Love? That was all very well now and then; but there were times when one did not wish to love, nor to be loved; when one might wish to cry, perhaps, and there would be no comforter, no one to console. Work? Yes, one might do that--cook, for example; or make garments of fur; or mend the traps; or chop wood for the fire. Yes, that was what Jean wanted--a wife to do the work of a slave, to grow old with toil and hardship. Well, let him find an Indian squaw for that; and not ask a girl from a comfortable home to share his savage existence in the wilderness.

As Jean talked on, in his idealistic, unpractical way, about the glories of life in the forest, the crude realities of that life were borne in upon Gabrielle; and her heart was hardened against one who could, in the name of love, demand so great a sacrifice and offer so little in return. The smile faded from her lips, the colour from her cheeks, and the love-light from her eyes; while a grey cloud passed over the sun; and a chill breath from the North swept over the lake. Gabrielle shuddered.

"Take me back, Jean. I am cold."

"But, Gabrielle, it is so lovely here."

"I do not find it so. Take me back to the shore."

"But the sun will be shining again in a moment; and the lake, the forest, the hills, will be all aglow in the morning light."

"It will not. I detest your lake, your mountains, your forest. It is a desolation, and I hate it all--all."