CHAPTER XXIX

I PUT MY FORTUNE TO THE TOUCH

On that 9th of May which saw the _Lowestaffe_ anchor in Quebec to practically settle the fortunes of France and England in the New World, as I walked back along the rue St. Louis arm in arm with Gaston, neither of us speaking a word, I determined that now the time had come to put my fortune to the touch; and as soon as possible I sent word to Margaret, praying I might be granted an interview, and in a state of anxiety, not far removed from panic, I awaited her answer.

She would see me at once, and I repaired to the parlour where to me she entered, pale and dignified, the nobility of her soul shewing forth in every movement of her body, and its beauty in every line of her face.

"Margaret," I cried, "forgive me, if I have forced myself upon you, but I have no courage to endure longer. You have heard that all hope for the French arms is now virtually at an end, and I must know what lies before me."

"That must rest with you," she answered, in the same calm tone which had so upset me in our last meeting.

"Then, Margaret, I am here to plead my own cause," I answered, firmly, determined not to be swayed by any passing mood, "and I plead _in forma pauperis_, for I have no one to rely on save myself, and no hope save in you."

"You must not count upon me," she returned, calmly. "I cannot acknowledge that you have any claim upon me."

"I have the claim which comes from your own affection, Margaret. You loved me once, and in the strength of that love I stand to-day. In the name of that love I ask you to hear me."

"That is a thing of the past. You have no right to presume upon it now."

"Is it presumption for one who has lived in such loneliness as I, to hold to the one bright day of his life? There is no past for the heart."

"I will not argue the point," she answered, coldly; "but there is a past I have shut out of mine."

"You may try to persuade yourself you have, Margaret, but it will come back when you think it most banished. I know of what I speak, for when I thought I had buried a past that was torture to me to recall, it has awakened me to nights of hopeless regrets and empty longings; it has stood beside me, unsummoned, when most alone, and has started into life at some chance word or token, when in company. The more you try to live it down, the more you create a haunting memory to fill your hours with bitterness."

"Then I will meet it with other strength than my own. I have resolved to enter the Community."

"So I feared. What do you hope to gain by so doing?"

"I will gain work, and rest--and peace."

"No, Margaret, you will not gain peace. Listen to me. I know you better than you know yourself! You will find work, you may find rest, of a kind, but what peace will come to you even though you are shut in safe from the chance evils of life, when you think of one who has loved as faithfully, but without the same hope as yourself, wandering, a broken man, because you refused him admittance to the happiness you alone could offer."

"Do you think it fair to try me by such an appeal? You know I can never be indifferent to your fate. You know I have thought for you even above myself," she said, with a tremor in her voice she could not entirely suppress.

I saw my advantage, and seized it eagerly. "Then, Margaret, listen! Listen while I plead for myself. What have I to look forward to, if I lose you? Behind me are the best years of my life, wasted in this wilderness because I had hoped to secure your happiness by my exile. To-day I have seen every hope of my advancement vanish; that I can take as one of the chances of war--but what have I left if I lose you now? You are the whole world to me, and all it can offer is nothing, if it does not include you. Margaret, my love! Call back the day when, if I could have spoken, love waited in your heart to answer. Give me a single hour of that past now! a moment of the old love in which to plead for your life as well as my own."

Her colour came and went as I spake; she had visibly lost that control which had so far baffled me, and when she answered, it was with the familiar name she had not uttered, save when she had been surprised into it on our first meeting.

"Oh, Hugh, do not try me. You know not what I have gone through, and now I am near to God."

"Margaret, my darling, you will be nearer God when you are beside the man to whom He would confide you. You know I love you with all my soul! How can you look for happiness apart from him whom you have loved so long, and whom you love even now!" I ended, determined to risk the utmost. "Come to me, Margaret! Come to me! We will face life together, and together there will be no room for further doubtings, for further mistakes! I cannot shape my love into words. It is all my life, all my being, and yet it is a poor thing to offer you."

"Oh, Hugh, I know not which way to turn."

"Turn to me, Margaret! Turn to me! If ever a man needed a good woman's love, I need yours now. Everything is falling about me. I may have no right to ask, but I cannot help it. My need is greater than my strength. Am I to go forth into exile again without you-Margaret?"

"Hugh, my only love!" she cried, in a voice vibrant with tenderness; and with the words she extended to me her trembling, upturned hands. In my eyes it seemed as though they held all the priceless treasure of her enduring love.

For a few days longer the cannon continued to grumble backward and forward between wall and trench, until the arrival of the _Vanguard_, _Diana_, and _Lawrence_ placed matters beyond a peradventure. Thereupon M. de Levis promptly disbanded his Canadians, and during the night of the 16th, under a searching fire from the ramparts, he withdrew from his lines, and fell back upon Deschambault.

The siege was at an end. Within the town officers and men rejoiced in their escape from incessant duty, and welcomed the plenty which succeeded the semi-starvation of the winter; the towns-people, as is always the case, were ready to accept any rule which would guarantee to them security and peace, while the surrounding parishes were gladdened by the return of their volunteers, seeing therein a promise of the renewal of the quiet for which they longed. The gates were thrown open, and once more the country-folk thronged within the walls to offer their scanty provisions, and to bargain with the "kilties" and "red-coats" with a confidence that spake well for the humanising influences of war. General Murray received M. Malartic, who had been left in charge of the wounded in the General Hospital, and other of our officers at his table in friendly hospitality, and ordinary life took up its interrupted course.

But with much rejoicing on the one hand came sadness on the other. The news of the death of Sarennes was now received in due course by his mother and sister, but was borne with surprising spirit, especially by the former, who comforted herself with the thought that the last of his house had found death in a profession which his fathers had distinguished by their name, while his sister had both youth and love to support her.

Kit was jubilant over his promotion as ensign, which had happened even sooner than his captain had foretold; he was received by his superiors and equals with flattering congratulations, and the men looked without jealousy on his advancement. To me it was gratifying to find he valued it not so much for the position, as for the recognition of his proper standing as a gentleman's son.

Nairn was happy in his escape from the humiliation of being asked in marriage, and impatiently counted the days of mourning until he could make his demand on Mademoiselle de Sarennes "selon tous les regles de la bienseance." That he was in love, even to the point of blindness, was amply proved by his astonishment that there were others in the like case as himself.

"Captain Nairn," I said to him, in Margaret's presence, the day before his departure for Montreal with the troops, "as you are the head of your family, I have the honour to demand of you the hand of your sister in marriage."

"God bless my soul, Peggy!" he exclaimed, with the utmost honesty. "I had never thought of you as marrying. I had planned that you would always live with me."

"Suppose, Nairn, that Mme. de Sarennes had said the same of Angelique?"

"But that is different. You see, Peggy is..." But here he fell into a sadden confusion, and then, correcting himself, cried, with much vehemence: "No, she isn't! Peggy, you are the dearest girl in the whole world! You deserve all the world can give you. You take her, Chevalier, with the best wishes of a brother, whose greatest misfortune has been not to have known her better."

And so matters were settled. Nairn marched with the troops to take his share in what I have always looked upon as the most admirable of Murray's achievements, a campaign politic, rather than military; at once to overawe and reassure the inhabitants, and, this accomplished, to converge on Montreal with Amherst and Haviland.

The situation in which Levis found himself was impossible, and it only remained for Vaudreuil to accept the terms of capitulation which were offered. From his point of view they were no doubt honourable, but in his anxiety to save the goods and chattels of a parcel of shopkeepers, he saw fit to sacrifice the honour of those troops, who, for six arduous campaigns, had stood between him and his fate. Thus, on the 8th of September, 1760, Canada passed forever into the hands of the English; who thus held America from Florida to Hudson Bay, from the Atlantic to the Mississippi. But these events will no doubt be more fully related by "the gentleman at his desk--" and I will return.

Soon after the arrival of the victorious troops with their prisoners from Montreal, a double marriage was celebrated in the chapel of the Ursulines, General Murray standing for Margaret, while M. de Levis rendered the same courtesy to Angelique, and the officiating priest was le pere Jean.

At two we sat down to dinner in the General's quarters, surrounded by friends old and new; for those who had withstood each other so stoutly in the field now vied only in expressions of personal admiration and esteem. Poulariez, Malartic, and le petit Joannes sat side by side with Fraser, Burton, and Rollo, while the two generals shared the honours of the feast with Margaret and Angelique.

M. de Levis did me the honour to request that I would supplement his encomium on our hosts by a few words in English, which I did with poor enough effect; but on being called upon on all sides for a song, I retrieved my halting prose with the following, which I had set to the old air of "Dalmeny":

"Though unrelenting fate hath cast In camps opposed our lot, Though we have faced each other oft And Scot hath drawn on Scot, I cannot hold that Chance, or Time, Or waste of sundering sea. Can part the banished hearts that meet At one in their Ain Countrie.

"We've sprung from every mile that lies 'Twixt Tweed-side and Ardshiel, To wake the corners of the world With clash of Scottish steel. We've kept our faith to King and Prince And held it ample fee, If life or death might keep our name Alive in our Ain Countrie.

"We've ridden far for name and fame. We've never stooped for gold. We've led the flying columns back With victory in our hold. We've won undying name and fame! Yet all o' it I'd gie To see the red sun set at hame, At hame, in my Ain Countrie."

The enthusiasm of our generous hosts over my effort formed a fitting close to the festivity, and the refrain of "Our Ain Countrie" was carried forth from the room to pass from lip to lip until the whole garrison was wild over it, and many a homesick fellow found sad consolation in my poor effusion of an idle hour. Such a gratification is the highest which a man of taste can receive, and it is to be regretted that more men of genius do not direct their efforts to such pleasing ends.

With our friends Poulariez, Joannes, and others in command of the Royal Roussillon, we were provided for in the _Duke_, Captain Renwick, where Kit, Angelique, with her husband, and a score of English officers assembled to bid us farewell, so that our leaving resembled more a party of pleasure than the embarkment of a defeated army.

But as we dropped down the stream and stood watching the great rock of Quebec, with its fringe of batteries, and the English flag flying where ours had so proudly held its place for many a day, a sadness fell upon us all.

Margaret and I stood somewhat apart from the others.

"Hugh, dear, cannot you find some cause for thankfulness?" she said, softly.

"Oh yes; like Bougainville, I can at least quote the Psalmist: 'In exitu Israel de-AEgypto, domus Jacob de populo barbaro.'"

"Oh, Hugh, do not say that! It has been a blessed land to us. Listen, dear, to what has been my comfort all these years," and with her beauteous face filled with the exaltation of her love she repeated:

"The span o' Life's nae lang eneugh, Nor deep eneugh the sea, Nor braid eneugh this weary warld, To part my Love frae me."

EPILOGUE

The desolate point known as Tadoussac, at the mouth of the river Saguenay, in Canada, is the place of exile of a few officials who guard the interests of the fur trade.

Their quarters, a few storehouses, and the little church with its modest presbytere, form an outpost to the civilised world. During the summer season the wandering Indians flock down in their canoes, build their temporary huts, and a constant bustle of trade and barter sets in. Furs are examined, valued, and exchanged for guns, ammunition, clothing, and other luxuries of savage existence. The arrival of the few ships necessary to this primitive commerce makes the only other break in the monotonous existence of the little colony. At the approach of winter the Indiana scatter, and the officials and the solitary priest are prisoners until the spring once more opens for them the doors of the outside world.

Here it was, on the evening of the 11th of April, 1782, that the priest sate with his companions in the house of the principal official.

At nine o'clock he rose and said good-night to his hosts in his usual manner, but suddenly his whole appearance changed. Drawing back, he raised his hand, and said, in tones of deepest earnestness:

"My friends, it is not only 'good-night,' it is 'good-bye.' Good-bye for all time, for you will never see me again alive. To-night at twelve I shall be called hence."

The little company were shocked beyond expression. The priest stood before them tall, commanding, his figure full of life and vigour, his eye bright and unfaltering, but his face lighted with a mysterious solemnity that forbade questioning.

"At midnight the bell of the chapel will sound. You may come then, but do not touch my body. To-morrow you will seek M. Compain, the cure of the Isle aux Coudres, and he will prepare my body for burial."

He withdrew, leaving the company in affrighted silence; ten, eleven struck, and at midnight the bell of the chapel began to toll. They arose, awe-stricken, and took their way to the little church.

By the dim light before the sanctuary they caught sight of the robe of the priest. He was lying on the ground motionless, his face covered by his hands as if in prayer on the first steps of the altar.

That same night the bells of all the churches along the river, at la Mal Baie, at Les Eboulements, at the Isle aux Coudres, at la Baie St. Paul, and up through every parish to Quebec, rang without the touch of mortal hands, and soon the wondering faithful knew that the passing soul for which they rang was that of la pere Jean, the missionary to the Indians, once known as Jean Marie Gaston de Caldegues, Vicomte de Trincardel.

"Happy the people who still believe these sweet and holy legends."

THE END