Chapter 6

"They had nearly attained the margin of the river, where Louis meant to launch one of the canoes and drop down the current, when the indian yell resounding through the woods, struck on their ears. They were missed, pursued, and escape was impossible. Marguerite panic-struck, sunk to the ground. Nothing could check the career of Louis. "On--on, mother," he cried, "to the shore--to the shore." She rose and instinctively followed her boy. The sound of pursuit came nearer and nearer. They reached the shore, and there beheld three canoes coming swiftly up the river. Animated with hope, Louis screamed the watch word of the garrison, and was answered by his father's voice.

"The possibility of escape, and the certain approach of her husband, infused new life into Marguerite. "Your father cannot see us," she said, "as we stand here in the shade of the trees; hide yourself in that thicket, I will plunge into the water." Louis crouched under the bushes, and was completely hidden by an overhanging grape-vine, while his mother advanced a few steps into the water and stood erect, where she could be distinctly seen. A shout from the canoes apprised her that she was recognised, and at the same moment, the indians who had now reached the shore, rent the air with their cries of rage and defiance. They stood for a moment, as if deliberating what next to do; Mecumeh maintained an undaunted and resolved air--but with his followers the aspect of armed men, and a force thrice their number, had its usual effect. They fled. He looked after them, cried, 'shame!' and then, with a desperate yell, leaped into the water and stood beside Marguerite. The canoes were now within a few yards--He put his knife to her bosom--"The daughter of Tecumseh," he said, "should have died by the judgment of our warriors, but now by her brother's hand must she perish:" and he drew back his arm to give vigour to the fatal stroke, when an arrow pierced his own breast, and he fell insensible at his sister's side. A moment after Marguerite was in the arms of her husband, and Louis, with his bow unstrung, bounded from the shore, and was received in his father's canoe; and the wild shores rung with the acclamations of the soldiers, while his father's tears of pride and joy were poured like rain upon his cheek."

The stranger paused, and Edward breathed one long breath, expressive of the interest with which he had listened to the tale; and then said, "You have not told us, sir, how the commandant was so fortunate as to pursue in the right direction."

"He returned soon after Marguerite's departure, and of course was at no loss to determine that she had been taken in the toils of her brother. He explored the mouth of the Oswegatchie, thinking it possible that the savages might have left their canoes moored there, and taken to the land. Louis's cap and feather caught his eye, and furnished him a clue. You have now my whole story," concluded the stranger; "and though I cannot vouch for its accuracy, many similar circumstances must have occurred, while this country was a wilderness, and my tradition is at least supported by probability."

"You have not told us, sir," said Julia, "whether Mecumeh was really killed. I do not see how Marguerite could leave him without finding out, for after all, he was her brother."

"Marguerite," replied the stranger, "justified your opinion of sisterly duty. Mecumeh was conveyed to the fort--the arrow was withdrawn, and after a tedious illness, he recovered from the wound. There is too a tradition that the pious sister converted him to the catholic faith; but about this part of the story there seems to rest some uncertainty."

"And don't you know, sir," asked Edward, "what became of Louis afterwards?"

"I really do not," replied the gentleman, smiling; "but I doubt not that the man kept the promise of the heroic boy; and I think it extremely probable that he has led some gallant fellows to those deeds of high emprise which were achieved by the armies of Louis fourteenth."

"My dear children," said Mrs. Sackville, "you must really ask no more questions. You will be good enough to pardon," she added, turning to the stranger, "the eagerness of their youthful curiosity."

"Oh, madam," he replied, "the evidence of curiosity is the most grateful reward to a story-teller, and I feel that my acknowledgements are due to your children for their patient listening."

A few more courteous words passed, and the stranger bowed and departed.

"This was a lucky meeting, mother," said Edward; "this crazed leaning wall looks quite interesting to me now. I can almost fancy I see Marguerite and Louis issuing from the gate--Louis holding up the bow and arrow that was to do such memorable service that night."

"You have had a good lesson this morning, my children, on the pleasures of association. When we first saw that ruin, it looked to you like any other stone wall--mere mason-work: and you, Julia, afraid of being buried in its shadow, wondered what interest any one could feel in looking at it; and now, I see you are venturing on the most tottering part of it for a piece of moss, which I suppose is to be carefully treasured in your herbal."

"Yes, mama, as a keep-sake for Marguerite and Louis."

* * * * *

We shall not condemn our readers to attend the travellers in their tedious passage down the St. Lawrence. Sometimes a favoring breeze filled the single sail of their little boat, and aided by the oars of the lazy boatmen, wafted them gently forward, till, coming to a more rapid descent in the river, their light vessel seemed urged on by an irresistible force to the 'rapids,' where the waves, fretting and foaming over the invisible rocks, threatened to engulph it. The boatmen threw themselves prostrate on the bottom of the boat to avoid the splashing of the waves; their oars lay useless beside them, while the pilot strained every nerve to guide the boat in safety through the perilous channel. These passages, like the brilliant events of life, are rare and brief, and are succeeded by the sleepy lakes of the river, bordered by shores uniformly low and monotonous, save where the green mountains of Vermont dimly define the eastern horizon.

Arrived at Montreal, Mrs. Sackville, from consideration for Mrs. Barton, determined to avoid delay, and therefore deferred the examination of this city, so singular and picturesque to an American eye, till their return from Quebec. There was, however, no boat to sail before the evening, and a half day of leisure afforded our industrious travellers an opportunity to visit the churches and convents of Montreal.

The churches are spacious, and decorated with gaudy tinselled ornaments, and indifferent pictures. Edward and Julia were dazzled and delighted with the seeming splendor. A little demure Presbyterian girl, who acted as their guide, smiled at the animated expressions of their wonder. "Notre Dame, is," she said, "as my grandmother often says, just fit for a baby-house for children."

This remark caused a sudden revulsion in Edward's mind. He had a truly manly, or rather boyish aversion to be suspected of a juvenile taste, and averting his eye from his conductor, it fell on a miserable, half-famished looking old woman, who was kneeling in one of the aisles absorbed in her devotions.

"Look there, mother," said he, pointing to the wretched object, "what a contrast to all this pomp.--It reminds me of an anecdote I have somewhere read of a pious pilgrim to whom one of the popes was ostentatiously displaying the decorations of the Vatican.

"Dites à ces ornemens," said the pilgrim, "de se changer en pain."[4]

[4] Command these decorations to be changed into bread.

Quite satisfied with this display of his superiority to the childishness indirectly ascribed to him by his conductor, though it was entirely lost on her, Edward left the church, and attended his friends to the Hotel Dieu, the convent of the black nuns. They were shown the different apartments by one of the sisterhood, a well-bred Irish lady, whose fine intelligent dark eyes, benevolent and happy expression of countenance, and short plump figure, made a delightful impression on Edward and Julia, who had always fancied a nun must be tall and thin, with a sad solemn face, condemned to wither under an immoveable veil. She led them to the hospital where the sick of every nation are received and treated with equal kindness according to the law of christian benevolence, which is of universal obligation.

"Do the rules of your order, (the order of St. Joseph I believe,") inquired Mr. Sackville of the sister, "impose on you the performance of severe penances?"

"No," she replied, "we are exempted from extraordinary penances, on account of the fatiguing and often loathsome offices that we have to perform for the sick; these are received as sufficient mortifications. We open our doors to the sick mendicant and wounded soldiers. We had in this apartment at one time during the late war seventeen American soldiers."

"My countrymen," replied Mr. Sackville, "had abundant reason to be grateful that they fell into your skilful and benevolent hands,--the beautiful order and neatness of your hospital prove with what fidelity your samaritan duties are performed."

While the nun, courteously bowing her head at this merited compliment, led the way to an adjoining ante-room appropriated to medicines, surgical instruments, &c. Mrs. Sackville said in a low voice to Edward, "Take notice, my dear son, that where the _precepts_ of the christian religion are strictly applied they produce the same fruits; no matter by what name the particular faith is called, Catholic or Protestant."

"Oh look there, mother," exclaimed Julia, pointing to large cases with glass doors which contained the medicines, "I am sure that in spite of your laws of association, those vials and gallipots look quite beautiful."

"And I suspect they contain nothing very disagreeable," replied her mother; "these sisters do not appear to deal in the harsh medicines of our daring doctors, but content themselves with emollients and palliatives. See those labels, 'eau hysterique'--'eau celeste;' even you, Julia, would have no objection to medicines that deserve such pretty appellatives."

From the Hotel Dieu they went to the chapel and sacristie. Julia pointed to the altars on which were standing vases filled with white lilies and carnations. "Every where, mother," she said, "we see these beautiful flowers, even in the churches."

"And they are certainly not inappropriate, Julia," replied her mother, "in His temple whose pencil paints and breath perfumes them."

After all had been shown that is usually exhibited, the sister invited her visiters to go to the garden. Mrs. Sackville said that though she had heard it much extolled, their time would not permit them the pleasure of seeing it, but she said there was a farther trouble that she must venture on imposing. She understood the sisters sometimes permitted their visiters to buy specimens of their work; and she was anxious to carry some to their friends.

Their conductor seemed gratified with this hint, and directly left them, and returned with a large basket filled with embroidered needle-books, reticules, work-boxes, purses, scissor-cases, &c. &c.

Edward and Julia eagerly examined the beautiful productions of the taste and industry of the cloistered sisters. Edward was particularly struck with a sack or purse, made of birch bark, and wrought with porcupine quills of the richest dyes. On one side of it was an indian woman, carrying an infant according to the aboriginal fashion, laced to a board which was laid on her back; the little creature's head was just visible, peeping over her shoulder. A boy was standing beside her with a bow and arrow, on the reverse was a group of indians seated under an oak tree, smoking the long feathered and beaded pipe, which they call the calumet of peace, "Oh, mother," said Edward, holding up the sack, "is not this very valuable?"

"It is certainly very handsome," replied his mother.

"But that is not all, mother--it is certainly very valuable, as an illustration of indian customs.--I wish"----he added and paused.

"What do you wish, Ned?" asked his mother.

"Nothing, mama," he replied, sighing, laying down the sack, and turning away; "I only wish I had not seen it."

Julia was all this time looking at a very curious work-basket, which she thought a masterpiece. She turned it from side to side, examined the roses, carnations, jessamines, and violets, that had been wrought with such exquisite skill as to represent to the life the peerless flowers they were made to imitate; and for one moment she too wished that her five dollars was still at her own disposal. Mrs. Sackville read what was passing in the minds of her children. She took them aside: "My dear Ned and Julia," she said, "I fear you may be regretting your hasty benevolence, when you devoted to a charitable purpose all the money your father gave you for such gratifications as are now offered to you; you did it from a sudden impulse of generosity: you have, I believe, as yet expended but a small portion of your money, and if you now prefer to appropriate it to the purchase of these very tempting articles, I will myself assume the expense of getting Mrs. Barton to Quebec."

Edward and Julia looked at their mother, and at one another without replying a word. Mrs. Sackville returned to the table to make some selections for herself.

"What had we best do, Ned?" whispered Julia.

"Why do you ask me, Julia? you know as well as I. I should like to have something to show that I had been in Canada."

"So should I excessively--but then"--

"But what, Julia? I am sure mama says it shall make no difference to Mrs. Barton."

"No, that is true--it will make no difference to her; but it will make a great difference to us."

The last member of Julia's sentence was quite lost on Edward, for he had abruptly returned to the table, and to the examination of the coveted purse. Julia stood for one half instant wavering, and then walked to a window, and kept her eye steadily fixed on the garden it overlooked. Mrs. Sackville ventured one glance at her children. 'Ah,' thought she, 'Julia, you will prove faithful, but Ned I fear for you; 'he who deliberates is lost,'' Her mind was more intent on her children than on the little traffic she was making, and when she had set aside articles to a considerable amount, and was about to pay for them, the nun said, "I think, madam, you might make a better selection--allow me to exchange this basket for the awkward one you have there. I am a little vain of this, for I made it myself, and I should have begged your daughter to accept it when I saw her admiring it, but these articles are devoted to a specific object, and I have no control over them. I should, however, be particularly gratified if you would purchase this for Miss Julia, instead of that you have taken."

"You are very good," replied Mrs. Sackville, "but I have permitted my daughter to select for herself. Julia, do you hear what this lady says?"

"Yes, mama."

"Will you look at the basket, my love?"

"No, I thank you, mama."

This last reply was uttered in a faltering voice, and caught Edward's attention. He had just taken out his pocket-book to pay for the purse. He looked towards Julia, and then to his mother. Mrs. Sackville's eyes were fixed on Julia with an expression of love and approbation which flashed to Edward's heart; he dropped the purse, put up his pocket-book, and going up to his sister, whispered a proposal that they should return to the inn, without waiting for their mother to finish her business.

They then took a respectful, though rather a hurried leave of the kind sister, impatient to be out of sight of a temptation, which no one will deride as inconsiderable, when it is remembered that Edward was twelve, Julia ten years old.

"What upon earth ails the children?" asked Mr. Morris, who saw that something agitated them. Mrs. Sackville explained as far as she could without making a display of their charity. "They are good children, very good children," said Mr. Morris, "and I think you have tried them a little too far, sister; but, dear souls, it shall all be made up to them. Where is that purse poor Ned was fingering? and that basket for Julia? I'll buy them both; they shall have them."

"No, my dear brother, you must not indeed interpose your kindness--you will spoil all. The result has proved that I did not try them too far, though I confess I was at one time a little afraid I had done what I have often seen children do, pulled up the flower in trying to ascertain whether it had taken root. I have now more confidence that their hearts have that good soil into which the roots of virtue may strike deeply; and they now know the full cost of a charitable action which is performed by the voluntary and deliberate sacrifice of personal indulgence."

"You are right, perfectly right my dear," said Mr. Sackville.

"Yes, I believe you are right," said Mr. Morris, reluctantly replacing the articles, "but it's deuced hard upon the children."

"It is more blessed to give than to receive," said the nun, in a sweet tone of voice, and added, "I assure you madam, I never missed a sale of our little wares with so much satisfaction."

The visiters then took leave of the amiable sister, and in the course of the evening embarked on board the steam-boat. When they arose in the morning, they had already reached the mouth of the Sorrel. It was one of the most beautiful of all the bright days of summer. A gentle west wind tempered the sun's heat, and if, as saith the good book, 'a cheerful countenance betokeneth the heart in prosperity,' it might be inferred from the happy faces of our friends, that their minds were as bright and clear as the cloudless sky. Even Mrs. Barton had lost her downcast despondent look, and the pleasant light of gratitude and hope was diffused over her honest countenance. Edward and Julia were unusually animated, and their mother observed their joyous step as they bounded over the decks, their sparkling glances, and their gleeful chatterings which fell like music on her ear: she traced their uncommon spirits to the little struggle and victory of the preceding day, and rightly, for it is active goodness that commands the secret spring of joy--virtue that opens all the sweet fountains of happiness within us.

It was late in the afternoon when the level and uniform shores of the river, studded with an unbroken line of white-washed houses, or only broken where they clustered around a catholic church, as children gather under the wing of a parent, began to assume more picturesque forms. Bold promontories stretched into the river, and beautiful hills presented their verdant and graceful slopes to the clear mirror. There was a band of musicians on board the boat, who at the command of the captain, (who understood the laws of international courtesy,) had been playing yankee doodle. Edward was far enough from home to feel grateful for this tribute from the English captain, and when the music suddenly changed, at a signal from him, to a mournful requiem, Edward inquired with a look of disappointment, the cause of the transition.

"Look there," he replied, "my young friend, at that pretty grassy point. It is called Cape Laboniére; just above the point you see a thicket of tall trees, which extend their shadows now beyond the church. Under those trees were buried three beautiful girls, the daughters of the honourable Mrs. Laboniére. The young ladies were called by the villagers, 'Les s[oe]urs de la charité;' and are now, I am told, reckoned as their guardian saints by these poor catholic peasants. I happened to be there when the last was buried. You know the catholics have great pomp and expense at their funerals; but I believe the childless parents had no heart for this, for though the father is seignior of the place, and a man of great wealth, he granted the request of the poor villagers who went in a body to him, to beg permission to bury their beloved benefactress. I saw the procession--every one in it was a mourner. The girls strewed the grave with white roses, and all, even the old men and the little children, shed tears on the turf that covered it; and I could not but think how much better than their consecrated water were these tears of gratitude. We call the place the 'Three sisters,' now," concluded the captain, "and I never pass it without some tribute of respect."

* * * * *

Before nine o'clock the steamboat was gliding along under the heights of Quebec. Having, as Mr. Morris (who kept strict note of time) remarked, achieved a sail of 180 miles in 18 hours. Edward stood on the deck beside his mother, straining his eyes to the proud summit of Cape Diamond, where the British flag waved in a flood of moonlight. "Oh, mother," he exclaimed, "what a kind friend the moon has been to us."

"She has indeed," replied Mrs. Sackville; "and I am very glad that you notice and enjoy her favors; her pale crescent was reflected in the waters of Ontario--her beams revealed to us some of the secret places of the 'thousand isles'--the glittering spires of Montreal sent back her silver rays, and now she pours a flood of light from her full orb, upon these fortified heights. But, come, dear Ned, I believe it is time for us to leave the moon, and attend to our sublunary concerns. Your uncle has gone to settle our bill, and you had best attend to yours." Julia poured the contents of her purse into Edward's, and he left them, and returned in a few moments holding a single shilling between his fingers; "here is all we have left," he said; "what is to be done now, mother? I cannot bear to turn poor Mrs. Barton adrift the moment we arrive."

"No, dear Ned," replied his mother; "she shall be cared for still further. I had too much respect for good examples," she continued, smiling, "to spend all my money for fancy articles, and I shall take Mrs. Barton to the City Hotel with us, till she can make some provisions for herself. I confess I have not much expectation that the governor will think proper to do any thing for her, but your father has letters to him, and he will call at the Chateau to-morrow, and say and do what he can in her behalf." Mrs. Barton received this additional kindness with unfeigned gratitude; "But after to-morrow, ma'am," she said, "I will trouble you no further, for I am sure to find some acquaintance here, who will help me to shift for myself."

The next morning passports were procured to visit the fortifications. Edward, who had a great regard to our own heroes and patriots, had previously sallied forth in quest of the spot where the gallant Montgomery fell in our cause; and his father, after awaiting his return for some time, proceeded without him, leaving a note of directions how he should follow him.

Edward obeyed the directions. He reached Cape Diamond without meeting his friends, and he was biting his lips with vexation, that he should have come to this celebrated fortification alone, without any one to explain it to him, and must leave it as ignorant as he had entered; when he was accosted by a good natured looking soldier, who, doffing his military cap and making a slight bow, said, "This is a pleasant place, young gentleman, of a sunny summer's day."

Edward turned his bright glance on the man, delighted to have found any one who could answer the questions that were rushing to his lips. "Is not that," he said, pointing to the island opposite, "the island of Orleans?"