A Little Girl in Old Quebec, Amanda Minnie Douglas [book recommendations .txt] 📗

Mam'selle Boulle was married younger that that."

"And whether the Sieur would quite approve. There are some formalities in old France which we have not shaken off. His parents are still alive----"

"And he is quite certain he can have the mystery about her fathomed. She should go down on her knees to a man who would prove her honorably born, even if he had no fortune. To-morrow morning he wants the matter settled, and a betrothal, before he goes. If you know where she is, you had better summon her and instruct her as to her duty. She is quite old enough to understand. She has played the child too long already, and it has spoiled her."

"I will not have her betrothed against her will. She has no fancy for marriage. And there will be time enough. If M. Boulle chooses to wait until the Sieur returns, and he consents----"

"She has always been a favorite of his," interrupted miladi. Then suddenly--"Why are you so obstinate about it, when it will be such an excellent thing for her?"

"I am not obstinate about it, only as far as she is concerned. If she desired it she should have my full and free consent. But I will not insist upon a step she does not desire."

"As if a girl knew what was best!" reiterated miladi scornfully. "And why should you wish to keep her? Unless"--and now miladi's eyes flashed fire--"unless----"

"Do not say it!" He held up his hand forbiddingly.

"I will say it! You are not her father, and it seems strange you should have such an overwhelming fondness for her as to keep her from a most excellent marriage, and persuade yourself that a woman grown can indulge in all kinds of childish behavior, without detriment to her character. If it is your fondness for her that stands in the way----"

Miladi at that moment was in a jealous fury. The passion leaped to her heart full-grown. She understood now why she half-feared, half-disliked the child that she had once esteemed a pet and plaything. She had supplanted her in her husband's affections. She had youth and beauty, and miladi was fading, beside being years older than her husband, and then never very well any more.

"Hush!" exclaimed her husband, in a commanding tone. "I forbid you to think of such a thing! When have I failed in my devotion to you? To-morrow she shall have her choice, but she shall not be forced into any promise beside her own wishes. And then I will find a new home for her."

He turned and went out of the room. Miladi pounded on the table before her with her small fist, as if she could beat the life out of something.


CHAPTER XIII

FROM A GIRL'S HEART

Rose stood looking over the wide expanse of the river to the opposite shore, wondering a little. Down there, miles and miles below, were the English settlements. The men, as traders, came to Quebec now and then. Were the English women like the French? Were there young girls among them? She was beginning to experience a peculiar loneliness, a want of companionship, that no one about her could satisfy.

"Madame Destournier wishes to see you," exclaimed Pani, who had been sent on the errand.

She went slowly to miladi's room, and entering it wished her good-morning, with a dainty courtesy.

"You will be needed for a matter in hand," began miladi, "about which I desire to say a few words before the gentlemen come. It would have been settled yesterday, but you were not to be found. Where were you?"

Miladi asked it carelessly, so intent on the matter in hand that she did not remark the color that flew up to the fair brow.

"Out on the river," she answered briefly.

"It is not proper for you to go alone. I have told you of this before. You are a young woman, and with so many men roaming about, it is too bold and unsafe, as well."

"I am never in any danger."

"You do not know. But then it is not proper."

Rose made no reply to that. For some time miladi had not seemed to care where she went. And she often did have Pani with her.

There was a rather awkward silence. Rose was meditating an escape. Then miladi began, in so severe a tone that every nerve within her quivered.

"Yes, you were needed yesterday afternoon. M. Boulle came in and laid before me a grave matter. You two seem to have wandered about in a manner that would have scandalized a more civilized place, but there appear to be no restrictions in this wilderness of savages. I have not been able to watch over you as I should, and Wanamee does not understand. Out of all this freedom, so unusual to a French maid, has come a proposal of marriage, and this morning you are to be betrothed."

"I? But I have not consented, Madame. I told M. Boulle yesterday that I could not marry him, that I did not want to marry any one."

"You will consider. Remember you are a foundling, with no name of ancestry, no parents, that a man might refer to with pride when children grow up about the family altar. It is not a thing to be quite satisfied with, Mademoiselle, or proud of," and there was a sting in her tone. "This man loves you so well that he is willing to overlook it and offer you honorable marriage, which but few men would do. We have accepted him for you. He returns to Tadoussac to-day, but the marriage day will be settled and though you cannot have what I would wish, we will do our best."

The girl's face had changed from scarlet to deathly whiteness. Something inside of her seemed to spring into a flame of knowledge, of womanhood, and burn up grandly. That subtle chemistry that works in the girl's soul, and transforms it, sometimes slowly, was in her case like the sudden bursting of a bud into flowering. She was her own. She had said this before; in a way, she had always felt it; but now it was graven with a point of steel.

"Madame," she began, in a tone she vainly strove to render steady, "only yesterday I told M. Boulle I could not take the love he proffered me, and make any return. And then I felt on a certain equality. I understand better now. I am nameless, a rose of the wilderness, a foundling, as you said. So I will marry no man who may be ashamed of me before his children. Thank M. Boulle for the honor, and tell him----"

The door opened, Destournier recalled one of the few plays he had seen in Paris, with a tragedienne who had won a king's heart, and it seemed almost as if this girl might step into fame, so proud and full of power was she, standing there. Miladi had not been willing to wait for a conference. But the result would have been the same.

Both men looked at her in surprise, and were speechless for a moment. Then M. Destournier, recovering, reached out and took the girl's slim, nerveless hand.

"Rose," he said, "M. Boulle has done us all the honor to ask your hand in marriage. If you can accept him you will have our heartiest wishes for your happiness; if you feel that you cannot, if no affection draws you to him, then do not give him a cold, loveless heart in return. Make your own choice; there is no one to compel you, no one to insist."

"I thank you, M. Boulle, for the honor." She held her head up very straight; it seemed as if she had grown since yesterday. Her eyes were fearless in their high light, the delicious curves of her lips seemed set as if they had been carved, instead of rosy flesh. "It is more than the usual honor, I believe. I am a nameless foundling, and have been handed about from one to another, and they were not the kind in whom one could take pride. Therefore, I shall not bestow myself on any man, and no one has any right to take advantage of his generosity. If I loved you, I should do the same thing. How much more resolute I should be when I do not love you, and would wed you simply for the sake of sheltering myself under your name. I am sorry any one has considered this possible, since it is not."

Boulle took a step forward and grasped her hand, as he poured out a torrent of ardent love. Miladi looked on, amazed. Was the girl made of stone, or was her heart elsewhere? She made no appeal to M. Destournier, indeed her face was turned a trifle from him.

"You pain me," she said wearily, yet with a tender pity. "I can say no more."

"But I will wait," he pleaded.

"My answer would always be the same."

"Rose!" miladi exclaimed.

"Madame Destournier, I thank you also for your kindness to a foundling, and you, also," turning to M. Destournier, "for home and shelter, and many other things. I feel now that since I have disappointed you I cannot avail myself of your generosity any longer. I can find another home----"

She turned swiftly as a ray of light, and disappeared.

"Have you no control over her?" cried Madame angrily, "that she defies you to your face. It shows the blood that runs in her veins, wayward, ungrateful thing that no honor can raise, no generosity touch. She has the heart of a stone. M. Boulle, you have made a fortunate escape."

"But I love her, Madame. And I thought her noble in her refusal, but I would have taken her to my heart, no matter what she was. And I do not quite despair. I may find some link that will rehabilitate her. She must have come from a fine race. There is no peasant blood there."

"Perhaps honorable peasant blood may be cleaner than a king's bastard," returned miladi scornfully.

"You have my most fervent sympathy," and M. Destournier wrung the lover's hand. "But it would be ill work marrying a woman who did not care for you. Perhaps another year"--should he give him hope? It was such an honest, earnest face, and he would have been brave to set at naught family tradition.

They went down the winding stair together. Rose was nowhere to be seen.

"Oh, you will watch over her?" M. Boulle cried, with a lover's desperation.

"Do not fear. She has been like a child to me. No harm shall come to her."

Miladi in her transport of rage tore the handkerchief she held in her hand to shreds, and stamped her foot on the floor.

"She shall never come in this house again, the deceitful, ungrateful wretch. And he shall not care for her, or befriend her in any way. She must love him, and it is no child's love, either. Why, I have been blind and silly all this last year."

Rose had flown out of the house, across the gardens and the settlement to the woods, where she had spent so many delightful hours. She threw herself down on the moss and the fragrant pine needles, and gave way to a fit of weeping that seemed to rend both soul and body. Was she an outcast? Oh, it could not be that M. Destournier would forsake her. But she could ask nothing