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

such an admirable figure. M. Laurent thought me the most graceful girl he had ever seen, had so many pretty compliments, and that keeps one in heart, spurs one on to new efforts. M. Destournier is not of that kind. He is cold-blooded, and seems more English than French."

Rose colored. The dispraise hurt her.

"Fix my pillows, and put me down. I get so tired. And stir up the fire."

Rose did this very gently, smoothing out wrinkles, holding the cold hands in hers, so warm and full of strength. The room seemed smothering to her, but she stirred the fire vigorously, and sent a vivid shower of sparks upward.

"Now if you had a little broth----"

"But I cannot bear to have you go away. Yes, I know I shall get stronger with you here."

"You need some nourishment. I will not be gone long," giving a heartsome smile.

A gallery ran along this side of the house, built for miladi's convenience. She stepped out on it, in the clear air and sunshine, and took a few turns. Poor Madame! Would she get well when she seemed so near dying?

The broth was reviving. Rose fed her with a teaspoon, instead of giving her the cup to drink from, and they both laughed like children. Then she arranged the pillows and bathed the poor, wrinkled face and hair with some fragrant water, and miladi fell asleep under these ministrations.

Rose moved lightly about the room, changing its aspect with deft touches. She was glad to do something in return. Miladi had been very sweet when she was ill, and there had been the pleasant years when she had not minded the exactions. Was there really a plan to go to France? Would they take her from her beloved Quebec?

M. Destournier brought in a book from the Governor's store and Rose read aloud in the evening. That was a restless time for miladi, but the sweet, cheerful voice tranquillized her. M. Ralph sat in the corner of the wide stone fireplace, watching the changes in the lovely face, as she seemed to enter into the spirit of the adventures. Heroism appealed to her. The flush came and went in her cheek, her eyes sent out gleams of glory, and her bosom rose and fell.

There came an instant of rapture to Ralph Destournier, that mysterious and almost sublime appreciation of a woman's love, a love such as this girl could give. He had possessed the childish affection, the innocent girlish fondness, but some other would win the woman's heart, the prize he would lay down his life for. What had been the pity and weak tenderness was given to the woman in the bed yonder. He knew now she had only touched his heart in sympathy, and a fancied duty. In a thousand years she would never be capable of such love as this girl, blossoming into womanhood, could give.

"There should be some women at hand," declared a weak voice from the bed. "It adds an interest to the discoveries, to think, if a woman did not inspire it, she crowned it with her admiration. But for a party of men to go off alone----"

"The hardships would be too great for a woman."

Destournier's voice was husky with repressed emotion. This girl would keep step and inspire an explorer.

"They would not take so many hardships then. What if there is a great river or ocean leading to India! A man can live but one life, and that should be devoted to some woman."

He rose, crossed the room, and kissed his wife on the forehead. He learned by accident one day that she used something to keep her lips red with the lost bloom of youth, and they had never been sweet to him since.

"Good-night. I hope you will sleep. Rose had better not read any more. We must not have all the good things in one day."

He ran down the steps to where a street had been straightened and widened in the summer. The moonlight gave everything a weird glow, the stars were tinted in all colors, as one finds in the clear cold of the north. Only the planets and the larger ones, the myriad of small ones were outshone. What beauty, what strength, what wonders lay hidden in the wide expanse. He was tempted to plunge into the wilderness, to the frozen north, to the blooming south, or that impenetrable expanse of the west, and leave behind the weak woman, who in her selfish way loved him, and the girl who could create a new life for him, that he could love with the force of manhood suddenly aroused, that had been clean and wholesome. He was glad of that, though he could not lay it at the girl's feet. Miladi had been in this state so long, sometimes rallying, and in the summer they would go to France. But they would leave Rose of old Quebec behind.

Over there at the fort a man sat poring over maps and papers, a solitary man now, who had wedded youth and beauty, and found only Dead Sea fruit. But he was going bravely on his way. That was a man's duty.

In a few days there was a decided improvement in miladi. She was dressed, and sat up part of the time. She evinced an eager resolve to get well, she put on a sort of childish brightness, that was at times pitiful. But nothing could conceal the ravages of time. She looked older than her years. She was, in a curious manner, drawing on the vitality of the young girl, and it was generously given.

Then came to Rose a great sorrow. M. Hebert, who had been such an inspiring influence to her, died from the effects of a fall. There was a general mourning in the small settlement. The Governor felt he had lost one of his most trusty friends. The eldest daughter, Guillemette, who had married one Guillaume Couillard, came down from Tadoussac, and they took his place on the farm. Hers had been the first wedding in Quebec.

Rose felt that this must change the home for her. She had counted on going back to them. There were days when she grew very tired of miladi's whims and inanities, and longed to fly to her beloved wood.

"If I should die, he will marry her," miladi thought continually. "I will not die. I will take her to France and marry her to some one before her beauty fades. She will make a sensation."

Rose never dreamed she was so closely watched. After that moonlight battle with himself, Destournier allowed his soul no further thought of the present Rose, but dreamed over the frank child-charm she had possessed for him. He grew grave and silent, and spent much of his time with the Sieur.

Spring was very late. It seemed as if old Quebec would never throw off her ermine mantle. Richelieu was now at the helm in France, and that country and England were at war with each other. Quebec was looking forward to supplies and reinforcements that had been promised.

From a cold and unusually dry May, they went into summer heats. The Sieur de Champlain spent much of his time getting his farm at Cape Tourmente in order. M. Destournier was engrossed with the improvements of the town, and keeping the Indians at work, who were, it must be confessed, notoriously lazy. Miladi complained. Rose grew weary. She missed her dear friend M. Hebert, and she was puzzled at the coldness and distance of M. Destournier. But the rambles were a comfort and a kind of balance to her life. She brought wild flowers to miladi, and the first scarlet strawberries. And there was always such an enchanting freshness after these excursions, that the elder woman liked her to take them.

Richelieu understood better than any one yet the importance of this colony to France, when the English were making such rapid strides in the new world. He was planning extensive improvements in colonizing, and fitting out ships with stores and men.

The news came to Cape Tourmente that vessels had been sighted. Word was sent on to Quebec, and there was a general rejoicing.

But it was soon turned to terror and anguish. Some savages came paddling furiously to the town, and though the cries were indistinguishable at first, they soon gathered force.

"The English have burned and pillaged Cape Tourmente, and are at Tadoussac! Save yourselves. Man the fort. Call all to arms!"

Alas! The fort was considerably out of repair. The Indians had been peaceable for some time and the mother country had kept them short of supplies. The walled settlement was protection from marauding bands, and the fort could have been made impregnable if the Governor had carried out his plans and not been hampered by the lack of all-needed improvements.

The farmer at Cape Tourmente had been slightly wounded, and was brought down with the boat, on which several had escaped. The buildings had been burned, the cattle killed, the crops laid waste. No doubt they were now pillaging Tadoussac.

Champlain began to prepare for defense with all the force available. Muskets were loaded, cannon trained down the river, the fort manned. Friendly Indians offered their services. All was wild alarm, the blow was so unexpected.

Miladi, hearing the noise and confusion, explained it her way.

"It is always so when the horde of traders come in," she said. She had been looking over old finery, and getting ready for a return to France.

The little convent on the St. Charles was prepared to repel any surprise. But at mid-afternoon a boat hovered about in the river, and it was learned presently that it conveyed some captives taken by the English, who were sent with a letter from the commander of the fleet, that now appeared quite formidable, with its six well-manned vessels.

The Governor at once called together the leading men of the place and laid before them the summons of surrender, and the first news of the war between France and England. It was couched in polite terms, but contained a well-laid plan. In all, eighteen ships had been despatched by His Majesty, the King of Britain. Several small stations had been captured, also a boat with supplies from France, and all resources were to be cut off. By surrendering they would save their homes and property, and be treated with the utmost courtesy, but it was the intention of the English to take the town, although they preferred to do it without bloodshed.

It was quite a lengthy document, and Champlain read it slowly, that each sentence might be well considered. The hard winter, the late spring, the supplies at Cape Tourmente and Tadoussac being cut off, rendered them in no situation for a prolonged struggle. But they would not yield so easily to the demand of the English. They had the courage of men who had undergone many hardships, and the pride of their nation. Quebec had been the child of the Sieur de Champlain's work and love. With one voice they resolved to refuse, and the word was sent to Captain David Kirke.

He meanwhile turned his fleet down the river, fancying the town an easy prey, when he espied the relief stores sent from France, a dozen or so vessels, bringing colonists, workmen, priests, women, and children, and farming implements, as well as stores, convoyed by a man-of-war. It was a rich prize for the Englishman, and an order for surrender was sent, which was refused.

The battle was indeed disastrous for Quebec, though