"Miladi belongs to her husband, who is dead. When she goes to heaven he will be there, and you two--well, one must give up. Do you not remember that Osaka murdered his wife because she went away from him and married another brave?"
He was amused at her pa.s.sion.
"I will give her up then. It is only for this life. And she needs some one to care for her. Why are you so opposed to it, when you used to love her? She will be like a mother to you."
"I do not want any mother," proudly. "And she does not love me now. Oh, one can feel it just like a blast of unfriendly wind. And when she has you she will not care for any one else."
"But I can care for you both. You know you belong to me. And sometime, when new people cross the ocean, some brave, fine young fellow will love you and want to marry you."
"I will not marry him."
"Oh, my little girl, be reasonable. We shall all be happy here together.
And you will grow up to womanhood and learn many things that will please you and be of great service. And will go to France some day----"
"I will not go anywhere with her. Unclasp my hands. I do not belong to you any more, to no one, I am----"
She burst into a pa.s.sion of weeping. In spite of her struggles he clasped her to his heart and kissed the throbbing temples, that seemed as if they would burst.
"Oh, Rose, my little one, whom I love as a child, and always shall love, listen to me and be comforted."
"She will not let you love me. She will want me to be sent to France and be put in a convent. Father Jamay said that was what I needed. Oh, you will see!"
The sobs seemed to rend her small body. He could feel the beating of her heart and all his soul was moved with pity, although he knew her grief was unreasonable.
"And you are willing to make me very unhappy, to spoil all my pleasure in the new home. Oh, my child, I hardly thought that of you."
She made another struggle and freed herself. She stood erect, it seemed as if she had grown inches. "You may be happy with her," she said, with a dignity that would have been amusing if it had not been sad, and then she dashed out of the room.
He sat down and leaned his elbow on the table, his head on his hand. He had gathered from several things miladi had suggested, that she was rather indifferent to the child, but he did not surmise that Rose had felt and understood it. No one had a better right than he, since in all probability her parentage would remain unknown. He would not relinquish her. She should be a daughter to him. He realized that he had a curious love for the child, that she had attracted him from the first. In the years to come her beauty and winsomeness would captivate a husband, with the dowry he could give her.
For several days he saw very little of her. He was busy and miladi was exigent. Rose wandered about, sometimes to the settlement, watching the busy women dressing skins, making garments, cutting fringes, and embroidering wampum for the braves. The tawny children played about, the small papooses, strapped in their cases of bark, blinked and occasionally uttered wearisome cries. Or she rowed about in her canoe, often with Pani, for the river current was rather treacherous. Then she scudded through the woods like a deer, winding in and out of the stately columns that were here silver-gray, there white; beech and birch, dark hemlocks, that not having s.p.a.ce to branch out, grew up tall with a head almost like a palm. Insects hummed and shrilled, or whirred like a tiny orchestra. Now and then a bird flung out a strain of melody, squirrels ran about, and the doe came and put its nose in her hand. She had tied a strip of skin, colored red, about its neck, that no one might shoot it.
The rich, deep moss cushioned the ground. Occasionally an acorn fell.
She would sit here in dreamy content by the hours, often just enjoying, sometimes puzzling her brains over all the mysteries that in the years to come education would solve. So few could read, indeed books were only for the few.
Then she ran up and down the rocks, hid in the nooks, came out again in dryad fashion. She had been wont to laugh and make echoes ring about, but now her heart, in spite of all she could do, was not light enough for that. Wanamee was sore troubled by her reticence, for she was too proud to make any complaint. Indeed, she did not know what to complain of. In her childish heart everything was vague, she could not reason, she could only feel that something had been s.n.a.t.c.hed out of her life and set in another"s. She would henceforth be lonely.
"Miladi wants to see you," said Wanamee one morning. "She wonders why you do not run in as you used. And she has something joyful to tell you."
Rose shut her lips tightly together and stamped on the floor.
"Oh, _ma pet.i.te_, you have guessed then! Or, perhaps M"sieu told you.
Miladi is to marry him, and they are to go to the nice new house he is building. They are to take you and me and Pani. And he will have the two Montagnais, who have been his good servants. We shall get out of this old, tumble-down post station, and be near the Heberts. Then M"sieu is getting such a nice big wheat field and garden."
Rose was drawing long breaths. She would not cry or utter a complaint.
Wanamee approached her, holding out both hands.
"Do not touch me," she entreated, in a pa.s.sionate tone. "Do not say anything more. When I am a little tranquil I will go and see her. I know what she wants me to say--that I am glad. There is something just here that keeps me from being glad," and she pressed her hands tightly over her heart. "I do not know what it is."
"Surely you are not jealous of miladi? They are grown-up people. And M"sieu told her yesterday--I heard them talking--that you were to be a child to them, that they would both love you. Miladi has been irritable, and not so gay as she used, but she is better now, and will soon be her olden self. She was very nice and cheerful this morning, and laughed with the joy of other days. Oh, child, do not disturb it by any tempers."
Wanamee"s eyes were soft and entreating.
"Oh, you need not fear," the child exclaimed, proudly. "Now I will go."
She tapped at miladi"s door, and a very sweet voice said--"Come, little stranger."
She opened it. Miladi was sitting by the small cas.e.m.e.nt window, in one of her pretty silken gowns, long laid by. There was a dainty rose flush on her cheek, but the hand she held out was much thinner than of yore, when in the place of knuckles there were dimples.
"Where have you been all these days when I have not seen you, little maid? Come here and kiss me, and wish me joy, as they do in old France.
For I am going to take your favorite as a husband, and you are to be our little daughter."
Rose lifted up her face. The kiss was on her forehead.
"Now, kiss me," and she touched the small shoulder with something like a shake, as she offered her cheek.
It was a cold little kiss from lips that hardly moved. Miladi laughed with a pretty, amused ripple.
"In good sooth," she said merrily, "some lover will teach you to kiss presently. Thou art growing very pretty, Rose, and when some of the gallants come over from Paris, they will esteem the foundling of Quebec the heroine of romance."
The child did not flush under the compliment, or the sting, but glanced down on the floor.
"Come, thou hast not wished me joy."
"Madame, as I have not been to France I do not know how they wish joy."
"Oh, you formal little child!" laughing gayly. "Do you not know what it is to be happy? Why, you used to be as merry as the birds in singing time."
"I can still be merry with the birds."
"But you must be merry for M. Destournier. He wishes you to be happy, and has asked me to be a mother to you. Why, I fell in love with you long ago, when you were so ill. And surely you have not forgotten when I found you on the gallery, in a dead faint. You were grateful for everything then."
Had she loved miladi so much? Why did she not love her now? Why was her heart so cold? like lead in her bosom.
"I am grateful for everything."
"Then say you are glad I am going to marry M. Ralph, who loves me dearly."
"Then I shall be glad you are to marry him. But I am sorry for M.
Giffard, in his lonely grave."
"Oh, horrors, child! Do you think I ought to be buried in the same grave? There, run away. You give me the shivers."
Rose made a formal little courtesy, and walked slowly out of the room, with a swelling heart.
Miladi told of the scene to her lover daintily, and with some embellishments, adding--"She is a jealous little thing. You will be between two fires."
"The fires will not scorch, I think," smiling. "She will soon outgrow the childish whim."
In his secret heart there was a feeling of joy that he had touched such depths in the little girl"s soul. Miladi was rather annoyed that he had not agreed to send her to some convent in France, as she hoped. But in a year or two she might choose it for herself.