"Yes," she made answer, "I will see. You are quite sure your family will not be displeased? We know nothing of her birth, you are aware."
"Her beauty will make amends for that."
One could not deny her beauty. Such a dower had never been miladi"s, though she had been pretty in youth.
"Beg her to listen to me."
"A man should be able to compel a woman to listen," she made answer a little sharply.
Glancing out over the s.p.a.ce between, she caught sight of Rose and her husband coming down from the fort. She was gay enough now, talking with no restraint.
"I am almost jealous of M. Destournier," Eustache said, with a sigh.
Miladi was suddenly jealous as well, and this swept away the last shred of reluctance.
"You give her great honor by this marriage proposal. She shall be compelled to consider it."
"A thousand thanks. If Madame will excuse, I will go out to them."
M. Destournier left her with the young lover. Would she not go out on the river? No. Then let them take a forest ramble. There were some fine grapes back of the settlement. Pani had brought in a great basket full.
What would she do?
"Sit here on this ledge and watch the river. Pierre Cadotte is at the fort. They came through the rapids at Lachine. It was very exciting. He has been at the trading post up to the strait and tells marvellous stories of hardships and heroism. And the good priest up there has made converts already."
She was always so interested in some far-off thing.
"I wish a priest might make a convert here. There is much need."
She was off her guard. Canoes and boats were going up and down the river. Some men were hauling in a catch of fish; just below, an Indian woman sat weaving reed baskets, while a group of children played around.
Not an ideal spot for love-making, but Eustache was desperate.
"Thee"--leaning over until his black curls touched hers. "I would have thee converted to love and matrimony. I have been a coward, and kept my heartaches and desires to myself. I can do it no longer."
"But I am not for matrimony." She raised her clear eyes that would have disheartened almost any man. "I do not want any husband. I like my own fancies, and I suppose they are strange. There is only one person I ever talk to about them. No one else understands. I think sometimes I do not belong here, but to another country; no, the country is well enough. I am suited to that. I do not want to go away."
"You would like old France, Paris. My mother would be glad to welcome you, I know. And, oh, you would like Paris. Or, if you would rather stay here----"
"I do not want to be married in a long time yet. Women change so much when they have husbands, and it seems as if they made themselves unhappy over many things their husbands do."
"But my sister was very happy. She would not have come all the way to New France if she had not loved her husband dearly."
"You see that is so different. I do not love any one in that manner.
And, oh, M"sieu, she was like an angel, and prayed so much. It is a good thing, but I would not like to stay in a darkened room and pray. I like better to be roaming in the woods, and singing with the birds, and gathering flowers. I believe I am not old enough to accept these things."
"But my sister was only twelve when she was betrothed to the Sieur de Champlain."
"You see something makes the difference." Her brow knit in perplexity.
"If it is a thing you want, it would be very easy to reach out your hand and take it----"
"But I want it!" He reached out his hand and caught hers. "I love you, strange, bewitching as you are in your innocence. And I would teach you what love was. No young girl loves much before marriage. But when she is with her husband day by day and his devotion is laid at her feet, she cannot help understanding what a delight it is, and she learns to give of her sweetest and best, as you will, my adorable child."
The heat of his hand and the pulse throbbing in every finger roused a deeper feeling of resistance. She tried to withdraw it, but the pressure only tightened.
"Will you release my hand?" she said, with a new-born dignity. "It is mine, not yours!"
"But I wish it for mine. Oh, Rose, you sweet, delightful creature, you _must_ learn to love me. I cannot give you up. And the Destourniers are quite willing. I have asked for you."
"No one can give me away. I belong only to myself."
She drew her hand away in an unguarded moment. She sprang up straight and lithe, her head poised superbly. Every pulse within him was mysteriously stirred, and his breath came in gasps. Yes, he must set her in his life. It would be bleak and barren without. To kiss the rosy lips when he listed, to pillow the fair head on his shoulder, to encircle the supple figure, so full of vitality, in his arms--yes, that would be the highest delight.
"I will wait," he said, in a beseeching voice. "You are but a child.
Pity has not sprung up in your heart yet. I will wait and watch for the first sign."
"Go!" She made a dismissing gesture with her hand. "Do not attempt to follow me."
He stood still, looking after her. His whole soul was aflame, his voice could have cried to the heavens above that she might be enkindled with the sacred flame that leaped and flashed within him.
Rose picked her way deftly, daintily over the rocky way. She did not stop at the house, but went on to the beach. A fish-hawk was chasing a robin, that suddenly veered round as if asking her protection, and picking up a sharp stone, she took aim at the hawk and stunned him for an instant, so that he lost his balance.
"Bravo, little Rose," said a hearty voice, and the canoe turned in the bend. "If your stone had been larger it might have done more execution."
"But I saved the bird." The robin had perched himself on the limb of a dead fir tree, and began a gay song.
"You had better go farther away from your enemy," she counselled. Then to the canoeist--"Will you let me come in and go down the river?"
"Yes, I will take you down. What did you do with young Boulle?"
She colored a little. "I want to tell you."
"I saw you both up on the cliff."
"I came away and left him."
He drew up the canoe and she stepped in lightly, seating herself so gently that the canoe did not even swerve.
"How blue the water is! And so clear. It is like the heaven above. And there are rays of sun in the river bed. It does not seem very deep, does it? I could almost touch it with my hand."
Destournier laughed. "Suppose you try?"
"And tip us over?" She smiled as well.
It was so lovely that both were moved to silence. Now and then they glanced at each other, at some special point or happening. She was not effusive.
After a while she began with--"Do you like M. Boulle very much?"
"He is a promising young man, I am glad he did not return to France. We have few enough of them here. Every one counts."
"He will go some time," she said, reflectively.