Only when I got him again, I said to myself, I would stop that. I took with me a gun, fishing rods and tackle, a mosquito net, plenty of cigars and a hamper of tinned meats, tea, coffee and biscuits.
My journey was nearly altogether by water and I enjoyed every inch of the beautiful river. After I reached the landing stage, a place called Lichfield, I had to wait an hour before proceeding in the direction which I had found out it would be necessary to follow in order to find Etienne and his mother.
I shall never forget the delight of that one hour pa.s.sed in rambling through the lonely green wood that covered the island down to the sh.o.r.e.
The ferns were young and freshly unfurled, the moss was everywhere, green and close and soft like velvet and star-cl.u.s.tering, gray and yellow. The surviving flowers were the large white blossoms of the woodland lily, and the incoming _Linnaea_ began to show the faint pink of its twin bells, afterwards to be so sweet and fragrant.
I thought of that pa.s.sage in the letter which told of "the island that was green and full of sweet berries." Not a bad description for a person whom the world must perforce term an illiterate man.
When my conveyance arrived, it proved to be a stage of antiquated type and I suffered horribly during the journey of three hours. At the end of that time, I was set down with my luggage at the gate of a small log hut, with a little garden in front, bordered with beautiful pink and green stones, the like of which I had never seen before. A snake fence ran in front of this and on two sides, at the back was a thick wood.
Etienne was ready for me at which I rejoiced, fearing to make myself known to the dame his mother.
Once more I felt that honest and affectionate hand grasp, once more I met those clear and steady blue eyes, and I noted the flush of pride which overspread his face when I told him that I had received his letter and marvelled at it.
"Mossieu know so much and Etienne so ver little." But when the flush had died away, I was pained exceedingly to see the pallor of his cheeks and the prominence of his high cheekbones. His walk was unsteady too, he put his feet down, I noticed, as if they were light instead of solid supports for his body, a sure sign of great physical weakness. My worst fears were realized when I saw on the deal table in the front room, furnished with home-made rugs drawn from woolen rags dyed all colors and some plain deal furniture stained brown, a little pile of books. There were two copy-books, two dictionaries, a small "Histoire de Canada" and some ill.u.s.trated magazines. I saw that he could read, too, pretty well, for he presently drew my attention to a very old book indeed, that lay on a shelf, a little Roman Catholic missal with tarnished gold clasps and scarlet edges.
"Dat was belong to my fader," he said, "for many a year; and it was from his fader he get it."
I looked at it eagerly all over. The fly-leaf bore no inscription, but up in one corner, in faded red ink, was something that looked like a monogram with a device underneath. I would have examined it at once but that Etienne was anxious to read me a little of the Latin which he had picked out with infinite patience, I should think. I promised to help him a little occasionally, but told him that he was not looking well and had better be content with ignorance in this lovely summer weather.
"When the winter comes and you are back at the mill, you can study as much as you like."
The old dame was sallow and sunken from a life of incessant hard work.
The climate itself, so changeable as well as inclement in these northern wilds, is enough to pinch the face and freeze the blood, although at the time of my visit it was hot, intensely hot for so early in the summer. Moreover, the old dame was not given to talking. So taciturn a Frenchwoman I never met elsewhere. They are usually characterized by a vivacious loquacity which is the seal of their nationality. But this one was silent in the extreme and had, as her son told me, never once held a conversation with him on any subject whatever. Of his father he knew literally only this fact--that he had been a "shantyman" in his time too, and was killed by a strained rope striking him across the middle.
Etienne did not remember him. The time sped on. They made me as comfortable as they could in the front or "best" room, but, when I thought it would not offend them, I slept outside--"_couchant a la belle etoile_" as Rousseau has it--and beautiful nights those were I spent in this manner. We had plenty of fruit--wild strawberries and raspberries--pork and beans and potatoes forming the staple articles of diet. There was no cow, no horse, no dog belonging to the house. Fish we could get ourselves in plenty, and eggs made their appearance in a farmer"s wagon about twice a week. Etienne and I spent entire days out-of-doors, shooting, fishing, walking, reading. I tried to take his mind off his books, but it was of no use. He had got so attached to his studies and new pursuits in life that one day he startled me by a.s.serting that he did not intend to go back to the mill in future. I remonstrated gently with him, reminding him that as yet his education was very incomplete, that few situations of the kind he probably aspired to would be open to him for some time to come, and that in the meantime he must suffer from want of money, and thus be the cause of seeing his mother suffer as well. But he startled me further in reply by stating that he knew himself to be slowly dying of consumption and that he would shortly be of little use to anyone. His wish was to leave Canada altogether and die in--France! France, the country of his dreams, the goal of his dying ambition, the land of the golden _fleur de lis_, of the chivalrous soldiers, the holy women and the pious fathers who colonized the land of his birth!
I remonstrated with him as I have said. I expostulated in every key; I took his mother into my confidence as well as I could since she knew not a word of English; I laughed at him, I wept over him, I endeavoured by every argument in my power to make him change my mind, but--
I failed. Then when I understood how firmly his mind was set upon this extraordinary idea, I made up my mind to accompany him, in fact, not to leave him at all until he either grew wiser and stronger, or else died the death he predicted for himself. I found that the old dame had quite a store of money saved by her little by little every year from Etienne"s earnings, and from what she made by selling the rugs I mentioned. These sold for a dollar and upwards according to the size. Putting some of my own to this fund of hers, I calculated she had enough to go upon for at least a year. Wants are few in that district. Then I turned my attention to Etienne. He was growing worse; he would lie for hours reading or attempting to read with great beads of perspiration mounting on his brow. The heat was excessive and proved very bad for him. I judged he would be better in town and after I had been on the island for about two months, I begged him to return with me. I promised him that once there, I would not leave him for a day, and would even consider the possibility of taking him across the ocean. He still maintained his calm and perfect manners and insisted upon paying his fare down the river which I let him do, knowing that soon his stock of money would be exhausted and he would then be at my mercy. No sign of cupidity was apparent in his demeanor, yet I wondered how he ever thought to reach France unless I paid his way. Like all consumptives, he had a trick of rallying now and then and appearing better than he really was. This occurred on our arrival in town. He took long walks with me again daily and seemed so much stronger that I again dared to suggest the propriety of his returning to the mill, but to no purpose. He drooped at the very thought, and I perceived that his apparent recovery was but a delusion, I soon saw he was weaker than ever. But whenever he was at all able, he persisted in reading what he could understand and really his progress was a marvel to me. So it came about that one evening, towards the close of September where we had sometimes to light the lamp as early as half-past six, I returned to my rooms about that hour of the day (we shared rooms together, so fond had I grown of him, and I trust, he of me) to find him poring over the little Catholic Missal.
"In this light? This will never do. And you could not light the lamp yourself, my poor Etienne!"
When it was lighted, I saw indeed from his weak and excited appearance that he was unable to do anything for himself. Lying on my sofa, he had in one hand the scarlet-edged missal, and in the other the book I have referred to, which contained a short sketch of Guy Chezy D"Alencourt the handsome and reckless lieutenant of _La Nouvelle France_.
He could hardly speak but through his gasping I could gather that he wished me to examine the words in the corner of fly-leaf I had once noticed before and believed to be a monogram. I quieted him a little, then bringing the lamp-light to bear upon the faded ink, I was able to decipher the device, which comprised a crown, three _fleurs-de-lis_ under, and a lamb bearing a banner, with the letters I.H.S. upon it.
"The arms of Rouen!" I exclaimed "and above them, some initials, yes, a monogram!"
My companion sat up in his excitement.
"Ah! dat is what I cannot make quite out! Tree letter--_oui, vite, cher mosdieu, vite_!"
I had to look very closely indeed to decipher these, but with the aid of a small lens I found them to be "G. C. D"A."
There could be little doubt but that Etienne was the lineal descendant of Guy Chezy D"Alencourt, native of Rouen, who came to Canada in the same year as Bigot. I told him so and wondered what his thoughts could be, for clasping my hands with as much force as he possessed--and that is at times a wonderful force in the clasp of the dying--he said with a great effort:
"If dat is so, _mossieu_, if dat is so, I have _O le bon Dieu_--I have--_mossieu_, I have--O if dat is true"--
He fell back and I caught no more. The excitement proved too much for my poor friend. When I spoke to him, he was unconscious and he never fully recovered his senses. Alas! he lay in a few weeks, beneath the sod of Grand Calumet Island, and France is ignorant of the fact that a true aristocrat and simple-hearted gentleman existed in the humble person of my friend the _habitant_, Etienne Guy Chezy D"Alencourt, _alias_ "Netty."
Descendez a L"Ombre, ma Jolie Blonde.
The Honourable Bovyne Vaxine Vyrus refused to be vaccinated. Stoutly, firmly and persistently refused to be vaccinated. Not even the temptation of exposing to the admiring gaze of a medical man the superb muscles and colossal proportions of an arm which had beaten Grace and thrashed (literally) Villiers of the Guards, weighed with him.
"It"s deuced cool!" he said, to his cousin Clarges, of Clarges St.
Mayfair, a fair, slight fellow, with a tiny yellow moustache. "Haven"t I been six times to India, and twice to Africa; that filthy Algiers, you remember, and Turkey, and New Orleans, and Lisbon, and Naples? and now, when I was done only eight years ago at home, here I am to be done again, where, I am sure, it all looks clean enough and healthy! It makes me ill, and I _won"t_ be done; laid up for a week and lose all the fun I came for!"
"Bovey, though you _are_ the strongest fellow in England, you"re no less a coward!"
Young Clarges looked up as he spoke, seriously: "_I_ shall be done!"
"You? Well, so I should expect from a baby like you, Arthur! You will never grow up, never learn to think for yourself! Now let me alone on the subject, and let us look up this country place we were told about!"
But Clarges was not easily silenced.
"Think of Lady Violet, Bovey! If anything were to happen to you out here, and the children, Bovey,--Rex and Florence, you know!"
"Oh! cut it, now, Arthur; I tell you it"s of no use!"
Young Clarges looked out across the river, and bit the tiny yellow moustache. "Then I won"t be done, either!" said he to himself. "It"s borne in upon me that one of us has got to get this accursed thing, and if I can prevent it, it shan"t be Bovey!" What a strange scene it was beneath, around, above and opposite them! Beneath flowed the river, solid with sawdust, the yellow acc.u.mulation of which sent up a strong resinous smell that almost made them giddy; to the left the tumultuous foam of the Chaudiere cast a delicate veil of spray over the sharp outlines of the bridge traced against a yellow sky; to the right, the water stretched away in a dull gray expanse, bordered by grim pines and flat sterile country. Around them the three mighty cliffs on which the Capital is built, above them the cold gray of an autumnal sky, and opposite them the long undulations of purplish brown hills that break the monotony of the view, and beyond which stretch away to an untrodden north the wastes and forests of an uncleared continent.
"Are we looking due north, now, Arthur, do you know?"
"I suppose so," returned Clarges. He was astride a cannon and still biting the tiny moustache. "Yes, by the direction of the sunset we must be, I suppose. I say, if we are, you know, I should like to be able to tell between what two trees--it would have to be between two of those trees there--we should have to walk to get to the North Pole."
The Hon. Bovyne looked around suddenly and laughed. He was fishing apparently in his pockets for a paper or something of the kind, as he had a number of letters in his hand, looking them over.
"What two trees? Where? Arthur, you _are_ a donkey. What are you talking about?"
"I say," returned Clarges, "that it is perfectly true that as we sit here, facing due north, all we have to do is to walk straight over this river--"
"On the sawdust?"
"Certainly, over those hills and between two of those trees in order to get to the North Pole. Curious, isn"t it? If you look awfully close, real hard, you know, you can almost count their branches as they stand up against the sky. Like little feathers--huff-f-f-f--one could almost blow them away!"
The Honorable Bovyne laughed again. Clarges was a mystery to him, as to many others. Half-witted he sometimes called him, though on other occasions he stood in awe of his bright, candid, fearless nature, and his truthful and reckless tongue.
"I say," went on Clarges excitedly, shading his eyes with his hand.
"There are two trees out there in a straight line from this very cannon that--that I should know again, Bovey! Do look where I point now like a good fellow. Don"t you see there, following the chimney of that big red place, factory or other, right in a line with that at the very top of the hill at its highest point, two trees that stand a little apart from the others and have such funny branches--Oh! you must be able to see them by those queer branches! One crooks out on one side just as the other does on the other tree. That isn"t very lucid, but you see what I mean can"t you? They make a sort of--of--lyre shape."
The Hon. Bovyne shaded his eyes with his hand and looked out over the river and distant hills. "I see a line of trees, feathery trees, you aptly call them my dear Arthur, but I can"t make out your particular two. How is it possible, at such a distance, to see anything like a _lyre_ of all things? Come along, I"ve found the address I wanted. It reads most peculiarly. It seems there are still a great number of French people around here, in fact, all over this Province which they sometimes call Lower Canada. Do you remember much of your French?" I spoke a lot in Algiers of course but I fancy it isn"t much like this jargon. Our destination is or appears to be, _c/o Veuve Peter Ross, Les Chats_, p.r.o.nounced _Lachatte_, so Simpson told me.
"Who told you about the place?" enquired young Clarges getting off the cannon? "Simpson? What sort of a fellow is he?"
"Who? Simpson?" said his cousin in turn. "Um--not bad. Been out here too long, though. Awfully quiet, goes in for steady work and takes hardly any exercise. I wonder why it is the fellows here don"t walk more! New country and all that; I should have thought they would all go in for country walks and shooting and sports of all kinds. They don"t, you know, from some reason or other. It can"t be the fault of the country."