Some time during the night, at an unusual uproar in the street, Mme. de Sarennes sent one of the men-servants to the upper windows to discover its cause. In a few moments he returned with horror-stricken face--"O mon Dieu, madame! the Cathedral is on fire! We are lost!" At which, a wail of despair broke from us all.
Angelique"s head dropped on her mother"s lap. "O ma mere! It was G.o.d"s own house!" she sobbed.
Her mother"s white hand softly stroked her hair with rea.s.suring firmness, while she whispered words of comfort. Then to every awe-struck heart about her she said, with confidence, "It was the house of G.o.d Himself, and He has not spared it, while His hand has been over our roof, and He is holding each one of us safe in His keeping"; and we took fresh courage at her words.
Gradually the fire slackened, and at length ceased. The morning came, and we were still safe and untouched, amid the surrounding ruin.
Soon after daybreak we heard a knock at the door, and the Town-Major, M. Joannes, was ushered in.
He looked upon us with astonishment in his tired eyes.
"Mme. de Sarennes, no one suspected you of being here! All the inhabitants fled from the face of the town when the fire opened.
Pardon me, but you must move at once."
"We have only been waiting for orders, monsieur. Where are we to go?"
"To the Hotel-Dieu for the present, madame; but it is quite possible that will soon be unsafe, now they have our range. With your permission, I will send some men at once to move what can be carried and stored in some safer place; for you cannot expect the house to stand through another fire."
"It has served its purpose, monsieur; we have no right to larger regrets than have others. Come, my children, let us go."
With a last look round the room that had seen so much of her life within its walls, she pa.s.sed out, and bidding us gather our lighter valuables and some clothing, withdrew for a few moments to her own room, and then rejoined us in the hallway.
We made a sad little procession as we threaded our way through the ruined streets, between the smoking and crumbling walls of the homes we had looked upon but yesterday, bright with all the a.s.suring signs of comfortable, secure life, past the wrecked Cathedral, and between piles of household goods heaped in ruinous confusion in the Place. This was now crowded with anxious, pale-faced people, hollow-eyed and aged with the terror of actual war, seeking out their little valuables, some with shrill-voiced complaint and contention, others with a hopeless, silent mien that went to our hearts, and yet others with an air of gayety and the tricks and buffooneries of school children.
[Ill.u.s.tration: "We made a sad little procession."]
We were thankful to escape out of the hubbub and distraction of the streets to the quiet within the walls of the Hotel-Dieu; but, alas! the next night the bombardment recommenced, and it was apparent we could not long hope for safety, as the English fire became more exact and far-reaching.
The white-robed nuns moved about their duties with calm resignation, though often the trembling lips or the involuntary start told of the strain it cost to control the natural alarm which shook the heart when some nearer crash foretold approaching disaster.
Lucy lay calm and unmoved; every day that brought the English nearer, was bringing her nearer to Kit. The thunder of the bombardment was to her like the knocking on the gate which shut her in from her one object in life, and that it was being shattered meant only deliverance. When orders came to remove to the General Hospital, without the walls of the town and beyond all immediate danger, she was more disturbed than at any time during the siege.
The Hospital stood in the valley of the St. Charles, somewhat less than a mile from the town, with the river sweeping in a great bend on the one side, and the steep Heights, at the end of which the town stood, rising on the other. We were cut off from any view of the St. Lawrence, but the sight of the bridge of boats, with its hornwork, across the tongue of land enclosed by the sweep of the river, and the walls of the town crowning the Heights, kept us in touch with the struggle going on between us and the English, who still held the St. Lawrence, with its opposite sh.o.r.e.
The convent itself was a pile of grey stone buildings forming a quadrangle with wings, begun by the Recollect fathers nearly a century before. It was in two of their curious little cells that Mme. de Sarennes, Angelique, and I were lodged. The chapel opened out of the square entry--it scarce could be dignified as a hall--on which the princ.i.p.al doorway gave, and to the right of this was the long, low-ceilinged room, lighted by many-paned windows down one side, which now served as a common meeting-place for the nuns of the three congregations and their numerous guests.
Here all who were willing and able to work placed themselves under the direction of the Superior, for the nuns had more than they could well attend to, with the invalids of the Hotel-Dieu added to their own, as well as the wounded, who now began to come in.
On the last day of July we heard heavy firing towards Montmorenci, beginning about mid-day, and towards five o"clock it increased to a continuous dull roar. It was dark before the first messenger reached us, and our hearts were lifted by the tidings he bore. It was victory, perhaps complete and final; the English had left hundreds of dead behind them, and our loss was nothing.
Scarce an hour after this the wounded began to arrive, and being but a novice to such sights, I was glad when the Superior, noticing my pale face, called Angelique to bid us go out into the court-yard and get a breath of fresh air. It was a welcome relief to us both, and we were walking up and down, eagerly discussing the news, when an officer rode in at the gate, supporting a wounded man before him.
"It is M. de Maxwell!" cried Angelique, joyfully, and my impulse was to turn and fly, but he had already recognised Angelique, and called to her without ceremony:
"Mademoiselle de Sarennes, will you and your companion support this lad into the Hospital? He is not seriously wounded, only weak from the loss of blood," and as though counting on our help without question, he let the boy slip tenderly to the ground, and I was forced to step forward with Angelique to his support.
Bending down from his horse, he held the boy as he directed us how to aid him, and then whispered encouragingly: "Keep up, my lad; you are among friends! Make your best effort before these ladies!"
[Ill.u.s.tration: "Keep up, my lad; you are among friends!"]
He certainly had no suspicion of who I was, for when he was satisfied that we were equal to our task he turned his horse, and crying, "A thousand thanks, mesdames. Good-night!" he rode slowly back through the gates.
The lad was in Highland uniform, and I spake to him in Gaelic, thinking to enhearten him, but he made no reply as he staggered forward between us towards the door.
Once within, we summoned aid, and, as the lad sank into a chair, the light fell full on his upturned face, and I saw it was that of Christopher Routh. Hugh had gone far to redeem himself in my eyes.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE HEIGHTS OF QUEBEC
Christopher was at once examined by M. Arnoux, the surgeon, who obligingly came at Angelique"s request, and before long he met us to report that his patient was in no danger; his wound was dressed, and a night"s sleep would go far to put him on his feet again. He could be seen without even fatigue on the morrow. I left word with the sister in charge that she should tell him I was in the convent, and would come to him about eleven.
I had no hesitation in telling Lucy the news; indeed, the suspense of every day that pa.s.sed was wearing her frail body away so rapidly that, had not G.o.d seen fit to send His answer to her prayer at this very time, she would have pa.s.sed beyond its comfort. As it was, the news acted on her like some generous wine, strengthening without exciting her, her only request being that Christopher should not be brought to her until he was quite able for the exertion.
When I entered Christopher"s room he was already sitting up in bed, his eyes fairly dancing with delight.
"Oh, Madame de St. Just! Think of my being brought here, to find you and my mother under the same roof, and that it was Captain Maxwell who brought me! He saved me when I was down with an Indian over me, and did not get me off without standing some hard knocks himself. He carried me into the French lines, and as soon as the affair was over, rode with me before him all this distance, keeping my heart up the time by saying, "Kit, my boy, I am taking you to your mother," and I so near swooning with this stupid arm I could scarce hear him. You know I was with him in Louisbourg, and when I was a child in London he lodged with us, as he was in hiding on account of the Scotch rising and calling himself Captain Geraldine.
But tell me of my mother, madame. Can I not see her now?"
I told him as discreetly as I could of poor Lucy"s condition, and he bore up astonishingly well. What seemed to trouble him greatly was the thought that he had never dreamed of the possibility of her being ill. "Even though she was a prisoner I never feared she would be hardly treated; no one could so cruel to my mother, she is so gentle!" the poor lad continued. "I knew you were with her, and I never thought of the other danger at all. I was so happy when I fell into English hands and was allowed to enlist in Boston, and in Fraser"s Highlanders, too, not in a Colony regiment; and when we found there was no danger of peace being proclaimed, and that we were for Quebec, we were all mad with joy to have another crack at the French. Oh, pardon me, madame; I forgot you were on their side," he cried, with a sudden confusion; "and I never doubted for a moment I should find her here."
The next day the surgeon p.r.o.nounced him out of all possible danger, and added, significantly, "If his mother is to see him, it is best it should be at once." Thereupon I obtained the necessary permission, and never have I seen greater joy in a face than in Lucy"s, when I ushered Christopher into her room.
That same evening, as I sate beside her, though she lay quiet and composed, I noticed a grave change had come over her, and calling one of the sisters who had had much experience, she at once said the end was near.
With the permission of the Superior I went for Christopher, and led him, white and awe--struck, to the bedside of his mother. She asked that I would not leave--"if it be not a trouble to you, madame," the poor thing pleaded, pitifully--and I remained beside them.
"Christopher," she said, with an effort, "I made a promise years ago that when this hour came I would tell you the truth about yourself. Our name is not Routh, but Maxwell; you are the son of the Captain Maxwell who saved you--and brought you back to me. You remember him as the "Captain Geraldine" who lodged with us in London? He had married me six years before, when we were but little more than boy and girl, and when you were born he was wandering a shipwrecked man in Russia, seeking eagerly some means of return to us, though I was persuaded he had deserted me. When he returned, and was willing to acknowledge me as his wife, I was hardened into a heartless woman, believing myself separated, by what I ignorantly called G.o.d"s grace, from him and the world to which he belonged.
In my pride I refused to let him come into our lives, though he implored me to let him make such rest.i.tution as was in his power.
He behaved as few men would have done; for the sake of the old love, he bore with me and accepted my conditions--that he would never mention our marriage, and would never come between you and me. He let you go away from his side in Louisbourg, though his heart was yearning for you; because his honour, a quality which I pretended not to understand, forbade him to forget his promise to me. He was always good to me, far beyond my deserts, and my hope, now that my eyes are opened, is that you, Christopher, will remember my debt to him.
"Try and be gentle, my boy. Be true to him. He has had a sad, lonely life, but you may make it up to him yet. When you see him, tell him from me... tell Hugh..."--but here I silently withdrew, leaving the mother to whisper her last message of contrition to the boy kneeling beside her bed.
Pitiful as was poor Lucy"s story, I could gather but little comfort from it. It seemed to me that in marrying out of his own cla.s.s Hugh had committed so grave a fault that whatever followed in the way of misunderstanding was but to be expected. He had been kind, forbearing, larger-minded than she had known; she had not even realised the sense of honour which had made her a wife and not a mistress. It had gone the way of all mistakes, and produced nothing but bitterness and regret. From it I could gather no excuse, no justification of his conduct towards me; he had allowed my affection to grow up and centre in him without a warning I could understand of the heart-break which confronted me, and I could not see that his obligation towards her who had cast his love aside was more sacred than to her to whom it was all in all.
We laid Lucy to rest in the garden of the Hospital--without the rites of the Church, it is true, but not without both prayers and tears, and then took up the daily round of duty once more.
Christopher, being no longer a patient, was ordered off to the town as a prisoner, but I sent with him a note to M. Joannes which secured him generous treatment. Through the month of August the wounded continued to come in, and though our troops were starving as they stood behind their lines of defence, they were one and all hopeful of the result. The bombardment from the Levy sh.o.r.e continued until the town was little more than a heap of ruins, and night after night the sky was red with the glare of burning buildings.
Part of the enemy"s fleet had pa.s.sed the city and threatened to cut off all supplies from the upper parishes. There were ugly rumours, too, of the Canadians deserting, for the tidings of the loss of Carillon and Niagara had gone far to dishearten them. On the other hand, we had authentic news of the desperate illness of the English general, Wolfe, and even though M. de Levis was forced to march to the support of Montreal, the unfaltering courage of M.
de Montcalm so inspired our troops that they held on successfully, praying for relief or the coming of winter.
About the beginning of September Angelique came to me greatly excited.
"Oh, Marguerite, Charles is here! He is very ill. Will you come and see him?"
"Is he wounded?"