Cameron of Lochiel
order he omitted not the smallest incident. He described the anguish of
his despair, his curses, and his vows of vengeance against Montgomery.
In painting the emotions which had tortured his soul, Lochiel had small
need to add anything in the way of justification. What argument could
be more eloquent than the plain story of his despair! Lochiel's judge
was one well fitted to understand him, for she it was who in her youth
had one day said to her brother Captain D'Haberville: "My brother,
you have not the means to worthily sustain the dignity of our house,
except with the help of my share of the patrimony. To-morrow I enter a
convent. Here is the deed wherein I renounce all claim in your favor."
The good woman had heard Archie's story with ever-increasing emotion.
She stretched out her clasped hands to him as he described his
anguished imprecations against Montgomery. The tears flowed down her
cheeks as he described his remorse and his resignation while, bound to
the tree, he awaited a hideous death.
"My dear Archie," exclaimed the holy woman.
"Oh! thank you, thank you a thousand times for those words," cried
Lochiel, clasping his hands.
"My dear Archie," exclaimed the superior, "I absolve you with all my
heart. You have but done your painful duty in obeying your orders.
By any other course you would have destroyed yourself irretrievably
without preventing the ruin of our family. Yes, I forgive you freely,
but I hope that you will now pardon your enemy."
"He who was my enemy, madam, has gone to solicit pardon from him who
will judge us all. He was one of the first to fly from the field of
battle which proved so disastrous to our arms. A bullet stretched him
upon the ice, wounded to the death. He had not even a stone on which to
rest his head. A tomahawk ended his sufferings, and his scalp hangs now
at the belt of an Abénaquis warrior. May God pardon him, as I do, with
all my heart!"
A divine light beamed softly in the eyes of the nun. Born as revengeful
as her brother the seigneur, her religion of love and charity had made
her as all charitable as itself. After a moment of rapt meditation, she
said:
"With Jules, I doubt not, you will find reconciliation easy. He has
been at death's door. During his delirium your name was forever on his
lips, sometimes with the fiercest reproaches, but more often with words
of love and tenderest endearment. One must know my nephew well, must
know the sublime self-abnegation of which his soul is capable, in order
to comprehend his love for you. Many a time has he said to me: 'If it
were necessary for me to-morrow to sacrifice my life for Archie, I
would die with a smile on my lips, for I should be giving him the only
worthy proof of my love.' Such love, in a heart so noble as his, is not
soon or easily extinguished. He will rejoice to hear your justification
from my lips, and you may be sure that I will spare no effort to
reunite you. Since recovering from his delirium he has never mentioned
your name; and as he is yet too weak to discuss a subject that would
excite so much emotion, I must wait till he gets stronger. I shall hope
to have good news for you at our next interview. Meanwhile, farewell
till I see you again!"
"Pray for me, madam, for I have great need of it," exclaimed Archie.
"That is what I do daily," answered the nun. "They say, perhaps
wrongly, that people of the world, and young officers particularly,
have more need of prayer than we; but as for you, Archie, you must have
greatly changed if you are not one of those who have least need of it,"
she added, smiling affectionately. "Farewell once more, and God bless
you, my son!"
The superior succeeded in satisfying Jules with Archie's explanation.
About a fortnight after Archie's first visit, Jules was awaiting him,
filled with a nervous anxiety to prove to him that all the old love
was yet warm in his heart. It was understood that there should be no
allusion to certain events, too painful for either to dwell upon.
Archie was ushered into a little chamber which Jules, as nephew of
the lady superior, was occupying in preference to certain officers of
higher rank. Jules stretched out his arms and made a vain effort to
rise from his armchair. Archie threw himself upon his neck, and for a
time neither spoke. D'Haberville, after controlling his emotion with an
effort, was the first to break silence:
"The moments are precious, my dear Archie, and we must endeavor, if
possible, to lift the veil which hangs over our future. We are no
longer children; we are soldiers fighting under glorious banners,
brothers in love but enemies upon the field of battle. I have grown
ten years older during my sickness. I am no longer the broken-hearted
young fool who rushed upon the enemy's battalions seeking death. No, my
dear brother, let us live rather to see better days. Those were your
last words when you handed over my bleeding body to the care of my
grenadiers.
"You know as well as I the precarious condition of this colony; all
depends upon a mere throw of the dice. If France leaves us to our own
resources, as it seems but too probable she will do, and if your
Government, attaching so grand an importance to the conquest of Canada,
send you re-enforcments in the spring, we must raise the siege of
Quebec and leave the country to you. In the opposite contingency we
recapture Quebec and keep the colony. Now, my dear Archie, I want to
know what you will do in the one case or the other."
"In either case," said Lochiel, "as long as the war lasts I can not
honorably resign my commission. But when peace comes, I propose to sell
the poor remnant of my Highland estate and come and establish myself on
this side of the water. My deepest affections are here. I love Canada,
I love the simple and upright manners of your good _habitants_; and
after a quiet but busy life, I would rest my head beneath the same sod
with you, my brother."
"My position is very different from yours," answered Jules. "You are
the master of your actions; I am the slave of circumstance. If we lose
Canada, it is probable that most of the Canadian nobility will move to
France, where they will find protection and friends. If my family is
of this number I can not leave the army. In the contrary case I shall
return after some years of service, to live and die with my own people;
and, like you, to sleep at last in the land I love so well. Everything
leads me to hope, my brother, that after a storm-tossed youth we shall
come to see happier days."
The two friends parted after a long and loving talk, the last they were
to have while the colony remained New France. When the reader meets
them again after some years, the country will have changed both name
and masters.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE SHIPWRECK OF THE AUGUSTE.
The predictions of the witch of the manor were accomplished. After the
surrender of Quebec, the rich D'Habervilles had been but too glad to
accept the hospitality of M. d'Egmont's cabin, whose remoteness had
saved it from the flames. "The good gentleman" and Uncle Raoul, with
the faithful André, had gone at once to work and raised the narrow
attic, so as to leave the ground floor to the use of the ladies. To
cheer the latter, the men affected a gayety which they were far from
feeling; and their songs were often heard, mingled with the rapid
strokes of the axe, the grating of the saw, the sharp whistling of the
plane. By dint of toil and perseverance, they succeeded in sheltering
themselves tolerably from the severity of the season; and had it
not been for the anxiety which they suffered in regard to Captain
D'Haberville and Jules, the winter would have passed pleasantly enough
in their solitude.
Their most difficult problem was that of provisions, for a veritable
famine held sway in all the country-side. The little grain which
the _habitants_ had harvested was for the most part eaten boiled,
in default of mill to grind it. The sole remaining resource lay in
fishing and hunting, but M. d'Egmont and his servant were rather old
to indulge in such exercises during the severe weather. Uncle Raoul,
lame as he was, took charge of the commissariat. He set snares to
catch rabbits and partridges, and his fair niece helped him. Blanche
made herself a sort of hunting costume; and simply ravishing she looked
in her half-savage garb, her petticoat of blue cloth falling half-way
below the knee, her scarlet gaiters, her deer-hide moccasins worked
with beads and porcupine quills in vivid colors. Lovely, indeed, she
looked as she returned to the house on her little snow-shoes, her
face delicately flushed, her hands laden with her spoils. During the
famine the _habitants_ frequented Trois Saumons Lake in great numbers;
they had beaten a hard road over the snow, which enabled Uncle Raoul
to visit the lake on a sledge drawn by a huge dog. He always returned
with an ample provision of trout and partridge. On such fare they
got through the long winter. In the spring a veritable manna of wild
pigeons came to the salvation of the colony; they were so innumerable
that they could be knocked down with a stick.
When Captain D'Haberville returned to his _seigneurie_ he was utterly
ruined, having saved nothing but the family plate. He did not care to
come down on his impoverished tenants for their arrearages of rent,
but rather hastened to their aid by rebuilding his mill on the Trois
Saumons River. In this mill he lived several years with his family,
till able to build a new manor house.
A poor lodging, truly--three narrow chambers in a mill--for a family
once so wealthy as the D'Habervilles! But they bore their misfortunes
cheerfully. Only Captain D'Haberville, toiling with tireless energy,
seemed unable to reconcile himself to his losses. His grief gnawed at
his heart, and for six years there was never a smile upon his lips.
It was not till the manor was rebuilt and the household restored to a
certain degree of comfort and prosperity that he regained his native
cheerfulness.
It was the 22d of February, 1762, and about nine o'clock in the
evening, when an ill-clad stranger entered the mill and begged shelter
for the night. As was his custom when not occupied in work, Captain
D'Haberville was seated in a corner of the room, his head hanging
dejectedly on his breast. The voice of the stranger made him tremble
without knowing why. It was some moments before he could answer, but at
last he said:
"You are welcome, my friend; you shall have supper and breakfast here,
and my miller will give you a bed for the night."
"Thank you," said the stranger, "but I am very tired; give me a glass
of brandy."
M. D'Haberville was not disposed to bestow upon a vagabond stranger
even one drink of the meager supply of brandy, which he was keeping in
case of absolute necessity. He answered that he had none.
"If thou didst know me, D'Haberville," replied the stranger, "thou
wouldst certainly not refuse me a drink of brandy, though it were the
last drop in thy house."
The first feeling of the captain was one of wrath on hearing himself
addressed so familiarly by one who appeared to be a tramp; but there
was something in the hoarse voice of the unknown which made him tremble
anew, and he checked himself. At this moment Blanche appeared with a
light, and every one was stupefied at the appearance of this man, a
veritable living specter, who stood with folded arms and gazed upon
them sadly. So deathlike was his pallor that one would have thought a
vampire had sucked all the blood from his veins. His bones threatened
to pierce his skin, which was yellow like that of a mummy; and his dim
and sunken eyes were vacant--without speculation, like those of the
ghost of Banquo. Everybody was astonished that such a corpse could
walk.