Cameron of Lochiel

"Ah," said Uncle Raoul, "let us stop here a moment. That is the people of the north shore sending messages to their friends and relations on this side, according to their custom on the eve of St. Jean-Baptiste. They need neither pen nor ink for their communications. Let us begin at Eboulements: Eleven adults have died in that parish since autumn, three of them in one house, that of my friend Dufour. The family must have been visited by small-pox or some malignant fever, for those Dufours are vigorous and all in the prime of life. The Tremblays are well, which I am glad to perceive; they are worthy people. At Bonneau's somebody is sick, probably the grandmother, who is getting well on in years. There is a child dead at Bélair's house. I fear it is their only child, as theirs is a young household."

Thus Uncle Raoul ran on for some time gathering news of his friends at Eboulements, at Isle aux Coudres, and at Petite-Rivière.

"I understand without having the key," said Lochiel. "Those are certain prearranged signals which are exchanged between the dwellers on the opposite shores in order to communicate matters of personal interest."

"Yes," answered Uncle Raoul; "and if we were on the north shore we should observe similar signals on this side. If a fire burns long and steadily, that is good news; if it sinks gradually, that is a sign of sickness; if it is extinguished suddenly, that means death; if it is so extinguished more than once, that signifies so many deaths. For a grown person, a strong blaze; for a child, a feeble one. The means of intercourse being scanty enough even in summer, and entirely cut off during winter, the habitants, made ingenious by necessity, have invented this simple expedient.

"The same signals," continued Uncle Raoul, "are understood by all the sailors, who use them in time of wreck to convey information of their distress. Only last year five of our best huntsmen would have starved to death but for this on the shoals of the Loups-Marins. Toward the middle of March there was a sudden change in the weather. The ice went out all at once and the ducks, geese, and brant made their appearance in astonishing numbers. Five of our hunters, well supplied with provisions – for the weather is treacherous in Canada – set out at once for the Loups-Marins; but the birds were so numerous that they left their provisions in the canoe (which they tied carelessly in front of their hut), and ran to take their places in the ditch which they had to get scooped out before the return of the tide. This ditch, you must know, is a trough dug in the mud to a depth of three or four feet, wherein the hunter lies in wait for his game, which are very wary, the geese and brant particularly. It is a wretchedly uncomfortable kind of hunting, for you have to crouch in these holes, with your dog, often for seven or eight hours at a stretch. You have no lack of occupation to kill time, however, for you have to keep bailing out the muddy water which threatens to drown you.

"All was in proper shape, and our hunters were expecting with the rising tide an ample reward for their pains, when suddenly there came up a frightful storm. The sleet was driven by the wind in such dense clouds that the birds could not be seen six feet away. Our hunters, having waited patiently until flood tide, which drove them from their posts, returned to their hut, where a dreadful surprise awaited them; their canoe had been carried away by the storm, and there remained, to feed five men, only one loaf of bread and one bottle of brandy, which they had taken into the hut on their arrival, that they might indulge in a snack before getting to work. They went to bed without supper, for the snow-storm might last three days, and, being about three leagues from either shore, it would be impossible, in such weather, for their signals of distress to be seen. But their calculations fell far short of the fact. A second winter had set in. The cold became very severe, the snow continued falling for eight days, and the river was once more filled with ice as in January.

Then they began to make their signals, which could be seen from both shores; but it was impossible to go to their aid. The signals of distress were followed by those of death. The fire was lighted every evening and immediately extinguished. When three of the party were reported dead, some habitants, at the imminent risk of their lives, did all that could be expected of the bravest men; but in vain, for the river was so thick with ice cakes that the canoes were carried up and down with the ebb and flow of the tide, and could not get near the scene of the disaster. It was not until the seventeenth day that they were rescued by a canoe from Isle aux Coudres. When the rescuing party arrived they heard no sound in the hut, and feared they were too late. The sufferers were still alive, however, and after a few weeks of care were quite themselves again; but they had learned a lesson they were not likely to forget, and the next time they go hunting on the Loups-Marins they will haul their canoe up out of reach of high tide."

At last Uncle Raoul came to an end, just as anybody else would.

"Dear uncle," said Blanche, "do you not know a song appropriate to so delicious a night as this, and so enchanting a scene?"

"Hear! hear!" exclaimed the young men, "a song from Uncle Raoul!"

This was assailing the chevalier on his weak point. He was a singer, and very proud of it. Without further pressing he began, in a splendid tenor voice, the following song, which he sang with peculiar feeling as a brave hunter adorned with his scars. While acknowledging that his verses took many a liberty with the rules of rhyme, he declared that these defects were redeemed by the vividness and originality of the composition.

UNCLE RAOUL'S SONG.

As I was walking, somewhat late,

A-through a lonely wood and great,

Hunting partridge, snipe, and cock,

And careless of the clock,

I raised my gun to drop a bird,

When in the bushes something stirred;

I heard a cry – and saw the game

That love alone can tame.

I saw a fair one all alone,

Lamenting on a mossy stone,

Her hair about so fair a face

As lightened that dark place.

I called my dog to heel, and there

I fired my gun into the air.

So loud with fear the lady cried,

I hastened to her side.

I said to her, I said, "Sweet heart,

Be comforted, whoe'er thou art.

I am a valiant cavalier,

Have thou of me no fear.

Beholding thee, my lovely one,

Thus left lamenting and alone,

I fain would be thy knight-at-arms,

And shield thee from alarms."

"Oh, succor me, fair sir," she saith,

"My heart with fear was nigh to death.

I am benighted and astray,

Oh, show me, sir, my way!

Oh, show me, gentle sir, the road,

For Mary's sake, to mine abode.

My heart, fair sir, but for your grace,

Had died in this dark place."

"Now, lady, give thy hand to me.

Not far the way – not far with thee.

Right glad am I to do thee pleasure,

And I have the leisure.

But might I crave before we part,

Oh, lady dear, oh, fair sweet heart —

Might I dare to beg the bliss

Of one small kiss?"

Saith she, "I can not say thee nay;

Thy service can I ne'er repay.

Take one, or even two, or three,

If so it pleaseth thee.

More gallant sir was never seen;

Much honored have my kisses been."

(This was the last I heard of her)

"And now farewell, kind sir."

"The devil," said Jules, "I perceive, dear sir, that you did not waste any time. I will wager, now, that you have been a terrible gallant in your younger days, and can count your victims by the score. It is so, eh, uncle mine? Do tell us some of your conquests."

"Ugly, my dear boy," replied Uncle Raoul, with a gratified air, "ugly I certainly am, but very agreeable to the ladies."

Jules was going on in the same vein, but seeing the way his sister was frowning at him, he bit his lips to keep from laughing, and repeated the last four lines:

"'More gallant sir was never seen;Much honored have my kisses been'(This was the last I heard of her)'And now farewell, kind sir.'"

The young men continued the singing till they reached a clearing, where they saw a fire in the woods a little way from the road.

"That is the witch of the manor," said Uncle Raoul.

"I have always forgotten to ask why she was called the witch of the manor," said Archie.

"Because she has established herself in this wood, which formerly belonged to the D'Haberville estate," said Uncle Raoul. "My brother exchanged it for a part of his present domain, in order to get nearer his mill at Trois Saumons."

"Let us go and see poor old Marie," said Blanche. "When I was a child she used to bring me the first spring flowers and the first strawberries of the season."

Uncle Raoul made some objections on account of the lateness of the hour, but he could refuse Blanche nothing, and presently the horses were hitched on the edge of the wood and our party were on their way to the witch's abode.

The dwelling of old Marie by no means resembled that of the Cumæan sybil, or of any other sorceress, ancient or modern. It was a sort of patchwork hut, built of logs and unquarried stones, and carpeted within with many colored mosses. The roof was cone-shaped and covered with birch-bark and spruce branches.

Old Marie was seated on a log at the door of her hut, cooking something in a frying-pan over a fire which was surrounded with stones to keep it from spreading. She paid no attention to her visitors, but maintained a conversation with some invisible being behind her. She kept waving first one hand and then the other behind her back, as if attempting to drive away this being, and the burden of her utterance was: "Avaunt, avaunt! it is you that bring the English here to eat up the French!"

"Oh, ho, my prophetess of evil," exclaimed Uncle Raoul, "when you get done talking to the devil, would you be kind enough to tell me what you mean by that threat?"

"Come, Marie," interposed Jules, "tell us if you really think you are talking to the devil? You can fool the habitants, but you must know that we put no faith in such delusions."

"Avaunt! Avaunt!" continued the witch with the same gestures, "you that are bringing the English to eat up the French."

"I am going to speak to her," said Blanche; "she loves me, and I am sure she will answer me."

Approaching the old woman, she laid her hand on her shoulder and said gently:

"Do you not know me, my good Marie? Do you not recognize la petite seigneuresse, as you used to call me?"

The old woman interrupted her monologue and looked tenderly at the girl. A tear even gathered in her eyes, but could not overflow, so few such were there in her burning brain.

"Why, dear Marie, do you lead this wild and vagabond life?" exclaimed Blanche. "Why do you live in the woods, you who are the wife of a rich habitant, the mother of a numerous family? Your poor children, brought up by strangers, are crying for their dear mother. Mamma and I were looking for you at your house after the feast. We were talking to your husband who loves you. How unhappy you must be!"

The poor woman sprang upon her seat and her eyes shot flames, as she cried, pale with anger:

"Who is it dare speak of my misfortunes? Is it the fair young girl, the darling of her parents, who will never be wife and mother? Is it the rich and noble lady, brought up in silk and fine linen, who will soon, like me, have but a hut to shelter her? Woe! Woe! Woe!"

She was about to retire into the forest, but seeing Jules much moved, she cried again:

"Is it Jules D'Haberville who is so concerned at my wretchedness? Is it, indeed, Jules D'Haberville, bravest of the brave, whose bleeding body I see them dragging over the Plains of Abraham? Is it, indeed, his blood that crimsons the last glorious field of my country? Woe! Woe! Woe!"

"This poor woman moves my heart strangely," said Lochiel, as she was disappearing in the thicket.

The creature heard him. She returned once more, folded her arms, turned upon him a gaze of calm bitterness, and said:

"Keep your pity for yourself, Archibald de Lochiel. The family fool has no need of your pity! Keep your pity for yourself and for your friends! Keep it for yourself on that day when, forced to execute a cruel order, you shall tear with your nails that breast that hides a noble and generous heart! Keep it for your friends, Archibald de Lochiel, on that day when you shall set the torch to their peaceful dwellings, that day when the old and feeble, the women and the children, shall flee before you as sheep before the wolf! Keep your pity! You will need it all when you carry in your arms the bleeding body of him you call your brother! I have but one grief at this hour, Archibald de Lochiel, it is that I have no curse to utter against you. Woe! Woe! Woe!" And she disappeared into the forest.

"May I be choked by an Englishman," said Uncle Raoul, "if poor silly Marie has not shown herself tonight a sorceress of the approved type, the type which has been celebrated by poets ancient and modern. I wonder what mad weed she has been rubbing against, she who is always so polite and gentle with us."

All agreed that they had never heard anything like it before. The rest of the drive was passed in silence; for, though attaching no credence to the witch's words, they could not at once throw off their ominous influence.

On their arrival at the manor house, however, where they found a number of friends awaiting them, this little cloud was soon scattered.

The joyous laughter of the party could be heard even to the highway, and the echoes of the bluff were kept busy repeating the refrain:

"Ramenez vos moutons, bergère,Belle bergère, vos moutons."

The dancers had broken one of the chains of their dance, and were running everywhere, one behind the other, around the vast court-yard. They surrounded the chevalier's carriage, the chain reunited, and they began dancing round and round, crying to Mademoiselle D'Haberville, "Descend, fair shepherdess."

Blanche sprang lightly out of the carriage. The leader of the dance at once whisked her off, and began to sing:

"Hail to the fairest in the land!(Hail to the fairest in the land!)"Now I take you by the hand.(Now I take you by the hand.)I lead you here, I lead you there;Bring back your sheep, O shepherdess fair.Bring back your sheep and with care them keep,Shepherdess fair, bring back your sheep.Bring back, bring back, bring back with care,Bring back your sheep, O shepherdess fair!"

After making several more rounds, with the chevalier's carriage in the middle, and all the time singing:

"Ramenez, ramenez, ramenez donc,Belle bergère, vos moutons."

They at length broke up the chain, and all danced merrily into the house.

Uncle Raoul, at last set at liberty by the inexorable dancers, descended as he could from the carriage and hastened to join the party at the supper-table.

CHAPTER IX.

"THE GOOD GENTLEMAN."

Tout homme qui, à quarante ans, n'est pas misanthrope, n'a jamais aimé les hommes. – Champfort.

J'ai été prodigieusement fier jusqu'à quarente-cinq ans: mais le malheur m'a bien courbé et m'a rendu aussi humble que j'étais fier. Ah! c'est une grande école que le malheur! j'ai appris à me courber et à m'humilier sous la main de Dieu. – Chenedollé.

The two months which Jules had to spend with his family before his departure for Europe had come to an end, and the vessel in which he had taken passage was to sail in two or three days. Lochiel was at Quebec, making preparations for a voyage which could hardly take less than two months. Abundant provisions were necessary, and Seigneur D'Haberville had intrusted this point to the young Scotchman's care, while Jules's mother and sister were loading down the young men's valises with all the comforts and dainties they could think of. As the time drew near for a separation which might be forever, Jules was drawn closer and closer to his family, whom he could hardly bear to leave even for a moment. One day, however, he remarked:

"As you know, I promised 'the good gentleman' that I would go and stay a night with him before my departure. I will be back to-morrow morning in time to breakfast with you."

With these words, he picked up his gun and started for the woods, in order to take a short cut and have a little hunting by the way.

M. d'Egmont, whom everybody called "the good gentleman," dwelt in a cottage on the Trois Saumons River, about three quarters of a league from the manor house. With him there lived a faithful follower who had shared alike his good and his evil fortunes. André Francœur was of the same age as his master, and was also his foster-brother. Having been the playfellow of his childhood, and the trusted friend rather than the valet of his riper years, André Francœur had found it as natural to follow D'Egmont's fortunes in adversity as in prosperity.

D'Egmont and his servant were living on the interest of a small capital which they had in common. One might even say that the savings of the valet were even greater than those of the master. Was it consistent with D'Egmont's honor to be thus, in a way, dependent on his own servant? Many will answer no; but "the good gentleman" argued otherwise.

"When I was rich I spent my wealth for my friends, and how have my friends rewarded me? André, alone, has shown himself grateful and noble-hearted. In no way, therefore, do I lower myself by associating my fortune with his, as I would have done with one of my own station had one been found as noble as my valet."

When Jules arrived, the good gentleman was busy weeding a bed of lettuce in his garden. Entirely absorbed, he did not see his young friend, who overheard the following soliloquy:

"Poor little insect! I have wounded you, and lo! all the other ants, just now your friends, are falling upon you to devour you. These tiny creatures are as cruel as men. I am going to rescue you; and as for you, my good ants, thanks for the lesson; I have now a better opinion of my kind."

"Poor fellow!" thought Jules, "with a heart so tender, how he must have suffered!"

Withdrawing noiselessly, he entered by the garden gate.

M. d'Egmont uttered an exclamation of delight on seeing his young friend, whom he loved as a son. Although, during the thirty years that he had lived on Captain D'Haberville's estate, he had constantly refused to take up his abode at the manor house, he yet was a frequent visitor there, often remaining a week at a time when there were no strangers present. Without actually shunning society, he had suffered too much in his relations with men of his own class to be able to mingle cordially in their enjoyments.

Although poor, M. d'Egmont was able to do a great deal of good. He comforted the afflicted; he visited the sick, whom he healed with herbs whose virtues were revealed to him by his knowledge of botany; and if his alms-giving was not lavish, it was accompanied by such sympathy and tact that it was none the less appreciated by the poor, who had come to know him by no other title than that of le bon gentilhomme.

When D'Egmont and his young friend entered the house, André set before them a dish of fine trout and a plate of broiled pigeons, garnished with chives.

"It is a frugal supper, indeed," said D'Egmont, "I caught the trout myself in yonder brook, about an hour ago, and André bagged the doves this morning at sunrise, in yonder dead tree, half a gunshot from the cottage. You see that, without being a seigneur, I have a fish-pond and dove-cote on my estate. Now for a salad of lettuce with cream, a bowl of raspberries, a bottle of wine – and there is your supper, friend Jules."

"And never fish-pond and dove-cote supplied better meal to a hungry hunter," exclaimed Jules.

The meal was a cheerful one, for M. d'Egmont seemed to have recovered something of the gayety of his youth. His conversation was no less instructive than amusing; for, although he had mingled much with men in his early days, he had found in study a refuge from his unhappiness.

"How do you like this wine?" said he to Jules, who was eating like a hungry wolf, and had already quaffed several bumpers.

"It is capital, upon my word."

"You are a connoisseur, my friend," went on M. d'Egmont. "If it is true that wine and men improve with age, that wine must indeed be excellent; and as for me, I must be approaching perfection, for I am very nearly ninety."

"Thus it is," said Jules, "that they call you 'the good gentleman.'"

"The Athenians, my son, sent Aristides into exile, and at the same time called him the Just. But let us drop men and speak of wine. For my own part, I drink it rarely. As with many other useless luxuries, I have learned to do without it, and yet I enjoy perfect health. This wine is older than you are; its age, for a man, would not be much, but for wine it is something. Your father sent me a basket of it the day you were born. In his happiness he made gifts to all his friends. I have kept it with great care, and I only bring it out on such rare occasions as this. Here is a health to you, my dear boy. Success to all your undertakings; and when you come back to New France, promise that you will come and sup here with me, and drink a last bottle of this wine, which I will keep for you. You look astonished. You think it likely that when you return I shall have long since paid that debt which is paid even by the most recalcitrant debtor. You are mistaken, my son; a man like me does not die. But come, we have finished supper, let us go and sit sub tegmine fagi, which may be interpreted to mean, under that splendid walnut-tree whose branches are reflected in the river."

The night was magnificent. The ripple of running water was the only sound that broke the moonlit stillness. M. d'Egmont was silent for some moments, and Jules, not caring to disturb his reverie, began tracing hieroglyphics with his finger in the sand.

"I have greatly desired," said "the good gentleman," "to have a talk with you before your departure, before you go out into the world. I know that we can profit little by the experience of others, but that each must purchase his own. No matter, I shall at least have the consolation of having opened my heart to you, a heart which should have been dried up long since, but which yet beats as warmly as when I led the joyous troops of my companions more than half a century ago. Just now you looked at me with surprise when I said that a man like me does not die; you thought I spoke in metaphor, but I was sincere at the moment. So often on my knees have I begged for death that I have ended by almost doubting Death's existence. The heathen have made of him a divinity, doubtless that they might call him to their aid in time of heavy sorrow. If it is as physiology teaches us, and our sufferings depend upon the sensitiveness of our nerves, then have I suffered what would have killed fifty strong men." M. d'Egmont was silent once more, and Jules flung some pebbles into the river.

"See," resumed the old man, "this stream which flows so quietly at our feet. Within an hour it mingles with the troubled waters of the St. Lawrence, and in a few days it will be writhing under the scourge of the Atlantic storms. Behold therein an image of our life! Thy days hitherto have been like the current of this stream; but soon you will be tossed on the great river of life, and will be carried into the ocean of men, whose waves rage ceaselessly. I have watched you from child-hood up; I have studied your character minutely, and that is what has caused me to seek this conversation. Between your character and mine I have found the closest resemblance. Like you, I was born kind-hearted, sympathetic, generous to a fault. How has it come that these virtues, which should have secured me happiness, have rather been the cause of all my ills? How comes it, my son, that these qualities, so applauded among men, have risen against me as my most implacable enemies and beaten me to the dust? I can not but think that I deserved a kindlier fate. Born, like you, of rich and loving parents, I was free to follow my every inclination. Like you, I sought nothing so much as the love of those about me. Like you, in my childhood I would not willingly injure the most insignificant of God's creatures, and to the beggar child I gave the very clothes I wore. Needless to add that, again like you, my hand was ever open to all my comrades, so that I was said to have 'nothing of my own.' It is curious to consider that, at the hands of my playfellows, I never tasted ingratitude. Is ingratitude the attribute only of the full-grown man? Or is it a snare which this human nature casts about the feet of generous childhood, the better to despoil the prey when grown to be a richer prize! But, no; it is impossible that youth could be so depraved.