Eustache Boulle seemed in no hurry to return to Tadoussac.  He was wonderfully interested in the new fort, in the different improvements, in miladi, who, somehow, seemed to improve and render herself very agreeable.  She had a queer feeling about him.  If one could be young again ­ah, that would be back in France.  She had a happy time with Laurent.  She had exulted in winning her second husband, but somehow the real flavor and zest of love had not been there.

When Eustache was with Rose she experienced a keen, hungering jealousy, and it was then she wanted to be young.  The girl was strangely obtuse.  She never colored when he came, or evinced any half-bashful joy, she left him with miladi, and went off with the utmost unconcern.  She was much in the settlement, showing the Indian women nice ways of keeping their homes and children tidy, so that when the beautiful wife of the Governor returned they would have great improvement to show her.  True, they went out canoeing, and the sweet breath of the river washing the sedgy grass on the small islands, gave a faint tang of salt, or where it dashed and fretted against the rocks made iridescent spray.  There were so many beautiful places.  And though she had seen the falls more than once, she went again to please him, after making several excuses.  Pani was her bodyguard.  He was still small, and lithe as an eel, and the mixture of races showed in him.  Wanamee was sometimes peremptorily ordered to accompany him.

The wooing of looks and smiles had little effect on her.  Sometimes he reached for her hand, but it cunningly evaded him.  She seemed so sufficient for herself that the matter was reduced to good-comrade-ship.  Yet there were times when he was wild to kiss the rosy, dimpling mouth, to press the soft cheek, to hold the pliant figure in his arms.

It was but right that he should ask M. Destournier for his foster-daughter.

To lose her!  Ah, how could he give her up?

“Would you come to Quebec?”

“My interests are at Tadoussac.  And there are the fisheries at the islands growing more profitable.  But I might come often if she grew homesick, and pined for this rough, rocky place.”

“It will be as she pleases,” the man said, with a heavy heart.

“I must tell you that I think Madame favors my suit.”

M. Destournier merely bowed.

The husband and wife had never touched upon the subject.  She could not decide.  The girl was very useful to her since she had fallen into invalid ways.  M. Destournier had to be journeying about a good deal.  She could read so delightfully when the nights were long, tiresome, and sleepless.  Even Wanamee could not arrange her hair with such deft touches, and it really appeared as if she could take off the burthen of years by some delicate manipulations.  Yes, she would miss her very much.  But it would be a grand match for a foundling.  And if they went to France, she would rouse herself and go.  M. Destournier was so occupied with the matters of the town that he had grown indifferent, and seldom played the lover.

But how was Eustache to propose to a girl who could not, or would not understand, who never allowed any endearments or softened to sentiment.  Why, here had been a whole fortnight since he had won the Sieur’s tardy consent.  Now and then he had found some soft-eyed Indian girl not averse to modestly-caressing ways, but his religion kept him from any absolute wrong, and meaning to marry some time, he had not played at love.

So he came to miladi with his anxieties.  Was there ever a woman’s soul formed with no longing, no understanding of the divine passion, that could kneel at the marriage altar in singleness of heart?

Miladi studied the young man.  Had the girl no warm blood coursing through her veins, no throb of pleased vanity, at the preference of this patient lover?  Perhaps he was too patient.

“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 space 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.

A sudden thought flashed through his mind.  The girl’s face was very calm, but her eyes had a sort of protest in them.

“Will he take you?” Destournier asked, in a husky tone.

“Oh, M’sieu Ralph, would you send me?  Would you give me to any one else?”

Now her eyes were alight with an eager breathless expression that was almost anguish.

“Not if you did not want to go.”

“I do not want to go anywhere.  Oh, M’sieu Ralph,” and now her tone was piteous, “I wish you would send him away.  I liked him very well at first, but now he wants me to love him, and I cannot, the kind of love that impels one to marry, and I do not want to be married.”

“Has he tried to persuade you?”

Ralph Destournier knew he would make a good husband.  Some time Rose would marry.  But it was plain she did not love him.  And though love might not be necessary, it was a very sweet accompaniment that, he knew now, it was sad to miss.

“He talked to me about marriage.  I do not like it.”  She gave a little shiver, and the color went out of her face, even her lips, and her pliant figure seemed to shrink as from a blow.

“My child, no one shall marry you against your will, neither shall you be taken away.  Rest content in my promise.”

She nodded, then smiled, with trusting eyes.  He wondered a little about her future.  While he lived ­well, the Sieur de Champlain was well and hearty, and much older.  She was only a child yet, though she had suddenly grown tall.  He could care for her in the years to come, and she would no doubt find a mate.  He knew very little about girls.  They generally went to convents and were educated and husbands were chosen for them by their parents.  But in this new world matters had changed.  There was talk of a convent to train the Indian girls, and the half-breeds who took more readily to civilization.  The priests were in earnest about it, but money was lacking.  Rose had picked up much useful knowledge, and knew some things unusual for a girl.  Good Father Jamay would be shocked at Terence, Aristophanes, and Virgil for a girl.

“So you do not like marriage?” he said, rather jestingly.

She shook her head.

“But then you know nothing about it.”

“Why, there is the Sieur and the beautiful Madame.  And you and miladi.  And Marie, with her dirty house and her babies.  She is not as nice as the Indian women.  And they have to wait upon the braves or else, when the braves are off fur hunting, they have to plant the crops and catch fish, and even hunt and mend tents, and do such hard work.  All that is no delight like dreaming on the moss in the woods, and talking to the birds, and breathing the fragrance all about, and having rushes of delight sweep over you like a waft from the beautiful heaven above.  Oh, why should I marry; to think of some one else that I do not want and not feel that my life was my very own.”

He studied the youthful unconscious face before him, the clear, fine skin, a few shades deeper from the daily contact with sun and much dallying on the river; the beautiful dark eyes that seemed always gathering the choicest of life, with joy and wonder; the rounded cheeks, with exquisitely-faint coloring, seeming to join the clear-cut chin, with its dimpled cleft melting into the shapely throat, that upheld it like a flower on a strong, yet delicate stem.  He was strangely moved by the peculiar aloofness of the beauty.

Her soft hair hung about her like a cloud, the curling ends moved now and then as if by their own vigorous life.  Indeed, there was an intense sort of vitality about her that, quiescent as it often was, in this trifling, daily round, could shoot up into a bewildering flame.  Perhaps that was love.  She did not have it for Eustache Boulle, she might never have it for him.  Were men and women but half alive?  Was there some sudden revivifying influence that raised them above the daily wants, that gave them an insight into a new existence?  Had he ever experienced it?

The sun dropped down behind a range of hills, covered with pines, furs, and cedars, that were growing into a compact dark wall, the interstices being black.  The edge of the river took on these sombre hues, but a little beyond there were long strips of rose and tawny gold, between zones of purple and green.  The current tossed them hither and thither, like some weird thing winding about.  Destournier was strangely moved by this mysterious kinship to nature that he had never experienced before.

“We must turn back,” he began briefly, though it seemed to him he could gladly go on to a new life in some other land.

She nodded.  The tide was growing a little stronger, but it was in their favor.  They kept quite near the shore, where it was dark in spaces, and then opened into a sort of clearing, only to close again.  Even now the voyager dreams on the enchanting shores that are not all given up to towns and business.

She began to sing.  It was melody without words.  Now and then she recalled a French verse or two, then it settled into some melancholy Indian plaint, or the evening song of a belated bird.  She was not singing for him, yet he was enchanted.

He drew in the canoe presently.  She sprang out with the agile grace caught from much solitary rambling and climbing.  Then she waited for him to fasten it.

“You are quite sure that you will not consent to M. Boulle’s wishes?” she inquired, as they turned in and out of the winding path.

“You shall be left entirely free.  You shall not marry at all, if you prefer,” he answered solemnly.

“Oh, a thousand thanks.  And you will convince miladi.  I think she wishes M. Boulle all success.  I must go make my peace with Wanamee and get some supper.”

She ran to the end of the house, the wide kitchen, where the cooking was done.  Wanamee and Mawha were in a discussion, as often happened.  Pani sat with a great wooden platter on his knees, eating voraciously.  Rose realized suddenly that she was hungry, and the smell of the broiling fish was appetizing.

“I’m famished, Wanamee,” she cried.  “Will you give me some supper?”

“Miladi is much vexed with you, little one.  She had supper sent to her room and M. Boulle was there.  They wanted you and M. Destournier.  There was to be a ­I do not know what you call it, but he wanted you to promise to be his wife, for he goes to Tadoussac to-morrow.”

Rose’s heart beat with a guilty joy.

“I should not promise that.  I do not want to be a wife.”

Mawha, who had been a wife several times, a tall, rather severe-looking Indian woman, turned upon her.

“Thou art well-grown and shouldst have a husband.  Girls get too wild if they are let go too long.  A husband keeps them in order.”

“I will have some supper,” Rose said, with dignity, ignoring the stricture.

Then she cleared a place on the table and brushed it clean with the birch twigs.  Wanamee brought a plate of Indian meal cake, deliciously browned, some potatoes baked in the hot ashes, and a great slice of fish, with a dish of spiced preserves of some green fruit and berries.

“I looked for you,” Pani said.  “Were you up on the mountain?”

Rose shook her head.

She was hungry, but she dallied over her meal, wondering if she had best go in and say good-night to miladi.  She did not always; she quite understood now that there were times when miladi did not care to see her; then, at others, she sent for her.  Now she would let her send.  She went up to her small chamber presently.  The young moon was travelling over westward with her attendant star.  There were boats still out on the river, merry voices, others in loud and angry dispute.  Why did people want to quarrel, when the world was so beautiful!  Then a shrill cry of some night bird, guards coming and going about the fort.  She grew drowsy presently, and went to bed, serene in the belief that M. Boulle would go his way and torment her no more, for had not M. Ralph promised?

M. Ralph and miladi were having a rather stormy time.  She had inquired very peremptorily what had kept him so late.  Pani had been sent to the warehouse and had not found him, neither had he been at the fort.

M. Destournier was no hand to prevaricate.  He lived an open, honest life, and had few secrets beside those of business.  Ordinarily, he would have explained what he had been about the last two hours, but he had a sudden premonition that it was wiser not to do so.  Miladi was sometimes captious where Rose was concerned.

“I was busy,” he made answer briefly.

“M.  Boulle goes to Tadoussac to-morrow.  The vessel came down for him to-day.  Some urgent business requires his attention.”

“He has loitered quite long enough,” commented her husband.  “He is a pleasant young fellow, but there is more than indolent pleasuring to a young man’s life.”

“He has had a purpose, a matter that lies near his heart.  This new country and the lack of fixed rules are demoralizing, and it will be a good thing when there is a convent for the proper training of girls.  But lawless as Rose has grown, he has asked her in marriage.  We wanted you to ratify the consent I have given.  He will make arrangements for the marriage a few months hence.”

“You seem to think Rose has no voice in this.”

“Why should she have?  Do we not stand in the place of parents?  My father chose M. Giffard, and he was presented to me as my future husband.  No well-bred girl makes any demur.  But it seems that Mam’selle Rose has some queer ideas, imbibed from heaven only knows where, that she must experience a kind of overwhelming preference for a man, which would be positively disgraceful in a young girl who has no right to consider love until she is called upon to give it to her husband.  It will be a most excellent thing for her.”

There was a moment or two of silence.  He was considering how best to make his protest.

“Well ­why do you not reply?” tartly.  “The young man is very ardent.  She can never do better.”

“She is but a child.  There need be no haste.  And if she does not care ­”

“She is no longer a child.  Fully fourteen, I think, and Mam’selle Boulle was married younger that that.”

“And whether the Sieur would quite approve.  There are some formalities in old France which we have not shaken off.  His parents are still alive ­”

“And he is quite certain he can have the mystery about her fathomed.  She should go down on her knees to a man who would prove her honorably born, even if he had no fortune.  To-morrow morning he wants the matter settled, and a betrothal, before he goes.  If you know where she is, you had better summon her and instruct her as to her duty.  She is quite old enough to understand.  She has played the child too long already, and it has spoiled her.”

“I will not have her betrothed against her will.  She has no fancy for marriage.  And there will be time enough.  If M. Boulle chooses to wait until the Sieur returns, and he consents ­”

“She has always been a favorite of his,” interrupted miladi.  Then suddenly ­“Why are you so obstinate about it, when it will be such an excellent thing for her?”

“I am not obstinate about it, only as far as she is concerned.  If she desired it she should have my full and free consent.  But I will not insist upon a step she does not desire.”

“As if a girl knew what was best!” reiterated miladi scornfully.  “And why should you wish to keep her?  Unless” ­and now miladi’s eyes flashed fire ­“unless ­”

“Do not say it!” He held up his hand forbiddingly.

“I will say it!  You are not her father, and it seems strange you should have such an overwhelming fondness for her as to keep her from a most excellent marriage, and persuade yourself that a woman grown can indulge in all kinds of childish behavior, without detriment to her character.  If it is your fondness for her that stands in the way ­”

Miladi at that moment was in a jealous fury.  The passion leaped to her heart full-grown.  She understood now why she half-feared, half-disliked the child that she had once esteemed a pet and plaything.  She had supplanted her in her husband’s affections.  She had youth and beauty, and miladi was fading, beside being years older than her husband, and then never very well any more.

“Hush!” exclaimed her husband, in a commanding tone.  “I forbid you to think of such a thing!  When have I failed in my devotion to you?  To-morrow she shall have her choice, but she shall not be forced into any promise beside her own wishes.  And then I will find a new home for her.”

He turned and went out of the room.  Miladi pounded on the table before her with her small fist, as if she could beat the life out of something.