CHAPTER XVIII

_Sorrowful Hearts_

Of the few houses left standing in that border country, Madame Desvouges's was one. Victor, it is true, had not had an easy time of it, and more than once was threatened with expulsion by one party or the other, but Victor was not combative; he had no personal grievance, he told the authorities, and why should he fight? When they attempted to burn his home over his head, for Madame Desvouges and for his sister he would do battle, but he had friends in both armies, and why should he quarrel with one or the other? Such obvious neutrality was quite enough to assure any one of his peaceable intentions; and even when orders were given that every able-bodied man should be pressed into service, Victor somehow managed to slip out of the way, and calmly held to his post, while up and down the land ravaging bands of foragers, hangers-on of both armies, and plunderers of all sorts, were laying waste the country. "My place is here," declared Victor; "I am the garrison, the commandant, what officer you will, of this fort, and here I remain."

And so the besom of destruction passed over the old house, and it was left to its occupants who clung to it so obstinately. It is true they had been stripped of nearly all that could be of use to either army, but the more they were called upon for supplies, the more indefatigably did Victor plant and reap and gather into barns, so that he came to be considered quite a valuable commissariat, and perhaps that was the reason he was let alone.

It was one cold night during the time that Marianne was lying ill that those at the Desvouges farm were startled by hearing rapid hoof beats coming up the lane. Madame cast a quick look of apprehension at Victor. "Some one for you, my son?"

"Perhaps," he replied, "but there can be nothing to alarm us, when the men are all in winter quarters and no expeditions are likely to be undertaken."

"Go, then, and see who it is."

Victor lighted his lantern and went to the door. It was snowing drearily, in heavy flakes. The horse was coming fast up the lane, between the rows of leafless trees; at the gate he stopped of his own accord. Victor held up his lantern. "Who is it?" he cried.

"For the love of Heaven, Victor, help us," said a familiar voice.

"Royal!" cried Victor. Not once since that day when his grandmother had bidden him take his wife away had Royal entered the house. He and Victor had met: they bore each other no ill-will. Victor had few, if any, enemies; he was always disposed to be tolerant. True, Royal had disappointed his grandmother, but, argued Victor, he did it unwittingly, and so now to see him at the gate at this hour and in this weather argued some disaster. As he turned the light of his lantern fuller upon Royal, he saw that he was not alone. Close to his breast he held his wife, and under her cloak was warmly clasped a tiny baby.

At sight of this down went Victor's lantern in a twinkling. "Give me the little one," he said, holding out his arms. "Victorine! Maman!" he shouted. "Here!" Victorine came running out, and into her arms Victor laid the child. "It is Royal's baby," he said. And Victorine enfolded the tiny bundle closer. "Run in with the little one; it is cold," Victor urged, and then he gave his attention to Kate, gently helping her down. As she reached the ground she staggered into the arms of Madame Desvouges, opened to receive her. "Go in quickly," said Victor, "and I will come with Royal; he is hurt, I think."

"To the death," murmured Royal. "Get me in, Victor, I have not long."

The tears were rolling down Madame's face as she knelt by Kate, who had fainted upon reaching the warm room. "She is ill and weak, poor child," said Madame. "Such a little baby, Victorine. Ah me, how cruel to drive them out into this bitter night." Between them they got Kate into an inner room. Victorine laid the child by her side, and the two women gave themselves up to ministering to the mother and child, while Victor helped Royal to his own bed.

"It is no use," gasped Royal. And, indeed, Victor saw that no effort of his could stay the hand of the death angel. "They came upon us," Royal said, speaking with difficulty, "no, no, not American soldiers, they were but a band of plunderers and ruffians with no country. They drove us out and set fire to the house. They would have done worse but I struck down one fellow and seized his horse--I managed to get Kate and the boy, but--they fired--and--I am hard hit." He lay breathing heavily. "Poor Kate!" he said, after a time. "You will--not--let her--suffer, Victor. And my little son. Where is Victorine? She--will be--good--to my--boy. He, you know--my father forgave me--the letter is here--" He laid his hand feebly on his breast. "He--it was all cross purposes--misunderstandings. Mother--and poor--little Marianne--I--don't--know--where they are. You'll be good--to Kate--and--the boy, Victor?"

"I swear to you I will," said Victor, gravely. "They shall not suffer while I am able to help them."

"Victorine!"

Victor went to the door and called his sister. She came in quick response. Victor took her two hands in his. "Victorine, my poor girl, he is dying."

"No, no!" Victorine clutched his hand with frantic clasp.

"He has asked for you. Can you be calm?"

"Yes, yes, I can. I will."

They entered the room together. The man lying there was growing very weak. "Victorine," he whispered, "good angel, Victorine--you--will--love my--boy? Kate, my wife--is she--is she--"

"She is very weak, but comparatively comfortable. We have put her to bed. Maman is with her."

A smile came over the man's face. "Grand'mère?"

"Yes. Ah, Royal, dear boy, you need not fear for your wife and son. We will love them and care for them. Maman is so distressed. She reproaches herself."

"No--she must not. Grand'mère!"

The elder woman was summoned. She came, trembling and wretched. "I drove you from me, Royal. I did this dreadful thing!" she cried, wringing her hands. "Where should you have brought your young wife but here to your own people? Ah me, I have a cruel, bad heart. Live, Royal, live, and I will show you how tender I can be to your wife and child. Such a little child, so small and helpless! My great-grandson. Ah me! that I should be so cruel." She burst into uncontrollable weeping.

The dying man's eyes rested on Victorine. "My boy," he said.

"You want to see him?"

"Yes," came the faint whisper.

Victorine went out, and returned with the little one, who opened his baby eyes and blinked as he was brought into the lighted room. Victorine laid him by Royal's side, and the baby closed its little hand around one of his father's chill fingers. Royal's eyes, full of a strange, awed, yearning expression, sought Victorine. "My son," he said, "and he will have no father."

"I will be a father to him, Royal," said Victor, in a broken voice.

"And he shall be my dearest care," Victorine told him. "If God spares me, and so far as a woman can, I will watch over him, and I pray he may grow to be a good man. His mother shall not be left to battle alone; be sure of that."

Royal smiled. He seemed content. His eyes closed, and he lay very still, each moment pulsing out his last heart-beats. Victorine bent over him, an agony of love in her eyes. Once more he smiled at her. "Good angel--Victorine--sing."

She began tremblingly, faintly; it was so sore a trial, but faith and devotion and heroism gave her strength, and the beautiful voice arose clearer and sweeter. Her eyes were uplifted; one hand clasped Royal's. The sobs of Madame Desvouges grew less and less. She wept quietly. Once more Royal opened his eyes. Before him Victorine held her crucifix, dearer forever after by reason of its having received his last look. There was one deep sigh, and Royal's boy was fatherless. But Victorine, in the very agony of her grief, sang on till her hymn was concluded. Then she sank down on her knees by the bedside. Victor led his mother away, and they left her there with her dead love and his living child.

Kate took her place very quietly in the household. It was weeks before she could leave her bed, and in that time Royal had been laid to rest under the snows of March, and the baby had become the most important member of the family. Nothing in all the world could have brought Victorine the comfort that this helpless bit of humanity was able to give. In her heart he was Roy, her king, though Kate had told her that he was named Walter by his father's wish. Under unremitting love and care, the baby throve, and Kate at last was able to take up the business of living with a less feeling of loneliness than at first seemed possible. They were all so gentle, so solicitous, so concerned for her and her little son. There was not one in the house who did not make mother and child the first consideration, and though Kate protested, they all assured her that they could not help it; there was nothing in the world so important to them as Royal's wife and child. Therefore Kate accepted this homage graciously and unaffectedly, and grew to love them as they did her. So that when Marianne arrived late in the spring, she found at her grandmother's quite a new state of things: Queen Kate and his Royal Highness, Sir Walter, absorbing the interest of the whole family.

Marianne had not made her journey without difficulty. With the news of the probable approach of the Americans, who were determined more than ever to conduct a successful invasion of Canada, the country again became the haunt of bands of marauders ready for the slightest excuse to pounce down upon whatever might present itself in the way of plunder. To avoid these, who might almost be termed bandits, it was necessary that the travellers should proceed cautiously. But with the aid of some friendly Indians, and with Jack as their main protector, they reached the river and were set over safely.

It was a pretty domestic scene which greeted them at the threshold of Madame Desvouges's door. Kate held her little son, before whose eager eyes Victor dangled a bright coin. Victorine was sewing upon a small garment, fashioned from one of Madame's treasured bits of fine cambric, but none too good for Master Walter. Madame was knitting a pair of baby's socks, and all eyes were given to glancing between times to the baby himself.

Into the room came Marianne, Jerusha, and Jack; and the first thing, Marianne, too, prostrated herself before the idol. "Oh, the dear love," she cried. "To think I didn't know I was an aunt." She kissed the soft, curling, pink hands, then ran from one to the other to give her greeting. "You knew I would be here soon? Yes, it was Jack who discovered me. Ah me, but it has been a long, sad winter. Perceive me, grand'mère, as one arisen from the dead. I will tell you my tale of woe later. Yes, I have been ill. Did Asa not tell you? And how are you all? Everybody? And where is Royal?"

There was silence. Kate's head bent low over her baby's. "Our dear Lord has taken him, Marianne," said Victorine, gently. Marianne gazed at her, wide-eyed, and then she fell into a passion of weeping.

But it was Victorine who took her in her arms and tried to comfort her.

"It is so dreadful, so dreadful," sobbed Marianne. "My only brother, and my father a prisoner, and my mother I cannot tell where. Oh, why did I not die, too? It is too sorrowful a world to live in."

"No, no, dear child," Victorine chided her, gently, "you do not know what may be in store for you. You do not know what work waits for you to do. See, here are all of us who love you, and this dear baby, your nephew; he has your brother's eyes, and he will comfort you as he has all of us." She took the baby from Kate, and placed him in Marianne's arms. And indeed her tears were stayed at sight of the wondering baby eyes; and when the little one smiled up at her, she could but smile back at him.

Jack could not stay with them long. There was too much astir. He and Marianne had one more talk together. For some reason, Marianne discerned that her grandmother did not make such a point of forcing Victor's company upon her; and Victor himself, though the same even-tempered fellow, had not once sought her out for a confidential talk, had not once told her that she was the prettiest girl in the country, nor had he made any allusions to those old days when they were such comrades. Was she, then, so changed? Had her illness and her dire experiences so altered her as to give her no more a claim to being called pretty? She felt quite aggrieved, and perhaps because of that was all the more ready to join Jack when he asked her to walk with him down to the orchard, where the apple-blossoms were displaying their wonders of pink and white.

"You do not mind going?" he said.

"No, I shall like to," Marianne replied, with a side glance at Victor. She was glad of this opportunity of showing her indifference to her old admirer. To be sure she had never thought of Victor sentimentally, she told herself, and it was time he knew it. She had grown very dependent upon Jack in these days when they had braved the perils of the journey together, and somehow they seemed to have more in common.

They passed out into the spring sunshine, and Kate watched them with a sigh. A year ago, in spring-time, she and Royal were married; so long ago, it seemed. She looked at the little one lying in her lap. Victor came and laid a gentle finger on the baby's soft fuzzy head. "He grows," he said, with pleased interest. "He will soon be walking and talking, Kate, and I will teach him to do many things. Do you notice that he likes music? Already he listens when I take my violin." He took down the instrument from its corner, and began to play softly upon it, watching the baby's face the while.

The gentle strains reached the ears of the two who had seated themselves under a branching apple tree. "It is Victor," said Marianne. "He plays to the baby. I think," she said, half-aggrieved, "the baby has cut me out."

Jack picked up a rosy petal which had drifted down upon her hand. "Do you care for that?" he asked.

"I don't know. A little, maybe. I don't like to be set aside even for a baby, and then--" She paused, and let the falling petals drift through her fingers.

"And then some day you expect to marry Victor; is that it?" asked Jack, in an unsteady voice.

"No--yes--that is, I cannot tell. Grand'mère has always wanted it to be so, but--I--" She shot a quick glance at Jack, and turned her head aside. "I am beginning to think I could never have cared enough--not in that way. I am beginning to know one doesn't--does not feel just the same toward--oh, I don't know what I am trying to say."

Jack seized her hand. "Marianne, what makes you say this?"

She was silent. "Because I am older, I suppose," she answered, after a pause. "I know better what it means. I couldn't be content to live all my life with Victor; he isn't exciting enough." She laughed a little.

"Then if he were--exciting--you would be willing?"

"Perhaps. I can't tell. That is the way I feel now. I don't know what will suit me a year or two hence."

"You are older than when you fell into the bog, I confess," said Jack. "Ah, Marianne, I am in a worse slough than ever you were in. I fell in then, and I shall never get out unless you pull me. You have your revenge." He sighed. "I am afraid I shall always stay there, for you are not so merciful to a prisoner as I was."

Marianne shook her head. "Don't let us talk about it. You know there is not the slightest, no, not the slightest, possibility of your getting out by my help. I have no doubt," she added brightly, "that some one else will come to your rescue before you are in too deep. Oh, if I could really save your life," she added more seriously, "I would be so glad; for then I would not feel, when I have to tell you the truth, that I ought not for fear of hurting you."

"I know all that," said Jack, humbly. "Shall I put myself in danger to make it easier for you?"

"You ridiculous boy, of course not." She tapped him lightly with a little bunch of blossoms. "At least, the situation has this merit: I can be friends with you without censuring myself, and I never felt that I could before."

"Did you ever want to?"

"Sometimes, yes."

"Then that is a point gained. I feel more hopeful. Isn't it a French fashion--are you French enough--to--to kiss me good-by?"

Marianne colored up. "I--no--but you may kiss my cheek. No, no, not now. When you go." The thought of his going suddenly startled her, and she put both hands over her eyes quickly, as if she would shut out a vision she saw. "Will there be much fighting?" she asked. "Shall you be in many battles, do you think?"

"Who can tell? I go, and that is enough to know. It is all very uncertain. I may come back with flying colors, and I may be stricken down before night; that is a soldier's life. Would you be sorry to lose your--friend?"

"Yes, very. Please don't talk of that as a possibility. Let us be gay and happy. You will come back, we will say and believe; and your grandfather and Kate will live together, and after a while you will marry--Minerva Ashman."

"Never!"

"Oh, I don't mean right away. Years and years from now."

Jack shook his head very positively. "There is only one girl in the world I shall ever be content to marry, and if I cannot have her, I shall live and die an old bachelor. Besides, you forget; it would be cruel to take Kate from your grandmother and Victorine. I couldn't feel that it would be right to do that."

"Then you will have to go to Kentucky and live with Sue. Would you ever be willing to do it, I wonder."

"I think not. I might go somewhere, miles and miles away. If you--ah, Marianne, if you married, I don't think I could live near you."

"Don't you?" she asked lamely.

"No, I love you too much. There, I said I would not worry you again by saying so, but it is so sweet to tell you and have you listen. Here, under these trees, in the spring sunshine, with war and danger and all so far off, as it seems, I can only think of one thing as I look at you, and that is that I love you. Some day, maybe, if it is my lot to fall upon the battlefield, you may like to remember that you made me so very happy in this our last hour together."

"I am glad if I do." The words came in a whisper. "I think, perhaps, if this is really our last hour together, that you may kiss me good-by now."

"Marianne, dearest, how good you are." He bent to kiss her cheek, but she turned her face and her lips met his. Then she started to her feet and ran back to the house holding one hand over her beating heart; and up to her room she went, to throw herself down on the bed and weep the bitter tears of a newly awakened and hopeless love.