Uncle Gaspard,” Renée cried, “you squeeze my hand so tight. And you walk so fast.”
He paused suddenly and gazed down in the flushed face, the eyes humid under their curling lashes.
“My little dear!” and his heart smote him. “Let us sit down here in the shade of this clump of trees and rest. You see, I never had a little girl before, and forgot that she could not stride with my long legs.”
“And I am so thirsty.”
He glanced about. “We are only going a little farther,” he said, “and then we shall find a splendid spring and something to eat. Are you very tired?”
She drew a long breath and held up her little red hand.
“Poor hand!” he said tenderly, pressing it to his lips. “Poor little hand!”
She leaned her head down on his shoulder.
“You wouldn’t like to have me go away?” she murmured plaintively.
“Go away?” in surprise. “What put such an idea in your head?”
“You wouldn’t send me?”
Strange these thoughts should find entrance in her mind when he had just asked himself that curious question so akin to it.
“What do you mean, little one?”
“If – if you married – some one – who did not want me,” in so desolate a tone that it gave him a pang.
“But I am not going to marry any one.”
“Are you very, very sure?” with an indrawn breath.
He took her face between his hands suddenly and turned it upward. It was scarlet and tears beaded the long lashes.
“Come,” he said in soft persuasion, “what is behind all this? Who has been talking to you? If it is Mère Lunde – ”
“No – she said it was not true.”
“Surely that little Pichou girl is not a mischief maker! If so, she must keep clear of us. I will not have you tormented.”
Then Renée began to cry softly and the truth came out with sobs.
He smiled, and yet he was deeply touched. The little thing was jealous. Yet was it not true that he was all she had in the world to love, and that no one had really loved her until he came into her life? How she had trusted him back there in Quebec after the first few hours!
Now he gathered her up in his arms as if she been a baby, and kissed the small hot face, tasting the salt tears.
“Little one,” he began in a tender, comforting tone, “set your heart at rest. If the good God spares us, there will be many pleasant years together, I hope. I am not going to marry any one, and Ma’m’selle Barbe has a fine young admirer. She doesn’t want an old fellow like me. You can’t understand now, but when you are older I will tell you the whole story. I loved your mother and your grandfather took her away, married her to some one else. That is why you are so dear to me.”
“Oh!” she cried, with a depth of feeling that surprised him. “Oh!” Then she dropped down on her knees and put her arms about his neck, and he could feel her heart beat against his breast. He was immeasurably impressed. Could she understand what that meant?
When he raised her face it was sweet and grave as that of an older person might have been. Then she said softly. “I shall love you my whole life long. I shall never love any one so dearly.”
How did she who had never had any one to love understand affection so well? Perhaps because it is natural to the sex to own something it can adore, and yet the little Renaud girls liked him very much, but there was no such absorption in their regard. Ah, he was her all. They had the natural ties of childhood on which to lavish their love. Barbe – he had never thought of marrying her, though he had seen her grow up to womanhood, and very charming at that. She was for some younger mate, and there were plenty of them. Pretty girls, nor scarcely any girls, went begging in the new countries. They were tempting enough without much dot.
And that her little heart should be torn by jealousy! He could have smiled, only it seemed pitiful. He pressed her closer, sorry any innuendoes should have been made before her.
“Come, dear,” he began tenderly, “we have not finished our walk. Or will I have to carry you?”
She sprang up lightly, her face all abloom, though her long lashes still glistened.
“Oh, no, no,” smilingly. “But you have carried me – over part of the long portage when I was so tired, and that night when it was dark. Oh, how big and strong you are. There was some one in a book in the old château – I have nearly forgotten, who was strong and brave. Uncle Gaspard, why haven’t you any books? The little ones at the Father’s are so queer, with their short sentences, and the children blunder so. I like best to know about some person. Oh, can’t we all tell that the dog barks and the kitten mews, the cock crows, without reading it in a primer! And – I would like to have a prayer book of my very own.”
“I think I have one somewhere about. But I will send to New Orleans for some books the next time the boats go down. People have not had much time for learning thus far.”
“And I had nothing to do in the old château but play and read. There was no one to play with,” sadly. “How funny that little girl was who brought me the kitten! Five brothers! Well, I have two at home, in Paris, I mean, but I never saw them only once. Rosalie! Isn’t it a pretty name? I wonder if you would like me to be called anything else?”
“No, dear. You are a queen, my little queen. I don’t want you changed in any way. I only want you to be happy and content.”
She was so thoroughly rested now that although she gave little skips occasionally and held his hand tightly, her heart seemed as light as the birds flying overhead. And now they were coming to a small Indian settlement, with a few wigwams, and long stretches of corn up high enough to make a beautiful waving green sea as the wind moved it in undulating billows. Women were cooking out of doors on little stone fireplaces. Children played about; two small papooses hung up to a tree branch were rocking to and fro. In the sun lay two braves asleep, too lazy to hunt or fish. Yet it was a pretty picture.
The tepees were in a semi-circular form. Denys passed the first one. At the second a woman sat beside the flap doing some beautiful bead and feather work. She raised her eyes and then sprang up with a glad smile, holding her work in a sort of apron.
“It is M’sieu Denys,” in broken French, that sounded soft for an Indian voice. “He has come back. He has taken a long journey to the Far East.” She glanced curiously at the stranger.
“And brought home a little girl,” smiling at the child. “She has come from the land of the great Onontio, and I am to care for her. I am not going to rove about any more, but trade with the residents and send goods up and down the river. And I shall want many articles of you, Mattawissa.”
She smiled and nodded. “I make not much for trade, but sometimes the hunters buy for their sweethearts as they return. And will you trade beads and silks? The threads we make are so troublesome to dye, and sometimes the color is rough, not pretty,” with a shrug. “I have heard it comes up from the great city down below.”
“New Orleans.
