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CHAPTER XI.

Henri Beaumont, although a native of Quebec, was a graduate of an English university, and it was in London, after obtaining his degree, that he received his appointment on the medical staff of a British regiment under orders for Canada. For two years now he had been stationed in Halifax, and although during the war with the United States he had seen some active service, his duties had been chiefly confined to professional work among the troops stationed at the Citadel.

It was there that Maud met him. Perhaps if she had been less indifferent, the conquest would not have been so easily accomplished.

But the impression was made at the beginning, and notwithstanding her apparent coolness, time seemed only to strengthen the one-sided bond that existed between them.

His heart was in a tumult as he entered the house that night--hope and expectation did not balance each other--and minutes elapsed after meeting Maud before the loud throbs beneath his jerkin ceased.

"I am sure you heard the news?" he said retaining the hand which she attempted to withdraw. "I am ordered to be ready to march with Sir George's men in two days."

"Yes," she replied, finally retracting her hand, "and I congratulate you. Your friends, while sorry to lose you, will be glad of your promotion."

"That is very kind; but I would give the world to know that some one really cared."

He was growing serious already. So she threw back her head and with a gentle laugh exclaimed:

"Oh, my dear doctor, you don't know how much we shall miss you!"

"Mon Dieu, Miss Maud! That is very well. But you know what I mean. When I go away I can't return for a year at least. It is the time, the absence, that I think of. Won't you give me a chance at all? You know how I love you."

"You have your chance now, Doctor--founding a fort--establishing a settlement--perhaps building a city. That should be enough for any man to face."

"But it is not enough, mon ami." The doctor's face flushed and his eyes glittered as he drew his chair nearer. "I want my love returned. I have kept myself straight and pure for love of you, Mademoiselle. Do you care for me at all? Will you not give me one promise before I go?"

He was pleading very earnestly, a gleam of intense love illuminating his face. Maud's manner softened a little, although she felt no responsive thrill. She was not sure of her own heart, and was too wise to commit herself when she experienced no warmer feeling than that of friendship.

"You ask for more than I can give," she said. "If I do not love you, how can I promise?"

"Have I a rival then?" he asked with pa.s.sionate earnestness.

"How dare you ask such a question!" she answered with flushed face. "I am in love with no one."

"Then why not grant my desire? In my heart no one can take your place.

For long months I shall see only one other lady, and she the wife of a brother officer. But I will found a settlement and build a city, too, if you will only promise to be my--my sweetheart--when I come back again."

"Oh, you silly man! I promise nothing. Why not simply wait and see. When away on your long march (she did not tell him how gladly she would have undertaken it herself if he had not been going) your mind and time will be occupied with other things. You will never think of me."

"Never think of you!" he exclaimed pa.s.sionately. "Perhaps it would be better for me if I never did. But I shall think of you every day when on the march, and every night when in the woods we pitch our camp. When the smoke arises from the pipes of the men around our fires, my thoughts will be of you; and when rolled in blanket and buffalo robes, during the long winter nights, I may see the stars through the tall trees, and hear the owls hooting in the forest; but beyond the stars I shall see your face, and in my dreams I shall hear your voice. No, Maud Manning, I may go away, but you cannot get away from me. You fill my soul, my heart, my whole being. You are my star, my light, my love--and it will be the same in Penetang, no matter where you are."

Spite of herself his words thrilled her, and unconsciously she rose to her feet. She could not sit still any longer. What manner of man was this French-Scotchman? This pa.s.sionate pleader, this determined lover?

This soldierly fellow, who, while he worshipped her, accepted the order to march to the end of the earth, for time indefinite, without a single murmur of regret? She had never until now been seriously impressed with his personality. She had seen the pa.s.sionate, demonstrative side of his nature; but its integrity and strength, its staunch chivalry and unselfish devotion, were something new to her--and it was with a feeling not unlike reverence that she heard his last words. A species of humility almost akin to love was gradually stealing over her.

"I am sorry," she said at last, but her voice this time was low and sweet. "I should have told you sooner."

"Told me what?" he exclaimed eagerly. "That you never could love me?"

"No, not that." His intensity was so great, so real, that she dreaded the future that seemed imminent in his face. She must give him hope, however slight, until time could soothe the vivid chords of his being, and until she could read aright the inmost thoughts of her own heart.

"What then?" was his question.

"Can you not suggest something else? We have always been friends," she said.

"Promise me to remain free for a year. I will do my best and come back then," he said.

"Yes, _Monsieur le Docteur_, for one more year I will not love any one, for one more year I will be free." And the tone filled his soul with music. The cloud was raised--the veil was lifted.

"And I will write," he said. "Will you answer?"

"Yes," was her quiet response.

"Oh, Mon Dieu! I thank you," was his comment. His face had lost its sadness.

They stood together under the chandelier. He, excited, determined, pa.s.sionate, with love in every look and gesture, but controlling himself by a strong effort. She, introspective, observant, wary; and yet with a warmer kindliness towards her companion than she had ever felt before.

"I must go," he said at last. "Just a kiss to seal our promise." And he threw his arm out to clasp her to him. But with one step backward she raised the hand that was held in his and the kiss fell upon it instead.

"Good-bye and G.o.d be with you," she said.

"And may He keep you until I return," was his prayer; "but shall I not see you again? There may be time enough to-morrow?"

"It would be better not."

She stood at the door and watched him descend the steps. Then he turned and, with a last look and a sweep of his chapeau, he disappeared into the darkness.

CHAPTER XII.

On the day of the march the temperature was almost down to zero, and the sky a clear pale blue. The order had been issued for the little column to be ready at nine o'clock sharp; and cold as it was the whole town was astir. Union Jacks were flying in honor of the occasion, and many people were out on the street to witness the departure. The few days that had elapsed since the arrival of the _North King_ had not pa.s.sed idly away.

A score or two of teams had been purchased. Long sleighs, bobsleighs, carryalls had all been secured, and many of them loaded with goods that Captain Payne had brought over the sea for the building and provisioning of the prospective fort. Then there were fur robes and blankets, kettles, pots and tins for the journey, stores of all sorts, and provisions for the men, fodder and blankets for the horses, as well as the reserve supply of ammunition, all packed in capacious sleighs, with drivers ready and horses snorting impatiently for the order to start.

Punctual to the minute the companies lined up in the square by the Citadel.

Sleighs for Sir George and his officers, one for Helen and Harold, and another for the soldiers' wives, were there in regular order. Then came the heavy sledges of the commissary department, and last of all the "bobs" containing the building supplies and ordinance outfit for the new fort at Penetang.

As the bell of the little old church on the hill struck nine a salute of two guns from the Citadel was fired in honor of the event. Adieus had all been said; hand-shaking was over; and as the shrill tones of the bugles sounded, the order to march was given. Then the crowd cheered and the sleighs started upon their long journey; while the soldiers in heavy overcoats formed a double column and brought up the rear.

For the commencement of such a journey the day was excellent. The roads were good, the snow well packed, and soon the procession of ponies and sledges commenced to swing along at a rapid rate.

"Put my coat collar higher, please," said Helen to her husband as they neared the outskirts of the town. Quick driving had made her feel the cold air more keenly.