“The thousand Aves have been said,” murmured Maria to herself, “but I have not yet asked for anything … not in words.” She had thought that perhaps it were not needful; that the Divinity might understand without hearing wishes shaped by lips—Mary above all … Who had been a woman upon earth. But at the last her simple mind was taken with a doubt, and she tried to find speech for the favour she was seeking.
François Paradis … Most surely it concerns François Paradis. Hast Thou already guessed it, O Mary, full of grace? How might she frame this her desire without impiety? That he should be spared hardship in the woods … That he should be true to his word and give up drinking and swearing … That he return in the spring.
That he return in the spring … She goes no further, for it seems to her that when he is with her again, his promise kept, all the happiness in the world must be within their reach, unaided … almost unaided … If it be not presumptuous so to think …
That he return in the spring … Dreaming of his return, of François, the handsome sunburnt face turned to hers, Maria forgets all else, and looks long with unseeing eyes at the snow-covered ground which the moonlight has turned into a glittering fabric of ivory and mother-of-pearl—at the black pattern of the fences outlined upon it, and the menacing ranks of the dark forest.
X
Straying Tracks
New Year’s Day, and not a single caller! Toward evening the mother of the family, a trifle cast down, hid her depression behind a mask of extra cheeriness. “Even if no one comes,” said she, “that is no reason for allowing ourselves to be unhappy. We are going to make la tire.”
The children exclaimed with delight, and followed the preparations with impatient eyes. Molasses and brown sugar were set on the stove to boil, and when this had proceeded far enough Telesphore brought in a large dish of lovely white snow. They all gathered about the table as a few drops of the boiling syrup were allowed to fall upon the snow where they instantly became crackly bubbles, deliciously cold.
Each was helped in turn, the big people making a merry pretence of the children’s unfeigned greed; but soon, and very wisely, the tasting was checked, that appetite might not be in peril for the real la tire, the confection of which had only begun. After further cooking, and just at the proper moment, the cooling toffee must be pulled for a long time. The mother’s strong hands plied unceasingly for five minutes, folding and drawing out the sugary skein; the movement became slower and slower, until, stretched for the last time to the thickness of a finger, it was cut into lengths with scissors—not too easily, for it was already hard. The la tire was made.
The children were busy with their first portions, when a knocking was heard on the door. “Eutrope Gagnon,” at once declared Chapdelaine. “I was just saying to myself that it would be an odd thing if he did not come and spend the evening with us.”
Eutrope Gagnon it was in truth. Entering, he bade them all good evening, and laid his woollen cap upon the table. Maria looked at him, a blush upon her cheek. Custom ordains that on the first day of the year the young men shall kiss the women-folk, and Maria knew well enough that Eutrope, shy as he was, would exercise his privilege; she stood motionless by the table, unprotesting, yet thinking of another kiss she would have dearly welcomed. But the young man took the chair offered him and sat down, his eyes upon the floor.
“You are the only visitor who has come our way today,” said Chapdelaine, “and I suppose you have seen no one either. I felt pretty certain you would be here this evening.”
“Naturally … I would not let New Year’s Day go by without paying you a visit. But, besides that, I have news to tell.”
“News?”
Under the questioning eyes of the household he did not raise his eyes.
“By your face I am afraid you have bad news.”
“Yes.”
With a start of fear the mother half rose. “Not about the boys?”
“No, Madame Chapdelaine. Esdras and Da’Bé are well, if that be God’s pleasure. The word I bring is not of them—not of your own kin. It concerns a young man you know.” Pausing a moment he spoke a name under his breath:—“François Paradis.”
His glance was lifted to Maria and as quickly fell, but she did not so much as see his look of honest distress. Deep stillness weighed upon the house—upon the whole universe. Everything alive and dead was breathlessly awaiting news of such dreadful moment—touching him that was for her the one man in all the world …
“This is what happened. You knew perhaps that he was foreman in a shanty above La Tuque, on the Vermilion River. About the middle of December he suddenly told the boss that he was going off to spend Christmas and New Year at Lake St. John—up here. The boss objected, naturally enough; for if the men take ten or fifteen days’ leave right in the middle of the winter you might as well stop the work altogether. The boss did not wish him to go and said so plainly; but you know François—a man not be thwarted when a notion entered his head. He answered that he was set on going to the lake for the holidays, and that go he would. Then the boss let him have his way, afraid to lose a man useful beyond the common, and of such experience in the bush.”
Eutrope Gagnon was speaking with unusual ease, slowly, but without seeking words, as though his story had been
