CHAPTER VIII.  CONVENT DAYS.
1806.
Abbie, who was the very reverse of her sister in appearance and disposition, still remained in the convent, the seclusion of which had not transformed her into a religious recluse—rather the reverse. Her association with gay daughters of wealthy Seigneurs and others had the effect of deepening her love of adventure and romance.
Sally Smith continued to be her most intimate friend, and any holidays, which in those days were few and far between, were spent at the Citadel.
One evening a young officer called, and during the absence of her mother from the room Sally said, her eyes dancing with mischief: "Let me introduce you to my friend, Miss Wabisca Onodis, Lieutenant Randall. Miss Onodis," she continued, "is the daughter of an Algonquin Chief, and is a boarder at the convent."
"Aw, indeed," said the officer, "I should never have dreamed that your friend was an Indian girl. Have you had much difficulty in acquiring a knowledge of English?" asked the lieutenant.
"Not at all," replied Abbie, "I understand everything that is said, but find difficulty at times in choosing words best fitted to give expression to my deepest emotions."
"Aw, I quite understand. They say that the Indian nature is much more intense than that of other civilized nations. What is exceedingly difficult even for an Englishman must be much more so for one of your temperament. No language, I believe, either written nor spoken, can convey any adequate idea of the emotion of love, for instance. Is that your experience, Miss Onodis?"
Just then Mrs. Smith entered, and the conversation turned to that perennial subject—the weather. The friendship thus formed soon ripened into more than a mere friendship. Frequent messages passed between the convent and the Citadel, messages in cypher, for Therese, an Indian girl, had furnished Abbie with a list of Algonquin words and phrases expressive of deep sentiment, which were quite unintelligible to the nuns, and as the officer was furnished with a similar vocabulary, messages were frequently carried by Sally between the two.
This went on for some time until the nuns found a scrap of paper on the floor containing the following mysterious words:
Nitam shaquoi yanque kitchioni chishim
Kin mishiwaiasky nin
Othai icha quisco.
Ka qui nick kitayam.
                                    Wabisca Onodis.
After matins the Mother Superior addressed about two hundred young women in the Assembly Hall in the following words:
"Young ladies, a very mysterious letter has been found. It is evidently in the Indian language. It is probably intended for one of our Indian young ladies. Did anyone present lose a letter?"
No one spoke.
"O'Jawa," said the superior, addressing a young Indian girl, "will you come forward and see if this letter is written in one of the Iroquois or one of Algonquin dialects?"
O'Jawa promptly came up the aisle, and scanning the paper, said:
"It is Algonquin, Mother."
"To whom is it addressed?"
"To no one, Mother," she replied.
"By whom is it signed?"
"By a White Chief, Mother."
"Please translate it," said the Mother Superior.
O'Jawa read slowly and deliberately:
"First—last—and best,
Thou art all the world to me.
My heart burns.
                    "Always yours,
                                        "WHITE CHIEF."
"This letter," continued the Mother Superior, "evidently belongs to one of the Algonquin girls, who probably has been receiving secret missives of a similar nature from some white man. As you are aware, young ladies, this offence is punishable with expulsion. Deceit is the mother of all vices. The sisters cannot assume the responsibility of the care of any young lady who would deliberately deceive them in this way; therefore I am under the painful necessity of investigating this matter more fully. Therese, come forward. Your guilty face indicates that you were the recipient of this letter. Were you?"
"I was not, Mother."
"Then it was sent to you and the bearer dropped it before you saw it. Is not that the case?"
"I do not know, Mother."
"Have you ever received any communications of this nature before?"
"I have not, Mother."
"Do you know any White Chief?"
"I do not, Mother."
"Do you know for whom this missive was intended?"
Therese hesitated. The question was repeated.
"I do, Mother," she said.
"Do you know by whom it was written?"
Taking the letter in her hand she said, slowly:
"I do, Mother."
"Then, Therese, I must demand the names of both the sender and the intended recipient."
"Who wrote that letter?"
"I shall not tell," she said, slowly and with great determination.
"I shall give you five minutes to answer my question, Therese, and if you stubbornly persist in concealing these facts from me I shall declare you expelled."
There was silence in the hall—not a soul stirred. Therese stood calmly awaiting her doom, when suddenly there was a shuffling at the back of the hall and Abbie came forward and addressed the Superior:
"I wrote that letter. It was intended for a young officer at the Citadel. If you are going to expel anyone, expel me."
The Mother Superior hesitated. She looked at Abbie, then at Therese, and said, solemnly:
"Insubordination and deceit must not go unpunished. I shall communicate all the circumstances of the case to your parents. The classes may now go to their respective class-rooms."
A few days later Abbie was summoned to the reception room, and was much surprised to find her father and her brother Bearie in consultation with the Mother Superior. They had just arrived with a raft of timber—the first raft from the Ottawa—and had come to arrange with the nuns to have Abbie spend the evening with them. The Chief looked very grave as he tried to decipher the tattered letter which the Mother Superior translated to him. He said:
"Abbie is a giddy, foolish, light-hearted girl, whose spirits often carry her beyond bounds. I shall be returning to the Utawas in a few days and shall take her home with me. She will be safe at home," he said, as the Mother tried to dissuade him from his purpose.
"Now that your daughter is on restriction of leave she will be perfectly safe with us. We make an exception, of course, in the case of parents taking their daughters out."
No sooner had they emerged from the stone walls of the convent than Abbie related the whole affair to her father, who reproved her for her folly and gave her what is rarely appreciated, sound, fatherly advice.
On reaching the hotel Bearie introduced to his sister an awkward, bashful youth named Thomas Brigham, who had come down with them on the raft.
"What part of the backwoods do you come from?" she asked, coldly.
"From the township of Hull," he responded.
"Did you ever see a city before?"
"Well, no, I cannot say that I have, except Montreal and Three Rivers," he replied, as he scraped the mud off his long boots with his pocket knife.
"I thought not," she said.
Her father moved uneasily in his seat on observing the embarrassment of the young man, and said, gravely:
"Thomas is not as rough as he looks. He is one of the ablest young men in the settlement. He may lack the veneer of an officer, but you will find as the years go on that there is no discount on Thomas."
So saying, he arose from the table, and, taking his hat from the rack, said: "Come, let us walk out and see something of the city."
They were coming up St. Peter Street. Abbie was laughing and jesting with Bearie, when they came face to face with Lieutenant Randall.
"Let me introduce you to my brother, Lieutenant Randall," said Abbie. "And this is my father," she said, mischievously.
"Aw, I am awfully pleased to meet you, sir," he said, with a perplexed and bewildered expression on his face.
He then turned to Bearie and said: "It is difficult to determine sometimes when Miss Onodis is in jest and when in earnest. She led me to believe that she was the daughter of an Indian chief, and the truth is only now beginning to dawn upon me."
"You have not been misinformed," said Bearie. "My father has the honor to be Chief of one of the Algonquin tribes of the Utawas, but why do you not call my sister by her right name?"
"Aw, pardon me—pardon me! I did not understand, of course. I am to address your sister in future as——
"Miss Wright," said Bearie.
The young lieutenant became a frequent visitor at the hotel while the Chief was negotiating sales of lumber, and had kindly undertaken to assist him in securing an Englishman qualified to fill the position of bookkeeper and tutor to the younger children.
Several weeks passed. All business arrangements having been concluded, Abbie was taken from the convent preparatory to leaving for home, when the young officer approached the Chief and said:
"I have been earnestly hoping for an opportunity of seeing you privately, sir, with reference to your daughter, whose hand I desire to seek in marriage."
"My daughter is not eligible for marriage," replied the Chief, with a twinkle in his eye, "as she is pledged, provisionally, to one of the chiefs of our tribe."
"I cannot think that Ab—— Miss Wright has led me on only to disappoint me at last. Have you any reason to believe that her engagement with the Chief is an affair of the heart?"
The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Bearie, who proposed that they should walk out to the square and watch the setting sun.
Abbie and Bearie tried to outrival each other in relating anecdotes and incidents of interest which had taken place during the interval of absence from each other, in the vain hope of arousing the interest of their military friend, who sat on the end of a bench twirling his swagger stick nervously.
"There was an Indian girl in the convent," said Abbie, "who was engaged to be married to one of her own tribe, and a few days before the wedding we took up a collection among the girls and bought her a trousseau............