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-The Project Gutenberg eBook of The angel of his presence and Gabriel
-the Acadian, by Grace Livingston Hill
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
-most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
-whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
-of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
-www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
-will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before
-using this eBook.
-
-Title: The angel of his presence and Gabriel the Acadian
-
-Authors: Grace Livingston Hill
-         Edith M. Nicholl Bowyer
-
-Release Date: September 28, 2022 [eBook #69060]
-
-Language: English
-
-Produced by: Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed Proofreaders
-             Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net from page images
-             generously made available by the Internet Archive.
-
-*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE AND
-GABRIEL THE ACADIAN ***
-
-                       THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE
-
-                                   BY
-
-                         GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL
-
-                               AUTHOR OF
-     “_In the Way_,” “_Lone Point_,” “_An Unwilling Guest_,” _etc._
-
-
-                 *        *        *        *        *
-
-
-                          GABRIEL THE ACADIAN
-
-                                   BY
-
-                        EDITH M. NICHOLL BOWYER
-
-
-                              PHILADELPHIA
-                  AMERICAN BAPTIST PUBLICATION SOCIETY
-                          1420 Chestnut Street
-
-
-
-
-                         Copyright 1902 by the
-                  AMERICAN BAPTIST PUBLICATION SOCIETY
-                 *        *        *        *        *
-                       Published September, 1902
-
-
-                      From the Society’s own Press
-
-
-
-
-                                Contents
-
-
-                     The Angel of His Presence
-
-                     Gabriel the Acadian
-
-
-
-
-                       THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE
-
-                                   BY
-
-                         GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL
-
-
-
-
-                       THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE
-
-                        =LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS=
-
-              “‘_I have just discovered who you are
-                and felt as if I would like to shake
-                hands with you_’”                      11
-
-              “_She lingered as if transfixed before
-                the picture_”                          23
-
-              “_He dropped it and it shivered into
-                fragments at his feet_”                38
-
-              “_‘Who is it?’ he asked sharply and
-                suspiciously_”                         45
-
-              “_She stood behind his big leather
-                chair, her hands clasped together
-                against one cheek_”                    55
-
-              “_He threw away his cigar and
-                disappeared behind the shrubbery_”     67
-
-              “_The ‘ladye of high degree’ . . . saw
-                them standing also_”                   79
-
-
-
-
-          _The Angel of his presence saved them._
-          _In his love and in his pity he redeemed them._
-                                    —_Old Testament_
-
-
-
-
-                       THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE
-
-
-                               CHAPTER I
-
-John Wentworth Stanley stood on the deck of an Atlantic Liner looking
-off to sea and meditating. The line of smoke that floated away from his
-costly cigar followed the line of smoke from the steamer as if it were
-doing honest work to help get Mr. Stanley to New York. The sea in the
-distance was sparkling and monotonous and the horizon line empty and
-bright, but Mr. Stanley seemed to see before him the hazy outlines of
-New York as they would appear in about twenty-four hours more, if all
-went well. And of course all would go well. He had no doubt of that.
-Everything had always gone well for him.
-
-Especially well had been these last two years of travel and study
-abroad. He reflected with satisfaction upon the knowledge and experience
-he had gained in his own special lines, upon the polish he had acquired,
-and he glanced over himself, metaphorically speaking, and found no fault
-in John Wentworth Stanley. He was not too Parisian in his deferential
-manner, he was not too English in his deliberation, neither was he, that
-worst of all traits in his eyes, too American in his bluntness. He had
-acquired something from each nation, and considered that the combined
-result was good. It is a comfortable feeling to be satisfied with one’s
-self.
-
-Nor had he been shut entirely out of the higher circles of foreign
-society. There were pleasant memories of delightful evenings within the
-noble walls of exclusive homes, of dinners and other enjoyable occasions
-with great personages where he had been an honored guest. When he
-thought of this, he raised his chest an inch higher and stood just a
-little straighter.
-
-There was also a memory picture of one, perhaps more, but notably of one
-“ladye of high degree,” who had not shown indifference to his various
-charms. It was pleasant to feel that one could if one would. In due time
-he would consider this question more carefully. In the near future this
-lady was to visit America. He had promised himself and her the pleasure
-of showing her a few of his own country’s attractions. And,—well, he
-might go abroad again after that on business.
-
-His attention was not entirely distracted by his vision of the “ladye of
-high degree” from looking upon his old homeland and anticipating the
-scenes and the probable experiences that would be his in a few hours.
-Two years seemed a long time when he looked back upon it, though it had
-been brief in the passing. He would doubtless find changes, but there
-had been changes in him also. He was older, his tastes were—what should
-he say—developed? He would not take pleasure in the same way that he
-had taken it when he left, perhaps. He had learned that there were other
-things—things if not better, at least more cultured and less
-old-fashioned than his former diversions. Of course he did not despise
-his up-bringing, nor his homeland, but he had other interests now as
-well, which would take much of his time. He had been from home long
-enough for the place he left to have closed behind him, and he would
-have no difficulty in staying “dropped out.” He expected to spend much
-of his time in New York. Of course he would make his headquarters at
-home, where his father and mother were living, in a small city within a
-short distance of America’s metropolis.
-
-His man—he had picked up an excellent one while traveling through
-Scotland—had gone on ahead to unpack and put in place the various
-objects of art, etc., that he had gathered on his travels. He had not as
-yet become so accustomed to the man that he could not do without him
-from day to day, and had found it convenient to send him home on the
-ship ahead of his own.
-
-He wondered what his home-coming would be like. His father and mother
-would of course be glad to see him and give him their own welcome. But
-even with them he could not feel that he was coming home to a place
-where he was indispensable. They had other children, his brothers and
-sisters, married and living not far from home. Of course they would be
-glad to have him back, all of them, but they had been happy enough
-without him, knowing he was happy. But in town, while he had friends,
-there were none whom he eagerly looked forward to meeting. He had
-attended school there of course, and in later years, after his return
-from college, had gone into the society of the place, the literary clubs
-and tennis clubs and, to a degree, into church work. He had indeed been
-quite enthusiastic in church work at one time, had helped to start a
-mission Sunday-school in a quarter where it was much needed, and acted
-as superintendent up to the time when he had gone abroad. He smiled to
-himself as he thought of his “boyish enthusiasm” as he termed it, and
-turned his thoughts to his more intelligent manhood. Of course he would
-now have no time for such things. His work in the world was to be of a
-graver sort, to deal with science and art and literature. He was done
-with childish things.
-
-He was interrupted just here by one of the passengers. “I beg your
-pardon, I have just discovered who you are and felt as if I would like
-to shake hands with you.”
-
-The speaker was a plain, elderly man with fine features and an earnest
-face. Mr. Stanley had noticed him casually several times and remarked to
-himself that that man would be quite fine looking if he would only pay a
-little more attention to his personal appearance. Not that he was not
-neatly dressed, nor that his handsome, wavy, iron gray hair was not
-carefully brushed; but somehow John Wentworth Stanley had acquired
-during his stay abroad a nice discrimination in toilet matters, and
-liked to see a man with his trousers creased or not creased, as the
-height of the mode might demand, and classed him, involuntarily,
-accordingly.
-
-But he turned in surprise as the stranger addressed him. What possible
-business could this man have with him, and what had he done that should
-make the man want to shake hands with him?
-
-[Illustration: “‘I HAVE JUST DISCOVERED WHO YOU ARE AND FELT AS IF I
-WOULD LIKE TO SHAKE HANDS WITH YOU.’”]
-
-Mr. Stanley was courteous always, and he at once threw away the end of
-his finished cigar and accepted the proffered hand graciously, with just
-a tinge of his foreign-acquired nonchalance.
-
-“My name is Manning. You don’t know me. I came to live at Cliveden
-shortly after you went abroad, but I assure you, I have heard much of
-you and your good work. I wonder I did not know you, Mr. Stanley, from
-your resemblance to your mother,” the stranger added, looking into the
-young man’s eyes with his own keen, gray ones. He did not add that one
-thing which had kept him from recognizing his identity had been that he
-did not in the least resemble the Mr. Stanley he had been led to expect.
-
-Mr. Manning owned to himself in the privacy of his stateroom afterward
-that he was just a little disappointed in the man, though he was
-handsome, and had a good face, but he did seem to be more of a man of
-the world than he had expected to find him. However, no trace of this
-was written in his kindly, interested face, as John Stanley endeavored
-to master the situation and discover what all this meant.
-
-“Oh, I know all about your work in Cliveden, Mr. Stanley. I have been
-interested in the Forest Hill Mission from my first residence there, and
-what I did not learn for myself my little girl told me. She is a great
-worker, and as she has no mother, she makes me her confidant, so I hear
-all the stories of the trials and conflicts of her Sunday-school class,
-and among other things I constantly hear of this one and that one who
-owe their Christian experience to the efforts of the founder of the
-mission and its first superintendent. Your crown will be rich in jewels.
-I shall never forget Joe Andrews’ face when he told me the story of how
-you came to him Sunday after Sunday, and said ‘Joe, aren’t you ready to
-be a Christian yet?’ and how time after time he would shake his head,
-and he says your face would grow so sad.” The elder gentleman looked
-closely at the clean-shaven, cultured face before him to trace those
-lines which proved him to be the same man he was speaking of, and could
-not quite understand their absence, but went on, “and you would say,
-‘Joe, I shall not give you up. I am praying for you every day. Don’t
-forget that.’ And then when he finally could not hold out any longer and
-came to Christ, he says you were so glad, and he cannot forget how good
-it was of you to care for him and to stick to him that way. He said your
-face looked just as if the sun were shining on it the day he united with
-the church. That was a wonderful work you did there. It is marvelous how
-it has grown. Those boys of yours will repay the work you put upon them
-some day. Nearly all of the original members of your own class are now
-earnest Christians, and they cannot get done telling about what you were
-to them. My little girl writes me every mail more about it.”
-
-John Stanley suddenly felt like a person who is lifted out of his
-present life and set down in a former existence. All his tastes, his
-friends, his pursuits, his surroundings, during the past two years had
-been utterly foreign to the work about which the stranger had been
-speaking. He had become so engrossed in his new life that he had
-actually forgotten the old. Not forgotten it in the sense that he was
-not aware of its facts, but rather forgotten his joy in it. And he stood
-astonished and bewildered, hardly knowing how to enter into the
-conversation, so utterly out of harmony with its spirit did he find
-himself. As the stranger told the story of Joe Andrews there rushed over
-him the memory of it all: the boy’s dogged face; his own interest
-awakened one day during his teaching of the lesson when he caught an
-answering gleam of interest in the boy’s eye, and was seized with a
-desire to make Jesus Christ a real, living person to that boy’s heart;
-his watching of the kindling spark in that sluggish soul, and how little
-by little it grew, till one night the boy came to his home when there
-were guests present, and called for him, and he had gone out with him
-into the dewy night under the stars and sat down with him on the front
-piazza shaded by the vines, hoping and praying that this might be his
-opportunity to say the word that should lead the boy to Christ, when
-behold, he found that Joe had come to tell him, solemnly as though he
-were taking the oath of his life, that he now made the decision for
-Christ and hereafter would serve him, no matter what he wanted him to
-do. A strange thrill came with the memory of his own joy over that
-redeemed soul, and how it had lingered with him as he went back among
-his mother’s guests, and how it would break out in a joyous smile now
-and then till one of the guests remarked, “John, you seem to be
-unusually happy to-night for some reason.” How vividly it all came back
-now when the vein of memory was once opened. Incident after incident
-came to mind, and again he felt or remembered that thrill of joy when a
-soul says, “You have helped me to find Christ.”
-
-Mr. Manning was talking of his daughter. John had a dim idea that she
-was a little girl, but he did not stop to question. He was remembering.
-And there was a strange mingling of feelings. His new character had so
-thoroughly impressed its importance upon him that he felt embarrassed in
-the face of what he used to be. Strangely enough the first thing that
-came to mind was, What would the “ladye of high degree” think if she
-knew all this? She would laugh. Ah! That would hurt worse than anything
-she could do. He winced almost visibly under her fancied merriment. It
-was worse than if she had looked grave, or sneered, or argued, or
-anything else. He could not bear to be laughed at, especially in his new
-rôle. And somehow his old self and his new did not seem to fit rightly
-together. But then the new love of the world and his new tastes came in
-with all the power of a new affection and asserted themselves, and he
-straightened up haughtily and told himself that of course he need not be
-ashamed of his boyhood. He had not done anything but good. He should be
-proud of that, and especially so as he would probably not come in
-contact with such work and such people again. He had more important
-things to attend to.
-
-Not that he said all this, or thought it in so many words; it passed
-through his mind like phantoms chasing one another. Outwardly he was the
-polished, courteous gentleman, listening attentively to what this father
-was saying about his daughter, though really he cared little about her.
-Did Mr. Stanley know that she had taken his former Sabbath-school class
-and that there were many new members, among them some young men from the
-foundries? No, he did not. He searched in his memory and found a
-floating sentence from one of his mother’s letters about a young woman
-who had consented to take his class till his return and who was doing
-good work. It had been written, perhaps, a year ago, and it had not
-concerned him much at the time as he was so engrossed in his study of
-the architecture of the south of France. He recalled it now just in time
-to tell the father how his mother had written him about the class, and
-so save his reputation as a Sunday-school teacher. It transpired that
-the daughter who had taken the class and the little girl the stranger so
-constantly referred to as writing him letters about things were one and
-the same. He wondered vaguely what kind of a little girl was able to
-teach a class of young men, but his mind was more concerned with
-something else now.
-
-It appeared that the former mission where he had been superintendent had
-grown into a live Sunday-school, and that they were looking for his
-home-coming with great joy and expectation. How could such a thing be
-other than disconcerting to the man he had become? He had no time to be
-bothered with his former life. He had his life-work to attend to, which
-was not—and now he began to feel irritated—mission Sunday-schools.
-That was all well enough for his boyhood, but now—and besides there was
-the “ladye of high degree.”
-
-Perhaps the man of experience saw the stiffening of the shoulders and
-the upper lip and divined the thoughts of the other. His heart sank for
-his daughter and her boys, and the mission, and their plans for his
-home-coming, and he made up his mind that secret or no secret, this man
-must be told a little of the joy of sacrifice that had been going on for
-him, for surely he could not have been the man that he had been, and not
-have enough of goodness left in his heart to respond to that story, no
-matter what he had become. And so he told him as much of the story his
-daughter had written him as he thought necessary, and John Wentworth
-Stanley thanked him and tried to show that he was properly appreciative
-of the honor that was to be shown him, and tried not to show his
-annoyance about it all to the stranger, and got away as soon as
-possible, after a few polite exchanges of farewells for the evening, and
-went to his stateroom. Arrived there he seated himself on the side of
-his berth, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands, and sat
-scowling out of the porthole with anything but a cultured manner.
-
-“Confound it all!” he muttered to himself. “I suppose it’s got to be
-gone through with some way for mother’s sake and after they’ve made so
-much fuss about it all. I can see it’s all that girl’s getting up; some
-silly girl that thinks she’s going to become prominent by this sort of
-thing. Going to give me a present! And I’ve got to go up there and be
-bored to death by a speech probably, and then get up and be made a fool
-of while they present me with a pickle dish or a pair of slippers or
-something of the sort. It’s awfully trying. And they needn’t think I’m
-going back to that kind of thing, for I’m not. I’ll move to New York
-first. I wish I had stayed in France! I wish I had never worked in
-Forest Hill Mission!”
-
-Oh, John Stanley! Sorry you ever labored and prayed for those immortal
-souls, and wrought into your crown imperishable jewels that shall shine
-for you through all eternity!
-
-
-                               CHAPTER II
-
-They stood in the gallery of one of New York’s most famous art stores;
-seven stalwart boys—young men, perhaps, you would call them—all with
-an attempt at “dress up,” and with them Margaret Manning, slender and
-grave and sweet. They were chaperoned by Mrs. Ketchum, a charming little
-woman who knew a great deal about social laws and customs, and always
-spoke of things by their latest names, if possible, and who took the
-lead in most of the talk by virtue of her position in society and her
-supposed knowledge of art. There were also Mrs. Brown, a plain woman who
-felt deeply the responsibility of the occasion, and Mr. Talcut, a little
-man who was shrewd in business and who came along to see that they did
-not get cheated. These constituted the committee to select a present for
-the home-returning superintendent of the Forest Hill Mission
-Sunday-school. It was a large committee and rather too heterogeneous to
-come to a quick decision, but its size had seemed necessary. Margaret
-Manning was on it, of course. That had been a settled thing from the
-beginning. There would not have been any such present, probably, if
-Margaret had not suggested it and helped to raise the money till their
-fund went away up above their highest hopes.
-
-The seven boys were in her Sunday-school class, and no one of them could
-get the consent of himself to make so momentous a decision for the rest
-of the class without the other six to help. Not that these seven were
-her entire class by any means, but the class had elected to send seven
-from their own number, so seven had come. Strictly speaking, only one
-was on the committee, but he depended upon the advice of the other six
-to aid him.
-
-“Now, Mr. Thorpe,” said Mrs. Ketchum in her easy, familiar manner, “we
-want something fine, you know. It’s to hang in his ‘den.’ His mother has
-just been refitting his den, and we thought it would be quite
-appropriate for us to get him a fine picture for the wall.”
-
-The preliminaries had been gone through with. Mr. Thorpe knew the
-Stanley family slightly, and was therefore somewhat fitted to help in
-the selection of a picture that would suit the taste of one of its
-members. He had led them to the end of the large, well-lighted room,
-placed before them an easel, and motioned them to sit down.
-
-The seven boys, however, were not accustomed to such things, and they
-remained standing, listening and looking with all their ears and eyes.
-Somehow, as Mrs. Ketchum stated matters, they did not feel quite as much
-to belong to this committee as before. What, for instance, could Mrs.
-Ketchum mean by Mr. Stanley’s “den”? They had dim visions of Daniel and
-the lions, and the man who fell among thieves, but they had not time to
-reflect over this, for Mr. Thorpe was bringing forward pictures.
-
-“As it’s a Sunday-school superintendent, perhaps something religious
-would be appropriate. You might look at these first, anyway,” and he put
-before them a large etching whose wonder and beauty held them silent as
-they gazed. It was a new picture of the Lord’s Supper by a great artist,
-and the influence of the picture was so great that for a few moments
-they looked and forgot their own affairs. The faces were so marvelously
-portrayed that they could but know each disciple, and felt that the hand
-which had drawn the Master’s face must have been inspired.
-
-“It is more expensive than you wanted to buy, but still it is a fine
-thing and worth the money, and perhaps as it is for a church, I might
-make a reduction, that is, somewhat, if you like it better than anything
-else.”
-
-Mrs. Ketchum lowered her lorgnette with a dissatisfied expression,
-though her face and voice were duly appreciative. She really knew a fine
-thing when she saw it.
-
-“It is wonderful, and you are very kind, Mr. Thorpe; but do you not
-think that perhaps it is a little, just a little, well—gloomy—that is,
-solemn—well—for a den, you know?” and she laughed uneasily.
-
-Mr. Thorpe was accustomed to being all things to all men. With an easy
-manner he laughed understandingly.
-
-“Yes? Well, I thought so myself, but then I didn’t know how you would
-feel about it. It would seem hardly appropriate, now you think of it,
-for a room where men go to smoke and talk. Well, just all of you step
-around this side of the room, please, and I’ll show you another style of
-picture.”
-
-They followed obediently, Mrs. Ketchum murmuring something more about
-the inappropriateness of the picture for a den, and the seven boys
-making the best of their way among the easels and over Mrs. Ketchum’s
-train. All but Margaret Manning. She lingered as if transfixed before
-the picture. Perhaps she had not even heard what Mrs. Ketchum had said.
-Two of the boys hoped so in whispers to one another.
-
-“Say, Joe,” he whispered in a low grumble, “I forgot all about Mr.
-Stanley’s smoking. She——” with a nod toward the silent, pre-occupied
-woman still standing in front of the picture, “she won’t like that.
-Maybe he don’t do it any more. I don’t reckon ’twould be hard fer him to
-quit.”
-
-Every one of those seven boys had given up the use of tobacco to please
-their teacher, Miss Manning.
-
-Other pictures were forthcoming. There were landscapes and seascapes,
-flowers and animals, children and wood nymphs, dancing in extraordinary
-attitudes. The boys wondered that so many pictures could be made. They
-wondered and looked and grew weary with the unusual sight, and wished to
-go home and get rested, and did not in the least know which they liked.
-They were bewildered. Where was Miss Manning? She would tell them which
-to choose, for their part of the choice was a very important part to
-them, and in their own minds they were the principal part of the
-committee.
-
-[Illustration: “‘I HAVE JUST DISCOVERED WHO YOU ARE AND FELT AS IF I
-WOULD LIKE TO SHAKE HANDS WITH YOU.’”]
-
-Miss Manning left the great picture by and by and came over to where the
-others sat, looking with them at picture after picture, hearing prices
-and painters discussed, and the merits of this and that work of art by
-Mrs. Ketchum and Mr. Talcut, whose sole idea of art was expressed in the
-price thereof, and who knew no more about the true worth of pictures
-than he knew about the moon. Then she left the others and wandered back
-to the quiet end of the room where stood that wonderful picture. There
-the boys one by one drifted back to her and sat or stood about her
-quietly, feeling the spell of the picture themselves, understanding in
-part at least her mood and why she did not feel like talking. They
-waited respectfully with uncovered heads, half bowed, looking, feeling
-instinctively the sacredness of the theme of the picture. Four of them
-were professed Christians, and the other three were just beginning to
-understand what a privilege it was to follow Christ.
-
-Untaught and uncouth as they were, they took the faces for likenesses,
-and Christ’s life and work on earth became at once to them a living
-thing that they could see and understand. They looked at John and longed
-to be like him, so near to the Master and to receive that look of love.
-They knew Peter and thought they recognized several other disciples, for
-the Sunday-school lessons had been of late as vivid for them as mere
-words can paint the life of Christ. They seemed themselves to stand
-within the heavy arch of stone over that table, so long ago, and to be
-sitting at the table, his disciples, some of them unworthy, but still
-there. They had been helped to this by what Miss Manning had said the
-first Sunday she took the class, when the lesson had been of Jesus and
-of some talks he had had with his disciples. She had told them that as
-there were just twelve of them in the class she could not help sometimes
-thinking of them as if they were the twelve disciples, especially as one
-of them was named John and another Andrew, and she wanted them to try to
-feel that these lessons were for them; that Jesus was sitting there in
-their class each Sabbath speaking these words to them and calling them
-to him.
-
-The rest of the committee were coming toward them, calling to Miss
-Manning in merry, appealing voices. She looked up to answer, and the
-boys who stood near her saw that her eyes were full of tears, and more
-than one of them turned to hide and brush away an answering tear that
-seemed to come from somewhere in his throat and choke him.
-
-“Come, Margaret,” called Mrs. Ketchum, “come and tell us which you
-choose. We’ve narrowed it down to three, and are pretty well decided
-which one of the three we like best.”
-
-Margaret Manning arose reluctantly and followed them, the boys looking
-on and wondering. She looked at each of the three. One was the
-aforementioned nymph’s dance, another was a beautiful woman’s head, and
-the third was a flock of children romping with a cart and a dog and some
-roses. Margaret turned from them disappointed, and looked back toward
-the other picture.
-
-“I don’t like any of them, Mrs. Ketchum, but the first one. Oh, I do
-think that is the one. Please come and look at it again.”
-
-“Why, my dear,” fluttered Mrs. Ketchum disturbedly, “I thought we
-settled it that that picture was too, too—not quite appropriate for a
-den, you know.”
-
-But her words were lost, for the others had gone forward under the
-skylight to where the grand picture stood, and were once more under the
-spell of those wonderful eyes of the pictured Master.
-
-“It is a real nice picture,” spoke up Mrs. Brown. She was fond of
-Margaret Manning, though she did not know much about art. She had been
-elected from the woman’s Bible class, and had been rather overpowered by
-Mrs. Ketchum, but she felt that now she ought to stand up for her friend
-Margaret. If _she_ wanted that picture, that picture it should be.
-
-“How much did you say you would give us that for, Mr. Thorpe?” said the
-sharp little voice of Mr. Talcut.
-
-Mr. Thorpe courteously mentioned the figures.
-
-“That’s only ten dollars more’n we’ve got,” spoke up the hoarse voice of
-one of the seven unexpectedly. It was Joe, who felt that he owed his
-salvation to the young superintendent’s earnest efforts in his behalf.
-
-“I say we’d better get it. Ten dollars ain’t much. We boys can go that
-much. I’ll go it myself somehow if the others don’t.”
-
-“Well, really, ladies, I suppose it’s a very good bargain,” said Mr.
-Talcut rubbing his hands and smiling.
-
-“Then we’ll take it,” said Joe, nodding decidedly to Mr. Thorpe; “I’ll
-go the other ten dollars, and the boys can help, if they like.”
-
-“But really Margaret, my dear,” said Mrs. Ketchum quite distressed, “a
-_den_, don’t you know, is not a place for——”
-
-But the others were all saying it was just the picture, and she was not
-heard. Mr. Talcut was giving the address and orders about the sending.
-None of them seemed to realize that Mrs. Ketchum had not given her
-consent, and she, poor lady, had to gracefully accept the situation.
-
-“Well, it’s really a very fine thing, I suppose,” she said at last,
-somewhat hesitatingly, and putting up her lorgnette to take a critical
-look. “I don’t admire that style of architecture, and that table-cloth
-isn’t put on very gracefully; it would have been more artistic draped a
-little; but it’s really very fine, and quite new, you say, and of course
-the artist is irreproachable. I think Mr. Stanley will appreciate it.”
-
-But she sighed a little disappointedly, and wished she had been able to
-coax them to take the nymphs. She would take pains to let Mr. Stanley
-know that this had not been her choice. The idea of having to give in to
-those great boors of boys! But then it had all been Margaret Manning’s
-fault. She was such a little fanatic. She might have known that it would
-not do to let her see a religious picture first.
-
-
-                              CHAPTER III
-
-It was Margaret Manning’s suggestion that it should be presented
-quietly. Some of the others were disappointed. Mrs. Ketchum was one of
-the most irate about it.
-
-“The idea! After the school had raked and scraped together the money,
-that they should not have the pleasure of seeing it presented! It’s a
-shame! Margaret Manning has some of the most backwoods’ notions I ever
-heard of. It isn’t doing things up right at all. There ought to be a
-speech from some one who knows how to say the right thing; my husband
-could have done it, and would if he’d been asked. But no, Margaret
-Manning says it must be hung on his wall, and so there it hangs, and
-none of us to get the benefit. I declare it is a shame! I wish I had
-refused to serve on that committee. I hate to have my name mixed up in
-it the way things have gone.” So said Mrs. Ketchum as she sat back in
-her dim and fashionable parlor and sighed.
-
-But the seven boys ruled things, and they ruled them in the way Miss
-Manning suggested; and moreover, Mrs. Brown and Mr. Talcut had gone over
-to the enemy completely since the purchase, the enemy being Miss
-Manning. Mr. Talcut rubbed his hands admiringly, and said Miss Manning
-was an exceedingly shrewd young woman, that she had an eye for business.
-That picture was the best bargain in that whole store.
-
-But Margaret went on her way serenely, not knowing her power nor
-enjoying her triumph. Albeit she was pleased in her heart with the
-picture, and she thought that her seven boys had been the true selectors
-of it. She wrote in her fine, even hand, that was like her in its lovely
-daintiness, the words the committee told her to write—which she had
-suggested—on a white card to accompany the picture. It read, “To our
-beloved superintendent, with a joyous welcome home, from the entire
-school of the Forest Hill Mission.”
-
-The Stanley home stood in fine, large grounds, with turf smooth as
-velvet and grand old forest trees all about. The house was large,
-old-fashioned, and ugly, but the rooms were magnificent in size, and
-filled with all the comforts money could buy. On one side, just off the
-large library and connected with the hall, had been built an addition, a
-beautiful modern room filled with nooks and corners and unexpected
-bay-windows, which afforded views in at least three directions because
-of the peculiar angles at which they were set. In one corner was a
-carved oak spiral staircase by which one could ascend to the airy
-sleeping room over-head if he did not choose to go through the hall and
-ascend the common stair. One side of the room and various other
-unexpected bits of wall were turned into bookcases sunk in the masonry
-and covered by glazed doors. The bay-window seats were heavily
-upholstered in leather, and so were all the chairs and the luxurious
-couch. Nearly one entire end of the room was filled by the great
-fireplace, the tiling of which had been especially designed for it. In a
-niche built for it with a fine arrangement for light, both by day or
-night, stood a large desk. It was a model working room for a gentleman.
-And this addition had been built by the senior Mr. Stanley for his son
-when he should return to take up the practical work of architecture, for
-which he had been preparing himself for some years.
-
-It was here that the great picture was brought and hung over the
-fireplace, where it could look down upon the entire room. It was hung
-just the day before John Wentworth Stanley’s man arrived with his
-master’s goods and chattels and began to unpack and dispose things
-according to his best judgment.
-
-John Stanley’s mother had come in to superintend the hanging of the
-picture and had looked at it a long time when she was left alone, and
-finally had knelt shyly beside the great new leather chair and offered a
-silent little prayer for the home-coming son. She was an undemonstrative
-woman, and this act seemed rather theatrical when she thought of it
-afterward. What if a servant had opened the door and seen her!
-Nevertheless she felt glad she had dedicated the room, and she was glad
-that the picture was what it was. With that Ketchum woman on the
-committee she had feared what the result might be when she had had the
-scheme whispered to her. Somebody must have fine taste. Perhaps it was
-that dainty, lily-faced young girl who seemed to be so interested in
-John’s Sunday-school class. The mother was busy in her home world and
-did not go into church work much. She was getting old and her children
-and grandchildren were all about her, absorbing her time and thought.
-
-The man came in from the piazza that surrounded the bay window and
-reached around to the long French window at the side, where he had been
-unpacking a box. He placed a silver-mounted smoking set on a small
-mahogany table. Then he stood back to survey the effect. Presently he
-came in with some fine cut glass, a small decanter heavily mounted in
-silver and glasses to match. He went out and came back with their tray.
-Having dusted them off carefully and arranged them on the tray, he
-placed it first on the handsome broad mantel, and as before stood back
-to take a survey. He knew the set was a choice example of artistic work
-along this line. It was presented to his master while he was visiting in
-the home of a nobleman in token of his friendship and to commemorate
-something or other, the man did not exactly know what. But he did not
-like the effect on the mantel. He glanced uneasily up at the picture. In
-a dim way he felt the incongruity. He scowled at the picture and
-wondered why they put it there. It should have been hung in the hall or
-some out-of-the-way place. It was more suited for a church than anywhere
-else, he told himself. He placed the decanter tray on the little table
-at the other side of the fireplace from the smoking set, and stood back
-again. It looked well there. He raised his eyes defiantly to the
-picture, and met the full, strong, sweet gaze of the pictured eyes of
-the Master. The man lowered his eyes and turned away, disturbed, he knew
-not why. He was not a man who cared about such things, neither was he
-one accustomed to reason. He went out to the piazza again to his
-unpacking, trying to think of something else. It wasn’t his picture nor
-his decanter anyway, and he whistled a home tune and wondered why he had
-come to this country. He didn’t seem to feel quite his usual pride this
-morning in the fact that he knew his business. When he finally unpacked
-the wicker-covered demijohn of real old Scotch whisky that had
-accompanied the decanter, he carried it through the room and deposited
-it in the little corner cupboard behind the chimney, shut the door and
-locked it with a click, and went out again without so much as raising
-his eyes. All that day he avoided looking at that picture over the
-mantelpiece, and he grew quite happy in his work again and quite
-self-satisfied, and felt with a sort of superstitious fear that if he
-looked at it his happiness would depart.
-
-There were other rare articles that he had to unpack and dispose of, and
-once he came to a large, handsome picture, a sporting scene in water
-colors by a celebrated artist. That now, would be the very thing to hang
-over the mantel in place of the picture already there. He even went so
-far as to suggest to Mrs. Stanley that he make the change, but she
-coldly told him to leave the picture where it was, as it was a gift, and
-showed him the envelope to place on the mantel directly under the
-picture, which contained the card from the donors.
-
-So the man left the room at last, somewhat dissatisfied, but feeling
-that he had done the best he could. The night passed, the day came, and
-with it the new master of the new room.
-
-“It’s really a magnificent thing, mother,” he said, as he stood in front
-of the great picture after, having admired the room and shown his
-delight in all they had done for him. “I’m delighted to have it. I saw
-the original on the other side. And it was good taste of them to give it
-quietly in this way too. But there is a sense in which this is quite
-embarrassing. They will expect so much, you know, and of course I
-haven’t time for this sort of thing now.”
-
-“Well, I thought something ought to be done, my son,” responded the
-mother, “so I sent out invitations for the whole school for a reception
-here next week. That is, I have them ready. They are not sent out, but
-are waiting your approval. Tuesday will be a free evening. What do you
-think?”
-
-John Stanley scowled and sighed.
-
-“Oh, I suppose that’s the easiest way to get out of it now they’ve sent
-me this. It will be an awful bore, but then it’ll be over. I shall
-scarcely know how to carry myself among them, I fear, I’ve been out of
-this line so long, and they fancy me so virtuous,” and he smiled and
-shrugged his handsome shoulders.
-
-“But John dear, you mustn’t feel in that way. They really think a great
-deal of you,” said his mother, smiling indulgently upon him.
-
-“Oh, it’s all right; go ahead, mother. Make it something fine while
-you’re about it. Give them quite a spread you know. Some of them don’t
-get many treats, I suppose,” and he sank down in one of the luxurious
-chairs and looked about him with pleasure.
-
-“This is nice, mother,” he said; “so good of you and father to think of
-it. I can do great things here. The room is an inspiration in itself. It
-is a poem in architecture.”
-
-Then the mother left him awhile to his thoughts and he began to piece
-together his life, that portion he had left behind him across the water,
-and this new piece, a part of the old, that he had come to take up
-again. There hovered on the margin of his mind the image of the “ladye
-of high degree,” and he looked out about on his domain with satisfaction
-at thought of her. At least she would see that people in this country
-could do things as well as in hers.
-
-Then by some strange line of thought he remembered his worriment of
-yesterday about that present, and how he had thought of her laugh if she
-should know of it. A slight feeling of pleasure passed over him; even in
-this she could find no fault. It was fine and costly and a work of
-genius. He need not be ashamed even if some one should say to her that
-the picture was presented to him by a mission class grateful for what he
-had done for it. He began to swell with a sense of importance at the
-thought. It was rather a nice thing, this present, after all. He changed
-his position that he might examine the picture more carefully at his
-leisure.
-
-The fire that his mother had caused to be lighted to take off the chill
-of the summer evening and complete the welcome of the room, sent out a
-ruddy glow and threw into high relief the rich, dark gloss of the frame
-and the wonderful picture. It was as if the sombre, stone-arched room
-opened directly from his own, and he saw the living forms of the Twelve
-gathered around that table with the Master in the midst. But the Master
-was looking straight at him—at him, John Wentworth Stanley,
-self-satisfied gentleman of the world that he was, looking at him and
-away from the other disciples. Down through all the ages those grave,
-kind, sad, sweet eyes looked him through and through, and seemed to sift
-his life, his every action, till things that he had done now and
-yesterday, and last year, that he had forgotten, and even when he was a
-little boy, seemed to start out and look him in the face behind the
-shadows of those solid stones of that upper chamber. The more he looked
-the more he wondered at the power the picture seemed to have. He looked
-away to prove it, and he knew the eyes were following his.
-
-The rosy glow of the firelight seemed to be caught and crystallized in a
-thousand sparkles on one side of the fire. He looked in passing and knew
-what the sparkles were, the fine crystal points of that cut glass
-decanter. He had forgotten its existence until now, since the day he had
-had it packed. He knew it was a beautiful thing in its way, but he had
-not intended that it should be thus displayed. He hoped his mother had
-not seen it. He would look at it and then put it away, that is, pretty
-soon. Now his eyes were held by the eyes of his Master. Yes, his Master,
-for he had owned his name and called himself a Christian, and no matter
-what other things had come in to fill his mind, he had no wish to give
-up the “name to live.” And yet he was conscious, strangely, abnormally
-conscious of that decanter. His Master seemed to be looking at it too,
-and to be inquiring of him how he came to have it in his possession. For
-the first time he was conscious, painfully so, that he had never given
-its donor any cause to think that such a gift would be less acceptable
-to him than something else. His Master had understood that too, he felt
-sure. He was annoyed that he could frame no excuse for himself, as he
-had so easily done when the gift first reached him. He had even been
-confident that he would be able to explain it to his mother so that she
-would be rather pleased with the gift than otherwise, strong temperance
-woman though he knew her to be. Now all his reasons had fled. The eyes
-of his Master, his kind, loving, sorrowing Master were upon him. He
-began to be irritated at the picture. He arose and seized the decanter
-hastily, to put it somewhere out of sight, just where he had not
-thought.
-
-Now the officious Thomas, who knew his place and his work so well, had
-placed in the new, freshly washed decanter a small quantity of the rare
-old Scotch whisky that had come with it. Thomas knew good whisky when he
-saw—that is, tasted—it, and he was proud of a master to whom such a
-gift had been given. John Stanley did not expect to find anything in his
-decanter until he put it there himself, or gave orders to that effect.
-He was new to the ways of a “man” who so well understood his business.
-As he jerked the offending article toward him some of this whisky
-spilled out of the top that had perhaps not been firmly closed after
-Thomas had fully tested the whisky. Its fumes so astonished its owner
-that, he knew not how, he dropped it and it shivered into fragments at
-his feet on the dull red tiles of the hearth.
-
-Annoyed beyond measure, and wondering why his hand had been so unsteady,
-he rang the bell for Thomas and ordered him to take away the fragments
-and wipe the whisky from the hearth. Then he seated himself once more
-till it was done. And all the time those eyes, so sad and reproachful
-now, were looking through and through him.
-
-“Thomas!” he spoke sharply, and the man came about face suddenly with
-the broom and dustpan in hand on which glittered the crystals of
-delicate cutting. “Where is the rest of that—that stuff?”
-
-Thomas understood. He swung open the little door at the side of the
-chimney. “Right here at hand, sir! Shall I pour you out some, sir?” he
-said, as he lifted the demijohn.
-
-[Illustration: “HE DROPPED IT AND IT SHIVERED INTO FRAGMENTS AT HIS
-  FEET.”]
-
-John Stanley’s entire face flushed with shame. His impulse was severely
-to rebuke the impertinence, nay the insult, of the servant to one who
-had always been known as a temperance man. But he reflected that the
-servant was a stranger to his ways, and that he himself had perhaps
-given the man reason to think that it would be acceptable by the very
-fact that he had these things among his personal effects. Then too, his
-eyes had caught the look of the Master as he raised them to answer, and
-he could not speak that harsh word quite in that tone with Jesus looking
-at him.
-
-He waited to clear his throat, and answered in a quieter tone, though
-still severely: “No; you may take it out and throw it away. I never use
-it.”
-
-“Yes, sir,” answered Thomas impassively; but he marveled. Nevertheless
-he forgave his master, and took the demijohn to his own room. He was
-willing to be humble enough to have it thrown away on him. But as he
-passed the servant’s piazza, the cook who sat resting from her day’s
-labors there and planning for the morrow’s _menu_, heard him mutter:
-
-“As shure as I live, it’s the picter. It’s got some kind o’ a spell.”
-
-
-                               CHAPTER IV
-
-After Thomas had left the room with the demijohn, his master seemed
-relieved. He began to walk up and down his room and hum an air from the
-German opera. He wanted to forget the unpleasant occurrence. After all,
-he was glad the hateful, beautiful thing was broken. It was no one’s
-fault particularly, and now it was out of the way and would not need to
-be explained. He walked about, still humming and looking at his room,
-and still that picture seemed to follow and be a part of his
-consciousness wherever he went. It certainly was well hung, and gave the
-strong impression of being a part of the room itself. He looked at it
-critically from a new point of view, and as he faced it once more he was
-in the upper chamber and seemed to hear his Master saying, “Yet a little
-while, and the world seeth me no more”; and he realized that he was in
-the presence of the scene of the end of his Master’s mission. He walked
-back to the fireplace seeking for something to turn his thoughts away,
-and passing the table where stood his elegantly mounted smoking set, he
-decided to smoke. It was about his usual hour for his bedtime smoke,
-anyway. He selected a cigar from those Thomas had set out and lighted it
-with one of the matches in the silver match safe, and for an instant
-turned with a feeling of lazy, delicious luxury in the use of his new
-room and all its appliances. Unconsciously he seated himself again
-before the fire in the great leather chair, and began to puff the smoke
-into dreamy shapes and let his thoughts wander as he closed his eyes.
-
-Suppose, ah, suppose that some one, say the “ladye of high degree,”
-should be there, should belong there, and should come and stand behind
-his chair. He could see the graceful pose of her fine figure. She might
-reach over and touch his hair and laugh lightly. He tried to imagine it,
-but in spite of him the laugh rang out in his thoughts scornfully like a
-sharp, silver bell that belonged to some one else. He glanced over his
-shoulder at the imagined face, but it looked cold above the smoke. She
-did not mind smoke. He had seen her face behind a wreath of smoke
-several times. It seemed a natural setting. But the dream seemed an
-empty one. He raised his head and settled it back at a new angle. How
-rosy the light was as it played on the hearth and how glad he was to be
-at home again. That was enough for to-night. The “ladye of high degree”
-might stay in her home across the sea for this time. He was content.
-Then he raised his eyes to the picture above without knowing it, and
-there he was smoking at the supper table of the Lord. At least so he
-felt it to be. He had always been scrupulously careful never to smoke in
-or about a church. He used to give long, earnest lectures on the subject
-to some of the boys of the mission who would smoke cigarettes and pipes
-on the steps of the church before service. He remembered them now with
-satisfaction, and he also remembered a murmured, jeering sound that had
-arisen from the corner where the very worst boys sat, which had been
-suppressed by his friends, but which had cut at the time, and which he
-had always wondered over a little. He had seen no inconsistency in
-speaking so to the boys in view of his own actions. But now, as he
-looked at that picture he felt as though he were smoking in church with
-the service going on. The smoke actually hid his Master’s face. He took
-down his cigar and looked up with a feeling of apology, but this was
-involuntary. His irritation was rising again. The idea of a picture
-upsetting him so! He must be tired or his nerves unsettled. There was no
-more harm in smoking in front of that picture than before any other.
-“Confound that picture!” he said, as he rose and walked over to the bay
-window, “I’ll have it hung somewhere else to-morrow. I won’t have the
-thing around. No, it’ll have to be left here till after that reception,
-I suppose; but after that it shall go. Such a consummate nuisance!”
-
-He stood looking out of the open window with a scowl. He reflected that
-it was a strange thing for him to be so affected by a picture, a mere
-imagination of the brain. He would not let it be so. He would overcome
-it. Then he turned and tramped deliberately up and down that room,
-smoking away as hard as he could, and when he thought his equilibrium
-was restored, he raised his eyes to the picture as he passed, just
-casually as any one might who had never thought of it before. His eyes
-fell and he went on, back and forth, looking every time at the picture,
-and every time the eyes of that central figure watched him with that
-same sad, loving look. At last he went to the window again and angrily
-threw up the screen, threw his half-smoked cigar far out into the
-shrubbery of the garden, saying as he did so, “Confound it all!”
-
-                 *        *        *        *        *
-
-It was the evening before the reception. It was growing toward nine
-o’clock, and John Stanley had retired to his wing to watch the fire and
-consider what a fool he was becoming. He had not smoked in that room
-since the first night of his return. He had not yielded to such weakness
-all at once nor with the consent of himself. He had thought at first
-that he really chose to walk in the garden or smoke on the side piazza,
-but as the days went by he began to see that he was avoiding his own new
-room. And it was all because of that picture. He glanced revengefully in
-the direction where it hung. He did not look at it willingly now if he
-could help it. His elegant smoking set was reposing in the chimney
-cupboard, locked there with a vicious click of the key by the hand of
-the young owner himself. And it was not only smoking, but other things
-that the picture affected. There for instance was the pack of cards he
-had placed upon the table in their unique case of dainty mosaic design.
-He had been obliged to put them elsewhere. They seemed out of place. Not
-that he felt ashamed of the cards. On the contrary he had expected to be
-quite proud of the accomplishment of playing well which he had acquired
-abroad, having never been particularly led in that direction by his
-surroundings before he had left home. Was this room becoming a church
-that he could not do as he pleased? Then there had been a sketch or two
-and a bit of statuary, which he had brought in his trunk because they
-had been overlooked in the packing of the other things. That morning he
-brought them down to his room, but the large picture refused to have
-them there. There was no harm in the sketches, only they did not fit
-into the same wall with the great picture, there was no harmony in their
-themes. The statuary was associated with heathenism and wickedness, ’tis
-true, but it was beautiful and would have looked wonderfully well on the
-mantel against the rich, dark red of the dull tiles, but not under that
-picture. It was becoming a bondage, that picture, and after to-morrow
-night he would banish it to—where? Not his bedroom, for it would work
-its spell there as well.
-
-Just here there came a tap on the window-sill, followed by a hoarse,
-half-shy whisper:
-
-“Mr. Stanley, ken we come in?”
-
-He looked up startled. The voice had a familiar note in it, but he did
-not recognize the two tall, lank figures outside in the darkness, clad
-in cheap best clothes and with an air of mingled self-depreciation and
-self-respect.
-
-“Who is it?” he asked sharply and suspiciously.
-
-[Illustration: “‘WHO IS IT?’ HE ASKED, SHARPLY AND SUSPICIOUSLY.”]
-
-“It’s me, Mr. Stanley; Joe Andrews. You ain’t forgot me yet, I know. And
-this one’s my friend, Bert; you know him all right too. May we come in
-here? We don’t want to go to the front door and make trouble with the
-door bell and see folks; we thought maybe you’d just let us come in
-where you was. We hung around till we found your room. We knowed the new
-part was yours, ‘cause your father told the committee, you know, when
-they went to tell about the picture.”
-
-Light began to dawn on the young man. Certainly he remembered Joe
-Andrews, and had meant to hunt him up some day and tell him he was glad
-to hear he was doing well and living right, but he was in no mood to see
-him to-night. Why could he not have waited until to-morrow night when
-the others were to come? Was not that enough? But of course he wanted to
-get a word of thanks all his own. It had been on his tongue to tell Joe
-he was unusually busy to-night, and would he come another time, or wait
-till to-morrow, but the remembrance of the picture made that seem
-ungracious. He would let them in a few minutes. They probably wished to
-report that they had seen the picture in the room before the general
-view should be given, so he unfastened the heavy French plate window and
-let the two in, turning up as he did so the lights in the room, so that
-the picture might be seen.
-
-They came in, lank and awkward, as though their best clothes someway
-hurt them, and they did not know what to do with their feet and the
-chairs. They did not sit down at first, but stood awkwardly in single
-file, looking as if they wished they were out now they were in. Their
-eyes went immediately to the picture. It was the way of that picture to
-draw all eyes that entered the room, and John Stanley noted this with
-the same growing irritation he had felt all day. But over their faces
-there grew that softened look of wonder and awe and amaze, and to John
-Stanley’s surprise, of deep-seated, answering love to the love in the
-eyes of the picture. He looked at the picture himself now, and his fancy
-made it seem that the Master was looking at these two well pleased.
-Could it be that he was better pleased with these two ignorant boys than
-with him, John Stanley, polished gentleman and cultured Christian that
-he trusted he was?
-
-He looked at Joe again and was reminded of the softened look of deep
-purpose the night Joe had told him beneath the vines of his intention to
-serve Christ, and now standing in the presence of the boy again and
-remembering it all vividly, as he had not done before, there swept over
-him the thrill of delight again that a soul had been saved. His heart,
-long unused to such emotions, felt weak, and he sat down and motioned
-the boys to do the same. It would seem that the sight of the picture had
-braced up the two to whatever mission theirs had been, for their faces
-were set in steady purpose, though it was evident that this mission was
-embarrassing. They looked at one another helplessly as if each hoped the
-other would begin, and at last Joe plunged in.
-
-“Mr. Stanley, you ben so good to us we thought ’twas only fair to you we
-should tell you. That is, we thought you’d like it, and anyway, maybe
-you wouldn’t take it amiss.”
-
-John Stanley’s heart was kind, and he had been deeply interested in this
-boy once. It all came back to him now, and he felt a strong desire to
-help him on, though he wondered what could be the nature of his errand.
-
-Joe caught his breath and went on. “You see she don’t know about it.
-She’s heard so much of you, and she never heard that, not even when they
-was talking about the den and all at the store, she was just lookin’ at
-the picture and Him,” raising his eyes reverently to the picture on the
-wall, “and we never thought to tell her afore, and her so set against
-it. And we thought anyway afterward maybe you’d quit. Some do. We all
-did, but that was her doin’s. But we thought you’d like to know, and if
-you had quit she needn’t never be told at all, and if you hadn’t, why we
-thought maybe ‘twouldn’t be nothin’ for you to quit now, ‘fore she ever
-knew about it.”
-
-The slow red was stealing up into the face of John Stanley. He was
-utterly at a loss to understand what this meant, and yet he felt that he
-was being arraigned. And in such a way! So humbly and by such almost
-adoring arraigners that he felt it would be foolish and wrong to give
-way to any feeling of irritation, or indignation, or even offended
-dignity on his part.
-
-“I do not understand, Joe,” he said at last, looking from one to another
-of the two boys who seemed too wretched to care to live longer. “Who is
-she? And what is it that she does not know, and that you want me to
-‘quit’? And why should it be anything to her, whoever she is, what I
-do?”
-
-“Why it’s her, Miss Manning—Margaret Manning—our teacher.” Joe spoke
-the name slowly, as if he loved it and revered it; “and it’s that we
-want you to—that is, we want her to—to like you, you know. And it’s
-the—the—I can’t most bear to say it, ‘cause maybe you don’t do it any
-more,” and Joe looked up with eyes like a beseeching dog.
-
-“It’s the smokin’,” broke in Bert huskily, rising. “Come on, Joe, we’ve
-done what we ‘greed to do; now ‘tain’t no more of our business. I say,
-come on!” and he bolted through the window shamefacedly.
-
-Joe rose and going up to Mr. Stanley laid hold of his unwilling hand and
-choked out: “You won’t take it hard of me, will you? You’ve done so much
-fer me, an’ I kind of thought I ought to tell you, but now since I seen
-yer face I think maybe I had no business. Good-night,” and with a face
-that looked as if he had been caught in the act of stealing, Joe
-followed his friend through the window and was lost in the deep shadows
-outside.
-
-John Stanley stood still where the two had left him. If two robbers had
-suddenly come in upon him and quietly stolen his watch and diamond stud
-and ring and left him standing thus, he could not have looked more
-astonished. Where had been his usual ready anger that it did not rise
-and overpower these two impudent young puppies, ignorant as pigs, that
-they should presume to dictate to him, a Christian gentleman, what
-habits he should have? And all because some straitlaced old maid, or
-silly chit of a girl, who loved power, did not like something. Where was
-his manhood that he had stood and let himself be insulted, be it ever so
-humbly, by boys who were not fit for him to wipe his feet upon? His
-kindling eyes lifted unexpectedly to the picture. The Master was
-watching him from his quiet table under the arches of stone. He stood a
-minute under the gaze and then he turned the lights all out and sat down
-in the dark. The fire was out too, and only the deep red glow behind the
-coals made a little lighting of the darkness. And there in the dark the
-boy Joe’s face came back clearly and he felt sorry he had not spoken
-some word of comfort to the wretched fellow who felt so keenly the
-meaning of what he had done. There had been love for him in Joe’s look
-and he could not be angry with him now he remembered that.
-
-Bit by bit the winter of his work for Joe came back, little details that
-he did not suppose he ever should recall, but which had seemed filled
-with so much meaning then because he had been working for a soul’s
-salvation and with the divine love for souls in his heart. What joy he
-had that winter! How sorry he had been to leave it all and go away. Now
-he came to think of it, he had never been so truly happy since. Oh, for
-that joy over again! Oh, to take pleasure in prayer as he had done in
-those days! What was this that was sweeping over him? Whence came this
-sudden dissatisfaction with himself? He tried to be angry with the two
-boys for their part in the matter, and to laugh at himself for being
-influenced by them, but still he could not put it away.
-
-A stick in the fire fell apart and scattered a shower of sparks about,
-blazing up into a brief glow. The room was illuminated just for an
-instant and the face of the Christ shone out clearly before the silent
-man sitting in front of the picture. Then the fire died out and the room
-was dark and only the sound of the settling coals broke the stillness.
-He seemed to be alone with Christ, face to face, with his heart open to
-his Lord. He could not shrink back now nor put in other thoughts. The
-time to face the change in himself had come and he was facing it alone
-with his God.
-
-
-                               CHAPTER V
-
-It was the next evening, and the Forest Hill Mission had assembled in
-full force. They were there, from little Mrs. Brown in her black
-percale, even to Mrs. Ketchum, who had pocketed her pride, and in a
-low-necked gown with a long train was making the most of her position on
-the committee. She arranged herself to “receive” with John Stanley and
-his mother, though she ignored the fact that Mrs. Brown and “those seven
-hobbledehoy boys” were also on the committee. Occasionally she deplored
-the fact that Miss Manning had not come, that she might also stand in a
-place of honor, but in her heart she was glad that Miss Manning was not
-present to divide the honors with herself. It appeared that Mr. Stanley
-was delighted with the picture, had seen its original abroad, and knew
-its artist. Such being the case, Mrs. Ketchum was delighted to take all
-the honor of having selected the picture, and had it not been for those
-truthtelling, enlightening seven boys, John Stanley might never have
-known to this day Margaret Manning’s part in it.
-
-None of the central group saw Margaret Manning slip silently in past the
-servant at the door, as they stood laughing and chatting among
-themselves after having shaken hands perfunctorily with the awkward,
-embarrassed procession headed by Mr. Talcut and the young minister who
-had recently come to the place.
-
-When Margaret came down stairs she paused a moment in the hall; but as
-she saw they were all talking, she went quietly on into the new wing
-that had been for the time deserted by the company, and placed herself
-in front of the picture. She had spoken to Mrs. Stanley, who had been
-called upstairs to the dressing room for a moment just as she came in,
-and so did not feel obliged to go and greet the group of receivers at
-once. Besides, she wanted to have another good look at the picture
-before she should go among the people, and so lose this opportunity of
-seeing it alone.
-
-From the first view it had been a great delight to Margaret Manning. She
-had never before seen a picture of her Master that quite came up to her
-idea of what a human representation of his face should express. This one
-did. At least it satisfied her as well as she imagined any picture of
-him, fashioned from the fancy of a man’s brain, could do. And she was
-glad to find herself alone with it that she might study it more closely
-and throw her own soul into the past of the scene before her.
-
-She had stood looking and thinking for some minutes thus when she heard
-a quick step at the door, not a sound as of one who had been walking
-down the broad highly-polished floor of the hallway, but the quick
-movement of a foot after one has been standing. She looked up and saw
-John Stanley coming forward with an unmistakable look of interest and
-admiration on his face.
-
-He had made an errand to his library for a book to show to the minister
-in order to get a little alleviation from Mrs. Ketchum’s persistent
-monopolization. He had promised to loan the book to the minister, but
-there had been no necessity for giving it to him that minute, nor even
-that evening. As he walked down the hall he saw a figure standing in his
-library, so absorbed in contemplating the picture that its owner did not
-turn nor seem to be aware of his coming. She was slender and graceful
-and young. He could see that from the distance, but as he came to the
-doorway and paused unconsciously to look at the vision she made, he saw
-that she was also beautiful. Not with the ordinary beauty of the
-ordinary fashionable girl with whom he was acquainted, but with a clear,
-pure, high-minded beauty whose loveliness was not merely of the outward
-form and coloring, but an expression of beauty of spirit.
-
-She was dressed in white with a knot of black velvet ribbon here and
-there. She stood behind his big leather chair, her hands clasped
-together against one cheek and her elbows resting on the wide leather
-back. There were golden lights in her brown hair. Her eyes were looking
-earnestly at the picture, her whole attitude reminded him of a famous
-picture he had seen in Paris. He could but pause and watch it before
-either of them became self-conscious.
-
-[Illustration: “SHE STOOD BEHIND HIS BIG LEATHER CHAIR, HER HANDS CLASPED
-TOGETHER AGAINST ONE CHEEK.”]
-
-There was in her intent look of devotion a something akin to the look he
-had seen the night before in the face of the boy Joe. He recognized it
-at once, and a feeling half of envy shot through him. Would that such a
-look might belong to his own face. But the remembrance of Joe brought
-another thought. Instantly he knew that this was Margaret Manning. With
-the knowledge came also the consciousness that he stood staring at her
-and must do so no more. He moved then and took that quick step which
-startled her and made her look toward him. As he came forward, he seemed
-to remember how he had sat in that chair smoking a few nights before,
-and how the vision of the “ladye of high degree” had stood where this
-young girl now was standing, only he knew somehow at a glance the
-superiority of this living presence.
-
-A flush at the remembrance of his visitors of the night before and their
-errand crossed his face, and he glanced instinctively toward the chimney
-cupboard to see if the door was safely locked.
-
-“I beg your pardon.” he said, coming forward. “I hope I do not disturb
-you. I came for a book. This must be Miss Manning, I think. How comes it
-that I have not had the pleasure of an introduction? They told me you
-had not come. Yes, I met your father on the steamer coming over. Is he
-present this evening?”
-
-It was the easy, graceful tone and way he had, the same that had
-elicited the notice of the “ladye of high degree,” only somehow now he
-had an instinctive feeling that it would take more than a tone and a
-manner to charm this young woman, and as she turned her clear eyes upon
-him and smiled, the feeling grew that she was worth charming.
-
-He began to understand the admiration of those awkward boys and the
-feeling that had prompted their visit of the night before, and to
-consider himself honored since he had a part in their admiration.
-
-Margaret Manning was prepared to receive him as a friend. Had she not
-heard great things of him? And she knew him at once. There was a fine
-photogravure of him given by his mother at the request of the
-school—and unknown to himself—hanging in the main room of the Forest
-Hill Mission.
-
-Their conversation turned almost immediately upon the picture. John
-Stanley told how he had seen the original and its artist abroad, and how
-proud he was to be the owner of this copy. The disagreeable experiences
-he had passed through on account of it seemed to have slipped from his
-mind for the time being.
-
-She listened with interest, the fine, intelligent play of expression on
-her face which made it ever an inspiration to talk with her.
-
-“How you will enjoy reading over the whole account of the Last Supper
-right where you can look at that face,” she said wistfully, looking up
-at the picture. “It seems to me I can almost hear him saying, ‘Peace I
-leave with you, my peace I give unto you.’”
-
-He looked at her wonderingly, and saw the mark of that peace which
-passeth understanding upon her forehead, and again there appeared to him
-in startling contrast his vision of the “ladye of high degree,” and he
-pondered it afterward in his heart.
-
-“‘And this is life eternal, that they might know thee, the only true
-God, and Jesus Christ, whom thou hast sent.’ He said that in the upper
-room,” she mused, and after a moment, “was it then too, that he said,
-‘For I have given you an example that ye should do as I have done to
-you’? I can’t quite remember,” and her eyes roved instinctively about
-the elegantly furnished room in apparent search for something.
-
-He divined her wish at once, and courteously went in search of a Bible,
-but in his haste and confusion could not lay his hand upon one
-immediately. He murmured some apology about not having unpacked all his
-books yet, but felt ashamed as soon as the words were uttered, for he
-knew in his heart the young girl before him would have unpacked her
-Bible among the very first articles.
-
-At last he found a little, old-fashioned, fine-print Bible tucked in a
-corner of a bookcase. It had been given him when he was a child by some
-Sunday-school teacher and forgotten long ago. He brought it now, and
-with her assistance found the place.
-
-“How I should enjoy studying this with the picture,” said the girl, as
-she waited for him to turn to the chapter.
-
-“And why not?” he asked. “It would be a great pleasure to have you feel
-free to come and study this picture as often as you like. And if I might
-be permitted to be present and share in the study it would be doubly
-delightful.”
-
-It was with the small open Bible on the chairback between them that the
-file of awkward boys discovered them as they came down the hall, hoping
-to find an empty and unembarrassing room where they might take refuge.
-They paused as by common consent, and stood back in the shadow of the
-hall _portière_, as if the place were too sacred for them to more than
-approach its entrance. Their two earthly admirations were conversing
-together, the Bible between them, and the wonderful picture looking down
-upon them. They stole silent, worshipful glances into the room and were
-glad.
-
-Then came Mrs. Ketchum with rustling, perfumed robes and scattered
-dismay into their midst and broke up the brief and pleasant
-_tête-à-tête_ to her own satisfaction and the discomfiture of all
-concerned.
-
-
-                               CHAPTER VI
-
-They were all gone at last, and the house was settling to quiet. John
-Stanley went to his room, shut his door, and sat down to think.
-
-It had not been the unpleasant occasion to which he had looked forward.
-He had not even been bored. He was astonished to find himself regarding
-the evening not only with satisfaction, but also with an unusual degree
-of exhilaration. It did seem strange to him, now that he thought about
-it, but it was true.
-
-New interests were stirring within him. Or were they old ones? He had
-gathered that group of boys about him with their teacher, after Mrs.
-Ketchum had broken up his quiet talk with the teacher, and had talked
-with them about the places he visited in the Holy Land, dwelling at some
-length upon the small details of what he had seen in Jerusalem, and the
-probable scene of events connected with the picture.
-
-He had grown interested as he saw the interest of his audience. He
-realized that he must have talked well. Was it the intent gaze of those
-bright, keen-eyed boys, listening and glancing now and again toward the
-picture with new interest, as they heard of the city and its streets
-where this scene was laid, that gave him inspiration? Or had his
-inspiration come from that other rapt, sweet face, with earnest eyes
-fixed on the picture, and yet showing by an occasional glance at the
-speaker that she was listening and liked it?
-
-Yes, it had been a happy evening, and all over too quickly. He would
-have liked to escort Miss Manning to her home, but her pony phaeton,
-driven by a faithful old servant, came for her, so he missed that
-pleasure.
-
-He found himself planning ways in which he might often meet this
-charming young woman. And strange to say, the mission with its various
-services stood out pleasantly in his mind as a means to this end. Had he
-forgotten his firm resolution of a few days agone, that he would have no
-more to do with that mission in any capacity whatever?
-
-If this question occurred to him he waived it without excuse. He was
-pledged to attend the session of the school for the next Sabbath anyway,
-to give in more elaborate form the talk about the picture and the scenes
-in Jerusalem of which he had spoken to the boys. It had been Miss
-Manning’s work, this promise, of course. She had said how grand it would
-be to have him to tell the whole school what he had told her class, and
-had immediately interviewed the present superintendent, who had been
-only too delighted to accept the suggestion.
-
-And now he sat by his fire, and with somewhat different feelings from
-those he had experienced a few evenings before, thought over his old
-life and his new. Strangely enough the “ladye of high degree” came no
-longer to his thoughts, but instead there stood in shadow behind the
-leather chair a slender, girlish figure with an earnest face and eyes,
-and by and by he gave himself up to contemplating that, and he wondered
-no longer that the boys had given up many things to please her. He would
-not find it so very hard to do the same.
-
-How earnest she had been! What a world of new meaning seemed to be
-invested in the sacred scene of that picture after she had been talking
-about it. He had followed up her desire to read the account with it in
-view, and begged her most eagerly to come and read it and let him be a
-humble listener, offering also in a wistful tone, which showed plainly
-that he hoped she would accept the former, to let her have the picture
-at her home for a time.
-
-It would be very pleasant to read anything, even the Bible, with this
-interesting young person and study the workings of her mind. He could
-see that she was unusual. He must carefully study the subject so as not
-to be behind her in Bible lore, for it was likely she knew all about it,
-and he did not wish to be ashamed before her. He reached over to the
-table where he had laid the little fine-print Bible they had been
-consulting earlier in the evening. It had been so long since he had made
-a regular business of reading his Bible that he scarcely knew where to
-turn to find the right passages again, but after fluttering the leaves a
-few minutes he again came to the place and read: “Now when the even was
-come, he sat down with the twelve. And as they did eat, he said, Verily
-I say unto you, that one of you shall betray me.”
-
-The young man stopped reading, looking up at the picture involuntarily,
-and then dropped his eyes to the fire. What was it that brought that
-verse home to himself? Had he in any sense betrayed his Lord? Was it
-only the natural inquiry of the truthful soul on hearing those words
-from the Master and on looking into his eyes to say sorrowfully “Lord,
-is it I?” or was there some reason for it in his own life that made him
-sit there, hour after hour, while the bright coals faded, and the ashes
-dropped away and lay still and white upon the hearth?
-
-Thomas, the man, looked silently in once or twice, and marveled to find
-his master reading what seemed to be a Bible, and muttered “That
-pictur,” to himself as he went back to his vigil. At last he ventured to
-open the door and say in a respectful tone, “Did you call me, sir?”
-which roused the master somewhat to the time of night, and moved him to
-tell his man to go to bed and he would put out the lights.
-
-The days that followed were filled with things quite different from what
-John Stanley had planned on his return voyage. He made a good start in
-his business, and settled into regular working hours, it is true; but in
-his times of leisure he quite forgot that he had intended to have
-nothing to do with the mission people. He spent three evenings in
-helping to cover Sunday-school library books and paste labels into
-singing books. Prosaic work and much beneath him he would have
-considered it a short time ago, but he came home each time from it with
-an exhilaration of mind such as he had never experienced from any of the
-whist parties he had attended. It is true there were some young men and
-young women also pasting labels whose society was uninteresting, but he
-looked upon even those with leniency. Were they not all animated by one
-common object, the good work for the mission? And there was also present
-and pasting with the others, with deft fingers and quiet grace, that one
-young girl around whom all the others seemed to gather and center as
-naturally as flowers turn to the sun. She seemed to be an inspiration to
-all the others. John Stanley had not yet confessed that she was an
-inspiration to himself. He only admitted that her society was helpful
-and enjoyable, and he really longed to have her come and read those
-chapters over with him. Just how to manage this had been a puzzle.
-Whenever he spoke of it the young lady thanked him demurely, and said
-she would like to come and look at the picture some time; but he had a
-feeling that she would not come soon, and would be sure he was not at
-home then before she ventured. This was right, of course. It was not the
-thing, even in America, for a young woman to call upon a young man even
-to read the Bible with him. He must overcome this obstacle. Having
-reached this conclusion he called in his mother to assist.
-
-“By the way, mother,” he said the next evening at dinner, “I met a very
-agreeable gentleman on the voyage over, a Mr. Manning. He is the father
-of the Miss Manning who was here the other evening, I believe. Do you
-know them? I wish you would have them to dinner some night. I would like
-to show him some courtesy.”
-
-The mother smiled and assented. It was easy for her to do nice little
-social kindnesses. And so it was arranged.
-
-After dinner it was an easy thing for John Stanley to slip away to the
-library with Margaret Manning, where they two sat down together before
-the picture, this time with a large, fine Oxford edition of the Bible to
-read from.
-
-That was an evening which to John Stanley was memorable through the rest
-of his life. He had carefully studied the chapters himself, and thought
-he had searched out from the best commentators all the bright new
-thoughts concerning the events that the imagination and wisdom of man
-had set down in books, but he found that his companion had studied on
-her knees, and that while she was not lacking either book knowledge or
-appreciation of what he had to say, she yet was able to open to him a
-deeper spiritual insight. When she was gone, and he sat alone in his
-room once more, he felt that it had been glorified by her presence. He
-lingered long before that picture with searchings of heart that meant
-much for his future life, and before he left the room he knelt and
-consecrated himself as never before.
-
-In those days there were evening meetings in the mission and he went.
-There was no question in his mind about going; he went gladly, and felt
-honored when Mr. Manning was unable to escort his daughter and he was
-allowed to take his place. There was a nutting excursion for the school,
-and he and Miss Manning took care of the little ones together. When it
-was over he reflected that he had never enjoyed a nutting party more,
-not even when he was a care-free boy.
-
-It came about gradually that he gave up smoking. Not that he had at any
-given time sat down and deliberately decided to do so, at least not
-until he found that he had almost done so. There was always some meeting
-or engagement at which he hoped to meet Miss Manning, and instinctively
-he shrank from having her know that he smoked, mindful of what his
-evening visitors had told him. At first he fell into the habit of
-smoking in the early morning as he walked in the garden, but once while
-thus engaged he saw the young woman coming down the street, and he threw
-away his cigar and disappeared behind the shrubbery, annoyed at himself
-that he was doing something of which he seemed to be ashamed. He wanted
-to walk to the fence and speak to her as she passed by, but he was sure
-the odor of smoke would cling to him. Little by little he left off
-smoking lest she would detect the odor about him. Once they had a brief
-conversation on the subject, she taking it for granted that he agreed
-with her, and some one came to interrupt them ere he had decided whether
-to speak out plainly and tell her he was one whom she was condemning by
-her words. His face flushed over it that night as he sat before his
-fire. She had been telling him what one of the boys had said when she
-had asked him why he thought he could not be a Christian: “Well, I can’t
-give up smokin’, and we know He never would ‘a’ smoked.” That had seemed
-a conclusive argument to the boy.
-
-[Illustration: “HE THREW AWAY HIS CIGAR AND DISAPPEARED BEHIND THE
-SHRUBBERY.”]
-
-Was it true that he was sure his Master never would have done it? Then
-ought he, a professed follower of Christ? He tried to say that Miss
-Manning had peculiar views on this subject and that those boys were
-unduly influenced by her; and he recalled how many good followers of
-Christ were addicted to the habit. Nevertheless, he felt sure that no
-one of them would advise a young man to begin to smoke and he also felt
-sure about what Jesus Christ would do.
-
-It had been a long time since he had tried himself and his daily walking
-with that sentence, “What would Jesus do?” He did not realize that he
-was again falling into the way of it. If he had it might have made him
-too satisfied with himself.
-
-There came to be many nights when he sat up late looking into the fire
-and comparing his life with the life of the Man whose pictured eyes
-looked down so constantly into his own. It was like having a shadow of
-Christ’s presence with him constantly. At first it had annoyed him and
-hung over him like a pall, that feeling of the unseen Presence which was
-symbolized by the skillful hand of the artist. Then it had grown
-awesome, and held him from many deeds and words, nay even thoughts,
-until now it was growing sweet and dear, a presence of help, the eyes of
-a friend looking down upon him in all his daily actions, and
-unconsciously he was beginning to wonder whenever a course of conduct
-was presented to his mind whether it would seem right to Christ.
-
-At last the happy winter was slipping away rapidly. He had scarcely
-stopped to realize how fast, until one night when letters had come in on
-the evening mail, one from England brought vividly to his mind some of
-his thoughts and resolves and feelings during that return voyage in the
-fall. He smiled to himself as he leaned back in the great leather chair
-and half-closed his eyes. How he had resolved to devote himself to art
-and literature and leave religion and philanthropy to itself! And he had
-devoted himself to literature, in a way. Had not he and Miss Manning and
-several others of the mission spent the greater part of the winter in an
-effort to put good pictures and books into the homes of the people of
-the mission, and also to interest these people in the pictures and
-books? He had delivered several popular lectures, illustrated by the
-best pictures, and had assisted at readings from our best authors. But
-would his broad and cultured friends from the foreign shore, who had so
-high an opinion of his ability, consider that a strict devotion of
-himself to art and literature? And as for the despised mission and its
-various functions, it had become the center of his life interest. He
-glanced up at the picture on his wall. Had it not been the cause of all
-this change in actions, his plans, his very feelings? Nay, had not its
-central figure, the Man of Sorrows, become his friend, his guide, his
-Saviour in a very real and near sense?
-
-And so he remembered the first night he had looked upon that picture and
-its strange effect upon him. He remembered some of his own thoughts
-minutely, his vision of that “ladye of high degree” with whose future
-his own seemed likely to be joined. How strange it seemed to him now
-that he could have ever dreamed of such a thing! Her supercilious smile
-seemed even now to make him shrink. The prospect of her trip to America
-in the spring or early summer was not the pleasant thing he had then
-thought it. Indeed, it annoyed him to remember how much would be
-expected of him as guide and host. It would take his time from
-things—and people—more correctly speaking, one person who had grown
-very dear. He might as well confess it to himself now as at any other
-time. Margaret Manning had become to him the one woman in all the earth
-whose love he cared to win. And looking on his heart as it now was, and
-thinking of himself as when he first returned from abroad, he realized
-that he was not nearly so sure of her saying “Yes” to his request that
-she would give her life into his keeping, as he had been that the “ladye
-of high degree” would assent to that request.
-
-Why was it? Ah! Of this one he was not worthy, so pure and true and
-beautiful a woman was she. While the other—was it possible that he had
-been willing to marry a woman about whom he felt as he did toward this
-other haughty woman of wealth and position? To what depths had he almost
-descended! He shuddered involuntarily at the thought.
-
-By and by he arose and put out the light preparatory to going upstairs
-for the night, humming a line of an old song:
-
-     “The laird may marry his ladye, his ladye of high degree—
-       But I will marry my true love,”
-
-and then his face broke into a sweet smile and he added aloud and
-heartily, “if I can”—and hummed the closing words, “For true of heart
-am I,” as he went out into the hall, a look of determination growing on
-his face and the vision of Margaret Manning enshrined in his heart.
-
-
-                              CHAPTER VII
-
-The visit of the “ladye of high degree” to America was delayed by wind
-and tide and circumstance until the late fall, and in the meantime the
-people of America had not stood still for her coming.
-
-Among other things that had been done, there had been put up and fully
-equipped a sort of club-house belonging to the Forest Hill Mission. It
-does not take long to carry out such schemes when there are two earnest
-persons with determination and ability to work like John Stanley and
-Margaret Manning.
-
-The money for the scheme had come in rapidly and from unexpected
-sources. Margaret declared that every dollar was an answer to prayer.
-
-The house itself was perfectly adapted for the carrying out of their
-plans of work. There were reading-rooms and parlors where comfort and a
-certain degree of refinement prevailed. There was a gymnasium in which
-the privileges and days were divided equally between men and women, and
-where thorough instruction was given. There were rooms in which various
-classes were carried on evenings for those who had no chance otherwise,
-and there were even a few rooms for young men or young women, homeless
-and forlorn, where they could get good board for a time, and the whole
-was presided over by a motherly, gray-haired woman and her husband,
-whose hearts were in the work, and whose good common sense made them
-admirably fitted for such a position.
-
-But amid all these plans and preparations for better work John Stanley
-had found opportunity to speak to Margaret Manning the words which had
-won her consent to make his home bright by her presence and his heart
-glad with her love.
-
-Their wedding cards had traveled across the ocean, passing midway the
-steamer that carried a letter from the “ladye of high degree,” saying
-that she was about to embark on her trip to America and rather demanding
-John Stanley’s time and attention during her stay near his home. She had
-been used to this in the days when he was near her home, and he had been
-only too glad to be summoned then.
-
-His letter waited for him several days while he was away on a short
-business trip, and it came about that he opened it but three days before
-his wedding day. He smiled as he read her orders. He was to meet her at
-the steamer on the fifteenth. Ah! that was the day when he hoped to be a
-hundred miles away from New York, speeding blissfully along with
-Margaret by his side. He drew a sigh of relief as he reached for pen and
-paper and wrote her a brief note explaining that he was sorry not to be
-able to show her the courtesies he had promised, but that he would be
-away on his wedding trip at the time. He afterward added an invitation
-from his mother, and closed the note and forgot all about the matter.
-
-And so it was that the “ladye of high degree,” instead of being met with
-all the devotion she had expected,—and which she had intended to exact
-to its utmost,—found only a brief note with a paltry invitation to his
-wedding reception. She bit her lips in vexation and spent a disagreeable
-day in a New York hotel, making all those who had to do with her
-miserable. Then she hunted up the names of other acquaintances in
-America, noted the date of that reception, and made up her mind to make
-her haughty best of it; at least, when she returned home there was the
-laird and the earl and the poor duke, if worst came to worst.
-
-The Stanley home was alight from one end to the other, and flowers and
-vines did their best to keep up the idea of the departing summer indoors
-that night when John Stanley brought home his lovely bride.
-
-It was a strange gathering and a large one. There were present of New
-York’s best society the truest and best of men and women, whose costumes
-and faces showed that their purses and their culture were equally deep.
-And there were many people, poor and plain, in their best clothes it is
-true, but so different from the others that one scarcely knew which
-costume was more out of place, that of the rich or of the poor.
-
-It had been John Stanley’s idea, and Margaret had joined in it heartily,
-this mingling of the different classes to congratulate them in their new
-life.
-
-“They will all have to come together in heaven, mother,” John had said
-in answer to Mrs. Stanley’s mild protest at inviting Mrs. Cornelius Van
-Rensselaer together with Joe Andrews and the mill girls from the
-mission. “That is, if they all get there, and in my opinion Joe Andrews
-stands as good a chance as Mrs. Van Rensselaer. What is the difference?
-It will only be a little in their dress. I think all of our friends are
-too sensible to mind that. Let them wear what they please, and for once
-let us show them that people can mingle and be friends without caring
-for the quality of cotton or silk in which each one is wrapped.”
-
-The mother smiled and lifted her eyebrows a little. She could imagine
-the difference between those mill girls and the New York ladies, and she
-knew her son could not, but her position was established in the world,
-and she was coming to the age when these little material things do not
-so much matter. She was willing that her son should do as he wished. She
-only said in a lingering protest, “But their grammar, John. You forget
-how they murder the king’s English.”
-
-“Never mind, mother,” he said, “I shouldn’t wonder if we should all have
-to learn a little heavenly grammar when we get there before we can talk
-fittingly with the angels.”
-
-And so their friends were all invited, and none belonging to the Forest
-Mission were omitted. Mrs. Ketchum, it is true, was scandalized. She
-knew how to dress, and she did not like to be classed among the
-“rabble,” as she confided to a few of her friends. “However, one never
-knew what Margaret Manning would do, and of course this was just another
-of her performances. If John Stanley wasn’t sorry before very long that
-he married that woman of the clouds, she would miss her guess.”
-
-She took it upon herself to explain in an undertone to all the guests,
-whom she considered worthy of the toilet she had prepared, that these
-“other people,” as she denominated the Forest Hill Mission, pointing to
-them with her point lace fan with a dainty sweeping gesture, were
-_protégés_ of the bride and groom, and were invited that they might have
-the pleasure of a glimpse into the well-dressed world, a pleasure
-probably that none of them had ever had before.
-
-The “ladye of high degree” was there, oh, yes! Her curiosity led her,
-and her own pique. She wanted to see what kind of a wife John Stanley
-had married, and she wanted to see if her power over him was really at
-an end.
-
-The rich elegance of her wonderful gown, ablaze with diamonds and
-adorned with lace of fabulous price, brushed aside the dainty white of
-the bride’s and threatened to swallow it up out of sight in its own
-glistening folds.
-
-But the bride, in her filmy white robes, seemed in no wise disturbed,
-neither did her fair face suffer by contrast with the proud, handsome
-one. The “ladye of high degree,” standing in the shadow studying the
-sweet bride’s face, was forced to admit that there was a superior
-something in this other woman that she did not understand. She turned to
-John Stanley, her former admirer, and found his eyes resting in
-undisguised admiration on the lovely face of his wife, and her eyes
-turned again to the wife and saw her kiss the wrinkled face of an
-elderly Scotch woman with beautiful, tender brown eyes and soft waving
-hair. The neat, worn brown cashmere dress that the woman wore was
-ornamented only by a soft ruffle about the neck. The hair was partly
-covered by a plain, brown bonnet with an attempt at gala attire in a bit
-of white lace in front, and the wrinkled, worn hands were guiltless of
-any gloves, but one of those bare hands was held lovingly between the
-bride’s white gloves, and the other rested familiarly about the soft
-white of the bride’s waist. There was a beautiful look of love and trust
-and appreciation in both faces, and instinctively this stranger was
-forced to ask the other onlooker, “Who is she?”
-
-“One of God’s saints on earth,” came John Stanley’s voice in answer. He
-had been watching the scene and had forgotten for the moment to whom he
-was talking. Not that he would have disliked to speak so to the “ladye
-of high degree” now, for he was much changed, but he would not have
-thought she would understand.
-
-“She is just a dear woman in the church whom my wife loves very much.
-She is a natural poet soul, and you may be sure she has been saying
-something to her which would be worth writing in a book, and which she
-will always remember.”
-
-And then the “ladye of high degree” turned and looked at her old
-acquaintance in undisguised astonishment. John Stanley must have noticed
-this and been embarrassed a moment, but Mrs. Ketchum came by just then
-to be introduced, and she proved to be the kindred spirit for whom this
-stranger had been searching. From her was gained much information, some
-of which astonished her beyond belief. She made one or two more attempts
-to rally her power over John Stanley later in the evening, but she too
-had fallen under the spell of the lovely woman whose eyes her husband’s
-followed wherever she went, and she finally gave it up.
-
-The final surprise came to the stranger guest late in the evening, as
-she was making her way through John Stanley’s study to the cloak room.
-She had been told by the voluble Mrs. Ketchum that this room was Mr.
-Stanley’s “den.” She had also noticed during the evening at different
-times that people stopped opposite the picture that hung on the wall
-over the mantel. She had not before been in a position to see what this
-picture was for the crowd, but she had supposed it some master-piece
-that Mr. Stanley had brought home from his travels. Her curiosity, or
-her interest, or both, led her to pause now alone, and to look up.
-
-As others were held under its spell, so was this woman for a moment. The
-beauty and expression of the work of art caught her fancy, and the face
-of the Master held her gaze, while her soul recognized and understood
-the subject. In great astonishment she glanced around the room once more
-and back. Could it be that John Stanley kept a picture like this in his
-den? It was not like the John Stanley she had known.
-
-And then a soft, little, white-gloved hand rested on her shoulder, and a
-sweet, earnest voice said: “Isn’t it wonderful? I’m so glad to be where
-I can look at it every day as much as I wish.”
-
-[Illustration: “THE ‘LADYE OF HIGH DEGREE’ . . . SAW THEM STANDING ALSO.”]
-
-Turning she saw the bride standing by her side. She scarcely knew how to
-answer, and before she could do so she noticed that another had entered
-the room, and she knew instinctively that Mr. Stanley had come.
-
-“That is one of my treasures. Are you admiring it?” he said in the
-strong voice that seemed so unlike his old one, and the guest murmured
-something about the picture, and looking about uneasily excused herself
-and slipped away.
-
-They stood a moment before the picture together, the husband and wife.
-They were tired with the evening’s talk, and a sight of this refreshed
-them both and gave the promise of future joy.
-
-The “ladye of high degree,” passing through that hall, having purposely
-come by another route from the cloak room rather than through the study,
-saw them standing also, and understood—that she did not understand, and
-went out into the night with a lonely longing for something, she knew
-not what.
-
-As the two stood together the husband said: “Do you know, dear, that
-picture has made the turning point in my life. Ever since it came in
-here I have felt that his presence was with me wherever I went. And I
-have you to thank for it all. And through it I have gained you, this
-richest, sweetest blessing of my life. Do you know, I found a verse in
-my Bible to-day that it seems to me fits me and that picture. It is
-this: ‘The angel of his presence saved them. In his love and in his pity
-he redeemed them.’”
-
-
-
-
-                          GABRIEL THE ACADIAN
-
-                                   BY
-
-                        EDITH M. NICHOLL BOWYER
-
-
-
-
-                          GABRIEL THE ACADIAN
-
-                        =LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS=
-
-              “‘_It is a heretic name!’ exclaimed Le
-                Loutre_”                                 3
-
-              “_Suddenly the girl raised her head_”     27
-
-              “_M. l’Abbé commands_”                    42
-
-              “_But Gabriel had neither eyes nor ears
-                for the priest_”                        69
-
-              “‘_Wild Deer; tell Wild Deer_’”           82
-
-              “_Far away at the mouth of the inlet
-                . . . lay three small ships_”           91
-
-              “‘_And thou wilt make me a traitor too!’
-                he cried_”                             120
-
-              “_They sat down side by side before the
-                empty hearth_”                         131
-
-[Illustration: “‘It is a heretic name!’ exclaimed Le Loutre.”]
-
-
-
-
-              _There is a history in all men’s lives,_
-              _Figuring the nature of the times deceased;_
-              _The which observed, a man may prophesy,_
-              _With a near aim, of the main chance of things_
-              _As yet not come to life; which in their seeds_
-              _And weak beginnings lie intreasured._
-                           —_Shakespeare, Henry IV._
-
-
-
-
-                          GABRIEL THE ACADIAN
-
-
-                               CHAPTER I
-
-“It is the name my mother called me by,” quoth Gabriel sturdily.
-
-For a moment there was silence, save for a murmur of horror that ran
-through the assembled Acadians at the daring of a boy who thus defied
-the fierce priest; yet his bearing was perfectly respectful.
-
-“It is a heretic name!” exclaimed Le Loutre.
-
-“Pardon, _M. l’Abbé_, but it is said not. My father also bare it, and
-his father before him. Never willingly will I be called by any other.
-Did not my mother swear on the crucifix to my dying sire that his child
-should bear his name? And to break a holy vow—is not that of all things
-the most sinful, O _mon père_?”
-
-“Thy father died unshriven.”
-
-“My father was of the Protestant faith,” rejoined the boy quickly. “He
-died faithful to his own, though far from the land of his birth. He
-would have carried my mother to join the colonists in Virginia, where
-abide many of his kindred, but the prospect of leaving our Acadian land
-did not please her, and he loved her more than kin or country. My father
-was a good soldier and brave, monsieur; he was but true to the flag he
-served, and to which all we of Acadia have sworn allegiance, and daily
-break our vows!”
-
-He raised his eyes of English blue, and looked straight into those of
-the Abbé Le Loutre, black and angry as a thundercloud.
-
-A fine figure of a seventeen-year-old lad he was. At his age many an
-Acadian youth was beginning to dream of wife and home all his own. Tall
-and strongly built, his light curls tossed back from a brow whose
-tell-tale fairness showed through the ruddy bronze left by the suns and
-storms of Acadia.
-
-This time the exclamations of horror rose louder than before, and above
-them was heard the piteous remonstrance of the village _curé_, “Ah, _mon
-fils_, submit thyself to the good _abbé_.”
-
-Gabriel’s fearless glance swept the rows of dull Acadian faces. It
-seemed to him as if in actual bodily fear the villagers crouched before
-the enraged priest, who drove, rather than led, his timid, ignorant
-flock, and the gentle _curé_, his subordinate. And the whip with which
-he goaded them was none other than the ferocious band of Micmac Indians,
-to whom he had been sent by the French government, nominally as
-missionary, but in reality that he might keep the Acadians, by fair
-means or foul, in a continual state of rebellion to their easy-going
-English rulers.
-
-The murmurs died away into awed silence. Then, with a scornful lift of
-the hand, Le Loutre turned from the boy and faced the trembling
-villagers. His address at first was in the usual strain, only, if
-possible, more intolerant and fanatic than at his last visit, and
-Gabriel soon pushed impatiently out of the crowd, and flung himself down
-upon the river’s bank. Presently, however, he found himself listening
-intently. Here were threats more terrible, even, than of old. Gabriel
-was brave; his father’s blood did not run in his veins for naught; but
-for once he wondered not that his countrymen cowered beneath the lash of
-that fierce tongue.
-
-“The people of Acadia are the people of my mother,” he often said, “and
-I love them. But they are cowards.”
-
-And when he looked forth from the harbor mouth of Chebucto and swept
-with his eyes the wide Atlantic, there burned in his young bosom a fire
-that would have amazed his placid kinsmen had they known of it, content,
-as they were, with the daily round of humble submission to the priests,
-petty legal quarrels or equally petty gossip with the neighbors, and
-daily tilling of the soil—a fire that was kindled a hundred years
-before in one who sailed the seas with Raleigh, and which burned anew in
-this young scion of an ancient race.
-
-“I want to go, to see, to do!” he would cry, flinging wide his arms.
-
-But now, as he gave unwilling ear to Le Loutre, his boyish heart sank.
-Could the _abbé_ in truth fulfill these threats of driving the people to
-French soil, whether they would or no? Could he force them, in the name
-of God and the king, to forsake their pleasant homes in which the
-English, whatever might be their crimes against the French, at least
-allowed the Acadians to live in peace, unpunished too during all these
-years for their want of loyalty to sworn allegiance? Gabriel’s eyes
-traveled beyond that dominant figure, and dwelt upon the savage band of
-“converts” gathered behind the priest. Yes, he could, and would!
-
-Wrapt in his own thoughts, Gabriel noticed neither the dispersion of the
-people nor the ominous fact that his grandfather, Pierre Grétin, was
-accompanied on his homeward way by Le Loutre himself. His eyes were upon
-the flowing river, and the light step of his Cousin Margot failed to
-arouse him. Her sweet face was close to his, and her small hand on his
-shoulder ere he stirred.
-
-“Gabriel, I have somewhat to say to thee.”
-
-“What is it, _ma mie_?”
-
-“Wilt thou not depart to-night to thy friends whom thou dost sometimes
-visit without the walls of the new Halifax, by the harbor called of us
-Chebucto? There lives that English priest who taught thee discontent
-with our blessed religion and with our beloved _curé_.”
-
-“Not with our _curé_, Margot. He is good; he makes all religion
-beautiful and true. But wouldst thou blame me because my heart turns to
-the faith of my father? That in which my mother might have found courage
-to rear me had she lived?”
-
-“No, _mon cousin_, no, not blame. But grievous danger threatens all who
-defy the _abbé_, and thee more than others, because of thy hated English
-blood. But listen, Gabriel; dost thou indeed love Margot as though she
-were thine own sister?”
-
-The boy was silent a moment, then he answered simply:
-
-“That I cannot tell thee, Margot, seeing that I never had a sister. But
-I love thee as I love none other besides.”
-
-“That is well,” she said with equal simplicity, “because to save thy
-life for my sake thou must act contrary to thy nature.”
-
-He sprang to his feet, his blue eyes flashing so that for a moment
-Margot quailed before him.
-
-“You would not have me play the coward and liar?” he cried. “That I
-cannot do, even for thee. I am an Acadian—yes. Yet neither of these
-things will I be!”
-
-“I too am an Acadian,” replied the young girl with quiet dignity, “yet
-am I not false. Timid I may be, for such is the wont of my sex.”
-
-“Pardon, _ma cousine_, pardon,” exclaimed Gabriel remorsefully. “Thou
-knowest how it is with me; my heart beats, and the words rush, and it is
-all over.”
-
-“Wilt thou never learn prudence?” she retorted, smiling. “We Acadians
-have learned it in nigh forty years of lying helpless like a lamb
-betwixt two snapping wolves.”
-
-“Prudence, dost thou call it, Margot? My father called it by a harsher
-name; and even my mother said that was a poor thing we did, to live, a
-free people, under one flag; untaxed, ministered to by our own priests,
-the very necessaries of life supplied to us, and yet intriguing, forever
-intriguing, with those of the other flag.”
-
-“The flag under which we live is an alien flag,” said gentle Margot.
-
-“That may be; but have we ever been called upon to fight for it? And now
-that we are summoned to swear the full oath of allegiance, we have
-richly deserved this mild rebuke. The French are cruel; we go with them
-only through fear of the Indians.”
-
-“The _gran’-père_, he goes with none,” interposed the girl with a flash
-of spirit. “He tills the soil in peace, meddling not with French or
-English.”
-
-“Ah, but even he will have to choose ere many days are past; the _abbé_
-does not bring here his flock for naught. And,” cried the lad, clenching
-his fists, “who would be a neutral? Not I!” Then more quietly: “Hast
-thou not heard them tell, Margot, how when France yielded Acadia to
-England we were free, all of us, to move within the year to French soil
-if we would? But we would neither go nor remain and take the oath of
-fealty; nevertheless we were permitted to stay unsworn for seventeen
-years, intriguing then even as we do now. At last the oath was won from
-us, and more than twenty years since then have come and gone, and once
-again, because of our untruth and the cruelties practised upon English
-settlers, the word has gone forth that we must swear anew. What kind of
-a people, then are we, Margot, to be thus double-faced? Thirteen
-thousand souls, and withal afraid of priests and Indians! Not daring,
-not one of us, to play the man and come out boldly for the one flag or
-the other. Oh, we are cowards—cowards all!”
-
-He flung himself upon the ground and covered his face with his hands.
-
-To simple, yet wise little Margot these bursts of passion on the part of
-her cousin were almost incomprehensible. Her nature was a still, clear
-pool, whilst his was as the young torrent leaping down the rocks,
-unconscious of its own power, but eager to join the strong and swelling
-stream beneath, upon whose bosom the great ships float down to the deep
-sea. But although she did not understand, love gave her sympathy. She
-kneeled beside him, and once more laid her hand upon his shoulder; but
-the words she would have uttered died in her throat, and instead she
-exclaimed in accents of terror:
-
-“O Gabriel, Gabriel, arise. It is the _gran’-père_ who calls, and with
-him is still the _abbé_.”
-
-In an instant the lad was on his feet.
-
-“Gabriel, _mon fils_!”
-
-The thin, cracked voice floated across the meadows from the door of the
-small hut, which was considered by even prosperous Acadians like Grétin
-all-sufficient for the family needs. Without a moment’s hesitation
-Gabriel took his cousin’s hand, and led her, half crying now, toward
-their home, where the tall form of the priest was plainly visible,
-towering over that of the grandfather.
-
-                 *        *        *        *        *
-
-These were stirring times for Acadie. Lord Cornwallis was governor of
-the province—the Cornwallis described by Walpole as “a brave, sensible
-young man, of great temper and good nature.” He needed to be all this
-and more, for the Acadians were a difficult people to deal with.
-Vacillating, ignorant, and priest-ridden, it was the easiest thing in
-the world for the French to hold them in actual fact, while by treaty
-ceding them to England, an alien power and race. Fear, however, played a
-large part in French influence; and this was invariably the case
-throughout the long dissensions betwixt France and England. Indian
-savagery was winked at, even encouraged, by French authorities in their
-dealings both with English and Acadians; and the fair escutcheon of
-France was defaced by many a stain of blood cruelly, wantonly,
-treacherously shed. That the Acadians should be in sympathy with France
-rather than with England was natural; their wrong-doing consisted not in
-that, but in their readiness to accept English protection while plotting
-steadily with the French against the flag to which they had sworn fealty
-rather than move to French soil. They were now in a somewhat sorry
-plight.
-
-The long-patient English government, through Cornwallis, was requiring
-of them a fresh oath, and better faith in keeping it, if they continued
-to reside in the province, whilst the governor of those French
-possessions, now called Cape Breton and Prince Edward’s Island, was
-using every means in his power, hideous threats included, to induce them
-to come definitely under the French flag. What those means might
-eventually be even such young creatures as Margot and Gabriel knew only
-too well.
-
-The cousins found their grandfather looking troubled and distressed, and
-the priest still wearing the menacing air which had all that day awed
-his village audience.
-
-“It is full time you of Port Royal bethought you of your duty to your
-religion and your king instead of forever quarreling among yourselves,
-and enriching pettifogging men of law. But for thee, Grétin, though
-special indulgence has ever been shown thee, it will be well that thou
-shouldst take thought for thy family before it is too late. Thou knowest
-my flock of old,” alluding to his savage converts, “and the kind of
-lambs they are. Homes await the loyal subjects of God and the king on
-the Isle of St. Jean and Isle Royale, and if they see not what is best
-for their own souls’ good I have the means to make them see it!”
-
-Grétin was both morally and intellectually the superior of those among
-whom he lived, and he was also braver than his neighbors, but of what
-avail is superiority when a man stands alone? It was for this reason,
-combined with the habit of subjection to priestly authority, that he
-replied hastily:
-
-“Yes, _M. l’Abbé_, it is even as you say.
-
-“This boy must be disciplined,” continued the priest sternly.
-
-“Yes, _M. l’Abbé_, so it must be.”
-
-It was at this moment that “the boy” presented himself, his head erect,
-his face pale, and holding the hand of his cousin.
-
-“Drop the maiden’s hand and follow me!” was the _abbé’s_ harsh
-salutation. “I have that to say which is not for feminine ears.”
-
-Gabriel obeyed, but there was something in his air which, though
-promising submission, meant submission within definite limits.
-
-Le Loutre entered the hut and closed the door on the peaceful, pastoral
-scene without, lit up by the rays of the declining sun. Then seating
-himself on a bench, rude and plain as were the furnishings of all the
-homes of the frugal and industrious Acadians, however rich in land and
-stock, he addressed Gabriel standing respectfully before him.
-
-“What is thine age?”
-
-“I shall be eighteen at the Christmastide.”
-
-“Humph! a well-grown youth! Dost thou call thyself boy or man?”
-
-An irrepressible smile curled Gabriel’s fresh lips, but he answered
-demurely:
-
-“Neither, _mon père_.”
-
-“Dare not to trifle with me, son of a heretic!” broke out the priest,
-his imperious temper rising. Accustomed to see all men cringe before
-him, this lad’s fearless demeanor was particularly galling to Le Loutre.
-He controlled himself again, however, and proceeded with that
-persuasiveness of which when it suited him he was master:
-
-“It is as man, not boy, I call upon thee this day to serve God and the
-king, and to prove thyself worthy of the confidence I would repose in
-thee. I give thee thy just due, thou hast a good courage, and it is men
-of such mettle that Louis requires, _men_, hearest thou?”
-
-Gabriel’s frank, yet searching, gaze was riveted on the priest’s face;
-and so keen were those blue eyes that Le Loutre shifted his, momentarily
-disconcerted. For perhaps the first time in his remarkable career he was
-conscious of difficulty in explaining the righteousness, according to
-his creed, of “doing evil that good may come.” Not that he himself
-doubted; he was too honest a zealot for that; but in this case
-explanation was somehow not easy.
-
-“Thou knowest,” he said at length, “of this new oath that the heretics
-would extort from God’s people. To keep them in the fold and preserve
-their souls alive at any cost is my priestly duty; but in order to
-accomplish this I must have loyal aid. My Micmacs waver, they have even
-made a treaty with the English. This cannot be permitted to endure. It
-is therefore the king’s wish that they be secretly encouraged to break
-it, and to this end loyal Acadians in disguise must accompany them when
-they go to Halifax. Later these same faithful subjects will continue
-their work for the holy cause in the old way.”
-
-Le Loutre paused and regarded Gabriel fixedly. The boy’s face was alight
-with sudden comprehension. It was not the priest’s custom to speak
-openly of his plans, but he was fully aware that he was now dealing with
-no ordinary dull-witted Acadian peasant. What an invaluable ally this
-half-heretic lad would be could he only mold him to his will.
-
-Gabriel had not lived his brief span of life in Port Royal for nothing.
-He already knew that Le Loutre was quite capable of using force to drive
-the Acadians from their thriving farms to make new homes for themselves
-on French soil, rather than that they should pledge their word to the
-English again, even though that pledge might be broken as before. And
-there was evidently some scheme more serious in process of hatching than
-the well-worn one of painting and disguising Acadians and sending them
-out with the Micmacs to plunder and slay English settlers. The ancient
-farce of “Indian warfare” was to wear a new face. The existence of peace
-between the two countries had never been any hindrance to French
-scheming. Gabriel had only too vivid recollections of the fate of
-certain Acadians, who had been cajoled or frightened into joining those
-Indian war-parties, and who, when taken prisoner by the English, had
-been disowned by the French and declared to have “acted of their own
-accord.”
-
-The lad’s heart was heavy within him. If he defied the priest and
-refused to stoop to that which in his eyes was baseness and treachery,
-his life would be made a torment, nay, perhaps forfeited, none could
-foretell where Le Loutre would stop. And worse, far worse than this, the
-_gran’-père_, hitherto well regarded by the bigoted priest and granted
-many indulgences, would be ruthlessly hunted from the dear home to the
-bleak, uncleared shores of Isle Royale, or, as the English named it,
-Cape Breton. The _gran’-père_—he was old—he would certainly die
-without the strong grandson to help him. And Margot? Ah, it was too
-bitter! In spite of himself Gabriel covered his eyes with his hand as if
-to shut out the frightful vision.
-
-The face of Le Loutre glowed with triumph. He had not expected so easy a
-victory. To his present scheme this youth, with his knowledge of the
-English tongue and the customs of the fort, was well-nigh indispensable;
-moreover, his intelligence and his sense of honor were alike keen, and
-once pledged to him, the priest knew that he would never turn traitor.
-Under pretense of trading in furs a French vessel had brought to Acadie
-guns and ammunition enough to arm both Acadians and Indians, and the
-latter were already being secretly bribed by the Intendant at Louisburg
-through Le Loutre; for a signal act of treachery was now required of
-them.
-
-But the priest had triumphed too soon. When at length Gabriel raised his
-head, though his young face looked almost ghostly in the dying light,
-his eyes were shining with high resolve. Not that the path of duty was
-as yet perfectly clear before him, or that he knew whither it might
-lead, but he was resolute to take no other. Nevertheless he understood
-that mere defiance would not help either himself or those far dearer
-than self. Therefore he controlled himself and said quietly:
-
-“_M. l’Abbé_ has without doubt heard of that _prêtre_ from the New
-England who instructs a flock outside the walls of Halifax?”
-
-Le Loutre scowled darkly.
-
-“Art thou a heretic already? I feared as much.”
-
-“No, _M. l’Abbé_,” replied the boy in the same restrained tones; “yet I
-confess that the faith of my fathers holds much of interest for me. And
-he is good, _monsieur_, oh, good! like our own beloved _curé_.”
-
-Here he hesitated; then took courage, and went on rapidly:
-
-“He bade me always to remember, even if I should not in the end turn to
-my father’s faith, that one of its noblest commands is: Never do evil
-that good may come. Also that my father obeyed that command. O _mon
-père_, choose some one else for thy purpose; one who is not divided in
-heart as I, but who hates the English as my blood will not let me do,
-and to whom the Holy Catholic Church is the only church!”
-
-For a moment it seemed as though the priest would strike the pleading
-face upturned to his, so fierce a flame of wrath swept over him, but
-instead he said with a sneer:
-
-“And thou wouldst thrust the words of a heretic down the throat of a
-priest of God and the king? There is but one explanation, boy, thou art
-a coward!”
-
-The hot blood surged into Gabriel’s cheeks. All his prudence was tossed
-aside beneath the lash of that tongue. Flinging back his head he
-confronted Le Loutre with an air which compelled, as it never had failed
-to do, the reluctant admiration of the man to whom courage seemed the
-best of God’s gifts to mortals.
-
-“_M. l’Abbé_,” said the boy, in the low tones of an unbending resolve,
-“I am no coward; but I should be both coward and liar were I to do your
-bidding.”
-
-For a breathing space the two pairs of eyes held one another like
-wrestlers. Then:
-
-“As thou wilt,” rejoined the priest coldly. “But forget not that no
-traitors to God and the king can dwell at ease in Acadie. Mine are no
-empty threats.”
-
-He flung wide the door and called to the waiting Micmacs. As they
-stepped out of the surrounding gloom, the pine torches carried by them
-illuminated their ferocious countenances. Margot sprang forward and cast
-herself upon her knees before the priest.
-
-“O _mon père, mon père_, do with me what you will, inflict on me any
-penance that seems unto you good; but spare, oh, spare my cousin, if
-only for the sake of the _gran’-père_!”
-
-The girl’s agonized pleading rang out into the night. Then, in a voice
-rendered tremulous by years and infirmity, but still not devoid of
-dignity, Grétin himself spoke.
-
-“_M. l’Abbé_,” he said, “the boy is of heretic blood—yes. But also is
-he of my blood—mine, who am a faithful servant of the true church. If
-he has been led astray, I myself will see to it that he returns to the
-fold. For he is a good lad, and the prop and staff of my old age.”
-
-Le Loutre turned on the _gran’-père_ his piercing eyes.
-
-“Thou hast reason, Grétin. Thou hast indeed been a faithful servant of
-the church, but art thou that now? Do not thy religion and thy king
-demand of thee that thou shouldst leave, with all that is thine, the air
-breathed by pestilential heretics, and dost thou not still linger,
-battening in their green pastures, yea, feeding from their hand? Art
-thou, therefore, fit to be the guide of erring youth? It may be too,
-that thou wilt have to suffer for his sin if he repent not.”
-
-The old man bowed his head, and a low moan escaped him.
-
-“Hurt not the lad,” he murmured. “He is as the very apple of my eye.”
-
-“My Micmacs will look to his repentance,” retorted the priest grimly.
-“In the saving of the soul the body may have to endure somewhat, but
-holy church is merciful to the penitent.”
-
-As he spoke Gabriel sprang from the detaining hands, of the Indians, and
-kneeling at the feet of the old man, lifted the shriveled fingers and
-laid them upon his own fair head.
-
-“Bless me, even me, O _mon père_,” he cried.
-
-But the _gran’-père_ fell upon his neck and wept.
-
-“Oh, Gabriel, my son, my son!”
-
-Before he could so much as speak to Margot, the Indians, at a sign from
-Le Loutre, relentless always in the performance of what he believed to
-be his duty and now enraged by defeat, seized the youth and disappeared
-with him into the forest. Lingering only to make the sign of the cross
-over the helpless and bereaved pair, Le Loutre himself followed.
-
-
-                               CHAPTER II
-
-Gabriel, hurried along through “brake, bush, and brier,” each arm
-grasped by a brawny Micmac, had no time for thought. A grown man of
-settled convictions might have found his situation a very labyrinth of
-difficulty. How much more, then, a growing lad, unavoidably halting
-betwixt two nationalities and two forms of religion?
-
-After what seemed endless hours, but which in reality was but a short
-time, the party arrived at the settlement of wigwams on the bank of the
-Shubenacadie. The priest was no longer to be seen. “Am I then to be left
-to the mercy of these savages?” thought Gabriel. Yet close on the heels
-of the thought flashed the consciousness that the Indians’ violence had
-considerably slackened since the disappearance of Le Loutre. The bonds
-with which they had tied their prisoner were so loose that he easily
-slipped out of them, and approaching the squaws who were gathering wood
-for the fires, he addressed them in their own language and proceeded to
-help them. The braves merely turned their heads and glanced at him
-indifferently. “Not enough gold!” he heard one mutter to another. He had
-already heard that the Micmacs had grown shrewd enough to put their own
-price on the harassing of recalcitrant or timid Acadians, and the taking
-of English scalps; and like all ignorant or savage races had quickly
-learned to overestimate their services and become insatiate in their
-demands. Gabriel’s chances, therefore, depended to some extent on the
-condition of the priest’s treasury; also on the fact that he was
-personally acquainted with certain members of the band, to whom by
-reason of his skill in woodcraft and familiarity with the habits of the
-forest game he had not only occasionally been of service, but whose
-respect he had won.
-
-“This is the white boy who knows even as does the red man the lair of
-the wild deer and where in the noonday heat they turn their steps to
-drink,” observed one to the other, as Gabriel, restraining every symptom
-of fear, quietly joined the group around the now blazing fire and helped
-himself out of the common pot.
-
-“Yes,” he put in coolly, “and I can tell you more than that if you
-will.”
-
-There are natures, those of women as well as of men, whose vitality
-quickens in the face of actual danger. They may be even cowardly in the
-mere anticipation, but the trumpet-call of duty, honor, or sacrifice, or
-the less high-sounding clarion of self-preservation, sets them on their
-feet, face forward to the coming foe. In Gabriel all these forces were
-at work, though Margot’s sweet, pale face and the _gran’-père’s_ bowed
-gray head, were the strongest influences. And behind all these was that
-irrepressible spirit of adventure, never wholly absent from the normally
-healthy young mind.
-
-Drawing on his store of woodland stories, and occasionally pausing to
-give ear to those furnished by the now interested Micmacs, an hour
-passed in total oblivion by the captors of the commands laid on them
-concerning their prisoner; and when at last a tall dark form suddenly
-appeared within the circle of light, and a well-known terrible voice
-broke forth in objurgation; it was plain that the owner of both was
-scarcely more welcome to his “lambs” than to the prisoner.
-
-“What is that I behold?” exclaimed Le Loutre. “Where is your Christian
-service, vowed to God and the king? Instead, I find feasting and foolish
-gabbling, with a traitorous captive in the midst!”
-
-The faces of the Indians clouded in sullen silence. The lash of the
-priest’s tongue went unsparingly on. At length the leader growled out,
-“The pale faces from over the sea bring no more gifts. The red men grow
-weary of taking the scalps of friendly white men who are at war with
-your people but who do the Indian no wrong. They at the new fort have
-treated us well. And as for this boy, you give us not enough to take the
-scalp of so mighty a hunter and true a tracker.”
-
-Le Loutre’s face paled with baffled rage. True it was that owing to some
-at present unexplained delay the customary large remittances from France
-for the bribing of Indians who were friendly to the English were not
-forthcoming, and with a heart-leap of joy Gabriel saw the truth written
-in his eyes.
-
-“Fools! Did I bid you take his scalp? Did I not bid you rather to
-chasten him for his faithlessness and force him back to his duty? This
-you know well enough how to do without my guiding presence. Yet I come
-to find——”
-
-With a gesture of unutterable scorn he waved his black-robed arm.
-
-But his personal influence was on the wane, and he knew it. It was
-money, gifts, that were needed, and for these he must wait. Yet were
-there still a few whose greed was of the kind that will take anything
-rather than nothing, and on these he depended, and not in vain.
-
-Stealthily, like dark spirits, two or three Indians glided from behind
-their companions, and took up their station beside the priest.
-Strengthened by these mute allies he once more faced the group at the
-fire, and proceeded to pour forth in fervid eloquence alternate
-persuasion, threat, and glowing promise of future reward. Gabriel soon
-discovered that he was not the central figure in this tirade—that
-larger projects than the fate of one boy were being held before the now
-attentive Indians, who uttered guttural notes of assent or dissent.
-
-“A hundred _livres_ for each scalp—a hundred _livres_, mark you! This
-boy knows, as you cannot do, the plan of the fort at Halifax, and the
-number of its defenders. If he be so mighty a tracker, let him track
-these English dogs to their lair and fire them out of it, or in it, it
-matters not which, so that to God and the king are restored what is
-rightly theirs. But remember, a hundred _livres_ is yours for every
-English scalp! My people may not do this thing, for they have signed a
-peace with their enemies, but for your people it is otherwise.”
-
-“Have we too, not set our totems to a solemn treaty?” growled one
-dissenting voice.
-
-Once more from the priest that gesture of contempt.
-
-“And what is that for such as you?” he said. “What is a broken treaty to
-the Indian?”
-
-Gabriel, unable longer to contain himself, sprang to his feet.
-
-“_Mon père!_” he cried, his heart in a flame, a blaze of sudden
-illumination in his soul. “Nay, never more _mon père! M. l’Abbé_, is
-this, then, the Christianity, the fealty to God and the king, to which
-you would have me faithful? Then, God willing, faithless will I be.”
-
-For a long minute there was dead silence, broken only by the quick
-breathing of the excited boy. The Indians, though not fully
-understanding the words, realized their daring, and gazed upon him with
-all the admiration of which their anger was capable.
-
-“Do your work,” said Le Loutre at last coldly, signing to the Micmacs at
-his side.
-
-In a moment Gabriel was thrown to the ground, his arms bound to his
-side, his feet tied. A hole was dug in the ground, a post placed in it,
-and around the post fresh logs were heaped.
-
-Such scenes, alas! were not uncommon under the despotic rule of Abbé Le
-Loutre, and though no instance is recorded of actual sacrifice of life,
-owing perhaps almost as much to Acadian timidity as to priestly
-forbearance, much terror and temporary suffering were caused by his
-blind fanaticism. But in this boy of mixed race there was stouter stuff
-to deal with, and his English blood was to the priest as a thing
-accursed.
-
-                 *        *        *        *        *
-
-Days passed, and Pierre Grétin and his granddaughter could obtain no
-news of Gabriel. Tossed and torn by conflicting emotions, communal as
-well as personal, the old man’s strength seemed to be ebbing from him.
-Yet never did he need it more. The village of Port Royal (now
-Annapolis), nay, all Acadie, was in the confusion of helpless distress.
-What should they do, these poor ignorant habitans? To whom should they
-listen? In their hearts they knew that every word of Cornwallis’
-proclamation was true, that under English rule they had enjoyed freedom,
-both secular and religious. On the other hand, Le Loutre swept down upon
-them continually with the firebrand of his eloquence. “Come to French
-soil,” he cried, “seek new homes under the old flag! For three years _le
-bon roi_ will support you. You are French at heart—what have you to do
-with these English? Refuse, and the consolations of religion will be
-denied you and your property shall be given over to the savages.”
-
-True, they were French at heart, the most of them, but not all; and
-their tranquil, sluggish lives had drifted so peacefully on the broad
-river of the English governor’s indulgence. It was almost worth while to
-renew the oath of allegiance to these foreigners and sleep quietly once
-more under their own rooftrees. But would they sleep quietly? Ah, there
-was the rub! Le Loutre had ever been a man of his word.
-
-Therefore it came to pass that French ships passing to Isle St. Jean,
-now called Prince Edward Island, and Isle Royale, now Cape Breton, had
-for two years many hundred Acadians for passengers, some willing, more
-reluctant, destined to semi-starvation and unutterable misery in the new
-and desolate country in which their small stock of courage was to be so
-grievously tried, and in which few of them plucked up spirit sufficient
-to clear new land for their subsistence, but existed, or ceased to
-exist, on such meagre supplies as the French government furnished them.
-
-“_Gran’-père_,” said Margot one evening, as bereft of most of their near
-neighbors they clung almost alone to their humble home, “_mon
-gran’-père_, what think you, has become of our Gabriel?” Her eyes were
-heavy with weeping, her round cheeks pale.
-
-Grétin, in yet worse case, had scarce strength to take his turn with her
-behind their yoke of oxen at the plow. He sat on a bench at the door of
-the hut, both hands leaning heavily on his staff. For a while he
-answered nothing, but his sunken gaze wandered along the banks of the
-river, from one desolated home to another. In scarcely more than two or
-three still burned the sweet fires of home, and those that were forsaken
-had been plundered by the Indians, fresh traces of whose presence were
-daily visible. The good village _curé_, beloved of all, and the
-influence of whose noble life and teachings represented all that was
-best in the Catholic church, was gone too. Torn by contending duties he
-had decided that the forlorn exiles needed his ministrations more than
-those still remaining in their homes, and had followed them to French
-soil.
-
-“_Le bon Dieu_ knows, my child!” Grétin answered at last, in the dull
-tones of hopeless old age.
-
-“Surely _M. l’Abbé_ would not permit that—that——” her voice broke.
-
-“That his fair young life should be destroyed by those savages? No, my
-child, no—that can I not believe. Moreover, Jean Jacques, Paul
-Pierre—they were his friends among the Micmacs. And _M. l’Abbé_—no, he
-would bend but not break the boy.”
-
-There was a long silence. The evening dews, tears of the soil for the
-banishment of her children, sparkled on the wide meadows beneath the now
-rising moon.
-
-“Margot, we can no longer resist the priest’s will,” he said again, “and
-alone we are not able to till the land, so that it may bring forth crops
-for our sustenance.”
-
-But a burst of tears from the girl interrupted him. Flinging herself at
-his feet, she threw her arms around him and hid her face in his breast.
-
-“_Gran’-père, mon gran’-père!_” she cried, “I will work! I can plow—I
-can dig! I am young it is true, and small, but we women of Acadie are
-strong. You shall care for the house—it is I who will till the land.
-Let us not leave Acadie. Gabriel may return—sick, wounded, who knows?
-and we gone, the house desolate! If _M. l’Abbé_ sets his Micmacs on us
-to drive us forth, I will plead with them. They have hearkened to me
-before now, they will again. If not, then we must go forth indeed, but
-not yet, not yet!”
-
-[Illustration: “Suddenly the girl raised her head.”]
-
-Weeping they clung together. Suddenly the girl raised her head. A moment
-more she was on her feet, gazing intently into the black depths of the
-forest.
-
-“_Gran’-père_,” she whispered, “do you hear?”
-
-“Only the night-hawk, my daughter.”
-
-“Ah, but the night-hawk! Many a time have I heard my cousin call thus in
-the woods in our happy play times. There, again!”
-
-Like an arrow from a bow she was gone, speeding through the long grass,
-but keeping well in the shadows.
-
-The old man rose with difficulty. He was weary and cramped with the long
-day’s work, of which since his grandson began to grow toward manhood his
-share had until these evil days been slight. As the minutes crawled by
-and Margot did not return, anxiety swelled to terror. The Indians—they
-did not all know her. With shaking hand he took his ancient-fowling
-piece from the peg where it hung.
-
-His vision was dim, and as he started blindly on his way, he found
-himself arrested, gently pushed back into the hut, the door barred, the
-small windows shuttered. All was done quickly and quietly, as by an
-accustomed hand. Pine cones were thrown upon the half-dead fire, there
-was a blaze of light, and Pierre Grétin fell into the arms of his
-grandson.
-
-But joy sobered as Grétin and Margot surveyed their recovered treasure
-by the additional illumination of home-made tallow dips. Gabriel,
-indeed, was but the ghost of his former buoyant, radiant self. Only the
-blue, brave light in his eyes betrayed the old Gabriel. His cheeks were
-hollow, his frame gaunt, his home-spun clothing torn to rags.
-
-“That I can soon remedy,” said the little housewife to herself, as she
-thought of the new suit in the oaken chest, set aside for his first
-communion.
-
-Strange scars were on his legs and hands, and these Margot soon fell to
-examining, a growing dread in her face, though he strove to draw his
-fingers from her clasp.
-
-“Heed them not, _ma cousine_,” he said tenderly. “I have weightier
-matters to speak of with thee and with the _gran’-père_.”
-
-“Speak on, my son.”
-
-“Nay,” said the girl quickly, “let him rest and eat first.”
-
-Glancing into the pot, which hung, French fashion, over the fire, she
-added to it shredded meat and vegetables until the whole was a savory
-mess. While she prepared it, the boy sat with his head in his hands, a
-man before his time.
-
-The meal ended and the kitchen restored to its wonted order, Margot, in
-whom, as in all Acadians, the frugal spirit of the French peasant
-prevailed, extinguished the tallow dips; then, taking her seat on a
-cricket at her grandfather’s knee, she eagerly awaited Gabriel’s story.
-
-This story of Gabriel’s was no easy one to tell; this he felt himself.
-In the brief time that he had been absent from his home, brief in actual
-duration, but to himself and to his loved ones so long, life had
-acquired for him a wholly different meaning. Hitherto his nature had
-been as plastic material prepared for some mold, the selection of which
-had not as yet been made known. He knew now for what he was destined,
-and was conscious that the boy was rapidly hardening into the man he was
-intended to be. The fanaticism permitted in one of its most potent
-instruments had upset his faith in the form of religion in which he had
-been reared, and he was too young for the tolerance that is often the
-fruit of a larger experience. Moreover, strange as it may seem, there
-was in this generous, tender-hearted youth elements not unlike those in
-the relentless and vindictive priest. The fanatic and the enthusiast not
-seldom spring from the same root. But how to explain to these two, who,
-dear to him as they were, could not be expected to share his
-convictions? At last he roused himself.
-
-“First, dear _gran’-père_,” he said, “I must learn how it fares with you
-and with _ma cousine_. God grant that you be left here in peace!”
-
-There was a pause. They too had their difficulties. How could they tell
-him that Le Loutre might even yet have spared them their home had it not
-been for what he called “the contumacy of that young heretic”? Margot’s
-woman’s wit, however, came to the rescue and she told simply and
-truthfully the tale of the gradual banishment of their people. “We still
-are spared,” she concluded, “but it cannot be for long.”
-
-“Then my sins were not visited on your head,” said Gabriel eagerly.
-
-“As others fare, so must we in the end,” was the somewhat evasive reply.
-“But come, my cousin, to thy tale.”
-
-So Gabriel began, but when he came to the scene of the torture,
-hesitated. Margot’s indignant sympathy, however, divined what he would
-not tell.
-
-“Was it very bad, dear cousin?” she cried, the tears in her dark eyes,
-as she pressed his hand.
-
-“No, not so very bad,” he replied with forced lightness. “The friendly
-Micmacs rebelled, and I do not believe _M. l’Abbé_ ever pushes things to
-extremes at first. He strove only to scare me into submission to his
-will, and I have got a bit of tough English oak somewhere in me that
-doesn’t bend as do tender Acadian saplings.” He smiled down into his
-cousin’s wet eyes. “Don’t weep, little cousin. See, I am well; none has
-hurt me.”
-
-“Oh, but thou art thin, thou art pale, thou art changed,” she cried,
-breaking down completely. “Oh, _mon gran’-père_, is it that we must love
-and obey so cruel a priest?”
-
-The old man’s trembling hand smoothed her hair; he could not speak yet.
-
-“_Mon gran’-père_, Margot,” Gabriel said bravely, “I have that to tell
-you which may grieve your hearts; but my mind is made up. I have,
-indeed, changed since we parted. I am no longer a Christian as your
-church holds such.”
-
-“Your church!” This could mean but one thing—their Gabriel was then, in
-truth, a heretic! But the low-breathed “Helas, _mon fils_,” which
-escaped the old man was not echoed by his granddaughter. She raised her
-head and looked at her cousin, who had sprung to his feet and was pacing
-the floor like a young lion.
-
-“No,” he cried. “If to do such in the name of the Father and the gentle
-mother of a gentle Saviour is to be a Christian, then am I none! If to
-be a missionary of the church is to spur poor savages on to be more
-cruel, more treacherous, than in their ignorance they were, then heaven
-grant that no holy church may ever receive them! If to be false to every
-given vow, to strike the enemy in the back, to hate even as do the
-devils in hell, is to be a Christian, then no Christian am I!”
-
-He returned to the fireside, and sinking upon the high-backed settle,
-relapsed into reverie so profound as to become oblivious of his
-surroundings.
-
-“And if thou dost proclaim thyself a heretic, _mon fils_,” observed
-Grétin at length fearfully, “what is to become of us?”
-
-“Alas, at best what can I do for you, honored _gran’-père_? Is not even
-now that vindictive priest on my track? And may it not be that he may
-yet take my life because I will not aid him in his treacherous plot? I
-have escaped him once, but only by the aid of Jean Jacques, and now that
-gold has come from France, Jean Jacques will love French crowns better
-than my life.”
-
-“_M. l’Abbé_ never takes lives, my son,” said the old man rebukingly.
-
-“And why not, _mon gran’-père_? May it not have been because none dared
-oppose him?”
-
-Grétin sighed heavily, but made no reply, and Gabriel continued:
-
-“All here are his tools, the Acadians from fear, the Indians for gold. I
-am no tool, and for that, if needs be, I must suffer. But you—ah, my
-beloved and dear!” He sank impulsively upon his knees, and throwing his
-arm around his cousin and leaning his head on his grandsire’s knees,
-yielded himself to an abandonment of grief.
-
-Finally Margot spoke, quietly and decisively.
-
-“Dear Gabriel, thou canst indeed do nothing for us and thou art in peril
-here. Thou must make thy way with all speed to thy friend, the New
-England _prêtre_; he will succor and aid thee. Thou art like the
-Huguenots and the Puritans; thou wilt have to suffer for conscience’
-sake.”
-
-She smiled bravely, but her lips trembled.
-
-“But you,” Gabriel groaned, “you!”
-
-The poor boy was passing through that bitterest trial of all,
-experiencing what to all martyrs is worse than any fiery stake, the
-helpless, incomparable anguish of bringing suffering on those dearer to
-him than life. What if in the saving of his own soul alive he should
-have to trample over the bodies of the beloved? Might not his course be
-the very acme of self-seeking? What recompense could the martyr’s crown
-confer for this mortal agony of vicarious suffering?
-
-But Margot’s steady, quiet voice went on; her soft touch was on his
-head. Timid she might be, but ah, brave, brave too!
-
-“He will not hurt us, the _abbé_,” she said. “Do not fear, my cousin. If
-thou dost stay with us, thou wilt have to act a lie every day. Even
-should he refrain from pressing thee into his schemes, he will watch
-thee, and not one single ordinance of our church wilt thou be permitted
-to elude. He can be very hard, our _abbé_. No, dear Gabriel, vain is it
-to strive to serve two masters; if of our faith, thou must remain here
-and profess it; if of the other, thou must go.”
-
-She averted her head and further speech failed her.
-
-At that moment there was a violent knocking on the door. Gabriel was on
-his feet at once, alert, resolute once more.
-
-“I knew he would track me,” he said, “but I had hoped not to be found
-here, and neither will I. Adieu, _mon gran’-père_. God in very truth
-keep you! Margot, the small door into the cowpen.”
-
-At a word from the girl, Grétin crept into his covered bed in the wall,
-while she and Gabriel slipped noiselessly away through a back entrance.
-
-“Let us go with thee, dear cousin,” implored Margot, as they paused for
-an instant among the cows, her fears for him making her once more timid.
-
-“_Ma chérie_, no! Ah, my best beloved!”
-
-He clasped her to his breast, kissed her passionately, as never before,
-on brow, cheek, and lips, and was gone.
-
-On the house door the knocking continued, and the _gran’-père’s_ voice
-was heard in the accents of one aroused from sleep. Margot, hastily
-composing her features and trusting that the traces of tears would not
-be visible in the light of the dying fire, re-entered the kitchen and,
-after much fumbling and delay, opened the door. Without stood Le Loutre,
-accompanied as usual by his “lambs.” Without deigning to address her, he
-snatched a torch from one of the Indians and, striding into the small
-house, explored every corner. Even the cowpen was not left unsearched.
-On pretense of arranging the bed-covering, Margot bent over her
-grandfather.
-
-“Delay him if you can,” she breathed; “every moment is precious.”
-
-But the priest was already at her side.
-
-“Where is the malicious heretic, at last avowed?” he thundered.
-
-“Ah, where is he, _M. l’Abbé_?” exclaimed Grétin, raising himself on his
-elbow, endued with a sudden excess of courage at the thought of Gabriel
-wandering alone through the perils of the forest. “Where is the boy, the
-son of my loved and only daughter, my heart’s treasure? Where is he,
-Gabriel, staff of my old age?”
-
-For a moment the furious priest was confounded. The color mounted to his
-dark cheeks and he hesitated. The old man’s aspect was almost
-threatening, and if fanaticism had left Le Loutre a conscience, it
-surely spoke then. But the momentary weakness passed.
-
-“And thou wouldst shelter a heretic,” he said sternly, “recusant son of
-Mother Church that thou art! But she chastens, if in love, yet she
-chastens. Hope not for further grace. As for the boy, he must be brought
-back into the fold. This I have ere now told thee, and I repeat it. Me,
-the chosen instrument of God and the king, he cannot escape. Faithless
-as thou mayst be, thou canst not keep him from me. This very night he
-shall be forced back to his duty. As for thyself and the girl——”
-
-He paused, the terrible look in his eyes. But it was enough. Further
-words were unnecessary. And as the torches danced away like fireflies
-into the forest shades, Margot, now completely exhausted, flung herself
-down beside the old man and, with an arm about his neck, wailed:
-“_Gran’-père_, my _gran’-père_, they will find him!”
-
-And the hopeless response came: “_Ma fille_, they cannot fail to do it.
-Let us pray.”
-
-Feebly he arose, and hand in hand the helpless pair kneeled before the
-image of the sorrowing Christ.
-
-
-                              CHAPTER III
-
-Concealed in the branches of a wide-spreading oak, Gabriel hoped against
-hope to remain hidden from the Micmac trailers, now close on his heels.
-White men his woodcraft would enable him to elude, but Indians hardly.
-His very breathing seemed as if it must betray him.
-
-Listening thus, every nerve an ear, he heard a slight sound in the deep
-glade beneath. To the novice it might mean anything or nothing; to his
-practised understanding it was the crack of a twig beneath a human foot.
-
-Carefully he surveyed his position. The moon, though near its setting,
-still afforded light sufficient to betray him should its rays fall on
-face or hands. Then, for the first time, he perceived that, as he lay
-face downward on a branching limb, the hand with which he sustained
-himself was palely illuminated; the moon, in her swift course, had
-penetrated the sheltering foliage. What should he do? To move meant
-certain discovery. He resolved to lie still, the chances being slightly
-in favor of absolute stillness. Then he became aware that some one was
-standing beneath the tree. Now in actual fact he held his breath; for
-though his sight could not pierce the leaves, every other sense told him
-that it was an Indian. But his hopes were vain. Another moment and he
-knew the tree was being climbed.
-
-As the green grasshopper clings, even after detection, blindly to the
-leaf that it so closely resembles, so Gabriel clung instinctively to his
-branch, and even when a sinewy hand grasped his ankle, made no sign. The
-forest-bred boy obeyed the instinct of all woodland creatures; besides,
-there was one hope left, faint as it was, and were he to move or speak
-he might lose even that.
-
-“Wild Deer?”
-
-“Jean Jacques?”
-
-Wild Deer was the name by which the friendly Micmacs called him. Now for
-the test. Was the Indian true?
-
-“Wild Deer, the great medicine man of your tribe is on the trail.”
-
-“I know. What wilt thou do? Betray me to him?”
-
-The low-breathed question and answer swept quickly back and forth.
-
-“The red man betrays not him who is skilled as himself.”
-
-“What wilt thou do then?”
-
-“Let Wild Deer descend and follow his friend.”
-
-Gliding to the ground with a noiselessness and rapidity equal to that of
-the Indian, Gabriel, at a sign from his companion, followed him on his
-sinuous track. Was he his friend? He had dwelt too long with the red men
-not to dread the treachery which is the inevitable consequence of
-centuries of savage and relentless warfare, tribe with tribe, red man
-with white man. Nevertheless, he pushed on; what else could he do?
-
-The gray dawn peered beneath a veil of cloud before they paused on the
-edge of the forest. Gabriel’s powers were well-nigh spent; ill treatment
-and privation had sapped his young strength. The spot where they had
-halted was the last camping-ground of the Micmacs. Going to a hollow
-tree, Jean Jacques drew from it some strips of sun-dried beef and a few
-dried leaves, which Gabriel recognized as those of the coca plant, on
-which, when unable to obtain food, the red man makes arduous journeys,
-lasting for days together.
-
-“Eat,” he said with native brevity; “then put these leaves in thy mouth
-and chew them as we go. The strength of the pale face will come back to
-him as that of the young eagle.”
-
-Gabriel obeyed, imitating the taciturnity of the Indian. When at length,
-refreshed and strengthened, he arose to prosecute his attempt to reach
-Halifax, Jean Jacques, with a grunt, declined not only to be thanked,
-but to leave him.
-
-“I too go to the new fort,” he remarked calmly.
-
-“Thou wilt go?”
-
-A sudden suspicion overwhelmed him. Could it be that his apparent rescue
-was one of the priest’s deep laid plots? That Jean Jacques, heavily
-bribed with French gold, was but carrying out some scheme of treachery
-which should involve the defenders of the fort as well as himself? The
-supposition was an only too plausible one, given such a man as Le Loutre
-and such lucre-lovers as the Micmacs. The Indian’s impervious
-countenance revealed nothing. To question him would be vain. Well, he
-must go forward and hope for the best; no other course was open to him.
-
-Silently, at the steady Indian dog-trot, the pair pressed on. As mile
-after mile was covered, Gabriel’s strength seemed to renew itself, even,
-indeed, as that of the young eagle; hope revived within his breast,
-ministering to his keen vitality; and when at last the Indian paused,
-and kneeling, examined in ominous silence a bent twig here, a crushed
-blade of grass there, and finally laid his ear to the ground, Gabriel
-was inclined to scout Jean Jacques’ fears and his own suspicions.
-
-“Feet have passed this way,” muttered Jean Jacques, “feet of red men,
-with them a white man. Let Wild Deer put his head to the ground, and he
-will hear them yet. But our trail they have lost. They wander, seeking
-it.”
-
-Striking in the opposite direction, they proceeded cautiously. Then
-again the Indian stopped and listened after his manner.
-
-“They come,” he said, as he once more arose, “many of them. They go to
-the fort; but they will not go until they find Wild Deer to carry him
-with them. But Jean Jacques will be his guide, he shall escape them.”
-
-At nightfall they crept beneath a pile of brush and leaves, concealing
-the deserted lair of a gray fox, and Gabriel, worn out now, and happy in
-the thought of at sunrise being free to abandon the circuitous route and
-making straight for the fort, but a few miles distant, soon fell asleep.
-
-But there is many a slip, etc. It seemed to him that he had slept but
-five minutes when he was aroused by a flash of light in his eyes, and he
-opened them to find himself in the grasp of half a dozen Micmacs, behind
-them Le Loutre. Jean Jacques was nowhere to be seen. Speechless, he
-looked from one dark face to another; every one of them he knew to be
-unfriendly, or at least corrupted by French gold. His young heart felt
-nigh to bursting. So near the goal and to be thwarted thus! So near the
-new life, in which, in his youthful enthusiasm, he believed he could be
-true to the highest that was in him, true to his grandfather and Margot,
-vaguely but ardently hopeful that he could save them. And Jean Jacques?
-Had he indeed betrayed him?
-
-It was one of those moments of discouragement in which even the falsity
-of an untutored savage can pierce the very soul.
-
-“Bind him, and bring him on!” was the priest’s stern command.
-
-Bewildered by fatigue, sick with disappointment, Gabriel offered no
-resistance, uttered no word. He was dragged about a mile and then
-dropped rudely by the embers of a camp-fire. Waving his “lambs” to a
-distance, Le Loutre addressed him in accents cold as steel and merciless
-as the hand that drives it home.
-
-“Have I not told thee that thou canst not escape me, I, the chosen
-instrument of God to bring stragglers back into the fold? My duty is
-clear. He who will not bend must break.”
-
-He paused, but his hearer made no sign.
-
-“Thou knowest what is demanded of thee. This day my converts go on a
-friendly mission to the new fort. Must I instruct thee yet again in thy
-duty?”
-
-He waited for the response that came not. Gabriel lay as if life itself
-were already crushed out of him; every drooping finger of his strong,
-right hand nerveless, hopeless. Yet must there have been something of
-tacit resistance in his air, for Le Loutre continued in tones of
-exasperation:
-
-“Opposition will avail thee nothing, and for thy grandfather and cousin
-it will mean suffering and privation beyond their wildest dreams. Every
-Acadian is rewarded according to his loyalty to the king and to the true
-church. Hitherto I have spared them, but it is I alone who have the
-ordering of their going, and of the new home to which they journey. The
-_gran’-père_ is old, Margot more tender than is the habit of Acadian
-maidens, yet must the church not stay her hand when the saving of souls
-is in the balance. She must make example, she must discipline. I am no
-man meting out man’s justice,” continued the fanatic, raising his hands
-solemnly, “but chosen of the church to execute her righteous will. This
-being so, thou wilt find me relentless in my duty.”
-
-Gabriel’s benumbed senses, together with the spirit that in some natures
-never slumbers long, were reawakening. He found himself wondering why
-this autocratic priest, before whom all trembled, should find it
-necessary to explain his conduct to a mere boy. Then, as mental vigor
-returned more fully, he drew his exhausted body into a sitting posture,
-and said:
-
-“_M. l’Abbé_ commands that I shall go with these savages?”
-
-“Converts to the true church,” interrupted Le Loutre imperiously. “Who
-dares call baptized Christians savages?”
-
-“I name them according to their deeds,” continued Gabriel, with a
-certain manly dignity which had come to him of late. “Holy water on the
-brow does not change the heart.”
-
-“It doth not!” cried the priest in the same tone. “Jean Jacques is a
-pervert—perverted by thyself from the true faith.”
-
-“Yet he has played me false,” exclaimed Gabriel bitterly.
-
-“Dull-witted boy! Knowest thou no better than that?”
-
-Could it be? Was Jean Jacques faithful? Not only that, but free to help
-him again? Hope kindled once more within his breast. Then he rose to his
-feet and looked straight into the eyes of Le Loutre.
-
-[Illustration: “‘M. l’Abbé commands——.’”]
-
-“It is the will of _M. l’Abbé_,” he said again, “that I should go to
-Halifax on this ‘friendly’ mission? The Micmacs will camp without the
-fort, I shall be received within, and can then learn more than I know
-already of its defenses and of the habits of its defenders. The Indians,
-being friendly, will pass in and out with me, two or three perhaps only;
-I am to guide them with what secrecy I may from one portion of the
-stronghold to another, and they in turn will pass on their knowledge to
-the waiting horde concealed within reach, and then at a given signal the
-attack is to be made, and, they and I alike familiar with the weak
-points of the fort and other matters, they will easily gain entrance,
-and put all to fire and sword? Is this the will of _M. l’Abbé_?”
-
-Le Loutre looked back at him consideringly. Keen-sighted, as he was, he
-scarce knew what to make of this boy. Then he said:
-
-“You swear it in the name of the Holy Mother of God?”
-
-“I promise nothing,” said Gabriel steadily.
-
-“Then,” cried the priest with a sudden burst of fury, “remember this: If
-thou dost play the traitor——”
-
-“He can be no traitor,” Gabriel interposed, with a calm which compelled
-a hearing, “who gives no promise, except that if it be within his power
-he will defeat the plot laid.”
-
-“No matter what thou art,” burst forth Le Loutre again, “thou art false
-to the faith in which thou hast been reared. But forget not that thy
-course will be watched, and that if my commands are not obeyed thy
-grandfather and cousin will pay the forfeit—yes, with their very lives.
-Dost hear me?”
-
-Gabriel, pale before, whitened now to the lips. But he kept his
-steadfast eyes on the priest’s face as he replied:
-
-“I hear, _M. l’Abbé_.”
-
-                 *        *        *        *        *
-
-The blue waves of the harbor of Chebucto leaped gayly landward before
-the strong south wind. On the wooden ramparts of Halifax the sentinels
-kept watch, specks of scarlet betwixt the blue of sea and sky, moving,
-automaton-like, on their appointed rounds. But the automatons possessed
-eyes, nevertheless, and those directed north were riveted on a band of
-Indians who, since sunrise, had been busy getting into camp about half a
-mile from the post.
-
-The British colony at Halifax was now, counting those within and without
-its walls, over three thousand strong, and though the settlers without
-had been sorely harassed by Indians—whom the governor was beginning at
-last to suspect were set on by the French, despite the peace nominally
-existing between the two nations—they continued to thrive and increase.
-The Indians at present camping so near were soon recognized as Micmacs,
-who had made a solemn treaty with the British the previous year,
-consequently their appearance created but slight interest.
-
-In his own simple apartments the “brave, sensible young man, of great
-temper and good nature,” was writing, with what for him was unusual
-irascibility, a letter to the Bishop of Quebec. But his patience had
-been sorely tried. “Was it you,” he wrote, “who sent Le Loutre as a
-missionary to the Micmacs? And is it for their good that he excites
-these wretches to practise their cruelties against those who have shown
-them every kindness? The conduct of the priests of Acadia has been such
-that by command of his majesty I have published an order declaring that
-if any one of them presumes to exercise his functions without my express
-permission he shall be dealt with according to the laws of England.”
-
-Having finished his letter he gave orders that the French priest,
-Girard, should be invited to a final audience. Obedient to the summons,
-an elderly man, of strong and gentle countenance, made his appearance.
-Bidding him be seated, Cornwallis addressed him courteously in French.
-
-“_M. le Curé_,” he began, “you know that you are one of very few who
-have been required to take the oath to do nothing contrary to the
-interests of the country I serve. Is not that so?”
-
-The priest bent his head with quiet dignity.
-
-“I believe now that of you it was not necessary to exact it.”
-
-“Pardon, _M. le Gouverneur_, of me it was not exacted. I rendered it.”
-
-“Pardon, _M. le Curé_, you are in the right. I owe you an apology.”
-
-“_Monsieur_ has nothing for which to make amends. He is all honor and
-generosity.”
-
-Cornwallis bowed in acknowledgment of the compliment, then continued:
-
-“There are many, however, of whom it would be as well for these simple
-Acadians as for helpless English settlers that the oath of allegiance to
-my king were demanded. This Abbé Le Loutre, for example, he is a very
-firebrand. Nay, rather a wolf in sheep’s clothing, working havoc in the
-poor, silly flock. Know you him, _M. le Curé_?”
-
-The priest lowered his eyes.
-
-“_M. le Gouverneur_,” he replied in a constrained tone, “it is contrary
-to the habit of my order to say of our superior, He is wrong or he is
-right.”
-
-“Once more, pardon!” cried the younger man frankly. “I made an error.
-Tell me, M. Girard, on your return to Cobequid, what course will you
-pursue?”
-
-“In accordance with my oath, _M. le Gouverneur_, I shall inform M.
-Longueuil that I can make no effort to prevent my people from submitting
-to you, according to their own desires.”
-
-“And what, think you, your governor will reply?”
-
-“I know not, _monsieur_, but it is probable that I shall be compelled to
-retire from my position.”
-
-The two men, of different creed and antagonistic blood, looked each
-other full in the face. Then, with manifestations of mutual respect,
-clasped hands.
-
-“Adieu, _M. le Curé_.”
-
-“Adieu, _M. le Gouverneur_. The saints have you in their holy keeping,
-and bring you to the shelter of the true fold.”
-
-But as Girard turned to go, Cornwallis spoke again:
-
-“M. Girard, there is a lad here, half Acadian, half British, know you
-aught of him?”
-
-“Gabriel—ah, the hard name! I cannot call it.”
-
-“Yet did the name and he that originally bore it sail once with your own
-conquering William from the land of your birth. Champernowne—it is a
-Norman name—and you, you yourself come from _la belle Normandie_, is it
-not so, _M. le Curé_?”
-
-“It is true, _monsieur_. But this boy, I have heard of him from the
-_curé_ at Port Royal. He is a good boy, though, alas, no longer of our
-faith.”
-
-“He is to be trusted?”
-
-“So I have been assured, _monsieur_.”
-
-Meanwhile another scene was being enacted under the eastern rampart. “In
-the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, Gabriel, I baptize
-thee.”
-
-The brief ceremony was at an end, and the few witnesses departed.
-
-Feeling somehow encouraged by this open profession of his inward
-convictions to thread the difficult maze that lay before him, Gabriel
-joined the New England minister at his frugal meal, and then at his
-advice betook himself to an upper chamber to rest his weary body. But
-rest to aching heart and tired brain would not come. In whom should he
-confide? What should he do? Even his knowledge of the English tongue was
-limited, though it fitted readily to his own, and he felt that he would
-soon be master of it. Of but one thing was he certain; come what would,
-he must now cast in his lot with his father’s race. There were ways by
-which he could earn his bread—he, active and vigorous and accustomed to
-labor. And the colonists, they would need defenders; he could handle a
-musket with the best, and endure long marches. Then, with a groan he
-turned his face to the wall. Margot—the grandfather! Like a knife
-turning in his heart the harrowing dread would not be stilled. Nothing
-could be done, no revelation of intended treachery made, until these two
-were beyond the reach of Le Loutre and his terrible threats. And the
-days would slip past as the hours were slipping now. Could, would, the
-English governor help them? Then slowly, like swallows sailing
-circlewise ever nearer and nearer their resting place, his revolving
-thoughts settled down upon their nest. Yes, there was one hope. He
-sprang from the bed and was out of the house in less time than it takes
-to write the words.
-
-“M. Girard, M. Girard,” he said to himself as he hastened along. But
-when he arrived at the priest’s lodging, he was informed that _M. le
-Curé_ had started two hours before for Cobequid.
-
-The woman of the house, mother herself of stalwart sons, felt her heart
-stir in pity for this splendid-looking youth, with the “air noble” and
-the sad face. She was a former parishioner of M. Girard, an Acadian come
-hither from Cobequid.
-
-“But see,” she said, following him out of the door, “_M. le Curé_ was to
-tarry awhile at the Indian camp. Maybe he is still there.”
-
-With a word of thanks Gabriel hastened away. Yet back to the Indian
-camp, that nest of traitors. There was, however, no help for it. In any
-case he would have to return to the camp at nightfall, for he was
-closely watched, and his plans were not yet ripe for defying his dusky
-guardians, two or three of whom on the morrow expected to be conducted
-within the walls of Halifax. To obtain private speech with the _curé_
-would no doubt be difficult, but it must be done. Fortune favored him.
-As he skirted the low hills to the eastward of the camp, watching his
-opportunity, he beheld a man in priestly garb, escorted by some Cobequid
-Acadians, who had voluntarily visited Halifax to take the new oath of
-allegiance, making his way across the levels in the direction of the
-forest. Girard’s adieu to Le Loutre’s “lambs” was, then, made. Weary and
-spent as he was, Gabriel put forth his last remaining strength and ran
-swiftly forward to intercept the party. He accomplished his object, and
-standing respectfully before the priest returned his gentle greeting.
-
-“And who art thou, my son?”
-
-“My name, _mon père_, is Gabriel, grandson of Pierre Grétin, habitan of
-Port Royal.”
-
-A long-drawn “Ah!” escaped M. Girard’s lips. Then taking the boy by the
-arm he led him out of earshot, and seating himself on a small hillock,
-said kindly:
-
-“Rest, my son. The sun is yet some hours high, and thou art weary, and
-hast a tale to tell.”
-
-“Oh, _mon père_!” cried Gabriel, then stopped, unable to proceed.
-
-This son of a mixed race could be steadfast as well as brave, but that
-intense vitality which sends the warm life-blood coursing through the
-veins like a torrent instead of as a calm and sluggish stream, even
-while acting as a spur to noble endeavor and keeping the heart forever
-young, exacts also its penalties. Now that the moment had arrived on
-which all his hopes hung, Gabriel was past speech. He lay face downward
-on the short turf, struggling with a burst of passionate tears that
-would not be repressed.
-
-“Weep, my son, weep,” said the kind old man, laying his hand on the fair
-head, “thou hast endured much, and thou art but a lad. Moreover, thou
-hast this day solemnly abjured thy mother’s faith. I reproach thee not,
-but for a youth such as thou, thou didst take upon thyself a grave
-responsibility.”
-
-But Gabriel was pulling himself together, and presently he sat up and
-shook the curls back from his eyes.
-
-“_Mon père_,” he said, still clinging to the old loved title familiar to
-him from earliest childhood, “that I know; I considered long; and forget
-not that the faith to which I have turned was the faith of my father.
-But it is not of myself I would speak, it is of those dearer to me than
-life.”
-
-Then briefly he narrated the events that had occurred, his forced
-abandonment of his grandfather and cousin, their desolate and helpless
-condition, and the _abbé’s_ threats should he fail in the task demanded
-of him.
-
-“And this task I cannot and will not fulfill,” concluded Gabriel firmly;
-“then should I be traitor indeed.”
-
-M. Girard’s face had grown very sad. The conduct of Le Loutre had caused
-him and many another gentle-hearted priest much sorrow. Yet he was the
-superior; his authority could not be questioned. He remained silent for
-a while; then spoke, not without hesitation.
-
-“My son,” he said, “there is a way, but even that way is not without
-difficulties. Thy cousin—Margot—our Acadian youth are often
-householders at thine age. Yes, I know, those of English blood are more
-backward in such matters, but there must be true affection betwixt you,
-and for thy wife she is altogether suitable. Thus thou couldst protect
-her and the _gran’-père_ also. The saints forbid that I should encourage
-a union betwixt a heretic and a daughter of the church were there any
-other way, and did I not hope much from her influence. Wives have
-brought erring husbands back to the true fold ere now, and thou art
-scarce experienced enough to have embraced for reasons that will endure
-another faith. It was resentment, not conviction, that led thee astray.
-
-“Among the Acadians protected by the fort the followers of the Holy
-Catholic Church dwell in peace, ministered to by priests who have taken
-the oath of allegiance to the English king. There, with Margot for thy
-wife, thou wilt return to the true faith.”
-
-The good old priest, pleased with the future his imagination had
-created, rambled on. But after the first Gabriel hardly heard him.
-_Margot his wife!_ The hot blood flamed to cheek and brow, then the
-flash faded, leaving him paler than before. Who was it that dared thus
-to handle the sweet familiar affection, from whose leaves the delicate
-bud, destined in the fullness of time to expand into the radiant flower
-of a strong man’s love, peeped forth so timidly that he himself had not
-yet ventured to do more than glance at it and then avert his eyes? When
-had he first known that those cool, green leaves held for him such a
-pearl of price? It was at his last parting from Margot, when forced to
-flee and leave those so helpless and so dear to the mercy of Le Loutre.
-The remembrance of this parting had never left him, despite danger,
-suffering, dread, not for one little hour. But that any one should speak
-of that of which he had never yet spoken to himself! Gradually, however,
-the sense of shock, of desecration, faded; and when after a long and
-patient waiting M. Girard addressed him almost in the very words once
-used by the _abbé_, but with very different intention, his answer this
-time was prompt and decisive.
-
-“_Mon fils_, art thou boy or man?”
-
-“I am a man, _mon père_.”
-
-“Well, think on what I have said.”
-
-The priest gathered up his skirts and arose.
-
-“But, Margot, _mon père_? Her desires may be quite other——”
-
-Gabriel’s cheeks were hot again. He faltered in his speech. The old man
-looked him up and down. Yes, he was a goodly youth. A queer little smile
-flickered on the priest’s thin-lipped mouth, but all he said was:
-
-“My son, these things arrange themselves.”
-
-He turned to go. Gabriel stood where he had left him, dreamy-eyed and
-quiet. Then, with a start he came to himself. He was allowing M. Girard
-to go, and nothing was settled. This was no time for dreams impossible
-of immediate fulfillment; there was work to be done, and that quickly.
-With one bound he had overtaken the priest and laid his hand on his arm.
-
-“But soon—in a day, two days—the _abbé_ will know me disobedient
-here,” he cried. “I cannot go to Port Royal, neither can the
-_gran’-père_ endure the toilsome journey hither. O _mon père_, advise,
-counsel me.”
-
-The priest paused, irresolute.
-
-“My son, in this matter of the fort I cannot advise thee. For the
-_gran’-père_ and the little Margot I will give them what protection I
-may. _M. l’Abbé_ visits Cobequid on matters concerning the oath I have
-taken, and I will represent to him that thou art one whom to drive is
-vain, but that thou canst be led. Put thy faith in the Holy Mother, _mon
-fils_, she will intercede for thee and thine. Ah, I had forgotten, thou
-art no longer of the faith. Adieu, then, poor youth.”
-
-With a cold chill at his heart, and a sense of desolation such as never
-in his young life he had felt before, Gabriel watched the figure of him
-who represented his last hope disappear into the now darkening shades of
-the forest.
-
-But sometimes it happens that hope is never so near us as when we deem
-her fled. As Gabriel slowly bent his steps toward the settlement by the
-way that he had come, a dusky form glided out from the hills and
-confronted him.
-
-“I have sought Wild Deer long,” said a well-known voice, “and at last I
-find him.”
-
-“Jean Jacques.”
-
-“It is he. But say not that Jean Jacques was faithless to the paleface
-boy. He was not. Let Wild Deer clasp hands with the Micmac, and all may
-yet be well.”
-
-
-                               CHAPTER IV
-
-Night had closed in around the new fort of Halifax and upon the houses
-clustered about its walls. With a beating heart Gabriel leaned against
-the postern, waiting for the expected summons from the lambs of Le
-Loutre. What if his plans should fail? What if the governor’s trust in
-the word of a mere boy should falter? What if the feet of Jean Jacques
-should waver ere the goal was reached?
-
-Gabriel had followed that rarely misleading impulse which impels one
-soul of honor to confide in another, no matter what the dividing line
-between them, whether of sex, age, or degree. Cornwallis knew all, and
-Jean Jacques was on his way to remove the _gran’-père_ and Margot to a
-place of safety, if yet there might be time.
-
-Time! Yes, time was all that Gabriel needed for the escape of those whom
-he loved, happen what might to himself. Yet on his own safety theirs in
-part depended, he thought. How should the riddle be solved?
-
-The peace and well-being of those two once secured, he would spread his
-untried wings and do more than merely dream of a new life beyond the
-bars of the narrow cage in which his life had hitherto been passed. He
-longed to lead a man’s life,—worthy of Margot, worthy of his dead
-father,—not that of a dull steer hitched to a plow!
-
-He had not told Cornwallis that among the Micmacs incited to this deed
-of treachery there were in all probability some of his own countrymen
-disguised as Indians. It was the policy of Le Loutre to induce by
-threats or bribes the more or less reluctant Acadians to perform such
-services. It was easy for the priest to protest in case of the capture
-of the Acadians that it was not the French who had broken the peace, but
-the inhabitants themselves, of their own free will. The Acadians were
-useful for the encouragement of the Indians; therefore were they used.
-Gabriel reasoned that not until the presence of the Acadians was
-discovered would the time arrive to plead for them. The governor was a
-man of kind heart as well as of good sense, and the boy would represent
-to him the simplicity and ignorance of these his country-people, who,
-although not loving those of alien blood, would assuredly have lived
-peaceably under their rule, had it not been for their priest’s threats
-and their terror of eternal damnation. Gabriel knew, but would never
-add, that the cowardice of weak natures was allied with its almost
-inevitable comrades, deceit and untruthfulness.
-
-Whilst Gabriel waited without, Cornwallis sat in his room, the tallow
-candles in the silver sconces brought from England shedding their
-flaring light upon his bowed head. He had dismissed his council and was
-alone with his secretary. His kind, manly face was clouded with
-dejection. His term of service was drawing to a close, and despite his
-efforts, the Acadians were no better off than before. Presently he arose
-and began pacing the floor.
-
-“Poor, unhappy people!” he exclaimed. “Why cannot they understand that
-France but uses them as in the ancient fable the monkey used the cat?
-They were contented enough before this priest came to scare their small
-wits out of them.”
-
-“Yet, my lord,” put in the secretary, “I have heard that the Acadians
-were ever a contentious race, given to petty strife and over fond of the
-law.”
-
-The governor smiled.
-
-“And who would deny them those simple joys in their dull lives? Their
-harmless disputes kept the sluggish blood moving in their veins and
-serious trouble was rare. Now all is changed. If by their vacillation
-they drive us to stern courses, sad, alas, will be their fate. We have
-borne much treachery, but the end is at hand.”
-
-“It will be well for them, my lord, if your successor is as forbearing
-as yourself,” observed the secretary gathering up his papers.
-
-There was a knock at the door, and Gabriel’s fair head appeared.
-
-“They are here, my lord,” he said in a low voice.
-
-“Do you retire, then, my son,” replied the governor; “your safety
-demands that you should not know too much if it be that you still desire
-to go with these savages.”
-
-“It is my only hope, my lord.”
-
-“And if you fail?” Cornwallis added, laying his hand kindly on the boy’s
-shoulder. “What then? Remember, that if you find neither Jean Jacques
-nor those dear to you, the country to whom your father proved his
-allegiance owes you in turn something.”
-
-“Whether my quest be vain or no,” and Gabriel’s voice faltered, “God
-sparing me, I shall return to serve under the flag for which my father
-fought and died, and in the faith that was his.”
-
-“God keep you, then,” said the governor fervently, and turned aside.
-
-Great, indeed, was the astonishment of Jean Baptiste Cope, the favorite
-chief of Le Loutre, when he found himself ushered into the presence of
-the governor. He knew that the priest had commanded Gabriel to take
-advantage of his knowledge of the fort and of the habits of the sentries
-to admit the Micmacs into the building at the dead of night, while all
-save the sentries slept; yet here was the dead of night and here stood
-the governor himself, cool and grave, and the fort was alive with
-wakeful and armed men.
-
-Cornwallis held in hand a treaty of peace, to which these same Micmacs
-had solemnly affixed their totems less than one year before. He was
-empowered by his government to go to almost any length in the matter of
-bribes and presents to bind the Indians to peace, as by such means alone
-was peace for the whole unhappy country to be secured. Le Loutre,
-deprived of his lambs, would be practically powerless to stir up strife.
-Already Cornwallis foresaw the tragic outcome of this long-continued
-trouble. The vacillations and treachery of the wretched Acadians
-rendered justice, law, and order alike impossible, and peace and
-prosperity were out of the question so long as they hesitated betwixt
-two masters. That Le Loutre was well paid for his services Cornwallis
-was assured. As the French minister wrote to Prévost, the intendant at
-Louisbourg, a French possession in Acadie: “The fear is that the zeal of
-Le Loutre and Maillard,” another equally bigoted priest, “may carry them
-too far. Excite them to keep the Indians in our interest, but do not let
-them compromise us. Act always so as to make the English appear as
-aggressors.”
-
-Bearing these things in mind, Cornwallis bent all his energies to
-winning over the Micmac lambs, and after a long pow-wow, the pipe of
-peace was again smoked and “Major” Cope, as he called himself, swore for
-his tribe allegiance to the English government. Laden with gifts and
-escorted by the governor in person, they forsook their camp the
-following afternoon and embarked on a small schooner, manned by an
-English crew which outnumbered the little band of savages. With them
-went Gabriel.
-
-Four weeks later Prévost wrote to the French minister: “Last month the
-savages took eighteen English scalps, and M. Le Loutre was obliged to
-pay them eighteen hundred _livres_, Acadian money, which I have
-reimbursed him.”
-
-And the _gran’-père_ and Margot, where were they?
-
-Jean Jacques, with the subtlety of his race, did not go direct to
-Annapolis. He was aware that many of the Acadians had been induced by Le
-Loutre to leave the river valley and had betaken themselves to the
-larger settlement of Beaubassin; and later rumors had reached him that
-the English were about to lay claim to their own and send a small force
-under Lawrence—destined to be governor of the province—to quell the
-constant disaffection created by the French troops at Beauséjour, across
-the Missaguash. It was to Beaubassin, then, that the Micmac turned his
-steps.
-
-He arrived to find a scene of wild terror; that which has been termed
-the first expulsion of the Acadians was in full progress.
-
-It was evening, and the western sky was dark with clouds, but as Jean
-Jacques, at the rapid Indian dog-trot, stole swiftly toward the
-settlement, he observed to himself that the villagers would have scant
-need of their tallow dips that night. In huddled groups—the women and
-children wailing, the men almost equally demoralized—the unfortunate
-Acadians watched the destruction of their homes; not only so, but what
-was worse to the many devout among them, the same devouring flames
-consuming their church. And the moving spirit of this tragic scene was
-their own _abbé_—he whom they had revered and wholly feared.
-
-The imposing figure of Le Loutre stood out in bold relief against the
-blazing edifice. Crucifix held aloft, he incited his Micmacs, genuine
-and spurious alike, to the dreadful deed.
-
-Jean Jacques mingled unremarked with his tribe.
-
-“It is for the good of your souls, my people!” thundered the enthusiast.
-“You refused to obey the gentle voice of the true church and follow
-where she leads. Now your salvation must be wrought for you; to live at
-ease under the protection of heretics will bring damnation on your
-souls.”
-
-“Charlot, what does the priest to the palefaces?”
-
-At the sound of his own name the Acadian, disguised in paint and
-feathers, started violently, but peering into the face of Jean Jacques
-his fears were quieted.
-
-“’Tis for the good of their souls,” he repeated, as a sullen boy
-reciting a lesson.
-
-Seizing him by the arm, the Micmac drew him out of the throng. A brief
-colloquy ensued, punctuated by Jean Jacques with grunts of disapproval;
-then, releasing the Acadian, he made his way unheeded in the commotion
-toward a small hut, as yet beyond the reach of the flames. Pushing open
-the door, he entered.
-
-Upon a couch of moss in a corner lay an old man, evidently dying. Beside
-him knelt a priest performing the last sacred offices of the Catholic
-Church, and a young girl, the tears upon her pale, worn cheeks. At a
-glance the Indian perceived that he had found those he sought—Pierre
-Grétin, Margot, and the good priest of Cobequid, M. Girard. Had the
-priest not been too much absorbed in his solemn duty to notice the
-newcomer, the significant fact that the so-called ‘convert’ failed to
-cross himself would not have passed unobserved. Jean Jacques kneeled
-down, however, reverently enough.
-
-All that night the circle of fire slowly widened, spreading ever more
-slowly because the clouds broke in heavy showers; but at length, soon
-after the poor old man had breathed his last and the bright dawn was
-illuminating the clearing sky, Jean Jacques saw that another place of
-refuge must be sought from the fire. Gathering up the few articles the
-miserable hut contained, he sped with them to the shelter of the near-by
-woods, and then returning he wrapped, with characteristic taciturnity,
-the body of the _gran’-père_ in the blanket and, followed by the priest
-and the weeping Margot, bore it also away.
-
-“For the sainted _gran’-père_ there is no consecrated ground!” moaned
-the girl, casting a backward glance at the smouldering ruins of the
-church.
-
-“Weep not for that, my daughter,” said the priest in soothing tones, as
-he led her forward, “for the faithful servant holy ground shall be
-found.”
-
-He drew from beneath his robe a tiny vial of holy water and in due form
-consecrated the spot of earth in the forest in which the _gran’-père_
-was to rest. Then seizing one of the two mattocks brought from the hut,
-he set to work with the Indian.
-
-Few, indeed, were the tools or other possessions Pierre Grétin had
-contrived to save in their compulsory flight from the pleasant home in
-the Annapolis Valley—a flight which had taken place shortly after
-Gabriel’s departure. Even then they might have held on longer had not an
-ancient grudge on the part of a neighbor served to keep their obstinacy
-ever before the eyes of Le Loutre; for it has been said that the
-Acadians were a people given to petty squabbles. At Beaubassin they had
-found refuge with many others of their race, but on English ground, and
-it was on this account that the bigoted priest sought to remove them.
-Long had the Acadians tacitly resisted, not out of love for the English,
-but out of love for the peace so dear to their sluggish natures and
-which they were permitted to enjoy under British rule, so long, at
-least, as they refrained from meddling or from bearing arms.
-
-“No coffin, _mon père_?” said Margot timidly at last.
-
-For answer the priest stuck his spade into the ground; the work was
-done. Then he pointed to a white sail upon the waters of Chignecto Bay.
-
-“The English!” she murmured awestruck; and then again, “And no coffin,
-_M. le Curé_?”
-
-“The English are heretics, my daughter, but they do not desecrate
-graves. The body of God’s servant will be as safe here as in his loved
-Annapolis.”
-
-Then Jean Jacques and M. Girard laid the body in the grave, and as the
-priest took out his breviary and began to read the first words of the
-office for the dead, the Micmac slipped away to the hut, thence to
-remove the scanty remains of Margot’s possessions. The short service
-over, Margot herself helped M. Girard in the filling of the grave.
-
-But even as they worked the mingled sounds of lamentation and exultation
-drew nearer, and just as the grave was filled, the imperious figure of
-Le Loutre, his face alight with religious fervor, stood beside it.
-
-“What doest thou here, brother?” he said sternly.
-
-“What thou seest, _M. l’Abbé_. I lay in consecrated earth the remains of
-this our brother in the faith.”
-
-“In consecrated earth,” cried Le Loutre. “What earth is consecrated trod
-by the feet of heretics? M. Girard, I exhort thee, in the name of the
-holy mother of God, to remove to uncontaminated soil the body of this
-servant of the true church.”
-
-He pointed as he spoke to the crowd of hurrying fugitives pressing
-across the water in boats and on rafts.
-
-M. Girard faced his superior calmly. Well he knew that when, for the
-sake of his flock as also for the sake of right, he had taken that oath
-at Halifax, he had incurred the suspicion, nay anger, of his clerical
-superiors; but in the mild eyes which he raised to the fierce ones of
-the _abbé_ there was no fear—only the firmness which has led many as
-gentle a martyr to the stake.
-
-“_M. l’Abbé_ knows,” he said quietly, “that the ground consecrated by a
-priest of the church becomes holy ground, and that to disturb the dead
-laid therein is profanation.”
-
-It seemed a long time to the anxious Margot before the silent duel was
-decided, for some moments elapsed ere either spoke again. Then the hand
-of Le Loutre slowly fell, and he averted his eyes. Not even his
-arrogance could forswear the tenets of the church for which he fought so
-zealously.
-
-“But this maiden?”
-
-He spoke with forced indifference.
-
-“She would go under my protection to Cobequid.”
-
-“That shall never be!” exclaimed Le Loutre violently. “Is not one of the
-most rebellious of my flock her near kinsman, and shall that dangerous
-and seditious youth have access to her? If thou dost desire so great a
-wrong, _M. le Curé_——”
-
-But before M. Girard could reply Margot was on her knees.
-
-“_M. l’Abbé_,” she cried, “only tell me that Gabriel—_mon cousin_—is
-alive and well, and I will ask nothing further.”
-
-Le Loutre looked down upon the girl in silence, a contemptuous pity in
-every line of his strongly marked features.
-
-“If he is alive? that I cannot tell thee, maiden. One last chance have I
-given the would-be renegade lest he become ere his time an outcast. How
-he hath borne himself, I as yet know not.”
-
-But M. Girard laid his hand kindly on the bowed dark head.
-
-“My daughter, it is the wish of _M. l’Abbé_ that thou shouldst seek the
-French shore. Louis Herbes, thy neighbor, crosses even now with his
-wife; it would be well for thee to go with these kind friends.”
-
-“And may I not pray one little hour beside the grave of him who was all
-of father and mother I ever knew?” said Margot in stifled tones.
-
-Le Loutre shrugged his shoulders; then crossed himself piously.
-
-“As thou wilt, daughter. One little quarter of an hour will I give
-thee.”
-
-He linked his arm in that of the curé and walked away with him.
-
-Scarcely had the priestly pair disappeared than the bushes at Margot’s
-side rustled and Jean Jacques crept into view. Seizing her wrist in his
-sinewy fingers he led her toward the shore, close to which was now
-anchoring the English ship.
-
-“The Micmac will find thee a refuge, maiden,” he said. “Follow Jean
-Jacques, and all will be well.”
-
-But the timid Acadian girl shrank from the Indian.
-
-“To go among those redcoats—and alone, Jean Jacques? Oh, I cannot.”
-
-“Did not Jean Jacques swear to Wild Deer that he would save his
-kinswoman from the cruel priest?” said the Indian with stoicism, “and
-will he not do it even with the strength of his arm? Neither do the
-white braves harm women.”
-
-“Yes—no—oh, I know not,” faltered Margot; “oh, leave me, Jean Jacques!
-Yet tell me first, where is Gabriel?”
-
-The Indian grunted.
-
-“The Great Spirit knows, not I. But, maiden, while we waste words the
-priest comes, and Jean Jacques is no longer of his faith; the faith of
-the Micmac is the faith of the Wild Deer. Wilt thou come, or no?”
-
-Margot started. “Then Gabriel is in truth a heretic!”
-
-Whilst she hesitated, Jean Jacques, who was in no mood for delay, led
-her deeper into the woods.
-
-Now Margot, though, as we know, possessed of that kind of courage which
-will bravely choose and do the right, and even be physically brave for
-those she loved, was naturally timid, and now she was worn and exhausted
-and scarcely mistress of herself. Her inborn terror of Indians got the
-upper hand, and she uttered a piercing shriek, promptly stifled by the
-Micmac’s hand upon her mouth. Then he suddenly released her.
-
-“Maiden,” he said, “Jean Jacques can do no more. Thou wilt not seek
-safety? So be it then. The priests come—Jean Jacques goes.”
-
-The girl made a great effort, and though still very pale, held out her
-hand with a smile to the Indian.
-
-“Forgive me, Jean Jacques,” she said in tones which would have won
-forgiveness anywhere; “my heart is sick, I know not what I do. Take me
-whither thou wilt—whither Wild Deer wills.”
-
-“And it shall not be to the redcoat braves,” said the Indian, as
-together they sped through the undergrowth. “Down beside the crimson
-Missaguash there are homes in which thy race still dwells in peace, even
-as those who remain beside the Annapolis. Thither will the Micmac take
-the maiden of Wild Deer.”
-
-“Halt!” thundered a familiar voice. “A straying lamb, indeed—a lamb in
-sore need of chastisement.”
-
-But for once the fierce priest had reckoned amiss. Quicker than the
-lightning’s flash the hand of the Indian went to his tomahawk, his eyes
-glittering balefully. With a motion almost as rapid the whistle
-wherewith Le Loutre summoned his lambs was at his lips, while with his
-disengaged hand he held a crucifix aloft. But that almost might have
-ruled betwixt life and death had not Margot sprung forward and placed
-her slight body as a shield for the priest.
-
-“Jean Jacques,” she cried, “is this thy new faith? to strike the
-anointed of God?”
-
-The upraised tomahawk dropped, and the Indian grunted sullenly. But Le
-Loutre, the full violence of whose fanaticism was aroused by the
-‘perversion’ of one of his lambs, was not to be so easily pacified,
-though life itself were at stake; and the influence of the paleface
-maiden might not have availed to save him, so irritating was the
-language he used toward the already enraged Micmac, had not Margot,
-aghast at the prospect of beholding the _abbé_ murdered before her very
-eyes, hastily promised to go with him whither he would, if so be he
-would permit the Indian to depart in peace.
-
-“Swear upon the crucifix,” insisted Le Loutre, “that you will follow me
-back to the true fold.”
-
-Scarcely realized by herself, the girl’s heart and sense, and perhaps
-also the recollection of Gabriel’s persecution, were combining to lead
-her in spirit away from that fold; and now she drew back.
-
-“I will take no oath, _mon père_,” she said gently, “but I promise to go
-with thee now; more I cannot promise.”
-
-Then she turned to Jean Jacques, holding out her hand in grateful
-farewell.
-
-[Illustration: “But Gabriel had neither eyes nor ears for the priest.”]
-
-“Seek thine own safety,” she said hurriedly, “and if _mon cousin_ lives,
-tell him——”
-
-Her voice broke, and she started to follow the already moving priest.
-
-“If Gabriel lives!” cried another voice, and in a moment she was in the
-arms of its owner.
-
-What matter that he wore the scarlet coat of the British soldier, that
-he had forsworn the faith of their common forefathers? Was he not
-Gabriel still, the playmate of her childhood, and now, as she suddenly
-understood, the lover of her youth?
-
-It was but for a moment, and then the priest tore them asunder.
-
-“Heretic boy!” he exclaimed, regardless of the Micmac, who once more
-approached threateningly, “release this maiden, unworthy as thou art to
-touch the hem of her garment.”
-
-But Gabriel had neither eyes nor ears for the priest. He freed Margot
-from his embrace indeed, but held her hand firmly in his, and flushed
-and smiling gazed upon the small, downcast face bright with rapture.
-
-“It is with me thou comest, is it not so, _ma cousine_?” he said softly,
-bending over her.
-
-She lifted her dark eyes, and for a long minute they rested on his,
-heedless of the objurgations of Le Loutre. Then she remembered, and her
-face grew suddenly so pale that its wanness struck Gabriel with a great
-fear. How much, ah, how much, she had suffered. He seemed to see it all
-now.
-
-“I have promised—I dare not break my sacred word.”
-
-Her voice was barely audible.
-
-“It is true,” cried the priest, thrusting himself so abruptly betwixt
-the cousins as to compel Gabriel to drop the hand of the girl, “she has
-promised to return to the true fold, and as the daughter of mother
-church the touch of the heretic is defilement.”
-
-Gabriel lifted his fair head with the old fearless air that had ever
-exasperated the priest, while winning his reluctant admiration.
-
-“It may be that I am no longer a boy,” he said coolly, “at least I am no
-longer of your church; and by all laws human and divine, she being my
-next of kin, this maiden has a right to my protection. Also, _M.
-l’Abbé_, you are upon English ground.”
-
-He pointed to the thin line of redcoats deploying upon a low hill some
-distance away.
-
-The face of Le Loutre was convulsed with hatred.
-
-“The more reason that we swiftly depart,” he said. “Come, daughter, bear
-in mind thy vow.”
-
-Gabriel’s blue eyes flashed as Margot had so often seen them do in the
-past. She pressed by the _abbé_, and taking her cousin’s outstretched
-hands, said in a low, persuasive voice:
-
-“Gabriel, _mon ami_, it is even so. I promised to go with _M. l’Abbé_ in
-order to save his life; there was no other way. But the promise was only
-for the day; I would make no further vow.”
-
-Le Loutre watched the girl uneasily, for had she not refused to swear
-upon the cross, and what was a mere promise without some appeal to
-superstition? He could not comprehend the force of a higher influence
-than that of mere symbolism.
-
-Pale now as Margot herself Gabriel moved aside with her, holding her
-hands, and looking down into the pathos of those dark eyes which
-possessed, even as in the days when they were children together, power
-to still the tumult in his breast—the rebellion of a nature more
-passionate than her own.
-
-“It is but for this one day, _mon_ Gabriel,” she murmured.
-
-“But for this one day!” he repeated. “And our force is small, and God
-alone knows where we may be on the morrow. Margot, must it be?”
-
-“Gabriel, it was thou who didst first tell me, when thy heart began to
-change toward our church, that to break the promised word was to lie,
-and that to lie was deadly sin. Oh, _mon cousin_, dost thou not
-remember?”
-
-“I do, I do!” he groaned, passing his hand over his eyes in unbearable
-anguish.
-
-“The priest will not harm me,” she went on, “and I shall be with
-friends—Louis Herbes and his good wife. They will build them a hut
-close beside the water, so that if chance offer they may return to
-English soil—dost hearken, Gabriel?”
-
-Gabriel’s face cleared.
-
-“Yes, yes, sweet cousin. I will take a boat—to-morrow—toward the
-sunsetting—remember.”
-
-“It is well. But, Gabriel, go. See the lambs—they come.”
-
-“I fear them not,” he cried, the warrior spirit awake in an instant;
-“let them come. Have I not baffled them already many times? I would bear
-thee through a host of them, my Margot.”
-
-“Go, I beseech thee!” she implored, a prayer in her eyes.
-
-“God keep thee in his holy keeping then, until we meet again,” and
-seizing her in his arms he pressed his lips to her brow, and was gone,
-followed by Jean Jacques.
-
-
-                               CHAPTER V
-
-In that hurried meeting and parting Margot had been unable to learn from
-Gabriel the history of his life since they had looked upon one another
-last. Of his conversion to the Protestant faith she already knew, and of
-his sojourn in the fort of Halifax, but of the rest nothing. Most of
-all, nothing of his miraculous escape from the treacherous Micmacs
-during the voyage from Halifax. Le Loutre, too well acquainted with his
-lambs to repose trust in them, and writhing under the knowledge that he
-could not bend the white boy to his will, had made use of a well-known
-half-breed spy to keep him informed of the doings at the fort. This man
-was instructed, should the murderous plot fail or the Micmacs be once
-more won over to the English, to offer the savages yet higher bribes, so
-that they should at the last moment turn again to France. These higher
-bribes of course prevailed, and reinforced by members of their own
-tribe, who boarded the vessel under cover of the darkness, the English
-crew was overpowered, and all, with one exception, massacred. The
-exception, needless to say, was Gabriel. When the priest heard of the
-boy’s escape he scarce knew whether to mourn or to rejoice; for, until
-he had seen him actually in English uniform, he had still hoped to win
-over this choice spirit to his service.
-
-Gabriel, being an expert swimmer, had contrived to make his way to the
-shore, and from thence by a toilsome route to the fort. Arrived there,
-all hesitation was at an end. Once and forever he threw in his lot with
-his father’s race; and chiefly in the hope of rescuing the _gran’-père_
-and Margot, but also because his natural bent was to a soldier’s career,
-he offered his services to the government. Cornwallis accepted them
-gladly, placing him advantageously from the first, and recommending him
-strongly to his successor, to make way for whom he shortly after crossed
-the ocean. Cornwallis carried with him at best a heavy heart, but it was
-in some degree lightened by the gratitude of the many to whom he had
-shown kindness.
-
-It is doubtful whether the French government invariably approved of the
-lengths to which the zeal of Le Loutre carried him. At all events, the
-home ministers occasionally found it advisable to shut their eyes to his
-method of interpreting their instructions; which were, in brief, to keep
-Acadie at any price, or rather to keep their share of the unhappy
-country and take all the rest that was not theirs.
-
-When Jean Jacques told Gabriel of the _gran’-père’s_ death, and of the
-privations he and the girl had endured, even the new hope for Margot
-could not keep back the tears. For Gabriel had loved and revered the
-good old man; therefore he wept and was not ashamed. But doubly
-necessary was it now to carry Margot away, though where to bestow her in
-the English camp he hardly knew—only he felt sure that a way would be
-opened. Major Lawrence was acquainted with his story and would certainly
-aid him. Moreover, the smallness of the force caused him to believe that
-their stay on the Missaguash would be brief, and once at Halifax, Margot
-would find refuge with her country-people assembled there. Perhaps there
-too, she might learn to love his faith and be turned wholly from the
-Romish Church, and then perhaps—perhaps—who could say?
-
-But Gabriel’s daydreams were rudely dispelled, and the struggle betwixt
-love and duty was not yet at an end.
-
-The very next day, when he, with the aid of the faithful Micmac, was
-about to carry out his carefully laid scheme, Major Lawrence, having
-satisfied himself that his force was too small for the work it would
-have to accomplish, gave orders for immediate re-embarkation.
-
-“The fortunes of war, my lad,” he said, with a shrug, and gave the
-matter no further thought; for Lawrence was made of very different stuff
-from Cornwallis, as the Acadians were to discover when he became
-governor of the province soon after. Not by nature a patient man, such
-patience as he had acquired soon vanished when appointed to direct a
-people who, it must be confessed, were not without trying
-characteristics. Already he marveled at the leniency of Cornwallis. To
-plead with Lawrence for a few hours grace, therefore, Gabriel knew to be
-unavailing; probably it would have been so with Cornwallis also, for
-after all “discipline must be maintained.” But at least the governor
-would have shown some sympathy. There came a moment when the young
-soldier was inclined to rebel, then duty triumphed, and he had learned
-his hardest lesson in self-restraint, which if a man fails to learn he
-becomes little better than a castaway. So duty and honor prevailed, and
-Gabriel confided his cousin to the care of Jean Jacques for as long a
-time as the Protestant convert dared to remain in that dangerous
-neighborhood; thereafter, if possible, the Indian was to convey the girl
-to the fort at Halifax, where were gathered many of her countrymen.
-Nevertheless, Gabriel leaned with straining eyes and an almost breaking
-heart over the bulwarks of the vessel that bore him rapidly away from
-all he loved best on earth, his only consolation being that he was
-keeping faith and doing his duty, and that the God of love and faith
-would not forsake either him or Margot.
-
-And, indeed, he was to be yet further tried. Upon his arrival at Halifax
-he found great changes. Cornwallis had departed, and his place was
-already taken by Hopson, his immediate successor. In the excitement of
-new arrangements, heightened by the information that the French were
-invading the colonies, the recruit was suddenly plunged into another
-existence. By the special recommendation of the late governor he was
-attached to a lately arrived regiment marching south, and thereupon his
-boyhood’s dreams of escaping from the dull Acadian round, and of making
-himself of some account in the world, began to show signs of future
-fulfillment. Courage, fidelity, and intelligence, were virtues then as
-now sure to make their mark. The day came when the young soldier served
-under Washington himself, sharing with him the failure that made the
-fourth of July, 1754, the darkest day, perhaps, of his whole eventful
-life. But Gabriel’s relations with the Father of his country belong to a
-part of his career with which Acadie had nothing to do, and which
-therefore does not belong to this story. For him the long separation was
-in truth less hard than for the girl. He at least could drown the
-torturing sense of powerlessness to aid her in constant activity, and in
-a succession of duties and dangers; and the hours of his saddest thought
-were often interrupted by some stirring call to arms.
-
-Far other was poor Margot’s lot. Hers was that of endurance—the hardest
-of all.
-
-The day of her parting from Gabriel went heavily by; and when in the
-waning afternoon she crouched in the long marsh grass while the tide
-fell lower and lower and still no craft appeared upon the waters, she
-wrung her hands in helpless anguish, knowing that in two short hours
-neither boat nor canoe could pass up or down the river; for of the
-Missaguash nothing would remain but deep red mud. Yet Gabriel came not,
-and the precious minutes flew.
-
-The Herbes and herself, pressing far into the woods in the hope of
-returning ere long to peaceful English soil, had missed the weighing of
-the anchor at early dawn and the skimming seaward of the white-winged
-ship bearing Margot’s fondest hope with it. So the girl crouched in the
-grass and waited, while the wife of Louis built a fire upon the firmer
-land and cooked from their scanty store of provisions.
-
-Then at last, breasting the falling tide, a canoe came creeping up the
-Missaguash; and though it came not down, as it should have done from the
-English camp, Margot rose to her feet, and shading her eyes from the
-westering sun, watched it with beating heart and a prayer on her lips.
-Nearer and nearer—but that was no bright head bending over the paddle,
-but a dark and swarthy one—the head of an Indian; and it was Jean
-Jacques who presently grounded his little vessel, and slipped through
-the long grass toward Margot, who was waiting sick at heart. The Micmac
-spoke first.
-
-“Maiden,” he said, “Wild Deer has sailed toward the setting of the sun.
-The braves of his nation commanded and it was for Wild Deer to obey. But
-the Micmac has found for thee a shelter until the youth comes again. Let
-us go quickly, ere the river too follow the sun.”
-
-Bitter indeed was the disappointment, but Margot faced it bravely. After
-all, though their fashion of faith was no longer the same, were not she
-and Gabriel both in the hands of the one God?
-
-“I will go with thee, Jean Jacques,” she said, after a moment’s struggle
-with her grief; “but Louis and Marie, they too desire to go. Whither do
-we follow thee?”
-
-The Indian pointed down the Missaguash, where upon the opposite shore,
-removed from the burned settlement some two or three miles and concealed
-from it by a bend in the river, pleasant farmhouses and cultivated acres
-brooded in the hush of evening.
-
-“And those good people will receive me?”
-
-The Indian nodded.
-
-“And I can work,” she added eagerly. “I can work well, Jean Jacques.”
-
-It was true. The slender, dark-eyed maiden, though of a frailer build
-than the majority of Acadian women, possessed the ambition they so often
-lacked.
-
-“Come, then,” urged Jean Jacques. “The white man and his squaw they must
-wait. The waters of the Missaguash droop in their bed.”
-
-“Wilt thou come for the white man and his wife at the rising of the
-tide?”
-
-The Indian grunted in acquiescence.
-
-“And thou, Jean Jacques, whither wilt thou go?”
-
-He pointed southward.
-
-“Ah, to the new fort! There thou wilt be safe.”
-
-“And thither am I to bear thee, maiden, when the trail is safe for
-thee.”
-
-“It is well. And now, wait but the flashing of an arrow,” cried the
-girl, and was gone.
-
-Then, as Jean Jacques squatted in the marsh grass, there was borne to
-him a sound which caused him to fall prone upon his stomach and crawl as
-the snake crawls toward the woods. For the sound was the cry of the
-paleface maiden, and had not Wild Deer delivered her into the faithful
-keeping of the Micmac?
-
-Now it was not sweet to the heart of Jean Jacques to turn his hand
-against those of his own tribe, well as he knew that the lambs of Le
-Loutre, with whom he had before his conversion, slain and pillaged many
-a time, were in disposition rather birds of prey than lambs.
-
-On the edge of the marsh he paused, lifting his head and gazing. To see
-was to act. With the swift and silent motion of the true Indian the
-arrow was on the string, and in a moment more buried in the heart of the
-feathered brave with whom Margot was struggling. In the background knelt
-a woman, clasping a crucifix to her bosom; beside her the prostrate form
-of a white man—Louis Herbes and Marie, his wife.
-
-As Jean Jacques sprang forward Marie screamed again, whilst Margot
-uttered a cry of joy.
-
-“Jean Jacques! It is our good Jean Jacques! Hasten, Marie! We will lift
-Louis, and bear him to the river. He is but wounded, he is not dead.”
-
-With the taciturnity of his race at a crisis Jean Jacques spoke not.
-Wiser than Margot, he knew that the Micmacs never hunted singly, and
-that if their coveted prey reached the river in safety—well, the
-attempt could at least be made. As for the wounded man, he also knew
-that, though enjoined by Le Loutre to do the Acadians no injury, the
-lambs constantly employed means more in keeping with their savage
-natures than persuasion.
-
-Motioning to the women to take the feet of Louis, who was unconscious,
-he raised him by the shoulders, and the small party began a hurried
-retreat through the marsh grass. Instinctively they all stooped as they
-walked, and well it was for them that they did so, for more than one
-arrow whistled over their heads.
-
-“The brave is now alone,” grunted Jean Jacques in tones of satisfaction.
-“Alone he fears Jean Jacques.”
-
-Margot, panting and breathless, made no reply, but she rejoiced, knowing
-that the Indian spoke truth. So doughty a warrior as he would not be
-attacked single-handed.
-
-The canoe was already stranded by the falling tide, and the red mud was
-over ankle deep. Plunging into it, Jean Jacques, ably assisted by the
-strong, thick-set Acadian Marie, laid Louis in the canoe, and all three
-proceeded to push it toward the sluggish, ever-narrowing river.
-
-“God and the Holy Mother be praised,” ejaculated Marie, as impelled by
-the paddle of the Indian the little vessel glided at last down the
-stream.
-
-The words had scarcely left her lips when the air at her ear was cut by
-an arrow, which swept on to bury itself in the back of Jean Jacques.
-
-The women uttered an exclamation of dismay, but the Indian, though his
-swarthy face went ashen gray, said not a word; only when Marie would
-have extricated the arrow, muttered, “Touch it not.”
-
-Fortunately there was a spare paddle in the canoe, and both women in
-turn put their whole strength into the work, so that aided by the tide
-they made rapid progress. And well that so it was, for as the canoe bore
-up against a green promontory, upon which houses and groups of people
-were visible, Jean Jacques fell forward on his face, the life-blood
-gushing from his nose and mouth. Willing arms lifted him and laid him
-upon the green turf, for the habitans had for some time been anxiously
-watching the approaching canoe, and were ready with their aid. But
-Margot’s first and only thought was for the faithful Micmac. Carefully
-as the arrow was withdrawn, the shock was too great; and as the girl
-bent weeping over him, it was but glazing eyes he raised to hers.
-
-“Wild Deer; tell Wild Deer.”
-
-Then he fell back upon her arm and spoke no more.
-
-Faithful unto death, indeed, was this poor Indian. And, heretic though
-he was, they laid him in consecrated earth, blessed by one of the
-priests who, French assertions to the contrary notwithstanding, were
-always permitted to minister to their flocks upon English soil, unless
-detected in acts of treachery.
-
-                 *        *        *        *        *
-
-[Illustration: “‘Wild Deer; tell Wild Deer.’”]
-
-So for a time poor, little, hunted Margot found peace and a refuge with
-her country people, but only for a time. When in a few months news of
-Lawrence’s return with a larger force reached the ears of Le Loutre he
-sent forth his Micmacs to destroy the cluster of homes yet remaining on
-the English side of the water. The Acadians, caring not much for
-fighting any one, refused to obey his mandate and take arms against the
-redcoats, so fled in helpless terror, some to Halifax and Annapolis, but
-the larger number across the Missaguash. Whether Le Loutre honestly
-desired to found a settlement in this locality, or merely desired to
-vent his hatred for the English, cannot be rightly known; at all events
-his calculations were at fault regarding a new settlement. The French
-shore was already crowded, and if he really entertained hopes of filling
-up the marsh and turning it into fertile land for the benefit of the
-refugees, these hopes were defeated by the corrupt practices of his own
-government, which cared not at all for the welfare of the unhappy
-Acadians, but used them merely as tools. Half clothed and half starved,
-the men were at once put to hard, labor, with scanty or no remuneration.
-The strong new fort of Beauséjour, built in opposition to the less
-imposing one of Fort St. Lawrence, was the handiwork of Acadian
-refugees. Even then they might not have fared so ill had the supplies
-actually sent by the French government ever reached their rightful
-destination, but this was far from being the case. Official corruption,
-bad as it was throughout New France, was worse, probably, at Beauséjour
-than elsewhere. One of the most incompetent and unworthy of the numerous
-“office seekers,” to use a modern term, was in command there, and the
-“spoils system” was at its height upon the shores of the Missaguash.
-Vergor, the commandant, applied but a small portion of the food and
-clothing to the uses for which they were intended, and sent the large
-remainder back to Quebec, or to Louisbourg, where his confederates sold
-them, greatly to his and their profit, but not at all to that of the
-poor Acadians.
-
-Terrified at Le Loutre, Vergor, the Micmacs, and French soldiers, not
-naturally loving the foreign race across the water, yet craving peaceful
-homes with them, the refugees dragged on a miserable existence, finding
-themselves becoming daily more of a burden to their countrymen in the
-settlements about Chipody. At length they resolved to inquire secretly
-of the English whether they would be allowed to return to their homes,
-could they make their escape? The answer was that they could return if
-they renewed the oath of fealty to the English crown, the oath they had
-so often broken in their weakness and vacillation. They would not be
-required by English law to bear arms, but if on the contrary they were
-found fighting for, or aiding the French, they would be dealt with as
-traitors. Among those who joined in this request were Margot’s
-guardians, the Herbes, also the family with whom the fugitives had found
-shelter on the south bank of the Missaguash close to the Pont-à-Buot.
-
-Furious, indeed, was the anger of the _abbé_ when he heard of the
-backsliding of his people. His ravings were rather those of a lunatic
-than of an anointed priest, as he flung himself hither and thither in
-the pulpit, calling down the wrath of God upon his recreant flock. And
-Le Loutre was a man who never stopped at mere words. So one night two
-things happened; one, however, which had nothing to do with him.
-
-The people for whom Margot worked in return for bare sustenance were not
-unkind, but they found Louis and Marie of more service to them, being
-stronger and stouter, and little Margot, in losing heart and hope, was
-losing physical strength too. That night, as she crossed the meadows
-behind the home-going cows, she was very sad. Slowly, very slowly, her
-faith in the church of her fathers was being dragged up by the roots,
-and the fury of the _abbé_, his cruel words in the sacred building a few
-hours since, had uprooted it yet more. Yet she had no other spiritual
-guide but him—none to direct her in new, untrodden ways. Gabriel, who
-could have helped her, was far away. M. Girard she had not seen since
-the burning of Beaubassin, and she feared that the good old man was in
-trouble. It was working and waiting in the dark for Margot.
-
-As she neared the marsh a sound struck on her ear.
-
-“Tst!”
-
-She glanced around fearfully, and her eyes fell on the head of an
-Indian, stealthily upreared.
-
-Terror of the Micmacs amounted to an inborn instinct among the Acadians,
-and common sense alone intervened to stay Margot’s flying feet. Perhaps
-the man had some message for her, a message from him who was ever in her
-thoughts. She paused, therefore, with as fair a show of courage as she
-could muster.
-
-“Be not afraid, maiden,” said the Indian in broken French. “Come nearer.
-Bent Bow carries a message for thee from one whom Jean Jacques called
-‘Wild Deer.’”
-
-Margot’s eyes brightened, and oblivious of fear she approached the
-Indian, who she now perceived was no Micmac. He held toward her a little
-billet which she eagerly took. Now the good _curé_ at Annapolis, at
-Gabriel’s earnest entreaty, had taught the cousins to read and write,
-and never was Margot more thankful than at this moment for the blessed
-privilege, though she had often times found the lesson hour a toilsome
-one.
-
-“Ah!” she cried. “I have nothing to give thee, Bent Bow, to reward thy
-faithfulness. The poor Acadians have not so much as a handful of beads.”
-
-“It is enough that I bring thee the billet,” replied the Indian, “and
-that I serve Wild Deer. Together, many moons from here, we drove before
-us the foreign devils, and there came a night on which the paleface
-youth saved the life of the Indian brave.”
-
-“Wilt thou see him again?” cried the girl eagerly.
-
-Bent Bow shook his head, and with a sign of farewell began to crawl away
-through the marsh grass.
-
-“Is it well with Wild Deer?” she called after him.
-
-“It is well.” And she saw the messenger no more. Still walking behind
-the cows, she read the precious letter:
-
-    MA COUSINE: Would that I knew it was as well with thee as it is
-    with me. But, alas! this I cannot know. Yet Jean Jacques is
-    faithful, and he has vowed to care for my pearl of price. Long
-    ere this he will have told thee why I failed to meet thee.
-    Margot, I have for leader one of the noblest young men God ever
-    created. It was a happy day for me when, through my father’s
-    name, I was appointed to serve under such an one. Sad it is that
-    a soldier’s life takes me far from thee, but I shall come again,
-    sweet cousin, to find thee safe and sheltered beside the
-    Missaguash, far from the cruel priest. The family to whom Jean
-    Jacques was to carry thee are known by me, and will protect and
-    cherish thee.
-
-“Ah, Gabriel,” said Margot to herself, the tears upon her cheeks, “well
-is it that so much is hid from thee.”
-
-    For I am coming back. Little is said, but Washington himself
-    thinks that some great move is to be made, and that the men of
-    New England are gathering, and that the governor of
-    Massachusetts and the governor of our poor distraught country
-    are planning alike against the French. Then I and others who
-    came southward with me will return. Till then, _ma cherie, mon
-    amie_, adieu. In English, though I have grown to like my
-    father’s tongue, methinks these words are not so sweet.
-
-                                                          GABRIEL.
-
-And all the way along the meadows her heart sang, “He is coming back.”
-
-But at home a scene of confusion and distress awaited her.
-
-Le Loutre, not content with thunders from the pulpit, had been making a
-house to house visitation of those whom he considered the most
-rebellious members his flock. Among these were classed Louis Herbes and
-his host, François Marin. Banishment to Isle St. Jean, where many exiled
-Acadians were already in a fair way to starve, was the priest’s usual
-punishment; and should any man refuse to obey, refusal was met by a
-threat to permit the Micmacs to carry off, and possibly kill, his wife
-and children. A yet worse fate than banishment awaited Herbes and Marin.
-
-That morning in the church Le Loutre had assured the signers of the two
-documents of appeal—to the French and to the English governments—that
-if they did not take their names from both papers they should “have
-neither sacraments in this life nor heaven in the next.” What could the
-poor, hunted Acadians do but obey? And even with obedience came
-banishment for many. As for Herbes and Marin, they were given the
-grievous permission to proceed to Quebec as deputies on behalf of the
-Acadians who desired to return to the English side of the river.
-Grievous permission, indeed! For even slow-witted Acadians were bright
-enough to understand that the _abbé_ would prepare the way before them
-in such a manner as to make their mission not only useless, but
-terrifying. And truly they were correct in their anticipations, for
-after the visit Duquesne, the governor, wrote Le Loutre as follows:
-
-“I think that the two rascals of deputies whom you sent me will not soon
-recover from the fright I gave them.”
-
-Such was the heartlessness with which this unhappy race was treated.
-
-
-                               CHAPTER VI
-
-The last sad scenes in the sad story of the Acadians in Acadie are now
-drawing near. Possibly had those two patient gentlemen, Cornwallis and
-Hopson, continued in command of the country, such scenes might never
-have come to pass, or at least might have been long delayed. But, as we
-know, Governor Lawrence was soon worn out by what he described as “the
-obstinacy, treachery, and ingratitude” of the Acadians, and he and
-Shirley, the governor of Massachusetts, determined to settle this
-troublesome affair once and for all. The two governors knew, moreover,
-that the French were merely waiting for a good excuse to attack the
-English, whose defenses in Acadie were of the feeblest, and that if they
-hoped to be successful they themselves must strike the first blow.
-
-The result of their decision was an act which has been well described as
-being “too harsh and indiscriminate to be wholly justified,” but which
-is explained by the fact that the Acadians “while calling themselves
-neutrals, were an enemy encamped in the heart of the province.”[1]
-
------
-
-[1] “Montcalm and Wolfe.” Francis Parkman.
-
-The first step was to lay siege to Beauséjour; and to the aid of the
-regulars flocked volunteers under the command of that warlike farmer,
-John Winslow. These men enrolled themselves under the orders of General
-Monckton, having responded to the call of the New England governor.
-
-It was the afternoon of a June day when the two deputies wearied, cowed,
-and helpless returned home. Their passage through the settlements had
-been greatly delayed by the questions showered upon them by anxious
-habitans, and it was late ere they arrived. Then again the tale of
-failure had to be told, and listened to with tears and lamentations.
-
-“If the Acadians are miserable, remember that the priests are the cause
-of it,” wrote a French officer to a French missionary.
-
-News had quite recently come to Chipody, the adjacent settlement, that
-many of the Acadians banished by Le Loutre to Isle St. Jean had found
-their way to Halifax, had taken the oath of allegiance to the British,
-were reinstated in their former homes, and were being provided
-temporarily with supplies by the English government. Yet it was not love
-for the English that had drawn them back again—simply the love of home
-and peace. The returned deputies had scarcely finished their tale when
-the women began to try and persuade them to remove to Halifax,
-immediately if possible.
-
-Margot alone neither wept nor argued. There was a hope within her breast
-that would not die, a hope aroused by Gabriel’s letter. She stole away
-from the clatter of tongues down to the edge of the marsh-grass. The sun
-was near its setting, as it had been when she had waited in vain for
-Gabriel so long, so very long, as it seemed to her, ago. Where was he
-now? When would he—— Then suddenly her heart stood still, to beat
-again with mingled dread and expectation.
-
-[Illustration: “Far away, at the mouth of the inlet . . . lay three small
-  ships.”]
-
-Far away, at the mouth of the inlet, where it broadens into Chignecto
-Bay, lay three small ships, English beyond a doubt.
-
-For a minute Margot lingered, giving herself up to speculation. Then
-like a bird she flew back to one of the rude and simple dwellings of the
-kind which even in happier days fulfilled the frugal Acadian’s highest
-idea of home. Flinging open the door without ceremony she cried,
-“English ships in the bay!” and sped upon her homeward course.
-
-Herbes and Marin and their wives were still planning and discussing, but
-the words on their lips were checked by Margot’s breathless ejaculation.
-In silence they gazed at one another, with the characteristic slowness
-of their race. What was now to be done?
-
-Margot, whose mind moved more swiftly than those of most of her
-country-people, soon spoke again, with as much impatience as the habit
-of respect for her elders permitted.
-
-“What shall we do, you say? Oh, good friends, let us escape to the
-English ships, they will help us to Halifax! But oh, quick, quick!”
-
-“You forget, maiden,” said Marin with pompous rebuke. “There is the oath
-of allegiance in the way.”
-
-“And what of that?” cried all three women this time. Marie Herbes
-continuing:
-
-“What hurt did the oath do us in the past? Did we not till our own land
-and gather in our crops unaffrighted and undisturbed?—untaxed too? Did
-not our own priests minister to us?”
-
-A crafty gleam crept into the little eyes of Marin.
-
-“Yes,” he said, “and if we broke faith with our rulers for our good or
-advancement, why—pfui! What matter!” He shrugged his shoulders and
-spread his hands. “A small matter! Let the habitan take the oath anew,
-said the governor. But now—now it is otherwise. As we came through the
-settlement the new proclamation was made known to us. Should the
-French—and verily are they not of our own blood? make fair offers,
-such, for instance, that under their rule too, we should live in peace,
-and it became the duty of a good habitan to give ear to them, what then?
-Then would we be called traitors, and meet the fate of such!”
-
-Marie lifted her eyebrows, and made a little sound of dissension in her
-throat.
-
-“It is true,” he persisted doggedly.
-
-“The good friend is in the right,” put in Herbes, speaking for the first
-time. “This Governor Lawrence is not as the others, he is not to be
-cajoled.”
-
-“But why should we break faith with the English?” It was Margot who
-spoke in a low voice. “With the Acadians the French have never yet kept
-faith.”
-
-“What knows a young maid of great affairs such as these?” growled Marin;
-while his wife added with a taunting laugh:
-
-“But thou must remember, _mon ami_, that the child has an English lover;
-what wouldst thou, then?”
-
-The color dyed Margot’s cheek, then fled, leaving her very pale. But she
-was, as we know, no moral coward, so she quickly controlled herself, and
-replied quietly:
-
-“Pardon, madame, thou hast forgotten that my cousin’s mother was an
-Acadian, even as we are, and that he himself was my cousin ere he was my
-lover. The country of his birth is dear to him, though whether he be yet
-alive I know not, or whether I shall ever see him more.”
-
-Her voice choked, and her dark eyes filled. The good Marie clapped her
-briskly on the shoulder crying vehemently:
-
-“Be of a better courage, _mon enfant_! Thou and thy heretic will meet
-again, never fear!”
-
-“Sometimes it misgives me that our Margot is already part heretic
-herself,” said Louis with a suspicious glare.
-
-“Shame on thee, shame on thee!” protested his wife. “And hast thou so
-soon forgotten to be grateful? Could the maiden not have left us that
-day on the banks of the Missaguash—you a mere helpless burden hindering
-her flight?” Then, while Louis hung his head in abashed silence, she
-hastily brought the conversation back to its former subject. It was
-finally decided that the whole party should proceed to the house of the
-neighbor whom Margot had warned of the arrival of the ships, there to
-discuss the advisability of further action. Thus slowly did the minds of
-Acadians work. The result was that the commandant at the fort received
-no notice of the enemy’s approach until the small hours of the morning.
-The attacking force was then at the very doors, and all was confusion
-and alarm. Messengers were sent in hot haste to Louisbourg for aid, and
-by alternate threats and promises the poor Acadians, who so much
-preferred to have their fighting done for them, were forced either to
-assist in the defense of the fort, or worse still, oppose the enemy in
-the open.
-
-It was a case of English regulars and provincials against French
-regulars and Acadians—on the one side the whole heart, on the other but
-half a heart; for the French soldiers corrupted by corrupt officials,
-were no match either in resolution for the stout New Englanders, or in
-discipline for the British troops. The Acadians and Indians sent out of
-the fort were as mere puppets in the path of Monckton’s army, and the
-second night beheld the invaders safely across the river and encamped
-within a mile of Beauséjour.
-
-Herbes and Marin had of course been pressed into the service, but unlike
-their neighbors had decided to leave their families in the farmhouse
-instead of hiding them in the woods. The crafty Marin declared that the
-home was far enough from the scene of the conflict to insure safety, but
-in truth he depended far more upon the almost certain hope that Margot’s
-English lover would take care that she, therefore they, would not be
-molested. By this it may be seen how vague were his notions concerning
-army regulations, discipline, and so forth. Depending on this hope,
-however, the women and the two half-grown sons of Marin were left
-behind, to listen to the distant roar and rattle of the bombardment of
-Beauséjour,—for the attack was not long in beginning. The wives told
-their beads, weeping and praying for the safety of their husbands, while
-Margot, pale and still, and alternating betwixt hope and fear, turned
-now consciously in her petitions to the faith of him whom she loved. For
-Margot’s nature like that of Gabriel, was clear and straightforward; and
-now that the forms of the Catholic religion were getting to mean little
-to her, she faced the knowledge bravely, dropping these forms one by
-one, striving to wait patiently until light and help should come; and
-this lonely waiting amounted to heroism in a timid Acadian maid. But the
-length of the loneliness, the yearning for counsel and support, was
-forming the girl’s character, and ripening it as the seed ripens within
-the pod. It was Margot, the woman, who now awaited the return of
-Gabriel, and such a woman as she might never have become had she led the
-effortless, unaspiring existence of the average Acadian peasant, without
-mental struggle or any higher object than that of living from day to
-day.
-
-News of the siege came but fitfully to the three women, bereft as they
-were of neighbors and the usual neighborly gossip; for the inhabitants
-of the scattered houses, or rather huts, within reach had all fled to
-the shelter of the woods. Now and then some head of a family, wearied of
-what seemed to him profitless combat, having succeeded in eluding the
-unwelcome task, paused at the farmhouse to drink a cup of milk on his
-way to rejoin wife and babes, and shake his head over the news he
-brought; or a fugitive Indian, prowling along the river’s bank, bade the
-paleface squaws make ready for flight, declaring that the great
-medicine-man could not much longer induce the braves to hold the fort
-against the foe. But secure in their simple faith that Marin would
-contrive to see Gabriel, and that Gabriel would protect them, the women
-refused to face the perils of the forest.
-
-The day was the sixteenth of June. For several days they had heard
-nothing, and growing hourly more anxious, the three would once and again
-drop their household tasks, and stepping one by one to the door, call to
-the boys perched upon the tall trees to know if aught might be seen or
-heard. When at last a shout went up, it chanced that all the women were
-in the house. As they ran out into the open, young François cried:
-
-“They come, they come! a host of them!”
-
-“Who come?” inquired his mother impatiently. “Speak, boy!”
-
-“I cannot yet tell, _ma mère_; but yes, yes!”
-
-And little Jules took up the cry:
-
-“Yes, yes! It is our own dear Acadians. And they laugh, they are glad,
-they carry bundles and shout!”
-
-“And see the _bon père_, Jules; he waves his cap, he espies us!”
-
-And sliding down the tree, François was off and away, deaf to his
-mother’s calls and commands, followed as promptly as the shortness of
-his legs would permit by his little brother.
-
-What did it all mean? The three women left behind looked into one
-another’s eyes, with the unspoken query on their lips. Then, with an air
-of determination, the wife of Marin threw her homespun apron over her
-head and went after her sons. Marie Herbes dropped upon the rude bench
-before the door, and began rapidly telling her beads, tapping her foot
-upon the ground meanwhile in an agony of impatience and anxiety.
-
-And Margot? For the lonely girl how much was now at stake! Leaning
-against the wall of the house, her hands idle for the reason that she no
-longer owned beads to tell, her dark lashes resting on her pale cheeks,
-and a prayer in her heart for resignation if the worst was to be, she
-waited.
-
-Then it was that for the first time she fully understood that she was
-ever hoping and praying for the success of the alien race; that she had
-ceased merely to tolerate them for the sake of the peace they gave, but
-that she had in very truth gone over,—as a few others of her race had
-done, and were doing,—heart and soul to the enemy.
-
-Undoubtedly the siege of Beauséjour was at an end; the question
-trembling on the lips of the waiting women was, In whose hands was the
-victory? For peaceful Acadians, released from the perils and toils of
-war, would for the moment rejoice in either victory or defeat; both
-would sound alike to them.
-
-Without, the sun burned more and more hotly. Within, the soup in the
-iron pot, hung above the crackling sticks, boiled—presently boiled
-over. None heeded.
-
-Half an hour dragged by, the minutes ticking slowly along in the old
-clock in the corner. Then Marie sprang to her feet.
-
-“They come!” she cried.
-
-Verily they came—a strange spectacle. Out of the woods and across the
-bridge poured a little horde of Acadians—all Acadians, Margot saw in
-one swift glance, many of them excited by the red French wine, but every
-man of them singing and shouting, as they tramped along laden with what
-was evidently plunder from the fort.
-
-“Beauséjour has fallen—has fallen!”
-
-Thus they sang, as if exulting in the defeat of an enemy.
-
-The wife of Marin, almost as wild as the men, had loaded herself down
-with part of her husband’s burden, and her voice rang shrill above the
-tumult in response to Marie’s vociferous queries:
-
-“Beauséjour has fallen, I tell thee. And the English have pardoned our
-men because they said they but fought under compulsion. All is well.”
-
-“But whence came this, and this?” persisted the more practical Marie,
-pointing to the motley collection of food, wearing apparel, wines, and
-even furniture, with which the ground was now littered.
-
-Questions for long brought no coherent reply, and it was not until late
-in the afternoon, their comrades having scattered in search of their
-respective families, that either Herbes or Marin was able to give a
-clear account of all that had happened.
-
-It was significant of the religious dependence and docility of the
-Acadian nature that one of the first questions asked and answered should
-be concerning the fate of Le Loutre. At the query the two men, who since
-their vain trip to Quebec had wavered somewhat in their allegiance to
-the tyrannical _abbé_, shrugged their shoulders and spread their hands
-as those who knew nothing.
-
-“But, Louis,” Marie cried, “it is important that we know, for without
-him are we not but lost sheep in the wilderness?”
-
-“As to that, good wife, I cannot tell thee,” answered Louis. “When we
-left that villainous fort _M. l’Abbé_ was nowhere to be seen. Depend on
-it, he was with the commandant. All was hurry and confusion from the
-moment the shell fell upon the officers’ table while they sat at meat,
-killing six of them, yes, six!” Here he crossed himself, shuddering, and
-Marin took up the tale:
-
-“Yes, and the _bon Dieu_ alone knows how great was the wonder of the
-English, who expected to fight many more days, when the white flag flew
-from the ramparts. _M. l’Abbé_ I beheld everywhere then. He ran from one
-to the other, pleading that the flag of the coward, for so our brave
-_abbé_ called it, be taken in. Well, we Acadians know that he hath the
-gift of speech, but now it was in vain. The French were glad to cease
-this foolish killing of men for naught, glad even as we were. So
-presently it was arranged that they should march out with the honors of
-war,—whatever honor there be in slaying and quarreling,—and proceed at
-once to Louisbourg. Then the officers fell to drinking and plundering
-ere they departed, and we gathered up what little we could lay hands on,
-and so took leave with our pardon. Of the priest I saw no more. That is
-all that has happened.”
-
-Margot, who during this recital had been leaning forward with clasped
-hands, at last ventured timidly, addressing Louis Herbes:
-
-“And _mon cousin_; of him you saw nothing?”
-
-“No, little one,” replied Louis kindly; “but, I learned that one
-Gabriel, with another name that cracks the jaws even to think of, was
-much spoken of during the attack by reason of his valor, and that he
-fought well. Rather he than I,” he concluded with a grimace.
-
-Margot fell back and said no more. She had all for which she had dared
-to hope; again she must wait, it was true, but this time not wholly
-uncheered.
-
-The sun sank and the moon rose and the wearied household was wrapped in
-slumber, all but Margot, who leaned from the window of the shedroom she
-occupied apart from the common sleeping apartment, which according to
-Acadian custom also served for a kitchen. She had tried to sleep and had
-failed.
-
-Secure in the pardon granted them by the English, heedless of the
-future, the Acadians were once more collected under their own rooftrees,
-and as Margot’s eyes roamed along the banks of the Missaguash they
-rested with a sense of sympathetic peace upon the little farmhouses
-containing so many re-united families.
-
-Yet it was strange how constantly on this night of apparent peace her
-mind reverted to the relentless priest who had caused herself and others
-so much misery. Involuntarily her mind strayed backward to the days when
-they had all hung on every glance of that strong, imperious man, whose
-word was law to a weak and vacillating people, and who represented to
-the simple villagers salvation here and hereafter. Now, in his hour of
-defeat, how would it be? His influence had already waned, she thought.
-
-Her window was raised only a few feet from the ground and, unseen by
-her, a figure came gliding along in the shadow of the wide eaves.
-Another moment and her quick ear had caught the sound of hushed steps,
-but before the flashing thought had had time to concentrate in the cry,
-“Gabriel!” a grasp of iron was laid upon her shoulder and a hand crushed
-down upon her mouth.
-
-There was a hideous interval before a word was spoken, after her
-terrified eyes had taken in the fact that she was in the clutches of one
-of the dreaded Micmacs. Then, was it with increased horror or with
-relief that she recognized the voice which at last spoke?
-
-“Margot! maiden!” The whisper was harsh. “It is thy priest and father in
-God who commands thy service.”
-
-The shock temporarily deprived the girl of power to reply, but finding
-that she made neither struggle nor outcry, Le Loutre, for it was indeed
-he, released her.
-
-This man was her enemy, so ran her swift thought; he had robbed her of
-all that made life dear.
-
-Now Margot, though gentle in heart and deed, was human and intolerant,
-as the young usually are. Forgiveness of cruel wrong could only come
-through prayer and striving. She remembered the destroyed and abandoned
-home, made desolate by this man; the beloved _gran’-père_, dead from
-exposure and want; the beloved cousin, an outcast and a wanderer; and it
-was this man who had done it.
-
-Yes, she guessed what the priest wanted. He was a hunted fugitive. But
-why did he come to her, whom he had so greatly wronged?
-
-Then she remembered also the words Gabriel had once read to her from an
-ancient printed page treasured by his mother as having been the property
-of his father: “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those that
-trespass against us.”
-
-She was so long silent that the voice of Le Loutre had in it a quaver of
-apprehension when he again addressed her, and when she looked up and
-saw, even in the moonlight, how almost craven were the glances the once
-arrogant priest cast over his shoulder into the dim, wide-stretching
-woods, compassion as well as higher emotions was aroused, and her
-resolve taken.
-
-“_M. l’Abbé_,” she said simply, “there are none here who would harm
-their priest, even should they awake. As for me, I will do what I can,
-and God will teach me to forgive you.”
-
-At the sound of such words from one of the least of his flock, the
-priest’s imperious temper sprang to his lips. But the situation was too
-perilous for anger.
-
-None here who would harm him? He was not over sure of that. The men, did
-not they both believe he had harmed them? Yet all that he had done had
-been for their souls’ good. And of a surety he knew his dear Acadians,
-who for the sake of peace and freedom from alarms would hesitate, even
-though the life of the guardian of those souls were at stake. But this
-maiden, with her it was otherwise. True, she was half-heretic, but she
-was made of sterner stuff than most of her compatriots. Her he felt sure
-that he might trust.
-
-Minds work quickly in hours of danger, and it was but a minute before he
-replied:
-
-“I will pray for the salvation of thy soul, maiden, if yet it may be
-won. But now,” his voice in spite of him trembling with anxiety, “where
-wilt thou conceal me until such time as my trusty Cope arrives to go
-with me to Baye-Verte? There tarries my brother in God, Manach, and
-together we seek safety at Quebec.”
-
-At the name of Jean Baptiste Cope, the Micmac at whose hands Gabriel had
-endured so much, Margot’s heart contracted with something like hatred.
-There was a short, sharp struggle within her. This, then, was what
-forgiving your enemies meant? Oh, it was hard, hard! And this priest and
-this Indian had injured so many, was it right to help them to escape?
-
-Little did she guess the thoughts pouring forth from the _abbé’s_
-fertile imagination as he watched her—new thoughts, new ideas. Anxiety
-for the maiden’s soul, he would have said, was the mainspring of his
-intended actions, the desire to make one final effort to save her from
-perdition. Like many another too sure of his own holiness, the taint of
-personal malice, personal revenge, ran like a dark and dirty thread
-through the whiteness of his own soul’s garment. Le Loutre was as honest
-with himself as he was able to be, and certainly his fanaticism was real
-and true.
-
-Yet he judged Gabriel entirely by himself, by his own capacity for
-righteous (?) hatred: Gabriel was at the head of the party searching for
-him betwixt Beauséjour and Baye-Verte, and it was for this reason that
-he had made a wide détour, appointing the meeting with his factotum,
-Cope, at a house where dwelt one who could be depended upon not to
-betray him. Her influence over the young heretic, he believed, could
-also be depended upon, should the fugitives be intercepted by him in
-their flight. Honor, loyalty to duty, counted for nothing in the
-estimation of the religious fanatic.
-
-“It is for her soul’s salvation,” he repeated to himself with pious
-emphasis. From the woods near by floated the quavering cry of a night
-owl.
-
-“Await me here, Margot,” exclaimed the priest authoritatively, and
-stepping backward was lost in the shadows.
-
-Force of habit was strong, and still leaning from the window she
-instinctively obeyed.
-
-A few minutes elapsed, and then the terrifying Indian, who no longer had
-terrors for her, re-appeared.
-
-But this time no words passed. A brawny arm seized her by the waist,
-while at the same time a cloth was pushed into her mouth. Unable to
-utter a sound, she was dragged from the window, and borne away.
-
-
-                              CHAPTER VII
-
-When Gabriel, two or three days later, rode up to rejoin Monckton’s
-command under the walls of Beauséjour, his heart—despite his failure to
-capture the fugitive priest—beat high with joyful anticipation, for
-Monckton had promised that upon his return he should be given a few
-hours to visit his cousin and assure himself that all was indeed well
-with her. The general himself was subject to the orders of Governor
-Shirley, and Gabriel had come to him with a letter of recommendation
-from George Washington. Washington, himself a Virginian, rightly guessed
-that the young soldier, of English birth and bound to Virginia by ties
-of blood and sympathy, would not harmonize comfortably with the New
-England Puritans under Winslow.
-
-“The maiden were best at Halifax,” had been Monckton’s comment on
-hearing Gabriel’s briefly told tale. “There abide many of her people.”
-
-Best! Yes, how far best! But wishes were vain.
-
-The general, when Gabriel arrived in camp, was busy in his tent, and
-merely waved his hand hurriedly as the young man saluted and began to
-make his report.
-
-“I know, I know!” he exclaimed. “The rascally priest has slipped through
-our fingers, disguised as one of his infernal Micmacs, I understand.
-Well, the country is well rid of him. I shall soon have other work for
-you.”
-
-Chancing to glance up, something in his lieutenant’s face struck
-him—something in the tense eagerness of the fine, soldierly figure.
-
-“Speak,” he said kindly, “what is it?”
-
-Then suddenly he remembered, and a smile illumined his anxious, rather
-worn face, while that of Gabriel flushed in response.
-
-“Ah, I bethink me. Well, rest and eat, and then go to the house on the
-Missaguash where dwells the cousin. Ere long I will have less pleasant
-work for you.”
-
-The color ebbed from Gabriel’s face. He longed to inquire further; to
-ask if the rumor were true that in consequence of persistent refusal to
-take the oath of allegiance the Acadians were to be expelled from
-English soil, from the places of refuge still left them by the French
-after forcing them from their former homes. Poor, unhappy people; driven
-like sheep before the wolves! But discipline forbade anything but prompt
-and silent obedience. And, as an hour or two later, he swung at a gallop
-toward the home of Herbes and Marin, of whose precise locality he had
-been informed by a friendly Acadian, his high hopes of the morning were
-tinged with gloomy forebodings.
-
-One by one the French forts were falling into English hands, and in a
-few days Acadia would once more be an English province. Already the land
-over which he rode—called the Chignecto district—belonged no more to
-France.
-
-Across the bridge he thundered, and there in the midst of the meadows
-stood the rough cabin and outlying sheds inhabited by those he sought.
-Faster and faster flew the horse, conscious of his rider’s impatience,
-and Marin, lolling on a bench before the door, arose in mingled alarm
-and curiosity. To the women and children, crowding to the front at the
-sound of galloping hoofs, the young soldier was a splendid apparition as
-he sprang from his excited steed and greeted them bareheaded, the glory
-of the May sun in his ruffled blonde curls, and his eyes shining blue as
-the waters of far Chignecto Bay.
-
-Then of a sudden knowledge came to Marie.
-
-“Ah, the cousin!” she ejaculated; and then could say no more. How could
-she tell him?
-
-“Yes,” he cried, “I am Gabriel. Where is Margot?”
-
-“Ah, _la pauvre petite_! Who knows?”
-
-And the kind-hearted woman threw her apron over her head and burst into
-loud sobs, in which she was joined by Julie, the wife of Marin.
-
-Frantic as he was with anxiety, Gabriel could extract nothing coherent
-from either the women or Marin, the latter a stupid fellow at best, with
-just enough brains to be suspicious and obstinate; but fortunately Louis
-Herbes arrived on the scene, and from him the sad tale was forthcoming.
-
-“Nevertheless he was no Indian,” concluded Louis shrewdly, glancing over
-his shoulder and speaking in a whisper; “it was _M. l’Abbé_ himself.”
-
-“How knowest thou that?” growled Marin.
-
-“I do know it,” asserted Herbes with quiet confidence. “There were some
-who also knew and told. I have spoken aloud and sorely of the loss of
-our Margot.”
-
-“Yes, _bon ami_,” sneered Marin. “Now tell it all. Give _le bon prêtre_
-into the hands of the heretics.”
-
-“Whom I may trust, that also I know,” exclaimed Louis vehemently,
-turning upon his friend. . . Then more calmly, “No matter for that. _M.
-l’Abbé_ is out of Acadie ere now, and we, say I, are well rid of him.
-Only grief and trouble did he bring us.”
-
-He glanced around defiantly, but the little group remained passive.
-Gabriel stood apart, his face hidden in his horse’s mane. At length he
-spoke:
-
-“And thou knowest no more, good Louis? Thou hast no clue?”
-
-“This only: that from Baye-Verte _M. l’Abbé_, and his brother priest
-made sail for Quebec, and it was said that he would leave our Margot at
-Isle St. Jean, where is a goodly colony of our people, driven out of
-Acadie long since and living miserably.”
-
-Gabriel groaned. Julie stepped forward and laid a kindly hand upon his
-shoulder.
-
-“Better that than the Indians,” she exclaimed in the sanguine tones
-habitual to her. “And something tells me that _la petite_ escaped. Who
-knows? She may have made her way to Halifax.”
-
-“Impossible!” returned Gabriel sadly. “All alone, those many leagues?”
-
-“But,” put in Herbes confidently, “there was a party of our country
-people landed at Baye-Verte from that melancholy isle, on their way to
-Halifax to take the oath of allegiance. One party had already done so,
-with the result that they were reinstated in their old homes and
-furnished by the heretic English with provisions for the winter. This
-second party looked for the same indulgence, if not too late. Who knows?
-the maiden may have joined them. One coming hither from Baye-Verte vowed
-that he saw her not with the priests.”
-
-“And I?” exclaimed Gabriel, in a sudden burst of anger with himself,
-“why did not I capture that man, who over and over again has brought
-misery into my own life and the lives of all dear to me? From Beauséjour
-to Baye-Verte it is but twelve miles, and meseemed I rode with my
-company over every inch of it, yet saw neither priest nor Indian.”
-
-The face of Louis took on a peculiar expression.
-
-“_M. le Capitain_,” he said, “it hath been related of us that we, the
-Acadians, love gold. And why not?” shrugging his shoulders and spreading
-his hands. “Gold, it is good, and we are poor. _M. l’Abbé_ has gold
-always, and so there are those who would hide and help him, even though
-he be shorn of his strength. Also, is he not our father in God?” Here
-his expression became devout, and he crossed himself. “Also, there are
-some who have wearied of his rule—worse, say I, than that of a dozen
-kings—and would speed him in his flight.”
-
-But Marie interrupted her husband:
-
-“Yes, Halifax,” she cried, whirling on the two men; “and was it not your
-wife, she who knows nothing, and the wife of the good friend, and _la
-petite_ herself, women all, who gave you the wise counsel to go to
-Halifax while yet there was time, and take the honorable oath of
-allegiance, and live in peace in the fair Annapolis meadows, and you
-would not? What have the French done for us, I ask thee once more? What
-matter the flag? I tell thee once again. Give us peace in the homes of
-our fathers.”
-
-And at the thought, Marie wiped the tears of memory from her eyes.
-
-Louis continued silent, and Marin it was that answered with a shrug.
-
-“No need to weep, _bonne femme_! There is yet time. The English are a
-dull race. They permit themselves to be deceived once and yet again.”
-
-“But not again,” put in Gabriel sternly. “Look you, Marin, and you too,
-friend Herbes, you would have done well to listen to the sage counsel of
-your wives, and of the little Margot,” here his voice faltered, “who was
-ever wise, and for whose safe keeping so long I owe you all thanks which
-may not be measured. Yet I tell you, England’s lion may sleep long, but
-he wakes at last; so hath it ever been. Our governors, Cornwallis,
-Hopson, were men of large and tender heart; they forgave and forbore.
-With this governor it is otherwise; with Governor Shirley is it also
-otherwise; these are men who will not forbear; they strike, and they
-strike hard. Greatly I fear me that naught will avail you now; yet I
-know nothing absolutely.”
-
-He mounted his horse, and held out his hand to the group, all the
-brightness gone from his young face. But they clung to him, unwilling to
-part from their last hope, beseeching him to intercede for them,
-promising that if he succeeded they would start for Halifax at once,
-searching constantly for the maiden by the way.
-
-“Alas, good friends!” replied the young man sadly, “I am insignificant.
-No word of mine has weight with general or governor, although it is true
-that Monckton favors me somewhat. My time, my person, are at the
-disposal of my superiors. I cannot even go myself to search for and
-rescue the beloved! Even with you, my friends, I have lingered too
-long.”
-
-He pressed each hand in turn.
-
-“But you will try, _M. le capitain_?” they cried in chorus.
-
-“I will try. But I am not even a captain!”
-
-He smiled kindly upon them, but in his eyes was a sorrow akin to
-despair. Another moment, and the thunder of his horse’s hoofs sounded
-upon the bridge.
-
-It was as he foretold. The long years of indulgence were at an end. The
-storm so slow in gathering broke at last with the fury of the
-long-delayed. Winslow and Monckton, the New England and the British
-generals, their tempers ruffled by distasteful duty, were already
-inclined to fall out; and Gabriel soon saw that in order to intercede
-successfully for his Acadian friends he must bide his time. But the
-peremptory orders sent by Governor Lawrence neither general was in a
-hurry to carry out; and so it happened that one day Gabriel perceived
-his chance and seized it.
-
-“They are friends of yours, you say?” said Monckton, “and cared for the
-cousin in her time of need? How came it, then, that they gave her not
-better protection now? They tell you she is safe, but how know they? How
-know you?”
-
-“Ah, if I did but know!” broke from the young soldier involuntarily.
-Then controlling himself, he proceeded: “General, the women of the
-household have long striven with the men that they should return to live
-under the English flag. Herbes and Marin were among those who signed the
-petition to the French and English governments that they should be
-allowed to do so, thereby grievously displeasing Le Loutre, so that he
-selected these men to go to Quebec as deputies, well knowing the
-reception that awaited them there. Thus did he punish them; and my lord
-can guess that it was punishment indeed!”
-
-Monckton half smiled; then rubbed his forehead in weariness and
-perplexity. Finally he said:
-
-“Well, lieutenant, go! But bid them do quickly that which they desire.
-The order has gone forth, and in a day or two at farthest I may spare
-none.”
-
-So once more Gabriel flew across the Missaguash, and although he could
-hear nothing more of Margot, he at least had the consolation of feeling
-that he had saved her benefactors, and that there was always hope she
-might be found at Halifax, whither the party started that same night in
-their ox-wagons, driving their milch-cows before them.
-
-
-                              CHAPTER VIII
-
-And now followed bitter days indeed. A merciless guide and shepherd
-might Le Loutre have been, but at least in him the helpless flock had
-found a leader; he had forsaken them, and like silly sheep they ran
-hither and thither, halting more than ever betwixt two opinions. Looking
-vainly to the French for assistance, they shilly-shallyed too long with
-the oath of allegiance to the English government, and began to reap the
-terrible harvest accruing from long years of deceit and paltering with
-honor. It has been written that a man may not serve two masters, and too
-late the unhappy Acadians realized the truth of these words.
-
-Gabriel gave thanks that it was the New England troops that were sent
-out from Beauséjour, re-christened Fort Cumberland, to gather in all the
-male Acadians in the vicinity, since but a small proportion had obeyed
-the summons to report themselves at the fort. But he rejoiced too soon.
-Winslow was soon ordered to the Basin of Mines, and especially requested
-that the lieutenant who had distinguished himself during the siege might
-accompany him with a few regulars.
-
-The entire Basin of Mines, including the village of Grand Pré, having
-been left comparatively undisturbed by Le Loutre and his “lambs,” still
-continued to be prosperous Acadian settlements; and it was therefore
-upon them that the storm broke most destructively, and it was there,
-perhaps, that the saddest scenes in this sad history took place. Yet it
-was here too, that the people had benefited most by the lenient English
-rule, and had shown themselves most unreliable and treacherous; or, to
-speak more accurately, had yielded with the greatest weakness to the
-_abbé’s_ instigations, in particular as regarded the disguising of
-themselves as Indians that they might plunder English settlements. By
-this means they had saved their own skins, so to speak, and had been
-spared many persecutions at the hands of Le Loutre. And now these
-unhappy peasants, too dull of brain to thoroughly understand what they
-were bringing upon themselves, refused to sign the oath of allegiance
-“until after further consideration.” Already six years of such
-“consideration” had been granted them by the indulgence of former
-governors; and instead of considering, they had been acting,—acting the
-part of traitors. As has been said, the present governors of New England
-and Nova Scotia were in no mood for longer dalliance, even had they been
-able to afford it. If more time were given, the French, whose forces
-were the stronger, might regain all they had lost. The Acadians were
-aware of the superior strength of France, and this knowledge was one of
-the causes of their suicidal tardiness.
-
-It was with a gloomy brow, therefore, that Gabriel stood one bright
-September morning at the window of the vicarage at Grand Pré, gazing
-forth upon the rich farms and meadowland spread before him, backed by
-the azure of mountain and water. Winslow was a thorough soldier, if a
-rough man; and, like every officer, regular or colonial, loathed his
-task, though convinced of its necessity. At Fort Edward, farther inland,
-he had found both sympathy and good fellowship in the English lieutenant
-stationed there; but sociabilities had to end now, although a friendly
-intercourse was kept up, Winslow and Murray remaining on the best of
-terms throughout their detested work.
-
-The two officers had decided not to interfere with the farmers until the
-crops were gathered; but as Winslow’s force was greatly outnumbered by
-the Acadians, he put up a palisade around the church, graveyard, and
-vicarage, thus making a kind of fort. Before doing so, however, he had
-directed the Acadians to remove from the church all sacred emblems lest
-through the bigotry and fanaticism of the Puritan soldiers these revered
-treasures should be destroyed.
-
-The New Englander expressed his own feelings thus, in a letter to his
-commanding officer: “Although it is a disagreeable path of duty we are
-put upon, I am sensible it is a necessary one, and shall endeavor
-strictly to obey your excellency’s orders.”
-
-Winslow and Murray arranged to summon the habitans at the same day and
-hour, in order that the stunning blow might fall on their respective
-districts at once. A natural antipathy, needless to say, existed betwixt
-the Puritan soldiers of New England and the habitans of Acadia. The
-former, moreover, were hardened by a life of struggle and difficulty in
-a climate and with a soil less genial than that of Acadie; and these
-soldiers belonged to the same age and race that put to death helpless
-women for witchcraft and hanged harmless Quakers for the crime of
-refusing to leave the colony of Massachusetts. Yet even they must at
-times have felt some pity for the unfortunate peasants, driven from
-their peaceful homes. Le Loutre, however, had felt none during all the
-years he had been at the same work.
-
-When the hour arrived in which the assembled Acadians were to be told
-that they were prisoners, Gabriel had begged of Winslow’s clemency that
-he might be absent from the church; and now, as he stood sadly at the
-window of the vicarage parlor, the door of the room was softly pushed
-open, and Marin stood before him. His little eyes were restless with
-fear, and his naturally crafty countenance was drawn and pale.
-
-Gabriel uttered an exclamation, and sprang forward.
-
-“Tchut!” The peasant put his finger to his lips. “I was in Halifax, eh,
-_M. le Capitain_?” he whispered. “Nay, but here am I at Grand Pré—and
-so much the worse for a good Catholic! I said, I have tricked these
-heretics before and I will trick them again. It is a good deed—but this
-time the holy saints were not with me.”
-
-The young officer made a gesture of despair and disgust.
-
-“But, friend Marin, what of thy given word? Didst thou not promise me
-that if I obtained permission for thee to go to Halifax, thither thou
-wouldst go?”
-
-The man shrugged his shoulders.
-
-“Assuredly. But what of that? One more or less—what matters it? At
-Grand Pré no foolish oath was then required—at Halifax, yes!”
-
-“But how didst thou escape from the church?”
-
-“Oh, that was not difficult. We were caught, we men, as rats in a trap;
-but the general yielded to our tears and prayers, and we are to choose
-daily twenty to go home and console the wives and children. I am among
-the first lot chosen, and——”
-
-Gabriel interrupted him impatiently.
-
-“But Louis Herbes, is he also at Grand Pré?”
-
-“Alas, no! the wife, she was too strong. They proceeded to Halifax. I
-too desire to go thither now if thou, who art of Acadie, wilt aid me.”
-
-“When thou needest help before, I was of the hated English,” retorted
-the young man grimly. “But be I what I may, English or Acadian, I serve
-honor first—and so bethink thee!”
-
-“Honor? Assuredly, _M. le Capitain_! Yet listen.” He came nearer,
-lowering his voice to a whisper. “I come not back, hearest thou?”
-
-“And what of thy countrymen here? Of a certainty they will be held
-answerable for thy treachery.”
-
-“That will be thy part to arrange,” observed Marin coolly.
-
-Gabriel, ever quick to act, sprang upon the peasant and seized him by
-the collar of his blouse. For a moment anger deprived him of the power
-of speech. Then—
-
-“And thou wilt make me traitor too!” he cried. “Almost I could wish that
-no blood of Acadie ran in my veins!”
-
-“And Margot—is she not Acadian?”
-
-Marin was quite unabashed, and there was a leer in the small eyes he
-turned up to the young giant who held him as a mastiff holds a rat.
-
-At the name of Margot, Gabriel loosed the man, covered his eyes with his
-hands and sank into a chair.
-
-“Ah, Margot!” he groaned.
-
-“Yes, Margot, I say again. Thou wilt let me go, and thou wilt swear that
-thou knowest of a truth that I overstayed my time, and was drowned in
-the marshes hurrying hither in the darkness of the night, that thou
-didst strive to save me and failed. The salt marshes receive the dead,
-and cover them kindly. All this thou dost know, and my good character
-also. Who will doubt the word of a brave soldier?”
-
-“A clumsy plot, indeed, even were I willing to forswear my honor for
-thee!”
-
-Gabriel had his friend by the collar again.
-
-“Release me, or I will not tell thee what I know!” ejaculated Marin
-sullenly.
-
-“Tell, and be done!”
-
-The young man let go of his prisoner so suddenly that the fellow nearly
-fell upon the floor.
-
-“Not so fast, my brave _capitain_!” Marin was eying him now from a safe
-distance. “Not a word of the _belle cousine_ dost thou win from me until
-I have thy promise to aid me to escape.”
-
-[Illustration: “‘And thou wilt make me traitor too,’ he cried.”]
-
-Gabriel was silent.
-
-“It is as I say. I know where Margot is to be found, but——” Marin
-paused expressively.
-
-Gabriel still did not answer. When at last he spoke, his voice was low
-and stern.
-
-“Marin, I owe thee somewhat in that thou didst open thy doors to my
-cousin and her friends in their time of stress. Thou hast said that I am
-Acadian. True! But also am I English, and an English soldier and a
-Protestant. There is my faith and my honor—both forbid a lie. Not even
-for Margot can I do this thing.”
-
-His voice broke, and he turned away. Well, he knew the combined
-obstinacy and ignorance of the typical Acadian peasant, such as in some
-sort Marin was, and he hoped nothing. Marin, on the contrary, not
-understanding the situation, would not give up, and, in the few
-remaining minutes left uninterrupted, worked his hardest. The temptation
-was sore indeed, and by the time his tormentor was summoned to accompany
-the deputies, Gabriel’s young face was pale and drawn with the struggle.
-
-“Tell me but one thing,” he said ere they parted, “is it well with her?”
-
-“Well? How know I?” retorted the Acadian, surveying the result of his
-work with mingled complacency and disgust. “Perhaps!”
-
-But for the tremendous pressure already being put upon his unhappy
-commander by the events of this fifth day of September, Gabriel would
-have gone directly to him, and despite his gratitude to Marin for past
-services, would have requested that he be detained until he should
-reveal the whereabouts of Margot. But Winslow, New England Puritan
-though he might be, was finding, in common with his English
-brother-in-arms at Fort Edward, “things very heavy on his heart and
-hands”; so Gabriel forebore to trouble him with his own matters.
-
-And if his superior’s heart was heavy, how much heavier was his—born
-and reared an Acadian of the Acadians, and now with personal loss and
-grief added to his other sorrows!
-
-Marin, though crafty and self-seeking, had not the daring to break his
-word, unsheltered as he was by Gabriel from the righteous wrath of his
-compatriots; so night saw him back within the stockade. He kept his
-secret, nevertheless, and neither persuasion nor threats prevailed with
-him. The rest of the prisoners were all strangers to Gabriel, and had
-never heard of him before; and for reasons of his own, Marin kept their
-previous acquaintance dark.
-
-As the days went on, and the prisoners increased in number both at Fort
-Edward and Grand Pré, the commanding officers grew uneasy. The
-transports that were to bear away the Acadian families with their
-household goods were slow in arriving, and it would have been easy for
-the prisoners, had they been men of courage and resolution, to overpower
-their guards and escape. Unfortunately the Acadian character possessed
-none of those qualities necessary for the preservation of freedom, or
-for the reclaiming of it if lost. Gabriel’s duties kept him constantly
-within the stockade; and the small force having no horses with them, and
-the village of Grand Pré, together with the other settlements,
-straggling for many miles, he had never been within a league of the
-house of Marin or encountered any chance acquaintance. The times were
-too strenuous, the crisis too tremendous, to permit of the least
-relaxation on the part of a loyal officer.
-
-But although the transports delayed, ships from Boston came and anchored
-in the Basin. Winslow thereupon resolved to place about half of his
-prisoners upon these ships, and keep them there for better security
-until the transports should arrive. To Gabriel, because of his complete
-understanding of the language and the nature of his fellow-countrymen,
-the general left the hard task of explaining to the prisoners what was
-required of them, and of persuading them to submit quietly.
-
-All were very silent as they stood in the churchyard guarded by
-soldiers. Winslow himself kept rather in the background, leaving his
-subordinate to enact the part of principal in this trying scene. The
-general, though a good soldier and popular with his men, had hitherto
-passed for a person somewhat ignorant and over-much addicted to
-self-satisfaction. But in the last few weeks he had had little
-opportunity for satisfaction even with himself. “This affair is more
-grievous to me than any service I was ever employed in!” was his
-constant lament. And now, as he stood quietly watching Gabriel, he
-observed for the first time the change in the young man. He was pale and
-wan, and his eyes wore the look of one who is forever seeking and never
-finding.
-
-In a low, clear voice he announced the decision of the general, assured
-them of their perfect safety, and also that the wives and children of
-the married would soon be restored to them.
-
-For a while a great murmuring prevailed, which Gabriel was powerless to
-subdue; it seemed as if, despite every effort, bloodshed must be the
-result of the manifesto. The New England soldiers, as has been said, had
-little sympathy with the “idolaters,” and were ready at a word to make
-short work of them. But Winslow was reluctant to say that word, and ere
-long Gabriel had the prisoners once more under control. A given number
-of unmarried men were then selected, these being sent off under guard to
-the ships; after them were to follow a smaller number of married men.
-
-Gabriel stood like a figure carved in stone at the head of his handful
-of soldiers, whilst the commanding officer himself selected the Acadian
-husbands and fathers. Suddenly, before the guard could interfere, a
-figure hurled itself out of the chosen group and precipitated itself
-upon Gabriel, while a voice shrieked:
-
-“Thou, thou who art an Acadian, thou canst save me! me, who took the
-cousin into my house and fed and sheltered her! Answer, dost hear?”
-
-But Gabriel was on duty, and made as though he neither heard nor saw.
-Shaking Marin from his arm, he motioned to his men to replace him in the
-ranks.
-
-Winslow’s curiosity, ever active, was, however, aroused, and seizing his
-opportunity, he drew his subordinate to one side and questioned him.
-Gabriel replied with his customary brevity and straightforwardness.
-
-“And why did you not come at once to me, sir?” rejoined Winslow, puffing
-and mopping his fat, red face.
-
-The young man stated his reasons, adding that though Marin might
-possibly know where Margot was, no reliance was to be placed upon the
-word of a man who was concerned only for his own comfort and had no
-respect for truth.
-
-“That may be, that may be,” fussed the kind-hearted general. “But,
-lieutenant, you will now conduct these men to the ships. Their women
-will of a surety line the way along which you have to pass. Assure them
-of my permission to visit their men-folk daily until this troublesome
-job be at an end—as God grant it may be ere long. Your eyes may be on
-the women as well as on your duty, eh? You are young, yet I have proven
-you worthy of trust.”
-
-So saying, the general bustled off, and shortly after the gates of the
-stockade were again opened and the procession started for the shores of
-the Basin.
-
-For one of Gabriel’s years and position the task set him, though kindly
-intentioned, was a heartbreaking one. But a few miles distant, near the
-mouth of the Annapolis River, he and Margot had been born and reared. In
-spite of his manhood, or perhaps because he was so true a man, the hot
-tears rose to his eyes, kept from falling only by the might of his iron
-will; for all along the wayside toward the water’s edge kneeled or stood
-the wives and children of the men tramping beside him through the late
-summer’s dust, gazing as they passed not merely on those wives and
-children, but upon the wide and fertile meadows whose harvests they
-should never gather more.
-
-At intervals as he walked Gabriel proclaimed the general’s behests and
-promises; and one or two women, who knew now for the first time of his
-presence in the neighborhood and recognized him, pressed forward to
-clasp his hands and cover them with tears, and plead with the man who,
-as a little babe, they had held upon their strong knees and pressed to
-their broad Acadian bosoms. Unable longer to endure in silence, on his
-own account he at length called a halt, and in loud, ringing tones spoke
-these words:
-
-“Fellow-countrymen, I serve my general, and him I must obey. But his
-heart, even as my own, is heavy for your sufferings, and again I tell
-you that your husbands and fathers are not being borne away from you.
-They will remain on the ships but a short distance from the shore, and
-every day you can visit them until such time as the transports arrive
-and you all sail away together, you and your children and your household
-goods. Grieve not, then, for loss which is not yours.”
-
-Concluding his brief address he stepped down from the low mound upon
-which he had mounted, and confronted the wife of Marin. Evidently she
-belonged to the class of women whose indifference had so greatly
-astonished the English lieutenant; for her face was calm, and she smiled
-as she met Gabriel’s eyes. It was impossible for him to pause longer,
-but although her husband’s malevolent gaze was riveted upon her, Julie
-extended her hand and caught that of the young officer as he swung past
-on the march.
-
-“Look for me at the church,” she whispered, “at the hour of vespers.”
-
-Gabriel’s impulsive heart leaped within him, and in an instant a
-thousand wild hopes and imaginings were seething in his brain; and the
-women, being appeased and many of them hurrying homeward to prepare
-meals to carry to the ships, he was left unmolested. He concluded his
-task without further difficulty, and returned to the church.
-
-The general, relieved from pressing anxiety, was in a mood to satisfy
-his natural curiosity, and having received his lieutenant’s formal
-report, began to ply him with questions respecting his personal affairs.
-Gabriel answered without reserve.
-
-“Mark me, sir!” exclaimed Winslow delightedly, “the maiden comes hither
-this night with the woman. Then will we have some romance in these
-melancholy times.”
-
-And forgetting his dignity, he clapped his subordinate violently on the
-shoulder. And Gabriel found nothing to say.
-
-
-                               CHAPTER IX
-
-But Winslow was in error. The wife of Marin came alone, and Gabriel’s
-yearning eyes traveled in vain beyond the sturdy figure of the Acadian
-peasant woman for the slight one of his cousin.
-
-The meeting took place in the general’s private parlor.
-
-“Ah, you expected _la petite_!” began Julie volubly, “but that may not
-be—not yet.”
-
-“Where is she, friend Julie?” interrupted the young man impatiently.
-“How did she escape from the priest? Is she well? Is she happy? Does she
-think of me? Only tell me.”
-
-“But that is much to tell, my brave boy,” laughed Julie. “Listen now to
-me, who am indeed thy friend. Thou shalt see her, and she shall answer
-those many questions with her own lips, but on one condition: the
-marriage must be at once—on the instant. Otherwise, Marin——” she
-shrugged her shoulders expressively. “It is not well, seest thou, to
-fall out with a husband. Now, Marin is a prisoner, therefore am I a weak
-woman left alone to deal with a young man of violence, seest thou? Thou
-dost seize thy bride, thou dost carry her to thy priest, who am I? But
-shouldst thou delay, and I bring _la petite_ to visit thee once, twice,
-many times, Marin, he will say, ‘Thou, _bonne femme_, wast the guardian
-of this child, and thou didst take her to visit a heretic, allowing her
-also to neglect the duties she owes thee.’ But once thy wife, _M. le
-Capitain_, and all is over.”
-
-Gabriel listened to this harangue with eyes upon the ground and the red
-color slowly flushing to his fair face. He continued silent so long that
-the woman lost patience.
-
-“_Mon Dieu!_” she ejaculated under her breath, “is it the English blood
-that makes him so dull?”
-
-At last he spoke hesitatingly:
-
-“Good friend, thou sayest, ‘Seest thou?’ I reply, ‘Seest thou not also?’
-There has been no talk of marriage betwixt Margot and myself. Truly do I
-desire it,” his eyes flashed, and he raised his head. “I desire it with
-all the strength that is in me, but with Margot, the maiden, it may be
-otherwise.”
-
-Again the wife of Marin laughed. So loudly did she laugh that the
-general, pacing the vicarage garden, paused at the open window to
-acquaint himself with the cause of her mirth.
-
-“It is the brave _garçon_, my general. He knows nothing. Let him but
-arrange for the marriage, and I, even I, Julie, will answer for the
-maiden.”
-
-Then, on being questioned by Winslow, she went over her tale once more,
-and the two gossips would have promptly settled the whole affair out of
-hand had not one of the principals interposed.
-
-“Let me but see her once—only once—first,” implored Gabriel.
-
-The general, promptly won over to the side of Julie, hesitated, in such
-haste was he for the pleasurable excitement of a wedding; but finally it
-was resolved that the young lover should go the following morning to
-Julie’s little cabin, and there win his fair young bride for himself.
-
-As Julie drew on her hood preparatory to departure, Winslow inquired of
-her how it fared with the women, remarking that she herself seemed to
-bear her fate with much cheer.
-
-“For the others—well, while many lament, all do not. For myself I care
-not. I weary of the French rule and the fighting and wandering and the
-savage Indians. Anywhere I go willingly where there is peace, and the
-soil is fruitful—_v’ là tout!_”
-
-So she went; and the early sun was glistening on meadows yet dewy when
-Gabriel, forgetful for the moment of the sorrows around him and his own
-distasteful duties, strode along the same dusty road he had traversed
-the previous day, arriving in the course of an hour or so at the small
-hut inhabited by the Marins. Julie, hastening forth to milk, greeted him
-with a broad smile, and waved to him to enter.
-
-Enter he did, and in a second, neither knew how, he held Margot close to
-his heart.
-
-It was long before a word was spoken. It was enough that they were
-together; and when at length Gabriel found voice, it was at first only
-for expressions of pity and endearment for the frail little creature who
-seemed lost within his large embrace.
-
-[Illustration: “They sat down side by side . . . before the empty
-  hearth.”]
-
-“But I am not so frail, _mon cousin_,” she protested. “I can work and
-endure, ah, thou knowest not how much!”
-
-“But never again, _chérie_!” was Gabriel’s reply; and grown strangely
-and suddenly bold, he added: “and remember, it must be ‘_mon cousin_’ no
-longer, for from this very day there shall be an end of ‘_cousin_’—it
-will be ‘wife’ and ‘husband.’ Hearest thou?”
-
-Yes, Margot heard, but had nothing to say. Finally she remarked in a low
-voice:
-
-“I would be baptized into thy faith first.”
-
-“What?” cried Gabriel joyfully. “Is that really so, my Margot? What glad
-news! Now is all indeed well with us! There is a chaplain at Fort
-Edward; he will baptize thee, and marry us.”
-
-They sat down side by side upon the rude bench before the empty hearth,
-and talked and made plans as lovers have done since lovers first began.
-Gabriel’s mind, as we know, worked quickly, and he soon had beautiful
-schemes mapped out for being transferred to Washington’s command in
-Virginia, that rising young general having been recently appointed
-commander-in-chief of the army there.
-
-“My noble captain is now stationed at Winchester,” he concluded, “and
-with him is that grand old soldier Fairfax, the lord lieutenant of the
-county. They are engaged in subduing the Indians. At Winchester we will
-live, and then shall I be ever at hand to protect my wife.”
-
-News traveled slowly in those days, and Gabriel had heard nothing of the
-panic at Winchester, and with the confidence and faith of youth believed
-that his hero, George Washington, could accomplish even the impossible.
-
-But duty called, and Julie returned, and Gabriel had to depart; yet not
-before it was arranged that, with Winslow’s permission, assured in
-advance, Julie should bring Margot that evening to the church, there to
-meet the chaplain from Fort Edward, who would perform the two sacraments
-of baptism and marriage.
-
-Winslow, naturally of a cheerful disposition, rejoiced in this break in
-the monotony of misery, hastily dispatched a messenger to Fort Edward,
-and but for Gabriel’s entreaties would have made the marriage as jovial
-an affair as Puritanical principles admitted of. Discipline forbade that
-a woman could be received as an inmate of a fortified camp, neither
-could Gabriel be spared often from duties destined to become daily more
-onerous and troublesome; but to the two, scarcely more than boy and
-girl, who stood that evening with bowed heads before the chaplain, there
-was more than common comfort in the solemn words: “Those whom God hath
-joined together let no man put asunder.”
-
-Joy and thankfulness, deep and unutterable, swelled the heart of the
-young husband as, from the gate in the stockade, he watched the slight
-form of his girl-wife disappear into the gathering shades of night. She
-was his now—his to claim, to protect, to have and to hold till death
-did them part.
-
-In the excitement and rapture of meeting, Gabriel had hardly bethought
-him to ask her how she had escaped from Le Loutre. The fact that she had
-escaped, that she was alive and well and with him, filled his mental
-horizon. The tale, however, was short. The priest, hard pressed, had
-been compelled to give her up to a party of fugitives hastening to
-Halifax to take the oath. This party had come upon the Marins, and
-thinking they also were bound for Halifax, Margot had willingly joined
-them, finding out when it was too late Marin’s change of view.
-
-In those last sad days for her country-people Margot showed of what
-stuff she was made. Consoling, upholding, encouraging, she seemed to
-have arrived suddenly at a noble womanhood. This, however, was not the
-case. She had been growing toward it slowly but surely through years of
-adversity.
-
-The continued delay in the coming of the transports bred trouble betwixt
-the soldiers and the Acadians. “The soldiers,” we are told, “disliked
-and despised them,” the Acadians, and the general found it necessary not
-only to enforce discipline more sternly among his troops, but to
-administer the lash also on occasion.
-
-At last, one October day, Winslow had four transports at his disposal.
-Orders and counter-orders, lamentation and weeping, disturbed the clear,
-still air. Villages had to be arranged to go together in the same
-transport as well as families; and this, with so few troops at his
-command, was no easy task for the general, who naturally was possessed
-of very little experience as regarded organization. Gabriel, who while
-under Washington had received of necessity some training, was his right
-hand man. The male prisoners were removed from the ships to land while
-the mustering went forward.
-
-As the women filed past the spot where for a moment the harassed general
-and his subordinate had come together, and the pair gazed upon the
-melancholy confusion of young and old, and household belongings in
-carts, Winslow groaned: “I know they deserve all and more than they
-feel; yet it hurts me to hear their weeping and wailing and gnashing of
-teeth!”
-
-At Fort Edward, as well as at many other places in the province, the
-same terrible scenes were being enacted—those in command, without one
-single authentic exception, carrying out the stern decree as mercifully
-as possible. Beside the long train of women walked the priest of each
-village, encouraging and upholding his flock. A few of these priests
-accompanied the exiles, but most of them returned to Canada.
-
-Not all the women, however, were “weeping and wailing.” Some, as has
-been remarked, appeared to be wholly undisturbed. Among these latter was
-Julie, in the cart with whom was Margot, bound to see the last of her
-benefactress. As they passed, both women waved their hands to the two
-officers, Julie calling gayly to Gabriel:
-
-“It is well, _M. le mari_! Our ship goes to Virginia, where we shall
-again meet. Is it not so?”
-
-For weary weeks the misery was prolonged, and it was the close of the
-year before Winslow’s and Murray’s bitter task about the Basin of the
-Mines was completed. But improved organization rendered even difficult
-things easier, and by the last of October the general was able to part,
-though with extreme reluctance, with his most efficient subordinate.
-Gabriel, promoted to a captaincy, set sail with his wife on one of the
-transports for Virginia.
-
-The poor exiles, with comparatively few exceptions, were scattered
-around in the various States from Massachusetts southward, meeting with
-no cruelty certainly, but also with no welcome from the struggling
-colonials, and only in Louisiana thriving and becoming a permanent
-colony. Canada, and even France and England, were also forced to receive
-them, and in Canada, among the people of their own faith, their lot was
-the hardest. Help in their own church they found none, and indeed in
-many instances implored to be taken back to the English Colonies, where
-at least they were not treated with actual inhumanity. The war at last
-at an end, many, the Herbes amongst the number, found their way back to
-their own country. A large portion of the fertile province lay waste,
-however, for years, the New England soldier-farmers refusing either part
-or lot in it, and English settlers finally being brought from over sea.
-
-It is doubtful if the Acadians ever learned the fate of their leader and
-tyrant. Captured on the ocean by the English, Le Loutre died in prison,
-after having been nearly assassinated by one of the soldiers of the
-guard, who swore that the holy father had once in Acadie tried to take
-his scalp!
-
-And Gabriel and Margot? Their lives were happy, although the pain of
-separation was sometimes theirs, and they were often exposed to perils
-and dangers. As an officer under Washington through stirring times, both
-in the Indian wars and the war of the Revolution, Gabriel’s could not be
-other than the life of sacrifice and self-devotion demanded by the life
-of a true patriot. Margot seconded him bravely, cheering him on at the
-trumpet-call of duty and never restraining him by selfish fears and
-interests. She kept around her a few of her country people; and there in
-Virginia she reared a family of brave boys to follow in their father’s
-steps.
-
-                 *        *        *        *        *
-
-Transcriber’s Notes:
-
-List of Illustrations for _Gabriel the Acadian_ was moved from the front
-of the book to the start of the novel.
-
-A few obvious punctuation and typesetting errors have been corrected
-without note.
-
-A cover has been created for this ebook and is placed in the public
-domain.
-
-[End of _The Angel of His Presence_ by G.L. Hill and _Gabriel the
-Acadian_ by E.M.N. Bowyer]
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