A Sister to Evangeline Read online

  Chapter XI

  Father Fafard

  The incident at the forge, as it seemed to me, was one to scattereffectually any rumours of my connection with Vaurin, and Icongratulated myself most heartily upon it. It could not fail, Ithought, to look well in Yvonne’s eyes. It confirmed me in my resolve togo to Canard that afternoon, and perhaps to Pereau, getting my uncle’sbusiness off my hands, and not returning to De Lamourie Place till Imight be sure that the circumstances had been heard and well digestedthere. Having this course settled in my mind, I passed the church,entered the gate between its flowering lilac-bushes, and hastened up thenarrow path to Father Fafard’s door. Ere I could reach it the goodpriest stood upon his threshold to greet me, both hands out, his kindgrey eyes half closed by the crowding smiles that creased his round andruddy face.

  “My boy!” he said. “I have looked for you all the morning. Why didn’tyou come to me last night?”

  His voice, big, yet low and soft, had ever quaintly reminded me of aripe apple in its mellow firmness.

  Both hands in his, I answered, bantering him:

  “But, father, the church gave me work to do last night. Could I neglectthat? I had to see that the Reverend Father La Garne did not turn asidefrom his sacred ministrations to burn down the houses of my friends.”

  The kind face grew grave and stern.

  “I know! I know!” he said. “This land of Acadie is in an evil case. Butcome, let us eat, and talk afterwards. I have waited for you far past myhour.”

  He turned into his little dining-room, a very plainly furnished closetoff the kitchen.

  I was hungry, so for a space there was no talk, while the fried chickenand barley cakes which the brown old housekeeper set before us maderapid disappearance. Then came sweet curds with thick cream, and sugarof the maple grated over them,—a dish of which delectable memories hadclung to me from boyhood. This savory and wholesome meal done, FatherFafard brought out some dark-red West Indian rum which smelled mostpleasantly. As he poured it for me he tapped the bottle and said:

  “This comes to us by way of Boston. These English have an excellentjudgment in liquor, Paul. It is one of our small compensations.”

  I laughed, thinking of the scant concern it was to Father Fafard, ever,for all his fineness of palate, one of the most abstemious of men. As wesat at ease and sipped the brew he said:

  “I hear you faced down the Black Abbé last night, and fairly drove himoff the field.”

  “I had that satisfaction,” said I, striving to look modest over it.

  “He gave way to you, the Black Abbé himself, who browbeats thecommandant at Beauséjour, and fears no man living,—unless it be that madheretic Grûl, perchance! And he yielded to your authority, my boy? Howdo you account for the miracle?”

  Now it had not hitherto seemed to me so much of a miracle, and I was ashade nettled that it should seem one to others. I was used tocontrolling violent men, and why not meddling priests?

  “I suppose he saw I meant it. Perhaps he respected the king’scommission. I know not,” said I with indifference.

  Father Fafard smiled dryly.

  “I grant,” said he, “that you are a hard man to cross, Paul, for allyour graciousness. But La Garne would risk that, or anything; and hecares for the king’s commission only when it suits him to care for it.Oh, no! If he gave way to you he believed you were doing his work, andhe would not interfere. What _is_ your errand to Acadie, Paul?” headded, suddenly leaning forward and searching my face.

  I felt myself flush with indignation, and half rose from my seat. Then Iremembered that he knew nothing of my reasons for coming, and that hisquestion was but natural. This cooled me. But I looked him reproachfullyin the eyes.

  “Do _you_ think me a conspirator and a companion of cut-throats?” Iasked. “I have no public business to bring me here to Grand Pré, father.I got short leave from my general, my first in two years, and I havecome to Acadie for my own pleasure and for no reason else. My word!”

  He leaned back with an air of relief.

  “It is, of course, enough, Paul,” said he heartily. “But in these baddays one knows not what to expect, nor whence the bolt may fall. Thereis distrust on all sides. As for my unhappy people, they are like to beground to dust between the upper stone of England and the lower stone ofFrance.” He sighed heavily, looking out upon his dooryard lilacs as ifhe thought to bid them soon farewell. Then the kindly glance came backinto his eyes, and he turned them again upon me.

  “But why,” he inquired, “did you go first to Monsieur de Lamourie’s,instead of coming, as of old, at once to me?”

  I hesitated; then decided to speak frankly, so far as might seemfitting.

  “Grûl warned me,” said I, “that Mademoiselle de Lamourie was in danger.I dared not delay.”

  “Why she in especial?” he persisted, gravely teasing, as was his rightand custom. “Were not monsieur and madame in like peril of the goodabbé’s hand?”

  “It was her peril that most concerned me,” I said bluntly.

  He studied my face, and then, I suppose, read my heart, which I made noeffort to veil. The smile went from his lips.

  “I fear you love the girl, Paul,” said he very gently. “I am sorry foryou, more sorry than I can say. But you are too late. Were you toldabout the Englishman?”

  “I met him,” said I, with a voice less steady than I desired it to be,for my heart was straightway in insurrection at the topic. “Madame toldme, incidentally. But it is _not_ too late, father! I may call it sowhen she is dead, or I.”

  “It is your hurt that speaks in haste,” said he rebukingly. “But youknow you are wrong, and such words idle. Indeed, my dear, dear boy, Iwould you had her, not he. But her troth is solemnly plighted, and he isa good man and fair to look at; though I like him not over well. As hewas a Protestant, I long stood out against him; but Giles de Lamourie isnow half English at heart, and Yvonne is wilful. Why were you not hereto help me a half year back, my boy?”

  “Ay! why not?” I exclaimed bitterly, gripping my pewter mug till it lostall semblance of a mug. “And why was I a fool, a blind, blind dolt, whenI _was_ here, two years back? But I am here now. And you shall see I amnot too late!”

  “You speak rashly, Paul,” said he, with a trace of sternness. “You maybe sure, however much I love you, I will not help you now in your wickedpurpose. Would you make her false to her word?”

  “Her word was false to her heart, that I know,” said I. “Better be falsefor a little than for a lifetime, and two lives made as one death forit.”

  The round, kindly face smiled ironically at the passion which had creptinto my voice.

  “You speak now as a poet, I think, Paul,” said he. “I suppose I mustallow for some hyperbole and not be too much alarmed at your passion.Yet I must confess you seem to me too old for this child-talk of lifeand death, as if they were both compassed in a woman’s loving or notloving.”

  “I speak with all sobriety, father,” said I, “and I speak of that whichI know. Forgive me if I suggest that you do less.”

  The priest’s eyes shaded as with sorrowful remembrance, and he lookedout across the apple-trees as he answered:

  “You think I have always been a priest,” said he; “that I have alwaysdwelt where the passions and pains of earth can touch me only asreflected from the hearts of others—the hearts into which I look as intoa mirror. How should I understand what I see in such a mirror, if I hadnot myself once known these things that make storm in man’s life? I haveloved, Paul.”

  “How much?” I asked.

  “Enough,” said he, “to lose her for her own good. I was a poor studentwith no prospects. She was beautiful and good, and her duty to herfamily required that she should marry as they wished. I had no right toher. I could not have her. For her love I vowed to live single—and Ihave come to know that the love of a woman is but one small part oflife.”

  “Plainly,” said I, watchi
ng him with interest, “there was no resistlesscompulsion in that love. But you are right; of most lives love is but anaccident, the plaything of propinquity. It dimly feels itsinsignificance in the face of serious affairs, and gives place, as itshould. But there is a love which is different. Few, indeed, are theywho are born to endure the light of its uncovered face; but all haveheard the dim tradition of it. I cannot make you understand it, father,any more than I could teach a blind man the wonder of that radiatingblue up there. That old half-knowledge of yours has sealed your eyesmore closely than if you had never known at all. I can only tell youthere is a love to which life and death must serve as lackeys.”

  As he listened, first astonishment marked his face; for never before hadI spoken to him save as a boy to his trusted master. Then indignationstruggled with solicitude. Then he seemed to remember that I was not aboy, but a man well hardened in the school of stern experience.Therefore he seemed to decide that I must be treated with mild banter.He lay back in his chair, folded his well-kept hands on his amplestomach, and chuckled indulgently before replying.

  “The fever is upon you, Paul,” said he. “Poet and peasant alike musthave it. In this form it is not often more dangerous or more lastingthan measles; but unlike measles, alas, one attack grants no immunityfrom another!”

  I loved him well, and his jibes stung me not at all. I fell comfortablyinto his mood.

  “A frontier fighter must be his own physician,” I said lightly. “Youshall see how I will medicine this fever.”

  “I will trust Yvonne de Lamourie’s plighted word,” he said gravely,after a pause of some moments. Then a wave of strong feeling went overhis face, and he broke out with a passion in his voice:

  “Paul, do not misjudge me. I love you as my own son, and there is no oneelse in the world whom I love as I love Yvonne de Lamourie. Not her ownfather can love her as I do, a lonely old man to whom her face is morethan sunshine. Do I not desire with all my heart that you should haveher—you whom I trust, you whom I know to be a true son of the church?But as I must tell you again, though it grieves me to say it, you havecome too late. The Englishman’s faithful and unselfish devotion has wonher promise. She will keep it, and she will bring him into the church.Moreover, she owes him more than she can ever repay. Giles de Lamouriehas long been under the suspicion of the English government, who accusedhim, unjustly, of having had a hand in the massacre of the NewEnglanders here. His estates were on the very verge of confiscation; butAnderson saved him and made him secure. That there is some dreadful fateeven now hanging over this fair land I feel assured. What it may be Idare not guess; but in the hour of ruin George Anderson will see thatthe house of De Lamourie stands unscathed. For, Paul, I know that Heavenis with the English in this quarrel. Our iniquity in high places has notescaped unseen.”

  “Grûl’s prophecy touches even you,” I remarked, rising. “But I must go,father. I have errands across the dyke, for my uncle; and I would beback for the night, if possible, to ease the fears of Monsieur deLamourie. And as for _her_—be assured I will use none but fair means inthe great venture of my life.”

  “I am assured of it, Paul,” said he, grasping my outstretched hand withall affection. “And I am assured, too, that you will utterly andirremediably fail. Therefore I am the less troubled, my dear boy, thoughmy heart is sore enough for you.”

  “I can but thank God,” I retorted cheerfully, retreating down the pathbetween the lilacs, “that the offices of priest and prophet do sometimesexist apart.”

  As I looked back at him, before turning down the lane, his kind, round,ruddy face was puckered solicitously over a problem which grew but theharder as he pondered it.