A Sister to Evangeline Read online

  Chapter VI

  A New England Englishman

  I have said that the room grew brighter for the going of the Black Abbé.To me, at least, it seemed so. Yet, after his departure, there fell apalpable air of constraint. Monsieur de Lamourie regarded me withsomething almost like suspicion. Madame eyed me with a curious scrutiny,tolerant, yet as it were watchful. As for Yvonne, her face was coldlyaverted. All this troubled me. Only the New Englander came to my rescue.

  With a smile of frank satisfaction he remarked:

  “You dealt very effectively and expeditiously with that black-frockedfirebrand, monsieur. You must have great influence at headquarters to beable to treat La Garne with so little ceremony.”

  Now, puzzled though I was, I was marvellously elated by my easy victoryover the notorious Black Abbé. There was doubtless a vainglorious ringin the would-be modest voice with which I answered.

  “Yes,” said I, “I did not expect quite so swift a triumph. I thought Imight even be driven to threats ill fitting the dignity of his office.But doubtless he saw that I was rather in earnest.”

  “He certainly seemed to regard you as one having authority,” said DeLamourie gravely.

  “Or even,” murmured Madame, with that dryness in her voice, “as in someway his confederate.”

  “Or Vaurin’s,” came a cold suggestion from Mademoiselle. Her eyes weregazing steadily into the fire; but I caught the scornful curl of herlip.

  At this I felt myself flush hotly, I knew not just why. It seemed as ifI lay under some obscure but disgraceful imputation. With sudden warmthI cried:

  “I have no authority, save as an officer of the king, with a cleanrecord and a sword not unproven. I have no confederate, nor am I like tobe engaged in such work as shall make one needful. And as for thisVaurin,” I demanded, turning to Yvonne, “who is he? He seems a personageindeed; yet never had I heard of him till the commandant of Beauséjourgave me a letter for his hand.”

  “I cannot doubt you, monsieur,” interposed Anderson heartily. “ThisVaurin is a very sorry scoundrel, a spy and an assassin, who does thedirty work of those who employ him. I think it was ill done of Vergor togive to any gentleman a commission to that foul cur.”

  I sprang to my feet and walked thrice up and down the room, while allsat silent. I think my anger was plain enough to every one, for the oldfriendliness—as I afterwards remembered—came back to the faces ofMonsieur and Madame de Lamourie, and Yvonne’s eyes shone upon me for aninstant with a wistfulness which I could not understand. Yet this, as Isaid, is but what came back to me afterwards. I felt Yvonne’s eyes butas in a dream at that moment.

  “Vergor shall answer to me,” I cried bitterly. “It is ill work servingunder the public thieves whom the intendant puts in power to-day. Onenever knows what baseness may not be demanded of him. Vergor shall clearhimself, or meet me!”

  “What hope is there for your cause,” asked Anderson, “when they whoguide New France are so corrupt?”

  “They are not all corrupt!” I declared with vehemence. “The governor ishonest. The general is honour itself. But, alas, the most grievousenemies of New France are those within her gate! Bigot is the prince ofrobbers. His hands and those of his gang are at her throat. It is he wefear, and not you English, brave and innumerable though you are.”

  And with this my indignation at Vergor, who, it was plain, had put uponme an errand unbecoming to a gentleman and an officer of the king,spread out to include the whole corrupt crew of which the intendantBigot was the too efficient captain. Seating myself again by the hearth,I gave bitter account of the wrong and infamy at Quebec, and showed how,to the anguish of her faithful sons, New France was being stripped andlaid bare to the enemy. My heart being as dead with my own suddensorrow, the story which I told of my country’s plight was steeped indark forebodings.

  When I had finished, the conversation became general, and I presentlywithdrew into my heaviness. I remember that Madame rallied me, at last,on my silence; but Yvonne came quickly and sweetly to my help, recallingmy long day’s journey and insisting upon my drinking a cup of spicedbrandy—“very sound and good,” she declared, “and but late fromLouisburg, no thanks to King George!”

  As I sat sipping of the fragrant brew—though it had been wormwood it hadseemed to me delicate from her hand—I tried to gather together theshattered fragments of my dream.

  There she sat—of all women the one woman, as I had in the long, solitarynight-watches come to know, whom my soul needed and my body needed. Myinmost thought, speaking with itself in nakedest sincerity, declaredthat it was she only whom God had made for me—or for whom God had mademe. The whole truth, as I felt it, required both statements to perfectits expression. There she sat, so near that her voice was making awonder of music in my ears, so near that her eyes from time to timeflashed a palpable radiance upon my face; yet further away than when Ilightened with dreams of her the long marches beside the Miami or layawake to think of her, in the remote huts of the Natchez. So far awayhad a word, a brief word, put her; yet here she sat where I could graspher just by stretching out my hand.

  As I thought of it her eyes met mine. I swear that I made no motion. Mygrasp never relaxed from the arm of the black old chair where it hadfixed itself. Yet the thought must have cried out to her, for a look ofalarm, yet not wholly of denial, flickered for one heart-beat in hergaze. She rose, with a little aimless movement, looked at me, swayed herbody toward me almost imperceptibly, then sat down again in her oldplace with her face averted. At once she began talking with a whimsicalgayety that engrossed all ears and left me again in my gloom.

  I scrutinized this man, the New Englander, who sat drinking her with hiseyes. For the joy that was in his face as he watched her I cursedhim—yet ere the curse had gone forth I blessed him bitterly. How could Icurse him when I saw that his soul was on its knees to her, as mine was.I felt myself moved toward him in a strange affection. Yet—and yet!

  He was a tall man, well over six feet in height, of a goodly breadth ofshoulder,—taller than myself by three inches at least, and heavier inbuild. He had beauty, too, which I could not boast of; though beforelove taught me humility I had been vain enough to deem my face not allill-favored. His abundant light hair, slightly waving; his ruddy,somewhat square face, with its good chin and kind mouth; his frank andcheerful blue eyes, fearless but not aggressive; his air of directnessand good intention—all compelled my tribute of admiration, and made methink little of my own sombre and sallow countenance, with its straightblack hair, straight black brows, straight black moustache; its mouthlarge and hard set; its eyes wherein mirth and moroseness were atfrequent strife for mastery. Being, as I have reluctantly confessed, avain man without good cause for vanity, I knew the face well—and it waswith small satisfaction I remembered it now, while looking upon themanly fairness of George Anderson.

  Yet, such is the inconsistency of men, I was conscious of a faint,inexplicable pity for him. I felt myself stronger than he, and wiser inthe knowledge of life. But he had the promise of that which to me wasmore than life. He had, as I kept telling myself, Yvonne’s love; yet—hadhe? So obstinate is hope, I would not yield all credence to thistelling. At least I had one advantage, if no other. I was wiser than hein this, that I knew my love for Yvonne, and he did not know it. Yetthis was but a poor vantage, and even upon the moment I had resolved tothrow it away. I resolved that he should be as wise as I on this point,if telling could make him so.