A Sister to Evangeline by Sir Charles G. D. Roberts
Chapter X
A Grand Pré Morning
When I stepped off the wide grounds of Monsieur de Lamourie I was at theextreme eastern end of the village. How little did I dream that thisfairest of Acadian towns was lying even now beneath the shadow of doom!I am never superstitious in the morning. Little did I dream how near wasthe fulfilment of Grûl’s grim prophecy, or how, in that fulfilment,Grand Pré was presently to fade like an exhalation from the face of thiswide green Acadian land! It pleases me, since no mortal eye shall everagain see Grand Pré as she was, to find that now I recall withclear-edged memory the picture which she made that June morning. Notonly do I see her, but I hear her pleasant sounds—the shallow rushing ofthe Gaspereau at ebb; the mooing of the cattle on the uplands; themellow tangle of small bell-music from the bobolinks a-hover over thedyke meadows; now and then a neighbour call from roadside to barn orporch or window; and ever the cheery _cling-clank_, _cling-clank_ fromthe forge far up the street. Not only do I hear the pleasant sounds, butthe clean smells of that fragrant country come back continually withwholesome reminiscence. Oh, how the apple-blossoms breathed their soulsout upon that tender morning air! How the spring wind, soft with a vitalmoisture, persuaded forth the obscure essences of grass and sod andthicket! How good was the salty sea-tang from the uncovered flats, andthe emptied channels, and the still-dripping lines of tide-mark sedge!There was a faint savour of tar, too, at intervals, evasively pungent;for some three furlongs distant, at the end of a lane which ran at rightangles to the main street, a little creek fell into the Gaspereau, andby the wharf at the creek-mouth were fishermen mending their boats forthe shad-fishing.
Oh, that unjustly ignored member, the nose! How subtle andindestructible are its memories! They know the swiftest way to thesources of joy and tears. The eye, the ear, the nice nerves of thefinger tip,—these have no such sway over the mysteries of remembrance.They have never been quite so intimate, for a sweet smell dulyapprehended becomes a part of the very brain and blood. I have a littlecream-yellow kerchief of silk laid away in many folds of scentlesspaper. Sometimes I untie it and look at it. How well I remember it asonce it clung about the fair hair of my young mother! I see myself, athin, dark, grave-faced little boy, leaning against her knee and lookingup with love into her face. The memory moves me—but as a picture. “Wasit I?” I am able to wonder. “And did I, that dark boy, have a motherlike that?” But when I bury my face in the kerchief, and inhale thefaint savour it still wonderfully holds, I know, I feel it all. Oncemore I am in her arms, strained to her breast, my small face pressedclose to her smooth neck where the tiny ripples of silken gold began;and I smell the delicate, intimate sweetness that seemed to be her veryself; and my eyes run over with hot tears of longing for her kiss. Ihave a skirt of hers, too, laid away, and an apron; but these do not somuch move me, for as a child I spoiled them with weeping into them, Ithink. The kerchief was not then large enough to attract the childishvehemence of my sorrow, so it was spared, till by and by I came to knowand guard the priceless talisman of memory which it held.
For some minutes I stood at the street-foot, looking down the river-bankto the wharf and the boats, steeping my brain in those pleasant smellsof Grand Pré. Then I turned up the street. It was all as I had left ittwo years before, save that then the apple-trees were green like thewillows by the marsh edge; while now they were white and pink, a foam ofbee-thronged sweetness surging close about the village roofs. Thecottages on either side the street were low, and dazzling white withlime-wash from the Piziquid quarries. Their wide-flaring gables werepresented with great regularity to the street. The roofs of the largercottages were broken by narrow dormer windows; and all, large and smallalike, were stained to a dark purplish-slate color with a wash which ismade, I understand, by mixing the lime with a quantity of slakedhard-wood ash. The houses stood each with a little space before it, nowneatly tilled and deeply tufted with young green, but presently tobecome a mass of colour when the scarlet lychnis, blue larkspur,lavender, marigolds, and other summer-blooming plants should break intoflower. Far up the street, at the point where a crossroad led out overthe marshes to the low, dark-wooded ridge of the island, stood theforge; and as I drew nearer the warm, friendly breath of the fire purredunder the anvil’s clinking. Back of the forge, along the brink of theopen green levels, stood a grove of rounded willow-trees. Further on, alane bordered with smaller cabins ran in a careless, winding fashion upthe hillside; and a little way from the corner, dwarfing the roofs,loftily overpeering the most venerable apple-trees, and wearing aconscious air of benignant supervision, rose the church of Grand Pré,somewhat squatly capacious in the body, but with a spire that soaredvery graciously. Just beyond, but hidden by the church, I could see inmy mind’s eye the curé’s cottage. My footsteps hastened at the thoughtof Father Fafard and his greeting.
The men of the village were at that hour mostly away in the fields; butthere were enough at home about belated barnyard business to halt memany times with their welcomes before I got to the forge. Thesegreetings, in the main, had the old-time heartiness, making me feel mycitizenship in Grand Pré. But there was much eager interrogation as tothe cause of my presence, and a something of suspicion, at times, in theacceptance of my simple answer, which puzzled and vexed me. It was bornein upon me that I was thought to be commissioned with great matters, andmy frankness but a mask for grave and dubious affairs.
Outside the forge, when at last I came to it, stood waiting two horses,while another was inside being shod. The acrid smell of the searing ironupon the hoof awoke in my breast a throng of boyish memories, which,however, I had not time to note and discriminate between; for the ownersof the two horses hailed and stopped me. They were men of theout-settlements, whom I knew but well enough to pass the weather with.Yet I saw it in their eyes that they had heard something of my arrival.Question hung upon their lips. I gave them no time for it, but with aslittle patience as consisted with civility I hastened into the forge andseized the hand of the smith, my old friend and my true friend, NicoleBrun.
“Master Paul!” he cried, in a voice which meant a thousand welcomes; andstood gripping my fingers, and searching me with his eyes, while theiron in his other hand slowly faded from pink to purple.
“Well,” I laughed presently, “there is one man in Grand Pré, I perceive,who is merely glad to greet me home, and not too deeply troubled overthe reasons for my coming.”
“Hein! You’ve seen it and heard it already,” said Nicole, releasing myfingers from his knotty grasp, and throwing back his thick shoulderswith a significant shrug. “Mother Pêche told me last night of yourcoming; and last night, too, the Black Abbé passed this way. The town isall of a buzz with reasons, this way and that. And some there be thatare for you, but more that fear you, Master Paul.”
“Fear me?” I asked, incredulous.
“Along of the Black Abbé and Vaurin!” answered Nicole, as if explainingeverything.
“That Vaurin—curse him!” I exclaimed angrily. “But what say _you_,Nicole? I give you my word, as I have told every one, I come to GrandPré on my own private business, and mix not at all with public matters.”
“So?” said he, lifting his shaggy eyebrows in plain surprise. “But inany case it had been all the same to me. I’m a quiet man, and bide mehere, taking no part but to forge an honest shoe for the beast of friendor foe; but I’m _your_ man, Master Paul, through thick and thin, as myfather was your father’s. ‘Tis a hard thing to decide, these days, whatwith Halifax and the English governor pulling one way, Quebec and theBlack Abbé pulling the other, and his reverence’s red devils up to Lordknows what! But I follow you, Master Paul, come what may! I’m ready.”
I laid my hand laughingly on his shoulder, and thanked him.
“I believe you, my friend,” said I. “And there’s no man I trust more.But I’ve no lead to set you just now. Be true to France, in allopenness, and lend no ear to treachery, is all I say. I am the king’
“Right you are, Master Paul,” grunted Nicole in hearty approval. Therewas a triumphant grin on his square and sooty face, which I marked witha passing wonder.
“And as for this Vaurin,” I continued, “I spit on all such sneakingfire-in-the-night, throat-slitting, scalp-lifting rabble, who bring agood cause to bitter shame!”
I spoke with unwonted heat; for I was yet wroth at the commandant forhis misuse of my ignorance, and smarting raw at the notion of beingclassed in with Vaurin.
I observed that at my words Nicole’s triumphant grin was shot acrosswith a sort of apprehension; and at the same moment I observed, too, asturdy stranger, apparently the owner of the horse now being shod. Hesat to the right of the forge fire, far back against the wall; but as Ifinished he sprang to his feet and came briskly forward.
“Blood of God,” he snarled blasphemously, “but this is carrying the joketoo far! You play your part a trifle too well, young man. Let me counselyou to keep a respectful tongue in your head when you speak of yourbetters.”
“Faith, and I do that!” said I pleasantly, taking note of him with care.From his speech I read him to be a Gascon of the lower sort; while fromhis dress I judged that he played the gentleman adventurer. But I sethim down for a hardy rogue.
“But from whom do I receive in such ill language such excellent goodadvice?” I went on.
“One who can enforce it!” he cried roughly, misled by my civil air. “I’ma friend of Captain Vaurin, whom I have the honour to serve. It seems tosuit some purpose of yours just now to deny it, but you were with himyesterday, in counsel with him, a messenger from Colonel Vergor to him;and you came on here at his orders.”
“That is a lie!” said I very gently, smiling upon him. “The otherrascal, Vergor, tricked me with his letter; and he shall pay for it!”
Thus given the lie, but so softly, the fellow uttered a choking gurglebetwixt astonishment and rage, and I calculated the chance of hisrushing upon me without warning. He was, as I think I said, a verysturdy figure of a man, though not tall; and he gave sign of courageenough in his angry little eyes and jutting chin. A side glance atNicole showed me that he was pleased with the turn of affairs, and hadsmall love for the stranger. I caught at the doorway the faces of thetwo men from the out-settlements, with eyes and ears all agog.
The stranger gulped down his rage and set himself to ape my coolness.
“Whatever your business with my captain,” said he, “we are here now asprivate gentlemen, and you must give me satisfaction. Be good enough todraw, monsieur.”
Now, I was embarrassed and annoyed by this encounter, for I certainlycould not fight one of Vaurin’s crew, and I was in haste to see FatherFafard. I cursed my folly in having been led into such an unworthyaltercation. How most quickly should I get out of it?
“I am a captain in the king’s service,” said I abruptly, “and I cannotcross swords but with a gentleman.”
The fellow spluttered in a fine fury, more or less assumed, I mustbelieve. His oaths were of a sort which grated me, but having deliveredhimself of them he said:
“I too serve the king. And I too, I’d have you know, am a gentleman.None of your Canadian half-breed seigneurs, but a gentleman of Gascony.Out with your sword, or I spit you!”
“I’m very sorry,” I answered smoothly, “that I cannot fight with one ofVaurin’s cut-throats, for I perceive you to be a stout-hearted rascalwho might give me a good bout. But as for the gentleman of Gascony,faith, my credulity will not stand so great a tax. From your accents,Monsieur, I could almost name the particular sty by the Bordeauxwaterside which must claim the distinction of your birth.”
As I had calculated, this insult brought it. My prod had struck the raw.With a choking curse the fellow sprang at me, naked handed, blind in hisbull strength.
I dropped one foot to the rear, met and stopped the rush by planting myleft fist in his face, then gave him my right under his jaw, with thefull thrust of my body, from the foot up. It was a beautiful trick,learned of an English prisoner at Montreal, who had trained me all onewinter in the fistic art of his countrymen. My impetuous antagonist wentbackward over the anvil, and seemed in small haste to pick himself up.The spectators gaped at the strange tactics; and Nicole, as I bade himgood-by, chuckled:
“There’ll be trouble for this somewhere, Master Paul! Watch outsharp—and don’t go ‘round o’ nights without taking me along. Le Fûret isnot nicknamed ‘The Ferret’ for nothing!”
“All right, my friend,” said I; “when I want a guard I’ll send for you.”
I went off toward Father Fafard’s, pleased with myself, pleased with theEnglish captain who had taught me such a useful accomplishment, andpleased, I confess, with Vaurin’s minion for having afforded me such afair chance to display it.