A Sister to Evangeline by Sir Charles G. D. Roberts
Chapter XXXIII
The Divine Right of Queens
When Yvonne stood at last upon the deck of the ship of her desire, herheart, without warning, began a far too vehement gratulation. Her cloakoppressed her. She dropped it, and stood leaning upon Mother Pêche’sshoulder. She grew suddenly pale, breathing with effort; and one handcaught at her side.
The apparition made a wondrous stir on deck. To those who had ever heardof such a being, it appeared that the Witch of the Moon, in all theindescribable magic of her beauty, had been translated into flesh. Menseemed upon the instant to find an errand to that quarter of the ship.Captain Eliphalet Wrye, who had been watching with great unconcern atransfer whose significance seemed to him quite ordinary, came forwardin haste, eager to do the honours of his ship, and marvelling beyondmeasure at such a guest. Captain Eliphalet had traded much among theFrench of Acadie and New France. He knew well the difference between theseigneurial and the _habitant_ classes; and this knowledge was just whathe needed to make his bewilderment complete.
“Here’s the captain of the ship coming to see you, _chérie_!” whisperedMother Pêche, squeezing the girl’s arm significantly. Yvonne steadiedherself with an effort, and turned a brilliant glance upon thisimportant stranger. With his rough blue reefing-jacket, extremely broadshoulders, and excessively broad yellow-brown beard, Captain Eliphaletlooked to her just as she thought a merchant-captain ought to look. Shetherefore approved of him, and awaited his approach with a smile thatput him instantly at ease. As he came up, however, hat in hand and withconsidered phrases on his lips, the old woman forestalled him.
“Let me present you, Monsieur le Capitaine,” said she, stepping forwardwith a courtesy, “to my mistress, Mademoiselle de Lamourie, of LamouriePlace.”
“It is but ashes, alas! monsieur,” interrupted Yvonne, holding out herhand.
“The ship is yours, Mademoiselle de Lamourie!” he exclaimed, and bowedwith a gesture of relinquishing everything to her command. It was notfor nothing Captain Eliphalet had visited Montreal and Quebec.
Yvonne dropped her lids for a second, and shook her head rebukingly.
“That is not English, monsieur,” she protested, “but it is very nice ofyou. I should not know what to do with a ship just now; but I like ourlittle pleasant French fictions.”
Captain Eliphalet, however, could be French for a moment only.
“But you, mademoiselle, you—how comes such a one as you to be sailingaway into exile?”
Yvonne’s long lashes drooped again, and this time did not rise soquickly.
“I have reason to think, monsieur,” she answered gravely, “that dearfriends and kinsfolk of mine are on this ship, themselves going,fettered, into exile. I could not stay behind and let them go so. Butenough of myself, monsieur, for the present,” she went on, speaking morerapidly. “I want to ease the anxieties of these poor souls who have comewith me. Is there among your prisoners a young man known as ‘PetitJoliet’? Here is his mother come to look for him.”
Captain Eliphalet summoned a soldier who stood near, and put thequestion to him in English.
“There is one by the name of Franse Joliet on the roll, captain,”answered the red-coat, saluting.
“That’s he! That’s my boy!” cried his mother, catching the name. She hadbeen waiting close by with a strained, fixed face, which now went topieces in a medley of smiles and tears, like a reflection on still watersuddenly broken. She clutched Yvonne’s hands, blessed and kissed them,and then rushed off vaguely as if to find Petit Joliet in durance behindsome pile of ropes or water-butt.
“And Lenoir—Tamin Lenoir,” continued Yvonne, her voice thrilling withjoy over her task, “and Michel Savarin. Are they, too, in the hold?”
“Yes, miss,” said the soldier, saluting again, and never taking his eyesfrom her face. She turned to the two women in their restless fringe ofclingers; and they, more sober because more hampered in their delight,thanked her devoutly, and moved off to learn what more they couldelsewhere.
Meanwhile another figure had drawn near—a figure not unknown to Yvonne’seyes.
When she first appeared Lieutenant Shafto, the English officer incommand of the guard, was pacing the quarter deck, stiffly remote andinexpressibly bored. He had two ambitions in life—the one, altogetherlaudable and ordinary, to be a good officer in the king’s service; theother, more distinguished and uncommon, to be quoted as an example ofdress and manners to his fellow-men. In London he had achieved in thisdirection sufficient success to establish him steadfastly in hispurpose. Ordered to Halifax with his regiment, he had there found thefield for his talent sorely straitened. At Grand Pré, far worse: it wasreduced to the dimensions of a back-door plot. Here on shipboard itseemed wholly to have vanished. Nevertheless, for practice, and for thepreservation of a civil habit, he had clung to his niceties. Now, whenhe saw Yvonne, his first thought was to thank Heaven he had been asparticular with his toilet that morning as if about to walk downPiccadilly.
He fitted his glass to his eye.
“Gad!” he said to himself, “it really is!”
He removed the glass, and giving it a more careful readjustment, staredagain.
“Gad!” said he, “it is none other! A devilish fine girl! She couldn’t bebeat in all London for looks or wits. What does it mean? Given that cadAnderson the slip, eh? Discriminating, begad!”
Lieutenant Shafto had a definite contempt for Anderson, as a man who satby the fire when he might have been fighting. If a man fought well ordressed well, Shafto could respect him. Anderson did neither. He wastherefore easily placed.
“There’s something rich behind this,” went on the lieutenant to himself.“But, gad! there is a savour to this voyage, after all. There’s a pairof bright eyes—devilish bright eyes—to dress for!”
He hitched his sword to a more gallant angle as he stepped primly downthe deck. He gave the flow of his coat an airy curve. He would have feltof his queue had he dared, to assure himself it was dressed to a nicety.He glanced with complaisance at his correct and entirely spotlessruffles. And by this he was come to mademoiselle’s side, where he stood,bowing low, his cap held very precisely across his breast.
“The honour, mademoiselle! Ah, the marvel of it!” he murmured. “The shipis transfigured. I was but now anathematizing it as a most especialhell: I looked up, and it had become a paradise—a paradise of one fairspirit!”
Yvonne looked at him with searching eyes as he delivered this fantasia,then a trifle imperiously gave him her hand to kiss.
She had spoken passingly with him twice or thrice before, at FatherFafard’s. She understood him—read him through: a man absurd, but nevercontemptible; to be quite heartily disliked, yet wholly trusted; to belaughed at, yet discreetly; vain, indomitable, a fighter and a fop;living for the field and the hair-dresser. Here was a man whom she woulduse, yet respect him the while.
“You do nobly, monsieur,” she said, with a faint, enigmatic smile, “tothus keep the light of courtly custom burning clear, even in ourdarknesses.”
“There can be no darkness where your face shines, mademoiselle,” hecried, delighted not less with himself than with her.
It was a little obvious, but she accepted it graciously with a look, andhe went on:
“I beg that you will let me place my cabin at your disposal during thevoyage. You will find it narrow, but roomy enough to accommodate you andyour maid.”
Here Captain Eliphalet interfered.
“I claim the privilege, mademoiselle,” said he, with some vexation inhis tones, “of giving you the captain’s cabin, which is by all odds themost commodious place on the ship—the _only_ place at all suitable foryou.”
“The captain is right,” said Shafto reluctantly. “His cabin is the morecomfortable; and I beg him to share mine.”
In this way, then, the difficulty was settled, and Yvonne found herselfin quarters of unwonted comfort for a West India trader, CaptainEliphalet
“You should be very good to them, gentlemen,” she said demurely, pickingwith dubious fork at brown strips of toasted herring on her plate. “Mycousin Marc especially. _He_ is half _English_, you know. He has themost adorable English wife, from Boston, with red hair wherein he easilypersuades himself that the sun rises and sets.”
“If you would have us love them for your sake, mademoiselle, love themnot too much yourself,” laughed the broad-bearded Captain Eliphalet, invast good-humour; but the admirable lieutenant murmured:
“There is no hair but black hair—black with somehow a glint in it whenthe sun strikes—so.”
And Mother Pêche, passing behind them and catching a flash from Yvonne’seye, smiled many thoughts.