Rose à Charlitte by Marshall Saunders
CHAPTER XVI.
AN ACADIEN FESTIVAL.
"Vive Jesus! Vive Jesus! Avec la croix, son cher partage. Vive Jesus! Dans les coeurs de tous les elus! Portons la croix.
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Sans choix, sans ennui, sans murmure, Portons la croix! Quoique tres amere et tres dure, Malgre les sens et la nature, Portons la croix!"
--_Acadien Song._
Charlitte had been in his grave for nearly two years. He sleptpeacefully in the little green cemetery hard by the white church where aslender, sorrowful woman came twice every week to hear a priest repeatmasses for the repose of his soul.
He slept on and gave no sign, and his countrymen came and went abovehim, reflecting occasionally on their own end, but mostly, after themanner of all men, allowing their thoughts to linger rather on matterspertaining to time than on those of eternity.
One fifteenth of August--the day consecrated by Acadiens all over Canadato the memory of their forefathers--had come and gone, and another hadarrived.
This day was one of heavenly peace and calm. The sky was faintly,exquisitely blue, and so placid was the Bay that the occupants of theboats crossing from Digby Neck to some of the churches in Frenchtownwere forced to take in their sails, and apply themselves to their oars.
Since early morning the roads of the parish in which Sleeping Water issituated had been black with people, and now at ten o'clock some twothousand Acadiens were assembled about the doors of the old church atPointe a l'Eglise.
There was no talking, no laughing. In unbroken silence they waited forthe sound of the bell, and when it came they flocked into the church,packing it full, and overflowing out to the broad flight of steps, wherethey knelt in rows and tried to obtain glimpses over each other'sshoulders of the blue and white decorations inside, and of the altarablaze with lights.
The priests from the college and glebe-house, robed in handsomevestments, filed out from the vestry, and, quietly approaching thesilken banners standing against the low gallery, handed them torepresentatives of different societies connected with the church.
The children of the Guardian Angel received the picture of their patronsaint, and, gathering around it, fluttered soberly out to the open airthrough the narrow lane left among the kneeling worshippers.
The children of the Society of Mary followed them, their white-clad andveiled figures clustering about the pale, pitying Virgin carried by twoof their number. A banner waving beside her bore the prayer, "_Marie,Priez Pour Nous_" (Mary, pray for us), and, as if responding to thepetition, her two hands were extended in blessing over them.
After the troop of snowy girls walked the black sisters in big bonnetsand drooping shawls, and the brown sisters, assistants to the Eudists,who wore black veils with white flaps against their pale faces. Thencame the priests, altar boys, and all the congregation. Until they leftthe church the organ played an accompaniment to their chanting. On thesteps a young deacon put a cornet to his lips, and, taking up the lastnote of the organ, prolonged it into a vigorous leadership of thesinging:
Ave maris Stella, Dei mater alma, Atque semper virgo Felix coeli porta.
As the congregation sang, they crossed the road to the gates of thecollege grounds, and divided into two parts, the men, with headsuncovered, going one side, and the women on the other.
Above the gate-posts waved two flags, the union jack and the Acadiennational flag,--a French tricolor, crossed by a blue stripe, and piercedwith a yellow star.
Slowly and solemnly the long array of men and women passed by theglebe-house and the white marble tomb of the good Abbe, whose life wasgiven to the Acadiens of the Bay Saint-Mary. The hymns sung by thepriests at the head of the procession floated back to the congregationin the rear, and at the moment when the singing was beginning to dieaway in the distance and the procession was winding out of sight behindthe big college, two strangers suddenly appeared on the scene.
They were a slender, elegant man and a beautiful lad of a clear, healthypallor of skin. The man, with a look of grave, quiet happiness on hishandsome face, stepped from the carriage in which they were driving,fastened his horse to a near fence, and threw a longing glance after thedisappearing procession.
"If we hurry, Narcisse," he said, "we shall be able to overtake them."
The lad at once placed himself beside him, and together they went ontheir way towards the gates.
"Do you remember it?" asked the man, softly, as the boy lifted his hatwhen they passed by the door of the silent, decorated church.
"Yes, perfectly," he said, with a sweet, delicate intonation of voice."It seems as if my mother must be kneeling there."
Vesper's brow and cheeks immediately became suffused with crimson. "Sheis probably on ahead. We will find out. If she is not, we shall drive atonce to Sleeping Water."
They hurried on silently. The procession was now moving through anothergate, this one opening on the point of land where are the ruins of thefirst church that the good Abbe built on the Bay.
Beside its crumbling ruins and the prostrate altarstones a new, freshaltar had been put up,--this one for temporary use. It was a veritablebower of green amid which bloomed many flowers, the fragile nurslings ofthe sisters in the adjacent convent.
Before this altar the priests and deacons knelt for an instant oncolored rugs, then, while the people gathered closely around them, anAcadien Abbe from the neighboring province of New Brunswick ascended thesteps of the altar, and, standing beside the embowered Virgin mother,special patron and protectress of his race, he delivered a ferventpanegyric on the ancestors of the men and women before him.
While he recounted the struggles and trials of the early Acadiens, manyof his hearers wept silently, but when this second good Abbe eloquentlyexhorted them not to linger too long on a sad past, but to girdthemselves for a glorious future, to be constant to their race and totheir religion, their faces cleared,--they were no longer a prey tomournful recollections.
Vesper, holding his hat in his hand, and closely accompanied byNarcisse, moved slowly nearer and nearer to a man who stood with hisface half hidden by his black hat.
It was Agapit, and at Vesper's touch he started slightly, then, for hewould not speak on this solemn occasion, he extended a hand that wasgrasped in the firm and enduring clasp of a friendship that would notagain be broken.
Vesper would never forget that, amid all the bustle and confusionsucceeding Charlitte's death, Agapit had found time to send him a cablemessage,--"Charlitte is dead."
After communicating with Agapit, Vesper drew the boy nearer to him, andfell back a little. He was inexpressibly moved. A few years ago he wouldhave called this "perverted Christianity--Mariolatry." Now, now--"OGod!" he muttered, "my pure saint, she has genuine piety," and under wetlashes he stole a glance at one form, preeminently beautiful among thegroup of straight and slim young Acadien women beyond him. She wasthere,--his heart's delight, his treasure. She was his. The holy, raptexpression would give place to one more earthly, more self-conscious. Hewould not surrender her to heaven just yet,--but still, would it not beheaven on earth to be united to her?
She did not know that he was near. In complete oblivion of hersurroundings she followed the singing of the Tantum Ergo. When thebenediction was over, she lifted her bowed head, her eyes turned oncetowards the cemetery. She was thinking of Charlitte.
The sensitive Narcisse trembled. The excess of melancholy andsentimental feeling about him penetrated to his soul, and Vesperwithdrew with him to the edge of the crowd. Then before the processionre-formed to march back to the church, they took up their
All the Acadiens saw him there as they approached,--all but Rose.
She only raised her eyes from her prayer-book to fix them on the sky.She alone of the women seemed to be so wholly absorbed in a religiousfervor that she did not know where she was going nor what she was doing.
Some of the Acadiens looked doubtfully at Vesper. Since the death of herhusband, whose treachery towards her had in some way been discovered,she had been regarded more than ever as a saint,--as one set apartfor prayer and meditation almost as much as if she had been consecratedto them. Would she give up her saintly life for marriage with theEnglishman?
Would she do it? Surely this holy hour was the wrong time to ask her,and they waited breathlessly until they reached the gates where theprocession was to break up. There she discovered Vesper. In the face ofall the congregation he had stepped up and was holding out his hand toher.
She did not hesitate an instant. She did not even seem to be surprised.An expression of joyful surrender sprang to her face; in silent, solemnecstasy she took her lover's hand, and, throwing her arm around the neckof her recovered child, she started with them on the long road down theBay.
"THROWING HER ARM AROUND THE NECK OF HER RECOVEREDCHILD."]
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All this happened a few years ago, but the story is yet going on. If youcome from Boston to-day, and take your wheel or carriage atYarmouth,--for the strong winds blow one up and not down the Bay,--youwill, after passing through Salmon River, Cheticamp, Meteghan,Saulnierville, and other places, come to the swinging sign of theSleeping Water Inn.
There, if you stop, you will be taken good care of by Claudine andMirabelle Marie,--who is really a vastly improved woman.
Perhaps among all the two hundred thousand Acadiens scattered throughoutthe Maritime Provinces of Canada there is not a more interesting innthan that of Sleeping Water. They will give you good meals and keep yourroom tidy, and they will also show you--if you are really interested inthe Acadien French--a pretty cottage in the form of a horseshoe that wasmoved bodily away from the wicked Sleeping Water River and placed in aflat green field by the shore. To it, you will be informed, comes everyyear a family from Boston, consisting of an Englishman and his wife, hismother and two children. They will describe the family to you, orperhaps, if it is summer-time, you may see the Englishman himself,riding a tall bay horse and looking affectionately at a beautiful ladwho accompanies him on a glossy black steed rejoicing in the name ofToochune.
The Englishman is a man of wealth and many schemes. He has organized acompany for the planting and cultivation of trees along the shore of thecharming, but certainly wind-swept Bay. He also is busy now surveyingthe coast for the carrying out of his long-cherished plan of an electricrailway running along the shore.
He will yet have it, the Acadiens say, but in the meantime he amuseshimself by viewing the land and interviewing the people, and when he isweary he rides home to the cottage where his pale, fragile mother islooking eagerly for her adopted, idolized grandchild Narcisse, and wherehis wife sits by the window and waits for him.
As she waits she often smiles and gazes down at her lap where lies atiny creature,--a little girl whose eyes and mouth are her own, butwhose hair is the hair of Vesper.
Perhaps you will go to Sleeping Water by the train. If so, do not lookout for the red coat which always used to be the distinguishing mark ofthis place, and do not mention Emmanuel's name to the woman who keepsthe station, nor to her husband, for they were very fond of him, and ifyou speak of the red-jacketed mail-man they will turn aside to hidetheir tears.
Nannichette and her husband have come out of the woods and live by theshore. Mirabelle Marie has persuaded the former to go to mass with her.The Indian in secret delight says nothing, but occasionally he utters ahappy grunt.
Bidiane and her husband live in Weymouth. Their _menage_ is small andunambitious as yet, in order that they may do great things in thefuture, Bidiane says. She is absolutely charming when she ties ahandkerchief on her head and sweeps out her rooms; and sometimes shecooks.
Often at such times she scampers across a yard that separates her fromher husband's office, and, after looking in his window to make sure thathe is alone, she flies in, startles and half suffocates him by throwingher arms around his neck and stuffing in his mouth or his pocket somenew and delectable dainty known only to herself and the cook-book.
She is very happy, and turns with delight from her winter visits toHalifax, where, however, she manages to enjoy herself hugely, to hersummer on the Bay, when she can enjoy the most congenial society in theworld to her and to her husband,--that of Vesper Nimmo and his wifeRose.
THE END.
_SELECTIONS FROM L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY'S LIST OF NEW FICTION._